Alagwa scarcely heard him. Confused as leaves driven before October’s blasts her thoughts fluttered. Possibility after possibility rose in her mind only to be swiftly discarded. Her efforts to gain time had failed. Metea would come for her at dawn. No doubt his men were watching. She and Jack might flee that very night--But no! Jack would not go without explanation. Even if he did go, his flight and hers would be discovered in the morning and they would be pursued and Jack would be killed. He could not withstand twenty men. And he must not be excited. Besides, he would not go. Well she knew it. Could she persuade him to take refuge in the fort? Not without an explanation, certainly! And the fort would soon be attacked. She herself had made that certain. It was her message to Tecumseh that had caused the British to send their red allies to beleaguer it and cut off all help and ammunition. Truly her deeds had found her out. What could she do? What _could_ she do? Insistently her thoughts beat upon the question. And presently the answer came. Jack must be saved. He could be saved only by saving the fort. Therefore the fort must be saved. It could not be saved unless its garrison was warned. Therefore it must be warned. To warn it was to be treacherous to Tecumseh and to her friends. It was to dig a deathtrap in the path which she had called them to tread. It was to set back, perhaps forever, the day on which her people would regain their ancient power. Alagwa knew it. To the last detail she knew it. And she did not care. Jack should not die! Rather let every Shawnee die! Rather let Tecumseh himself perish! Rather let the whole Indian nation pass away forever! Metea’s threat had done its work well, but its effect had been far different from that which he had intended. She sprang to her feet. “Come,” she said. “Let us go.” Bondie stared at her with his little black eyes. “Go where, madame?” he questioned, respectfully but wonderingly. “To Major Stickney. We must warn him. The fort must be saved.” CHAPTER XVIII THE August night was close and still as Alagwa and Peter Bondie stole out of the hotel to make their way to Major Stickney’s. The moon had not yet risen but the great stars that blazed across the immeasurable vault of the sky diffused almost as great a light. Fire-flies sparkled and pale-winged moths, white blots amid the shadows, fluttered over the dried grass and dusty trails that crossed the prairie. The hum of mosquitoes and the ceaseless rune of locusts filled the air. In the distance the unruffled waters of the Maumee reflected the stars and the blue-black interstices of the sky.