The wood was soon reached, and two lithe trees selected for the death-stakes. Jim Girty was now beside himself with fiendish triumph, and his stentorian voice rung loud and clear above the yells of the red-skins. He insulted Hewitt in every way that suggested itself to his devilish mind. He struck him with his open hand, spit in his face, and plucked out a handful of his beautiful beard! Hewitt stood his indignities without a murmur, but a sarcastic smile lurked around his lips. Failing to draw a groan from the hermit, the renegade turned to Oonalooska, but was obliged to desist with the same result. “To the trees!” he said at last, and the hands of the prisoners were momentarily unbound, that they might be fastened to the saplings. As the hermit felt his hands spring from the thongs, he darted a look at Oonalooska, and his lips parted to utter a single word, which drew a spark of fire from the young brave’s eyes. The next instant the twain sprung forward, and, before the mob could recover from its surprise, Oonalooska had snatched the tomahawk from Amasqua, and Jim Girty staggered to the earth beneath Hewitt’s clenched hand. Then, having driven the Indians back a goodly space, by their unexpected movements, the twain turned, and darted through the forest with the speed of the deer. To pursue by sight was utterly useless, for the captives had disappeared in an instant, and Jim Girty, who was the first to recover his senses, darted to Alaska’s side. “The white-face and the red traitor who shot Alaska’s wolves have escaped,” he cried, pointing in the direction of the trail of the twain. “Let Alaska throw her children upon the trail, that her enemies may die.” “Do not, my mother,” cried Fairfax, laying his hand upon Alaska’s arm, before she had a chance to reply to the renegade. “If the Lone Man and Oonalooska die, Alaska’s child will not become King of the Wolves.” The Wolf-Queen looked down upon the face upturned to her--the face of, as she believed, her son, and Fairfax discovered that he held an unbounded influence over that mad-woman. “Alaska’s wolves shall scent no trail to-night,” she said, addressing him, and then she turned to Girty, and the mad, clamoring clique that surrounded him. “The captives may fly,” she said, with teeth firm-set, as her dark eyes fell upon the renegade, thence wandering to the bloodthirsty band. “Alaska hears the words of her son, and the wolves strike not a pale-face trail to-night. If the White Wolf and Amasqua would catch the lost birds, they must find them without Alaska’s children. Alaska and her white son, who soon will be a Shawnee and King of the Wolves, will return to her lodge.” The queen made a retiring motion, when Girty turned to the band.