Mayne Fairfax’s groan of despair was stifled by Hewitt’s hand, and in his ear were breathed these words:
“We are within thirty feet of a gang of red-skins.”
The hermit turned to Oonalooska, when a grunt from his dog startled every one.
Instantaneously the tramp of many feet smote the ears of the imperiled ones, and a circle of Indians seemed to rise from the earth.
“Spare all!” was heard the voice of Jim Girty, as he rushed forward, at the head of the main band.
He met the man he feared—the strong hermit—in whose arms he was but a child.
Hewitt raised the renegade above his head, and tossed him far out into the Scioto. Oonalooska fought nobly, and would have escaped had he not stumbled over a prostrate Indian, and been seized before he could rise. Mayne Fairfax, weak from his wounds, did not resist, and he and Eudora, who fought valiantly with clubbed rifle, were made prisoners.
It cost the Shawnees a Herculean struggle to secure the hermit and it was not until the entire band rushed upon him en masse , that he became a captive.
At the conclusion of the victory, a chief sent a shrill whoop through the forest.
“Why shout the Shawnees?” asked the hermit, with a nonchalance which, under the circumstances was truly wonderful.