“Maclish knows better than to trust himself among us. You can still win the whole game--at a price. Yield to his terms, go to his camp, put yourself at his mercy; and peace will follow. True, we others will be slain none the less--yet there will be peace until Perrot comes to take vengeance. Then what?” To this bitter speech, Frontin added cool, sardonic words which bit far deeper than he could know. “Madame, this affair is perfectly simple--it is as logical and dispassionate as a problem in geometry! Look you, now. Our only possible hope is in Sieur Perrot, is it not? Well, Perrot’s only possible hope is in us _likewise_! This Maclish will attack, and then what happens? With luck, we shall kill him; certainly, we shall do our best. Perhaps he will kill us. In any case, neither he nor we can win this game. But if we can hold out a little while, Perrot may yet find you alive. So the only one who can win this game is Perrot--_voilà!_” In the startled silence that ensued, the Assiniboine envoy, who spoke no French, stabbed with curious eyes at Crawford, the Star Woman, the chiefs around. Frontin’s words brought home to them that there was only one wild, desperate hope left--not for them, but for Perrot. If they chose to die here, then the Star Woman might or might not remain alive until Perrot came. In any case, Perrot and the Dacotah host would strike Maclish like a thunderbolt, all unperceived, and could dictate his own terms. Crawford laughed a little. “And I thought Perrot’s dream was impossible!” he murmured. A swift glory leaped into the lovely face of the Star Woman. She, who all her life had heard so much of Perrot, yet who did not know the true reason of her longing to see that man, suddenly leaped at this one forlorn hope. “I play the hand of Metaminens!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing around the circle of dark faces. “That is my decision--yet I cannot command you to die, my friends. Wandering Star, I leave this matter to you. Return a belt to Maclish in my name.” Then, not awaiting the issue, she turned and passed among the trees toward the grave that lay beneath the crooked pine. Crawford, in turn, spoke to Standing Bull. “I choose to fight it out, Dacotah. Make what answer you like to the Stone Men.” Standing Bull had no need to ask the temper of the warriors around. Teton and Issanti and Mohegan, all fastened upon him a fiercely exultant regard. Le Talon alone was quite indifferent; seated against his tree, he was calmly streaking his features with vermilion as though quite certain of the outcome. Standing Bull took from his belt the grisly trophy which he had fetched in the previous evening, and handed it to the Assiniboine. “The scalps of the Stone Men are like the feathers of crows,” he said. “A chief of The Men does not care to keep them. Take this to your chiefs as a belt from the Star Woman. To the Red Bull take this message.” And unstopping his powder-horn, he sprinkled on the scalp a few grains of powder.