"The maiden is safe, brother. There will be no more fighting at the
stockade. Those who assaulted us were of my own tribe, and yesterday I
reasoned with them."

Then he spoke to the chief, and translated for me.

"He says that you have endured the ordeal of the stake, and have slain
your enemy in fight, and that now you will go before the great Sachem
for his judgment. That is the custom of our people."

He turned to Onotawah again, and his tone was high and scornful. He
spoke as if he were the chief and the other were the minion, and, what
was strangest of all, Onotawah replied meekly. Shalah rose to his feet
and strode to the door, pointing down the glen with his hand. He seemed
to menace the other, his nostrils quivered with contempt, and his voice
was barbed with passion. Onotawah bowed his head and said nothing.

Then he seemed to dismiss him, and the proud chief walked out of the
teepee like a disconsolate schoolboy.

Instantly Shalah turned to me and inquired about my wounds. He looked
at the hole in my arm and at my scorched legs, and from his belt took a
phial of ointment, which he rubbed on the former. He passed his cool
hands over my brow, and felt the beating of my heart.

"You are weary, brother, and somewhat scarred, but there is no grave
hurt. What of the Master?"

I told him of Ringan's end. He bent his head, and then sprang up and
held his hands high, speaking in a strange tongue. I looked at his