Bradford walked beside the litter and looked after the welfare of his patient. He gave him frequent doses of brandy, and at noon succeeded in getting him to swallow a little shredded meat. Douglas coughed almost continuously, and groaned at every sudden jolt of his swinging bed. A circular bright-red spot appeared upon each cheek, and the arteries of his temples and neck pulsated visibly. The wound he had received and the consequent exposure had done their work but too well. He was suffering from pneumonia. At one time during the afternoon, he became violently excited and made repeated attempts to arise from his couch. In vain Bradford sought to soothe and quiet him. Apparently understanding the need of his presence, Duke trotted to the litter and fondly licked the hot hand that was frantically threshing the air. With a smile upon his face, Ross lay back and wearily closed his wild, staring eyes. “Wonderful!” Bradford muttered aloud, sadly shaking his head. “Wonderful—wonderful,” repeated the delirious man, in a monotonous, parrot-like voice. Then with animation: “Oh, Amy! you here? No, it’s La Violette—or _is_ it Amy? La Violette—Amy; La Violette—Amy. I don’t know.” His words became an unintelligible jargon; but his fit of violence had passed. At nightfall the Indians went into camp. Bradford placed the litter near the fire, and had a screen of boughs erected to shelter its occupant from the night wind. Again he got his patient to take a small portion of shredded meat and a little of the expressed juice. The supply of brandy was almost exhausted; and he wisely resolved to save what was left for an emergency. All night he sat by Ross’s side, giving him water, for which the poor fellow begged piteously at frequent intervals, and protecting him as best he could from the cold. Duke fared well. Seeing his unparalleled devotion to his master, the Indians took a fancy to the intelligent animal, and fed him all he would eat. At daylight the wearisome march was resumed; and at noon the party was drawing near the Miami village upon the Mississinewa. As they entered the town, hundreds of savages swarmed around them, and gazed in stupefaction upon the unusual spectacle of four grave and dignified warriors bearing the litter of a wounded paleface. Pushing his way to the center of the village, a large collection of well-built lodges and cabins upon the eastern bank of the stream, Bradford asked for the Prophet. Tenskwatawa’s domicile was pointed out to him. Unceremoniously pushing aside the curtain of skins, he entered the dark hut. The Prophet lay stretched upon a fur rug near the center of the floor, his feet to the fire that alone lighted the dismal interior. He did not offer to arise at Bradford’s entrance; but greeted him with a grunt of recognition. The intruder went straight to the point, by saying: