As he uttered this threat he raised his iron fist.
“They’re—gone,” she said, gaspingly, instinctively shrinking from the irate chief. “Wacomet intended to make the white girl his squaw, and so the red-coat bore her from his cave.”
“Where was Ewana, then?”
“Braiding her hair,” was the truthful reply, couched in a courageous tone.
“And you let them go?” yelled Wacomet, at the top of his voice, for his passion was now utterly ungovernable. “You listened to the tale that lying dog breathed into your ears and turned your face away while they went?”
“Ewana did all this—she did it because she loved Wacomet—because she did not want a White Rose to nestle in his bosom.”
A shriek of rage that would have done credit to demons was the Ottawa’s reply, and his clenched hand descended upon the girl’s face once, twice, thrice in rapid succession.
Then he hurled her from him, drew his tomahawk and darted upon the body.
But not to strike.
Two pairs of eyes had followed his steps through the woods and two pairs of stealthy feet had penetrated the dark corridor.