With the same noiselessness, the crouching form bent over sideways
and peered around the screen. Then the dusky arm glided forward
until the iron fingers clasped the barrel of the rifle leaning
against the root, and the weapon was withdrawn.

He now had two guns, and Ben Ripley none.

Then the Seneca advanced, a weapon in either hand, and, presenting
himself in front of the amazed group, exclaimed--"Huh! how do,
bruder?--how do sister?"

Ben Ripley sprang up as if shot, and his startled mother, with a
gasp of affright, turned her head.

For one moment the boy meditated leaping upon the warrior, in the
desperate attempt to wrench his gun from his grasp; but the mother,
reading his intention, interposed.

"Do nothing, my son: we are in the hands of Heaven."

CHAPTER TWELVE: CONCLUSION

The point, at last, had been reached where it was useless to
struggle any longer. The little party of fugitives, after safely
crossing the Susquehanna on the day of the battle, and penetrating
more than a score of miles on their way eastward to the Delaware,
were overtaken, and made captive by three Indians.

Warning Ben against any resistance, the mother bowed her head in
submission, and awaited her fate. Only once, when she clasped her