“Has the White Chief a brave in his band who is not afraid to enter Alaska’s lodge?” “Yes,” said Girty, quickly. “Newaska is welcome to Alaska’s lodge. Her wolves wag their tails when he approaches.” “Ah! he shall go!” cried the Prophet. “When the sun goes down he must go to the queen’s lodge, and awhile after he has sat down in the midst of her children, we will take the prisoners to the forest.” “I will seek Newaska at once,” cried the renegade, springing to his feet. “My hour of triumph over all I hate is at hand, and once more Jim Girty will be enemyless!” The Prophet remained in the lodge, and a short time after the renegade’s departure, a young brave entered the structure. It was Newaska, the young warrior deputed to poison Alaska’s wolves. For a number of years the young Shawnee had been a favorite of the Wolf-Queen’s; often he had slept in her double lodge, and caressed the lupine gang whose fangs were harmless playthings to him. But, by and by Jim Girty drew him into his band of merciless braves, and Newaska became the renegade’s most pliant tool. To the Prophet, by the poisoner, the White Chief sent several pieces of venison, into which the sorcerer infused a quantity of the juice of the deadly nightshade. “Now,” said he, “Newaska will throw the venison to Alaska’s children, and step from her lodge.” “When does it send them on the trail of death?” asked the young brave, thrusting the meat into a pouch beneath his robe. “Before Newaska can repeat the names of the chiefs of his nation,” was the reply. “He must get Alaska beyond his sight before he feeds her children.” “Newaska will work like the serpent,” said the brave, and glided from the Prophet’s lodge. Meanwhile the day passed quickly to the doomed prisoners in the strong lodge. They saw no hope with cheering lay ahead. Oonalooska was sullen and silent; and, weakened by the scenes through which he had passed within the last twenty-four hours, and his wounds irritated by fatigue, Mayne Fairfax slumbered. The hermit’s spirits did not desert him. Now and then he would walk to the heavy oaken door, shaped and hung by Girty’s hands, whence he would shower defiant words upon his guards. “I say,” he cried once, “did I choke the white devil to death?” “No,” answer the only guard who replied to him; “the White Chief is in the Prophet’s lodge.” “Still at his old trade!” returned Hewitt, “plotting chief. I want another chance at him to-night, and I hope and pray that I may get it.” “The pale giant should sing his death-song,” said the guard. “The great light of the Manitou nears the hills, and when the lesser lights come forth, we will lead the three to the trees.” “Where’s Tecumseh?” “Tecumseh sits in his lodge. He has spoken against the great Prophet, and the Manitou is angry with him. He can not save the enemies of the Shawnees from being skinned and burned.” Hewitt knew that, and turned from the door.