an instant Rodney's face was whiter than Elizabeth's.

"Father! I am here," he cried and took the tottering man in his strong
young arms.

It was a strange story to which Rodney listened that evening, one of
thrilling interest and unusual even in the annals of wild frontier
life.

Not all Indians were grateful, especially when maddened by lust for
war and vengeance. In the gray light of the dawn of the morning, after
the fierce conflict at Point Pleasant, the savage who, because of his
greed for scalps, had skulked behind when his fellows had crossed the
river the night before, bore little resemblance in his war paint to
the Indian David Allison once had warmed and fed within the walls of
the stockade on a cold winter night; but he instantly recognized his
benefactor. For hours David Allison had lain unconscious in the place
where he had fallen. During the night he had regained consciousness,
but could make no outcry louder than a moan. He had thought to drag
himself toward the camp where he might attract the attention of his
comrades, but had failed, and lay back against a fallen tree, his face
gray and ghastly.

The morning mists hung low over the river, and, under cover of these,
the savage paddled away unobserved, his captive lying in a faint on
the bottom of the canoe. No prisoner ever received kinder treatment at
the hands of an Indian than did David Allison. As he gradually
regained his strength he yearned for home and pleaded to be taken back
to Virginia, but his captor was obdurate; he wanted the man for a
companion and in many ways gave evidence of affection for him.

One day, in a quarrel with another savage, the Indian was killed.
Shortly after, Allison made his escape and in a canoe drifted down
the Ohio. He felt unequal to attempting to work his way back as he had
come and so decided to go with the current down the Ohio into the
Mississippi. His utmost endurance and shrewdness were put to many
severe tests before he reached a white settlement and eventually New
Orleans. There, when about to take ship for Norfolk, he was taken sick
with a fever which left him without strength or money.

The desire to return home, whatever might be the sacrifice, became
almost a mania with him, but he would not beg his way. And so he
struggled on, meeting with disappointment again and again, yet never
yielding in his purpose. Then, on the threshold of success, when he
landed in Philadelphia without money and without