"Lass, you shouldn't have stayed," said Colonel Zane kindly.

"It's--hurt--me--here," said Helen, placing her hand over her heart.

"Yes, I know, I know; of course it has," he replied, taking her hand.
"But be brave, Helen, bear up, bear up. Oh! this border is a stern
place! Do not think of that poor girl. Come, let me introduce
Jonathan's friend, Wetzel!"

Helen looked up and held out her hand. She saw a very tall man with
extremely broad shoulders, a mass of raven-black hair, and a white
face. He stepped forward, and took her hand in his huge, horny palm,
pressing it, he stepped back without speaking. Colonel Zane talked to
her in a soothing voice; but she failed to hear what he said. This
Wetzel, this Indian-hunter whom she had heard called "Deathwind of the
Border," this companion, guide, teacher of Jonathan Zane, this
borderman of wonderful deeds, stood before her.

Helen saw a cold face, deathly in its pallor, lighted by eyes
sloe-black but like glinting steel. Striking as were these features,
they failed to fascinate as did the strange tracings which apparently
showed through the white, drawn skin. This first repelled, then drew
her with wonderful force. Suffering, of fire, and frost, and iron was
written there, and, stronger than all, so potent as to cause fear,
could be read the terrible purpose of this man's tragic life.

"You avenged her! Oh! I know you did!" cried Helen, her whole heart
leaping with a blaze to her eyes.

She was answered by a smile, but such a smile! Kindly it broke over