“Yes, yes,” he continued, as though the young hunter had put a question, “it is a terrible thing to kill a fellow-creature in the first heat of passion; but I will not tell you aught further of that dark night, now. Boy, from that day to this I have not taken a human life--nor ever will I, not even the life of an Indian. I will assist you to recover the sweet creature you seek--together we will snatch her, unharmed, from the fangs of the white wolf--Jim Girty; but into whatever precarious situations we may fall, remember, boy, that these hands shed no human blood. These fists are enough for a score of red-skins. They have proved themselves thus in times gone by. But here, our supper is ready. I’ll prop you up with these skins, and you can make out to eat, I hope.” The repast proved quite nutritious to Mayne Fairfax, and not a word passed between the twain until it had ended, and the still smoking remains thrown to Wolf. “Boy, did you ever hear your father speak of William Hewitt?” suddenly questioned the giant. “Never to my knowledge,” answered the young man. “Strange, when we knew each other so well,” soliloquized the hermit, in a semi-audible tone. “But, perhaps, he would have his heirs remain ignorant of that dark night, as well he might. But, my boy, I’d give my right arm, nay, my very life, to know what became of him--my boy.” “I will make every inquiry when I return,” said Fairfax. “But how shall I know the result of your inquiries?” “I will return and make them known to you.” “How can I reward you?” cried Hewitt, grasping the young man’s hands. “Say nothing about that. I am already rewarded. But--what was that?” “My door-bell,” said the giant, with a smile, as he rose to his feet and hastened to the mouth of the cave. A minute later Fairfax heard the massive oaken door open and close, and a confused murmur of voices approaching him. “Boy,” suddenly said the giant, leading a tall and athletic young Indian into the mellow light of the fire, “here is the only visitor I have. The Bible says that it is not good for man to be alone always, so I picked up a companion. This is Oonalooska, the bravest young warrior of his tribe.” Mayne Fairfax stretched forth his hand, and the young brave pressed it with no small degree of feeling. “So the madwoman struck the white hunter?” said Oonalooska, half interrogatively, still retaining Fairfax’s hand. “Yes; her shaft pierced my breast, and her wolf tore my throat.” “She will be like a great storm now,” returned the Shawnee, “because one of her wolves is dead. Oonalooska fears for the Pale Flower in the Shawnee village.” “Then she is there!” cried the young hunter, with eagerness. “Yes,” answered Oonalooska, “she is under the fiery eyes of the White Wolf, and unless he guards her well, Alaska will tear her from him, and put her to the torture.” “No, no!” cried Mayne Fairfax. “Hewitt, I feel strong enough to go and rescue her.”