The man was tall and swarthy, with long, black hair, which hung straight down upon his broad shoulders, his face was cruel and crafty, and his every look was evil.
He was dressed in half-savage, half-civilized style, wearing a fur cap, an embroidered hunting-shirt of buckskin, woolen trousers, heavy boots, and a red sash in which were thrust a brace of pistols and a knife.
"See here, Grace," he said to the girl who sat before him on a low couch of skins, "I haven't brought you here for nothing, and you must be my wife."
"Never, Tom Walden, or whatever your evil name is," said the girl. "Far from home and friends, among these wild and savage men, less pitiless than you are, I can still defy you. I will never be your wife!"
"These people are my allies," said Walden. "I have inflamed them against the whites, and they are ready to go on the warpath if I bid them. They will kill you as soon as any one, if I give the word, and I will if you do not consent to——"
"Never!" cried Grace, springing to her feet. "I doubt not that you have told many lies to account for my disappearance, since you dragged me from my home by your baseness. You are false enough to make war against your own people, but I do not fear you, no matter what you threaten. Kill me, if you will, and release me from my misery!"
"I've a mind to take you at your word!" cried Walden, seizing the girl by the wrist and raising his knife as if to strike.
The maiden never flinched; but at that moment an Indian youth sprang into the lodge and threw himself between the renegade and the girl.
"White man no strike the white flower!" he cried.
"Who are you?" growled the man, looking fixedly at the youth.