The intense bitterness of these words shocked me and held me dumb,--the more so, as I could not be insensible to their truth. As I lifted my eyes, I beheld, crossing the parade through the mass of equipment scattered here and there, De Croix and Mademoiselle. With a half-muttered excuse, I drew hastily back into the protecting shadow of the stockade; and as they slowly passed, I heard him jesting lightly, and saw her laughing, with a side-glance up at his face. With these words of warning from Ronan's lips yet ringing in my ears, such reckless thoughtlessness of the danger encircling us astounded me; and I drew farther back, less willing than ever to make one of them. Deep in my heart, I knew this was no time for careless laughter or happy jest. CHAPTER XXIII THE DEATH-SHADOW OF THE MIAMIS It was after midnight when I finally ceased my labors, feeling I had performed my fair share of the hard work of preparation. By this time everything was comparatively quiet within the stockade enclosure; the wagons were piled with all that could be loaded before morning, and many of the wearied soldiers had flung themselves upon the ground to snatch what rest they might before the early call to march. The women and children had disappeared, to seek such comfort as was possible amid the ruins of their former quarters; and only the sentries remained alert, pacing their solemn rounds on the narrow walk overlooking the palisades and the silent plain without. Physically wearied as I was, my mind remained intensely active, and I felt no desire for sleep. I do not recall that I gave much thought to the perils of our situation. One grows careless and indifferent to danger,--and in truth I looked forward to no serious trouble with the Indians upon the morrow's march through the sand-dunes; not that I greatly trusted to those reluctant pledges wrung from the chiefs, but because I felt that if properly handled in that open country our force was of sufficient fighting strength to repel any ordinary attack from ill-armed savages, my long border experience rendering me a bit disdainful of Indian courage and resourcefulness. So it was that my restless mind dwelt rather upon other matters more directly personal. I could not put away the thought of the half-seen girl flitting about amid the dusk of the Pottawattomie camp, especially as Captain Heald had declared her to be Elsa Matherson. I was surprised to discover that she I sought, instead of being a mere child, was a woman grown; for in this we were all deceived by the words of her father. What did she there, passing with such apparent freedom from restraint among those fierce warriors? and how was I ever to reach her with any hope of rescue, even if she desired it? There was evidently a mystery here which I could never solve through idle musing; and yet I could but ask myself where lay my graver duty,--beside this single woman, who seemingly needed no defender, or with the many helpless ones who must