“Oonalooska does not possess the eyes of the owl,” he said, with a smile, as he ignited a wisp of bark films with the flints. “The wood is dark, and unless fire guides Oonalooska, he may wander to the Mingoes, whither the White Wolf has sent him.” “But may not Oonalooska’s torch encounter Tecumseh?” asked Eudora, who feared the worst. “No; the great chief and his braves will cross the creek into the lodges. Oonalooska must have fire. It will keep the wolves away.” The mere mention of the wolves sent an icy shudder to Eudora’s heart. From the jaws of the ravenous animals she had first been snatched by the chivalrous red-man, who was once more bearing her through the labyrinthine recesses of the Scioto forest. The hermit home of William, or, as he called himself, “Bill,” Hewitt, was about fourteen miles from the Shawnee village, and Oonalooska rapidly traversed the dreary miles. The crisp leaves gave forth a weird sound, as the Indian’s moccasined feet touched them, and the great drops of rain that pattered down through the giant, leafless trees, added to the ghostliness of the moment. Sure enough, the wolves struck the trail, and, at last, Oonalooska saw many a pair of fiery eyes far in his rear. He felt Eudora shudder as a chorus of yells smote her ear; but he assured her that they would reach the hermit’s cave in safety, when he knew that the issue was doubtful. At length the warrior uttered a light cry, as he gained the summit of a knoll, from which he indistinctly heard the roar of a little cataract that poured its waters into the Scioto. “The Pale Flower is near the Lone Man’s lodge,” said the Shawnee, and he dashed down the knoll, the foot of which he reached as the foremost wolf poked his head over the summit. Once or twice he was forced to turn and beat the band off with his torch, and, at last, almost exhausted, he dashed into the limestone corridor of Hewitt’s home. He had not time to give the signal--the jerking of a deer-thong in the darkness overhead--for the wolves were snapping at his lovely burden, and while his lips uttered a peculiar whoop, he turned and sent one giant fellow to the ground with his torch. The weapon struck the animal in the mouth, and, the great tusk closing on it, it was jerked from his hand. He shrieked again as his right hand throttled the leader of the lupine band, and hurled him senseless among his companions. The dying torch lent a terribly tragic view to the scene. Pale as death, Eudora reclined upon the left arm of the Indian, as single-handed he fought the bloodthirsty gang, and her lips parted with a joyful cry, as the strong door was burst open, and she found herself borne into a warm apartment. With clubbed rifle, the giant hermit sprung among the wolves, and before him they divided and scattered like sheep. They had encountered the invincible before. “Fly, cowards!” cried Hewitt, as he reëntered the cave, to find Eudora kneeling before the couch of her wounded lover.