Jack looked the chief in the eyes. He knew that deception was useless and he was in no mood to try it. “Tecumseh may judge for himself,” he said. “Let the great chief do with me as he will. But first let him tell me whether my wife is with him and whether she is safe.” Tecumseh’s brows went up. “Why need the white chief seek his wife,” he demanded. “What wrong has he done her that she has fled from him?” Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I have done her no wrong,” he said. “Why she has left me I do not know. I was ill and when I recovered she had gone with emissaries sent by Tecumseh. Perhaps she went because he sent for her. Perhaps she went because her ears were filled with lies. Much I have guessed but little do I know. Perhaps the great chief knows better than I why she went.” Tecumseh did not answer at once. His fierce eyes bored into Jack’s as though they would read the young man’s soul. Jack thought his expression was softer, but when he spoke his voice was as chill as ever. “Ten years and more ago,” he said, “when the chief Delaroche lay dying I gave him my word that if the need ever came I would put his daughter in the care of his kinsmen in the far south and not in that of his English kinsmen. Years went by and the call came. The chief Brito demanded her. He was a redcoat chief, an ally of Tecumseh, and you were an enemy. He was a strong man and a warrior and you were a boy. Had it not been for my word to my friend I would have given her to him gladly. But the word spoken to the dead comes not back. Therefore I sought you out and bade you come for the girl. I waited long, but you did not come. Once more I tried to keep my word to my friend. I sent the girl south, into your lines. I thought she would find you and she did. For days she travelled with you. I had kept my word to my dead friend.” The day was brightening fast. The sky had grown brilliant with pink, and scarlet, and saffron. The sun thrust himself above the rim of the world and sent long lances of light shimmering through the damp air. The trees burned red against the horizon; the wet underbrush glistened like precious stones. Tecumseh’s voice changed. For the moment it had grown softer, but now it grew chill as death. “Then suddenly,” he said, “she came back to me. She thought that I had sent for her. I had not. Those who told her so were liars bought by the gold of Brito. Nevertheless I had kept my word and I was free to give her where I would. Gladly would I have given her to Brito. But she said she was your wife, wedded to you by the white man’s law. She said she would die before she would go to Brito. She begged me to protect her.