The whip-like crack of a rifle rent the air; the major shrieked, reeled to the water’s edge, grasped wildly at nothing, then disappeared among the waves that formed the famous rapids of the Maumee.
Effie St. Pierre, stunned by the fatal bullet, staggered and fell to the ground; but scarcely had she touched the earth when a figure dropped from the branches overhead, and raised her in his arms.
The figure wore the habiliments of an Ottawa chief.
CHAPTER IV.
THE YOUNG SHE-WOLF AND KENOWATHA.
“Listen!”
“Kenowatha! Kenowatha!”
The call came full and clear from the Indian village.
“The White Ottawa calls Kenowatha.”
“He may call till he is hoarse. Kenowatha, like the dead bird to its sorrowing mate, comes not.”