The man drooped dejectedly as he tried to unravel this fresh tangle. Why was Jim Crow shadowing him? In the interests of the Indians? Again he pulled out his watch. And the woman beside him saw that his hand was shaking as he held it out to the light of the stove. It was time to hitch up his horses, he said. Yet they were not starting until dawn, and it still wanted a full hour to the time. Wanaha sat up, and Nevil moved about amongst the litter of their belongings. There was coffee on the stove and food on the table. He helped himself to both, bolting meat and drink in a nervous, hasty manner. Wanaha joined him. She ate sparingly, and then began to gather their goods together. Nevil turned to her. He was preparing to fetch the horses which were picketed out on the prairie. He was in better mood now. Action restored in him a certain amount of confidence. "It will be good to get away, my Wana," he said, for a moment laying one hand upon her shoulder. The woman looked up into his mean face with a world of love in her profound eyes. "It good to be with you--anywhere, my Nevil," she said, in her quiet way. The man turned to the door. He raised the latch and threw it open. He stood speechless. A panic was upon him; he could not move, he could not think. Little Black Fox was standing in the doorway, and, behind him, two of his war-councilors leaning on their long, old-fashioned rifles. Without a word, the chief, followed by his two attendants, stepped within. The door was closed again. Then Little Black Fox signed to Wanaha for a light. The squaw took the oil-lamp from a shelf and lit it, and the dull, yellow rays revealed the disorder of the place. The chief gazed about him. His handsome face was unmoved. Finally he looked into the face of the terror-stricken renegade. Nevil was tall, but he was dwarfed by the magnificent carriage and superb figure of the savage. It was the chief who was the first to speak. The flowing tongue of the Sioux sounded melodious in the rich tones of the speaker's voice. He spoke without a touch of the fiery eloquence which had been his when he was yet the untried leader of his race. The man seemed to have suddenly matured. He was no longer the headstrong boy that had conceived an overwhelming passion for a white girl, but a warrior of his race, a warrior and a leader. "My brother would go from his friends? So?" he said in feigned surprise. "And my sister, Wanaha?" "Wanaha obeys her lord. Whither he goes she goes. It is good." The squaw was alive to the position, but, unlike her white husband, she rose to the occasion. The haughty manner of the chief was no more haughty than hers. She was blood of this man, and no less royal than he. Her deep eyes were alert and shining now. The savage was dominant in her again. She was, indeed, a princess of her race. "And whither would they go, this white brother and his squaw?" There was a slight irony in the Indian's voice. Again the squaw answered.