“My prisoner escaped. I have recaptured him and brought him here. But he is badly wounded; and I want the largest and most comfortable cabin in the village, in which I may place him and nurse him back to life.” The Prophet arose to a sitting position, before replying. Then he made the heartless rejoinder: “Let the young paleface die! He is a member of the Seventeen Fires—he is an enemy. His death will subtract one more from the number that ere long will appear against us, to do battle.” “He shall _not_ die,” Bradford returned firmly. “Why?” “Because I will not have it so.” “Why does Scar Face so much desire to save the young man’s life?” the Prophet inquired, with a cunning leer. “Why I wish to save his life—why I _will_ save his life—concerns no one but myself,” was the bold reply. “Tenskwatawa, there is no use in our re-threshing old straw. I have told you that this young man is my friend. I repeat it. You know me well enough to realize that I will have my way—that I will not be balked in whatever I undertake. Let’s have an end of all parleying. I want the largest and best cabin in the place. Can I have it?” “Scar Face asks for what is not mine to bestow.” “What do you mean? Be quick. I have no time to waste in idle diplomacy.” “This is the village of the Miamis,” was the shrewd answer. “The lodges are theirs. They have granted my people the privilege of staying here, but we must erect lodges for ourselves. When that is done, Scar Face shall have one placed at his disposal.” Bradford’s anger was rising. His face flushed, then paled; the red scar upon his cheek quivered tremulously and twitched the corner of his mouth. He nervously fingered the trigger of his rifle—which he again had in his possession—as he said huskily: “An end to your lies, Tenskwatawa! You cannot deceive _me_. The Miamis are a part of your family. You are here in one of their cabins. Tecumseh has another; and your braves are busily engaged in erecting others. I want the best one in the village; and I am going to have it. Do you understand?” The Prophet’s repulsive face became more repulsive. He was angry—afraid. He bent his head in reply, but did not open his lips. “Well, go and give the order!” Bradford roared impatiently. “Hurry!—before I lose control of myself and stamp the life out of your miserable carcass!” Tenskwatawa slowly arose. His limbs were shaking; his lips, trembling. The arrant coward was desperately afraid his companion would carry his threat into execution. And no help was at hand. When he could command his voice, he said: “But the best lodge has been given to La Violette and the woman who attends her.” “What of the council lodge?” “I have made it a temple of the Great Spirit. You cannot have it.” And the Prophet flung up his head, with a gesture of weak defiance.