One of them wore a red coat and carried himself with a ramrod-like erectness that bespoke the British officer; the girl knew that he was from Canada, probably from the fort at Malden, to which for three years the Indians from a thousand square miles of American soil had been going by tens and hundreds to return laden with arms and ammunition and presents from His Majesty, the King of Great Britain. The second was of medium height, shaggy, dressed in Indian costume, with a handkerchief bound about his forehead in place of a hat. He could only be James Girty, owner of the cabin, or his brother Simon, of infamous memory--more probably the latter. As the girl watched them an Indian squaw crept out of a near-by cabin and came toward her. “Ever the heart of Alagwa (the Star) turns toward the white men,” said she, harshly. The girl started, the swift blood leaping to her cheeks. “Nay!” she said. “These white men have red hearts. They are the friends of the Indian. Katepakomen (Girty) is an Indian; his white blood has been washed from his veins even as my own!” “_Your_ own!” The old woman laughed scornfully. “Not so! _Your_ heart is not red. It is white.” Alagwa’s was not the Indian stoicism that meets all attacks with immobility. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears. “I am not white,” she quavered. “I am red, red.” The old woman hesitated. She knew that between equals what she had said would have been all but unforgiveable. Alagwa had been adopted into the tribe years before in the place of another Alagwa who had died. She had been “raised up” in place of her. Theoretically all white blood had been washed out of her. She _was_ the dead. To remind her of her other life and ancestry was the worst insult imaginable. The old woman knew that Tecumseh would be very angry if he heard it. But she had an object to gain and went on. “Then why does Alagwa refuse my son?” she said. “Why does she defy the customs of her people--if they are her people. The council of women have decreed that she shall wed Wilwiloway. If her heart is red why does she not obey?” The girl hung her head. “I--I am too young to wed,” she protested. “Bah!” the old woman spat upon the ground. “Alagwa has seen seventeen summers. Other girls wed at fifteen. Why should Alagwa scorn my son. Is he not straight and tall? Is he not first among the warriors in war and in chase? Has he not brought back many scalps? Alagwa’s heart is white--not red.” “But----” “Were Wilwiloway other than he is, he would long ago have taken Alagwa to his hut. But he will not. His heart, too, is white. He says Alagwa must come to him willingly or not at all. He will not let us compel her. He----” The old woman broke off with a catch in her voice--“he loves Alagwa truly,” she pleaded, wistfully. “Will not Alagwa make his moccasins and pound his corn!” The girl, who had slowly straightened up under the assault of the old woman, weakened before the sudden change of tone.