“It was not altogether as you have stated it, Mademoiselle,” I stammered, confused by the directness of her attack.  “I said nothing of knowing this Josette, and you have deceived yourself in the matter.  I came here seeking a young girl, ’t is true, but found no trace of her until a few hours ago, most curiously, in the heart of that Indian camp yonder.”

“You found her there?  How strange!”

“Most strange indeed, Mademoiselle, especially as she appeared to enjoy perfect liberty among the savages.”

“You spoke with her?”

“Not a word; it was only a glimpse I caught of her in the firelight, and when I sought to go to her the warriors interfered and forced me back.  But Captain Heald, who saw her at the same time, assured me ’t was the one I sought.”

“’T is small wonder, then, you could stand here at my very side so long, and yet see me not, or remain indifferent to my presence,” she said, drawing slightly back.  “Come, Captain de Croix, let us walk to the other corner of the stockade, and leave Master Wayland to dream of his mysterious beauty undisturbed.”

“You misapprehend me,” I cried, awakened by her words, but more by De Croix’s smile.  “She has no such hold upon my memory as that, for until tonight I had supposed her a mere child.  I knew not you were upon the platform, believing the forms I saw in the gloom to be those of the night-guard.  What dark figure is that, even now leaning over the logs yonder?”

It was De Croix’s deeper voice that made answer.

“’Tis Captain Wells; and we found him in no mood for conversation.  Seemingly he hath small faith in the pledges of the chiefs.”

“My own hope rests far more upon our skill at arms, Monsieur,” I answered directly; “for I have known Indian treachery all my life.  They may keep faith with us to-morrow, for John Kinzie has great influence with them for good; nevertheless, I shall oil my gun carefully before riding forth.”

It was in his eyes to make reply, but before it could come the girl between us uttered a cry so piercing that it set us gazing where her finger pointed out across the lake.

“Look there, Messieurs!  Did ever mortal behold so grewsome a sight before?  What means the portent?”

It is before me now, in each grim, uncanny detail,—­though I know well that my pen will fail to give it fit description, or convey even feebly a sense of the overwhelming dread of what we saw.  Nature has power to paint what human hand may never hope to copy; and though, as I now know well, it was no more than a strange commingling of cloud and moon in atmospheric illusion, still the effect was awe-inspiring to a degree difficult of realization within the environments of peace and safety.  To us, it appeared as a dreadful warning,—­a mysterious manifestation of supernatural power, chilling our blood with terror and striking agony into our souls.  Up from the far east had rolled an immense