Advancing with a cry that might be likened to that of a fiend, she seized the bridle of the horse, and attempted to drag his rider by her habit to the ground--shrieking forth at the same time her determination to have her life who had taken the life of her son. But Mrs. Headley was not one, as the reader of this by no means fictitious narrative already knows, to be thus intimidated. She possessed too much of the high spirit, the resolute nature of her unfortunate uncle to submit quietly to the outrage, and, moreover, she knew enough of the Indian character to be sensible that it was not by any manifestation of submission that she could hope to escape the threatened danger. Her course was at once taken. She struck the gaunt and shrivelled hag such a violent stroke over her shoulder with the horsewhip of cowhide she held, that the latter was compelled to release her hold; and, as she rushed into the fort, calling on the Indians to revenge her son and kill the white squaw, the latter followed her completely round the square, using her cowhide with a dexterity and an effect, as she leaned over her saddle, that drew bursts of laughter and approval from the warriors eagerly gazing on the scene. At one moment, there was a manifestation of a desire to carry out the wishes of the crone and kill Mrs. Headley, and several voices were loud in the expression, but suddenly then stood forth the Pottowatomie of the preceding evening, the antagonist of Mrs. Elmsley, who, from his commanding appearance, not less than by the prestige of his bravery imparted by the numerous fresh scalps at his side, soon made himself an object of attention. None of the chiefs were present. "The white squaw shall not be killed," he pronounced, as he held up his tomahawk authoritatively; "she is brave like a Pottowatomie warrior. See here," holding up first five and then two fingers--"so many balls have hit her, and yet she is here, on horseback, as if nothing had happened. What Indian would have courage to do that? Speak!" "Pwau-na-shig lies," returned the beldam, whom Mrs. Headley had now ceased to punish, yet who, panting from the speed she had used in her flight, was almost inarticulate, thereby provoking the greater mass of the Indians knowing its cause to increased mirth--"the white squaw has no wounds--where are they--she cannot show them. If she had wounds she could not sit on her horse; but she has killed my son, and I demand her blood. Let her be given up to my tomahawk." A loud and confused murmur burst from many of the group, influenced by the words of the last speaker. Mrs. Headley sat her horse with indifference, patting his head gently with the whip, yet looking earnestly towards Pwau-na-shig, upon whom she now altogether relied.