Overawed by the renegade’s manner, the Indians slunk away, and Girty, still crimson with rage, lifted Eudora from the earth, and rudely tossed her back into her chamber. “There! curse you, live or die, I care not which!” he hissed. “If I have choked you to death, I’m sure that I don’t care; but I guess you’ll worry it through, for a woman is as hard to kill as a cat.” He continued to gaze awhile upon Eudora, who lay motionless upon her couch, admirably counterfeiting death. Then he strode from the lodge, pausing a moment to say to one of the guards: “If the white girl steps upon the trail of death, bear her beyond the village, and throw her body to the fishes in the swift stream.” The Indians exchanged startled glances, and listened at the door, as the renegade walked away. No sound came to their ears. One ventured to peep into the captive’s apartment. Eudora still lay motionless, without a sign of returning life. Had the renegade’s grip proved fatal? * * * * * “Who fired at Alaska’s boy?” asked the Wolf-Queen, when Mayne Fairfax sought her lodge, after Girty’s shot. His face indicated that his young life had been attempted. “I know not,” he answered. “The ball almost touched my cheek.” “Who would shoot Co Hago, but the White Chief?” cried Alaska, springing to his side. “Whence came the ball?” Fairfax stepped to the opening, and indicated the path of the renegade’s bullet. “Yes, yes; the White Chief fired the lead at Co Hago,” she said, “but why did he not hit him? White Chief never misses. He has the eye of an eagle.” “Providence turned the ball aside,” said Fairfax. Alaska stared at the young hunter, unable to comprehend his words. “The Great Spirit saved Co Hago,” he said, that she might understand him. “The Great Spirit?” she said, in a low tone, drawing him back into the lodge. “A long time ago, when Alaska’s head and heart were not sore, she sung songs to the Great Spirit, beside a little stream where the birds warbled their happy hymns.” “When was that, mother?” asked Mayne, anxious to fathom the story of her life, before insanity swayed her mind. A smile illumined her face at the word “mother,” and she imprinted a kiss on the Virginian’s forehead. “Alaska was a little girl when she sung with the birds by the great tree, split by the Great Spirit’s fiery ax.” “How singular!” mused Mayne Fairfax. “Not far from my home, where once a cabin stood, stands a great lightning-riven oak. Can it be that this poor mad-woman once lived so near Fairfax manor?” The crazy queen watched him narrowly, as he communed with himself. “Did Alaska--my mother, dwell near the riven oak? Why did my mother come to the Shawnees?” “Alas! Alaska forgets every thing save the big tree and her boy,” said the woman. “Some day the Great Spirit will chase the pain from this head, as the Shawnees chase the deer from their coverts.”