opened and closed on the
freed man. The deliverer turned to the gaping Indians, disclosing to
their gaze the pale and beautiful face of Myeerah, the Wyandot
Princes.

"Summon your chief," she commanded.

The tall form of the Seneca chief moved from among the warriors and
with slow and measured tread approached the maiden. His bearing
fitted the leader of five nations of Indians. It was of one who knew
that he was the wisest of chiefs, the hero of a hundred battles. Who
dared beard him in his den? Who dared defy the greatest power in all
Indian tribes? When he stood before the maiden he folded his arms
and waited for her to speak.

"Myeerah claims the White Eagle," she said.

Cornplanter did not answer at once. He had never seek Myeerah,
though he had heard many stories of her loveliness. Now he was face
to face with the Indian Princess whose fame had been the theme of
many an Indian romance, and whose beauty had been sung of in many an
Indian song. The beautiful girl stood erect and fearless. Her
disordered garments, torn and bedraggled and stained from the long
ride, ill-concealed the grace of her form. Her hair rippled from the
uncovered head and fell in dusky splendor over her shoulders; her
dark eyes shone with a stern and steady fire: her bosom swelled with
each deep breath. She was the daughter of great chiefs; she looked
the embodiment of savage love.

"The Huron squaw is brave," said Cornplanter. "By what right does
she come to free my captive?"

"He is an adopted Wyandot."

"Why does the paleface hide like a fox near the camp of
Cornplanter?"

"He ran away. He lost the trail to the Fort on the river."

"Cornplanter takes prisoners to kill; not to free."

"If you will not give him up Myeerah will take him," she answered,
pointing to the long line of mounted warriors. "And should harm
befall Tarhe's daughter it will be avenged."

Cornplanter looked at Thundercloud. Well he knew that chief's
prowess in the field. He ran his eyes over the silent, watching
Hurons, and then back to the sombre face of their leader.
Thundercloud sat rigid upon his stallion; his head held high; every
muscle tense and strong for instant action. He was ready and eager
for the fray. He, and every one of his warriors, would fight like a
thousand tigers for their Princess--the pride of the proud race of
Wyandots. Cornplanter saw this and he felt that on the eve of
important marches he dared not sacrifice one of his braves fo