"Recall you a day twelve years ago on the River Raisin?" I asked clearly, feeling confident now that my words were no longer idle. "An Indian was captured in his canoe by a party of frontiersmen who were out to revenge a bloody raid along the valley of the Maumee. That Indian was a Wyandot and a chief. He was bound to a tree beside the river bank and condemned to torture; when the leader of the rangers, a man with a gray beard, stood before him rifle in hand, and swore to kill the first white man who put flint and steel to the wood. Recall you this, Sau-ga-nash?"
The stolid face of the listening savage changed, the expression of revengeful hostility merging into one of undisguised amazement.
"That which you picture has not left my memory," he answered gravely.
"Nor the pledge you gave to that white captain when he brought you safely to Detroit?" I queried, eagerly.
"Nor the pledge. But what has all this to do here?"
"Only, Sau-ga-nash, that I am Major David Wayland's son."
The Indian sprang forward, his eyes burning fiercely; and thinking his movement to be hostile, I thrust the girl aside that I might be free to repel his attack. But he did not touch me, merely peering eagerly into my face with a keen questioning look that read my every feature.
"You have the nose and forehead," he reflected aloud; "yes, and the eyes. Before the Great Spirit, I will redeem my pledge; a chief of the Wyandots cannot lie."
He paused, and I could mark the varied emotions that swayed him, so deeply was he moved by this strange discovery. Unconsciously my hand clasped Mademoiselle's, for now I felt that our fate hung on his decision.
"'T is a hard task, Master Wayland," he admitted at length, almost wearily, "but for your father's sake it shall be done. I see only one way for it, and that by water. Know you anything about the management of boats?"