“Let the Pale Flower tremble not,” whispered the young brave. “Tecumseh will not return till midnight, and ere he comes Oonalooska will save the White Wolf’s captive. The young hunter lives in the lodge of the great Lone Man.” Then he turned away, without noticing the look of gratitude Eudora bestowed upon him. Oh, for the night! What had it in store for Eudora Morriston--life or death? CHAPTER IV. THE EVENTS OF THAT NIGHT. Slowly the hours of that beautiful autumn day wore away, and the shades of evening seemed a century in making their appearance. The squaws of the “town” brought a repast to Girty and his band; but Alaska dispatched several warriors to her own wigwam, the capacious larder of which was soon empty for the benefit of herself and wolves. The terrible animals never took their eyes from Girty, whose distasteful form blocked the doorway of Eudora’s lodge. “Never fear, girl,” he said, one time, turning upon his prisoner, who sat listlessly upon her couch of skins. “The wolves shan’t eat you. I have great influence over Tecumseh, and the chief will quickly drive the crazy woman to her wigwam.” A better dissembler than “Jim” Girty never trod the woods of Ohio. He knew that the great Shawnee chieftain lived in superstitious awe of the Wolf-Queen, and that, upon his return, his prisoner would be given over to the fangs of the wolves. And while he spoke to Eudora he was plotting to get her beyond the village before Tecumseh returned. The young girl deigned no reply to his words, but in silence set to work to arrange the disheveled locks which hung over her shoulders. She was very beautiful--the possessor of a symmetrical form faultless in the minutest particular, large, black eyes, lustrous beneath raven lashes, and a wealth of raven hair, which enhanced her transcendent loveliness. She wore the coronet of her seventeenth year, though weeping for the fate of her parents and golden-haired sisters, mercilessly butchered in her sight, caused her to look beyond her years. The words of Oonalooska shot a cheering ray of hope into her heart, and caused that guiltless organ to beat for joy. “The young hunter lives,” he had said; but what “young hunter” did he mean? Quite a number of “young hunters” had been enraptured by her beauty, though none had she ever bade hope for the dimpled hand that could send an arrow unerringly to the target, and direct the bullet with an accuracy unequaled by many well-known frontiersmen of those “dark and bloody days.” Among her admirers, Mayne Fairfax had called oftenest at her home, now a heap of ashes, and she had evinced a partiality for his companionship, which had driven the others from the field. Was he the “young hunter” who sought her in the Indian village? Her rapid heart-beats proclaimed that she hoped so. The afternoon was nearing its close when Girty summoned Oonalooska to his side.