They talked about their future prospects.  After visiting the Village of Peace, they would go to Fort Henry, where Joe could find employment.  They dwelt upon the cabin they would build, and passed many happy moments planning a new home.  Joe’s love of the wilderness had in no wise diminished; but a blow on his head from a heavy tomahawk, and a vicious stab in the back, had lessened his zeal so far that he understood it was not wise to sacrifice life for the pleasures of the pathless woods.  He could have the last without the danger of being shot at from behind every tree.  He reasoned that it would be best for him to take his wife to Fort Henry, there find employment, and devote his leisure time to roaming in the forest.

“Will the palefaces be kind to an Indian who has learned to love them?” Whispering Winds asked wistfully of Joe.

“Indeed they will,” answered Joe, and he told her the story of Isaac Zane; how he took his Indian bride home; how her beauty and sweetness soon won all the white people’s love.  “It will be so with you, my wife.”

“Whispering Winds knows so little,” she murmured.

“Why, you are learning every day, and even if such was not the case, you know enough for me.”

“Whispering Winds will be afraid; she fears a little to go.”

“I’ll be glad when we can be on the move,” said Joe, with his old impatient desire for action.  “How soon, Winds, can we set off?”

“As many days,” answered the Indian girl, holding up five fingers.

“So long?  I want to leave this place.”

“Leave Beautiful Spring?”

“Yes, even this sweet place.  It has a horror for me.  I’ll never forget the night I first saw that spring shining in the moonlight.  It was right above the rock that I looked into the glade.  The moon was reflected in the dark pool, and as I gazed into the shadowy depths of the dark water I suddenly felt an unaccountable terror; but I oughtn’t to have the same feeling now.  We are safe, are we not?”

“We are safe,” murmured Whispering Winds.

“Yet I have the same chill of fear whenever I look at the beautiful spring, and at night as I awake to hear the soft babble of running water, I freeze until my heart feels like cold lead.  Winds, I’m not a coward; but I can’t help this feeling.  Perhaps, it’s only the memory of that awful night with Wetzel.”

“An Indian feels so when he passes to his unmarked grave,” answered Winds, gazing solemnly at him.  “Whispering Winds does not like this fancy of yours.  Let us leave Beautiful Spring.  You are almost well.  Ah! if Whispering Winds should lose you!  I love you!”

“And I love you, my beautiful wild flower,” answered Joe, stroking the dark head so near his own.

A tender smile shone on his face.  He heard a slight noise without the cave, and, looking up, saw that which caused the smile to fade quickly.

“Mose!” he called, sharply.  The dog was away chasing rabbits.