eerie singsong voice he used when he was prophesying for the tribe.

"When a man or woman suffers an injury too great for them to bear, an
evil spirit is born in them, a spirit of hate. The evil spirit ruins
whoever harbors it. The evil spirit occupies a man and drives him onward
until he does things to others that make them hate in their turn, and
thus the spirit continues. I think your uncle has been carrying such an
evil spirit."

Auguste broke out in a cold sweat hearing the warning in Owl Carver's
words. He remembered the hatred that rose in him whenever he thought of
Raoul. Was the spirit of hatred kindled in Raoul at Fort Dearborn now
passing to him?

"I pledged to my father, smoking the sacred tobacco, that I would hold
the land he gave me," Auguste said, as much to hearten himself as to
persuade Owl Carver. "Tobacco bound you and Black Hawk in honor to
surrender when Eagle Feather smoked it. I must honor my promise."

But he still felt cold within, as Owl Carver, his eyes now clear-sighted
and grave, gripped his wrist tightly. "Do not let your uncle's evil
spirit cross over to you. See that it be your promise, and not greed,
like the greed of the pale eyes, that takes you back to that land. And,
above all, do not use your shaman's power to harm your enemy, or you
will suffer for it."

"I will not," said Auguste, but he felt unsure of himself. After all the
evil he had endured, how could he _know_ that he would not unleash his
greatest powers if that were the only way he could destroy Raoul?

The grip of the bony fingers on his wrist tightened. "Set your heart,
White Bear, not upon getting back this land, but just upon walking your
path."

The deep lines in Owl Carver's face were drawn downward with pain, and
Auguste felt the crushing weight of grief as he realized they were both
thinking the same thought--that they would never see each other again.

24

Challenge

Following the dimly seen figures of Guichard and his horse, Auguste
breathlessly climbed a narrow, steep pathway that switched back and
forth up the steep, wooded hillside. He led his horse by the reins.
Halfway up the hill they came to a flat place, an open clearing. Auguste
smelled wood smoke. The windows of a cottage glowed yellow, promising
safety.

While Auguste waited in the dark, Guichard stabled the horses, then
knocked on the cottage door.

"We have arrived, monsieur," he called, and pushed the door inward.

Auguste b