stream. By the time they had crossed, it was quite dark. The
night was cloudy, and distant thunder could occasionally be
heard.

The Indians hurried their captive to a place half a mile from the
ford, and there tied her with strips of deerskin to one of the
low branches of an elm. Her hands were extended above her head,
and her wrists were crossed and tied so tightly that she found it
impossible to release them. When they had secured her to their
own satisfaction, the Indians left her, assuring her that they
were going back to the ford to shoot her father and his
companions as they crossed it.

Helen was almost frantic with fear and grief. Added to the
uncertainty of her own fate was the knowledge that her father and
friends were marching right into an Indian ambuscade.

In the midst of her trouble, she did not forget her pious
teaching. She prayed God to send down his angels and release her.
But no angel came. In her distress, the rumbling thunders in the
distance were unheard, and she hardly noticed the shower until
she was drenched to the skin.

The rain thoroughly wet the strips of deerskin with which she was
tied, and as they stretched she almost unconsciously slipped her
hands from them. Her prayer had been answered by the rain. She
hastily untied her feet, and sped away toward the creek. Guided
by the lightning's friendly glare, she crossed the stream half a
mile above the ford, and hastened to meet her father and friends.