over the coals, and then devoured them to the last shred. But Tayoga
saw that while the majority were absorbed in their pleasant task, a
half dozen sentinels, their line extending on either side of the camp,
kept vigilant watch. It would be impossible for the three to pass
there. They would have to go down to the lake for water, and then hide
in their niche.

Tayoga was about to turn back from the cliff, when he heard a shout
that he knew was full of significance. He understood the meaning of
every cry and he translated it at once into a note of triumph. It
sounded like the whoop over the taking of a scalp or the capture of a
prisoner, and his curiosity was aroused. Something had happened, and
he was resolved to see what it was.

Several of the warriors by the fire replied to the whoop, and then it
came again, nearer but with exactly the same note, that of triumph.
The Onondaga flattened his body against the earth, and drew himself a
little higher. In the dusk, his black eyes glowed with interest, but
he knew that his curiosity would soon be gratified. Those who had sent
forth the cry were swiftly approaching the camp.

Four warriors came through the undergrowth and they were pushing a
figure before them. It was that of a man in a bedraggled and torn red
uniform, his hands tied behind him, and all the color gone from his
face. Powerful as was his self-control, Tayoga uttered a low cry of
surprise. It was the young Englishman, Grosvenor, a prisoner of the
hostile warriors, and in a most desperate case.

The Onondaga wondered how he had been taken, but whatever the way, he
was in the hands of enemies who knew little mercy.