of a riot, leaned listlessly on their muskets, the Ottawas would not
interfere with a girl of their own tribe, and Pemaou could not watch
all quarters at once. Now was certainly the time to act; but where was
Singing Arrow? My inaction pressed on me like a hideous weight. It
seemed days instead of hours that I had sat like a crone by her distaff
and let others do my work--or fail to do it. Why was Singing Arrow so
slow to come?

I thought that I had not shifted my gaze from the house for more than
an instant; but now, as I watched the door, I learned, and not for the
first time, that a white man should have a score of eyes instead of two
when it comes to watching an Indian. For the commandant's door
suddenly opened, and out came a blanket-draped, skin-clad figure. My
muscles stiffened. It was the Englishman. Singing Arrow had brought
him the clothing, and I had not seen.

So the moment had come. I gripped my sword as one turns instinctively
to the friend loved best. Would the prisoner act his part? So keen
was my anxiety, that I felt my spirit leap out to stand by his side,
and I shut my teeth upon the cry of encouragement that welled within me.

But he needed no help of mine. He made his way leisurely past the
great fire, walking with wonderful mimicry of a woman's gait, and he
kept his face well in the shelter of the blanket in a way that
suggested coquetry rather than disguise.

And in this manner he came straight to me. He came, unerringly as a
sleep-walker, past fires, past Indians, and through the gaunt rows of
maize. He looked neither to right nor left, and no one molested him.
He came to where I stood silent, and put out his hand to touch mine.