A few minutes afterward, he again lay upon his couch of furs in the cabin, bound hand and foot; while Duke, stretched full length upon the floor, lolled his red tongue and whined dolefully. Just within the door stood a guard—silent and motionless as a bronze statue.
The news of the attempted escape and consequent struggle quickly spread throughout the village, and occasioned no little excitement. Duke had seriously injured the Indian he had attacked; and the warrior’s comrades and friends threatened dire vengeance upon the dog and his master. Long Gun sought to pacify the angry braves—but failed. They openly rebelled against the chief’s authority, and swore they would kill the hound and his owner. In his extremity Long Gun went to La Violette and laid the case before her.
She answered him:
“Have no fear. Your prisoner shall not be harmed. Select those who will obey you, and closely guard him to-night. To-morrow I will interfere in his behalf.”
Well pleased, Long Gun returned to his post of duty and carried out La Violette’s instructions. But had he known what was her real intention, he would not have felt so complacent.
When the Shawnee chief had left her presence, La Violette threw herself upon her couch and sobbed bitterly:
“Yes, I must save him—save him by giving him his liberty, by parting from him forever! Oh, it is hard—cruel! For I love him—I love him! But he must not die—and die he will, if he remains here longer. The warriors are determined to take his life; they cannot be restrained. He must leave to-morrow night, at the latest. Oh, Ross—Ross! My love—my love! You will never know how I worship you—never!”
All night long, the village was in a buzz of excitement. Ross Douglas lay upon his bed, a prey to despairing thoughts and gloomy forebodings. With wide-open eyes, he peered into the darkness that surrounded him; with alert ears, he listened to every sound. The hum of many voices came to him at intervals. Occasionally, the soft breeze that swept through the door brought a threat or an objurgation. He realized the great mistake he had made.
“All is over—I am lost!” he muttered chokingly, a black wave of despair engulfing his soul. “I may as well resign myself to my fate. Ill-luck has followed me persistently. Joe and Bright Wing are dead, or helpless captives like myself; Bradford is absent. I’ve not a friend in the place—except La Violette. And what can she do? Nothing! What would she do, if she could? I don’t know. She wouldn’t give me my liberty, I’m sure. And I would as lief die as remain longer a prisoner! She loves me? Yes. But she will not aid me to escape—of course not. She would rather see me die before her eyes, than resign me to another. What a fool I was to try to recover my gun! But I was crazy with disappointment. Ah! Duke, old fellow, you seem to realize the gravity of the situation. Three times we have contended against these red demons. They’ll not spare us this time. Well, at least I can die like a man; you can die like a hero. I wouldn’t care so much—though life is sweet—were it not for Amy and La Violette. Yes, La Violette! I pity her; I—I——”
Slowly, endlessly, the night dragged itself away. The morning dawned warm and clear. At sunrise La Violette made her way to the cabin in which the prisoner was confined. The guard at the door did not oppose her entrance; but he maintained his position just within the door.