SLOWLY the girl came back to life. Even after she regained consciousness she lay with closed eyelids, conscious only of a dull pain that throbbed up and down her right leg. When at last she opened her eyes she found herself lying upon her back, staring upward at a canvas top that arched above her. At her feet, she could see a mass of tree trunks and interlaced branches, beyond which gleamed a speck of blue sky. Weakly she turned her head to right and to left, and saw that she was lying on a rough bed in a wagon that was piled high with boxes and bales. Wonderingly she stared, not understanding. Suddenly memory returned. The canvas top dissolved before her eyes. Once more she saw the plodding mules, the white men on box and ground, the smoking rifles, the brief combat, the fall of Wilwiloway. A spasm of fury swept over her, shaking her with its intensity. Her teeth ground together; her fingers clinched until the nails bit into the soft palms. Wilwiloway was dead! Wilwiloway, the kind, the brave, the generous, was dead, foully and treacherously murdered by the white men who had despoiled her people and had driven them step by step backward from the Ohio to the great lake. For years she had bees taught to hate the whites, to believe them robbers and murderers. And now she had the proof! Oh! How she hated them! How she hated them! If the chance ever came she would take a revenge that would make the blood run cold. If the chance ever came! The thought brought her back to her surroundings. What was she doing in this wagon? Who had put her there? What were they going to do with her? Cautiously she raised her head. No one seemed to be near. Perhaps she could escape! With an effort she tried to raise herself, but the motion sent the blood rushing to her brain and woke the dull pain in her leg to a sudden swift agony that made her drop back, half-fainting. Setting her teeth against the pain she put down her hand and found that the legging had been removed from her right leg and that the limb itself had been bandaged halfway below the knee. She felt for her hunting knife and found it gone! Despair rushed over her and she threw her hands to her face, trying to choke back the dry sobs that shook her. As she lay, overwhelmed, a dry branch cracked outside the wagon and a blustering voice broke the silence. Alagwa did not understand half the words, but she caught the purport. “Here! What the h--l are you trying to do,” demanded the voice. “Gimme back that rifle.” For a moment silence reigned. Then another voice--a voice cool and deliberate--made answer. Alagwa had heard that voice only once, but she knew it instantly for that of the young white chief who had comforted her just before she sank into unconsciousness.