“I’ve lived in this hole in the ground for eighteen years,” said the hermit, taking a mournful survey of the cave, whose walls were lined with the skins of all animals, “and you may think that it goes hard with me to leave it. But if I stay here now, Alaska’s wolves will drink Hewitt blood. I want to live till I can see my boy again, and--” here he turned away, and muttered in an undertone: “Yes, I’d like to see her, too. I could forgive her now; but, oh, God! will I ever meet my wife on earth more?” A great tear dewed his tawny cheek, and a tremor crossed his giant frame, as he turned to the trio. “Well, we’re ready now,” he said, calm again. “Here, girl, take the extra rifle. I’ve heard tell as how you can use it.” “I can and will, if I must,” said Eudora, proudly, as she took the proffered firearm. The hermit stepped to the further end of the cave, and revealed a gloomy passage, by throwing aside a wolf-skin that concealed it. “Lead off, Oona,” he said, addressing the Indian. “Wolf and I’ll bring up the rear.” The Indian dropped upon all fours, and entered the passage; and the dog bounded in, in advance of his master. “Good-by, old home,” said the hermit, taking a last look at the apartment. “Mebbe I’ll come back again, and mebbe I won’t, that’s all.” The curtain fell and the cave was tenantless. The underground corridor seemed interminable; but, at last, Oonalooska paused. The end was reached. It was the noiseless work of a few moments to admit an invigorating current of night-air into the gloomy way, and the Shawnee emerged upon _terra firma_. “Now for the river,” whispered Hewitt, throwing himself in advance of the party. The night was dark around, though many stars twinkled in the blue overhead. Eudora trod in the hermit’s tracks, and her lover leaned upon the arm of Oonalooska. At length they stood upon the right bank of the Scioto. It was lined with thick clumps of weeping willows, the leaves of which touched the dark water, causing many faint ripples, that fell ominously upon the ears of the hunted quartette. The hermit glided from his companions, and, after a long absence, returned with the startling information that his boat was gone! Mayne Fairfax’s groan of despair was stifled by Hewitt’s hand, and in his ear were breathed these words: “We are within thirty feet of a gang of red-skins.” The hermit turned to Oonalooska, when a grunt from his dog startled every one. Instantaneously the tramp of many feet smote the ears of the imperiled ones, and a circle of Indians seemed to rise from the earth. “Spare all!” was heard the voice of Jim Girty, as he rushed forward, at the head of the main band. He met the man he feared--the strong hermit--in whose arms he was but a child.