“White scalps, Lone Dove! Swamp Oak run by a pale-face’s cabin, and he saw a white maiden dead by the well.”
Kate Blount shuddered and thought of her father.
“Swamp Oak’s people must die!” continued the young chief, sadly; “but they will die like their fathers died. But, Lone Dove, we must not stand here, and for three days Swamp Oak has lived on roots.”
With a last anxious look across the stream, the young woman turned toward her home again, the brave walking at her side.
“I saw him, White Flower,” he said, suddenly.
Kate Blount started at the announcement, and a crimson flush suffused her beautiful cheeks.
“And when is he coming?” she asked, when she regained her composure.
“Even now he is on the way,” was the reply. “He sent Swamp Oak before, and he and the Pale Giant will be here after another sleep.”
“Not before?” asked Kate, with a sigh.
“If they are chased—yes,” answered the Indian.