And with a parting volley of contemptuous exclamations, the braves hastily left the room.
La Violette leaned against the wall and calmly looked upon the whining, moaning wretch at her feet. Now she fully realized what she had done; but she had no regret. She had done it for the sake of the man she loved!
The Prophet was indeed shorn of his power. From that day forth, his influence over his people rapidly declined.
CHAPTER XIII.
It was the close of a hot July day. The surface of the placid Scioto glinted in the red rays of the setting sun. The dark-green forests surrounding the little village of Franklinton grew darker, as the tremulous twilight faded into dewy dusk. Blue smoke curled gracefully from the mud-daubed chimneys of the villagers’ cabins. A tinkling cowbell broke the stillness—a twinkling star peeped from the dusky vault above. Swallows skimmed low along the shores of the gently-flowing river. Insect voices joined in a monotonous threnody. Lights began to gleam from cottage windows and doors.
Upon the western bank of the stream—a few miles below the village—stood a solitary pedestrian, leaning against a rough-barked elm and looking toward the opposite shore. He carried a long rifle; and at his side hung ammunition-pouch and powder-horn. His buckskin suit gave evidence of hard usage, being soiled, frayed, and ragged. The soft hat that surmounted his dark curls was battered and torn. His moccasins were ready to drop piecemeal from his feet.
Stooping and patting the head of a large bloodhound that sat panting beside him, the man sighed wearily and began:
“Well, Duke—old fellow, we’re here at last. We’ve had a lonely and hazardous journey. But we’re here—free, alive, and well.”