At length the girl dropped the white Indian’s hand, and presently a spark from two flints ignited a pile of bark-linings.
The fire revealed the avenger’s home.
The apartment proved a large and almost square room, whose walls seemed to have been hewn to an even surface, by the hands of giants. The limestone floor was devoid of rubbish, and in one corner of the room lay a couch, several old muskets, camp-kettles, etc., while above them, on strong sinews, between thirty and forty Indian scalps were strung.
Kenowatha heard the bubbling of crystal waters, and tried to discover their whereabouts.
“If the White Fox is athirst,” said Nanette, “let him drink from the spring that bubbles from the rocks yonder.”
She pointed toward one corner of the subterranean apartment, and Kenowatha walked from the fire.
“I’ll surprise the white girl now,” he muttered, as he knelt before the spring, and scooped some of the water up in his hand.
Then he applied the clear liquid—strongly impregnated with lime, to his face, until he felt that the paint had yielded to the ablution.
With a smile upon his lips, he turned toward Nanette, who was cooking a piece of venison over the crimson blaze.
She did not notice his moccasined steps.