that shrill screeching yell came floating to the ears of the astonished

Indians.
The prisoner had seen that horse and rider before; he had heard that long

yell; his heart bounded with hope. The Indians knew that yell; it was the
terrible war-cry of the Hurons.

A horse followed closely after the leader, and then another appeared on the
crest of the hill. Then came two abreast, and then four abreast, and now the

hill was black with plunging horses. They galloped swiftly down the slope and
into the narrow street of the village. When the black horse entered the oval

the train of racing horses extended to the top of the ridge. The plumes of the
riders streamed gracefully on the breeze; their feathers shone; their weapons

glittered in the bright sunlight.
Never was there more complete surprise. In the earlier morning the Hurons had

crept up to within a rifle shot of the encampment, and at an opportune moment
when all the scouts and runners were round the torture-stake, they had reached

the hillside from which they rode into the village before the inhabitants knew
what had happened. Not an Indian raised a weapon. There were screams from the

women and children, a shouted command from Big Tree, and then all stood still
and waited.

Thundercloud, the war chief of the Wyandots, pulled his black stallion back on
his haunches not twenty feet from the prisoner at the stake. His band of

painted devils closed in behind him. Full two hundred strong were they and all
picked warriors tried and true. They were naked to the waist. Across their

brawny chests ran a broad bar of flaming red paint; hideous designs in black
and white covered their faces. Every head had been clean-shaven except where

the scalp lock bristled like a porcupine's quills. Each warrior carried a
plumed spear, a tomahawk, and a rifle. The shining heads, with the little

tufts of hair tied tightly close to the scalp, were enough to show that these
Indians were on the war-path.

From the back of one of the foremost horses a slender figure dropped and
darted toward the prisoner at the stake. Surely that wildly flying hair proved

this was not a warrior. Swift as a flash of light this figure reached the
stake, the blazing fagots scattered right and left; a naked blade gleamed; the

thongs fell from the prisoner's wrists; and the front ranks of the Hurons
opened and closed on the freed man. The deliverer turned to the gaping

Indians, disclosing to their gaze the pale and beautiful face of Myeerah, the
Wyandot Princes.

"Summon your chief," she commanded.
The tall form of the Seneca chief moved from among the warriors and with slow

and measured tread approached the maiden. His bearing fitted the leader of
five nations of Indians. It was of one who knew that he was the wisest of

chiefs, the hero of a hundred battles. Who dared beard him in his den? Who
dared defy the greatest power in all Indian tribes? When he stood before the

maiden he folded his arms and waited for her to speak.
"Myeerah claims the White Eagle," she said.

Cornplanter did not answer at once. He had never seek Myeerah, though he had
heard many stories of her loveliness. Now he was face to face with the Indian

Princess whose fame had been the theme of many an Indian romance, and whose
beauty had been sung of in many an Indian song. The beautiful girl stood erect

and fearless. Her disordered garments, torn and bedraggled and stained from
the long ride, ill-concealed the grace of her form. Her hair rippled from the

uncovered head and fell in dusky splendor over her shoulders; her dark eyes
shone with a stern and steady fire: her bosom swelled with each deep breath.

She was the daughter of great chiefs; she looked the embodiment of savage
love.

"The Huron squaw is brave," said Cornplanter. "By what right does she come to
free my captive?"

"He is an adopted Wyandot."
"Why does the paleface hide like a fox near the camp of Cornplanter?"

"He ran away. He lost the trail to the Fort on the river."
"Cornplanter takes prisoners to kill; not to free."

"If you will not give him up Myeerah will take him," she answered, pointing to
the long line of mounted warriors. "And should harm befall Tarhe's daughter it

will be avenged."
Cornplanter looked at Thundercloud. Well he knew that chief's prowess in the

field. He ran his eyes over the silent, watching Hurons, and then back to the
sombre face of their leader. Thundercloud sat rigid upon his stallion; his

head held high; every muscle tense and strong for instant action. He was ready
and eager for the fray. He, and every one of his warriors, would fight like a

thousand tigers for their Princess--the pride of the proud race of Wyandots.
Cornplanter saw this and he felt that on the eve of important marches he dared

not sacrifice one of his braves for any reason, much less a worthless pale
face; and yet to let the prisoner go galled the haughty spirit of the Seneca

chief.
"The Long Knife is not worth the life of one of my dogs," he said, with scorn

in his deep voice. "If Cornplanter willed he could drive the Hurons before him
like leaves before the storm. Let Myeerah take the pale face back to her

wigwam and there feed him and make a squaw of him. When he stings like a snake
in the grass remember the chief's words. Cornplanter turns on his heel from

the Huron maiden who forgets her blood."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When the sun reached its zenith it shone down upon a long line of mounted
Indians riding single file along the narrow trail and like a huge serpent

winding through the forest and over the plain.
They were Wyandot Indians, and Isaac Zane rode among them. Freed from the

terrible fate which had menaced him, and knowing that he was once more on his
way to the Huron encampment, he had accepted his destiny and quarreled no more

with fate. He was thankful beyond all words for his rescue from the stake.
Coming to a clear, rapid stream, the warriors dismounted and rested while

their horses drank thirstily of the cool water. An Indian touched Isaac on the
arm and silentlypointed toward the huge maple tree under which Thundercloud

and Myeerah were sitting. Isaac turned his horse and rode the short distance
intervening. When he got near he saw that Myeerah stood with one arm over her

pony's neck. She raised eyes that were weary and sad, which yet held a lofty
and noble resolve.

"White Eagle, this stream leads straight to the Fort on the river," she said
briefly, almost coldly. "Follow it, and when the sun reaches the top of yonder

hill you will be with your people. Go, you are free."
She turned her face away. Isaac's head whirled in his amazement. He could not

believe his ears. He looked closely at her and saw that though her face was
calm her throat swelled, and the hand which lay over the neck of her pony

clenched the bridle in a fierce grasp. Isaac glanced at Thundercloud and the
other Indians near by. They sat unconcerned with the invariable unreadable

expression.
"Myeerah, what do you mean?" asked Isaac.

"The words of Cornplanter cut deep into the heart of Myeerah," she answered
bitterly. "They were true. The Eagle does not care for Myeerah. She shall no

longer keep him in a cage. He is free to fly away."
"The Eagle does not want his freedom. I love you, Myeerah. You have saved me

and I am yours. If you will go home with me and marry me there as my people
are married I will go back to the Wyandot village."

Myeerah's eyes softened with unutterable love. With a quick cry she was in his
arms. After a few moments of forgetfulness Myeerah spoke to Thundercloud and

waved her hand toward the west. The chief swung himself over his horse,
shouted a single command, and rode down the bank into the water. His warriors

followed him, wading their horses into the shallow creek, with never backward
look. When the last rider had disappeared in the willows the lovers turned

their horses eastward.
CHAPTER X.

It was near the close of a day in early summer. A small group of persons
surrounded Col. Zane where he sat on his doorstep. From time to time he took

the long Indian pipe from his mouth and blew great clouds of smoke over his
head. Major McColloch and Capt. Boggs were there. Silas Zane half reclined on

the grass. The Colonel's wife stood in the door-way, and Betty sat on the
lower step with her head leaning against her brother's knee. They all had