"Is it a forest fire?" asked Nell, fearfully.
"Fire, of course, but—-" Jim did not voice his fear; he looked closely at Wingenund.
The chieftain stood silent a moment as was his wont when addressed. The dull glow of the sun was reflected in the dark eyes that gazed far away over forest and field.
"Fire," said Wingenund, and it seemed that as he spoke a sterner shadow flitted across his bronzed face. "The sun sets to-night over the ashes of the Village of Peace."
He resumed his rapid march eastward. With never a backward glance the saddened party followed. Nell kept close beside Jim, and the old man tramped after them with bowed head. The sun set, but Wingenund never slackened his stride. Twilight deepened, yet he kept on.
"Indian, we can go no further to-night, we must rest," cried Jim, as
Nell stumbled against him, and Mr. Wells panted wearily in the rear.
"Rest soon," replied the chief, and kept on.
Darkness had settled down when Wingenund at last halted. The fugitives could see little in the gloom, but they heard the music of running water, and felt soft moss beneath their feet.
They sank wearily down upon a projecting stone. The moss was restful to their tired limbs. Opening the pack they found food with which to satisfy the demands of hunger. Then, close under the stone, the fugitives sank into slumber while the watchful Indian stood silent and motionless.
Jim thought he had but just closed his eyes when he felt a gentle pressure on his arm.