s and his arrogant and bold manner had slowly undermined the
friendships he had made during the early part of his stay at Ft.
Henry; while Clarke's good humor and willingness to help any one,
his gentleness with the children, and his several acts of heroism
had strengthened their regard.

"Jonathan, this looks like some of Girty's work. I wish I knew the
truth," said Col. Zane, as he, his brothers and Betty and Myeerah
entered the house. "Confound it! We can't have even one afternoon of
enjoyment. I must see Lewis. I cannot be sure of Clarke. He is
evidently bitter against Miller. That would have been a terrible
fight. Those fellows have had trouble before, and I am afraid we
have not seen the last of their quarrel."

"If they meet again--but how can you keep them apart?" said Silas.
"If Miller leaves the Fort without killing Clarke he'll hide around
in the woods and wait for a chance to shoot him."

"Not with Wetzel here," answered Col. Zane. "Betty, do you see what
your--" he began, turning to his sister, but when he saw her white
and miserable face he said no more.

"Don't mind, Betts. It wasn't any fault of yours," said Isaac,
putting his arm tenderly round the trembling girl. "I for another
believe Clarke was right when he said Miller knew there were Indians
over the river. It looks like a plot to abduct you. Have no fear for
Alfred. He can take care of himself. He showed that pretty well."

An hour later Clarke had finished his supper and was sitting by his
window smoking his pipe. His anger had cooled somewhat and his
reflections were not of the pleasantest kind. He regretted that he
lowered himself so far as to fight with a man little better than an
outlaw. Still there was a grim satisfaction in the thought of the
blow he had given Miller. He remembered he had asked for a knife and
that his enemy and he be permitted to fight to the death. After all
to have ended, then and there, the feud between them would have been
the better course; for he well knew Miller's desperate character,
that he had killed more than one white man, and that now a fair
fight might not be possible. Well, he thought, what did it matter?
He was not going to worry himself. He did not care much, one way or
another. He had no home; he could not make one without the woman he
loved. He was a Soldier of Fortune; he was at the mercy of Fate, and
he would drift along and let what came be welcome. A soft footfall
on the stairs and a knock on t