The feelings in the breasts of Algernon and Ella, as they reluctantly moved onward, captives to a savage, bloodthirsty foe, are impossible to be described. To what awful end had fate destined them? and in what place were they to drain the last bitter dregs of woe? How much anguish of heart, how much racking of soul, and how much bodily suffering was to be their portion, ere death, almost their only hope, would set them free? True, they might be rescued by friends—such things had been done—but the probability thereof was as ten to one against them; and when they perceived the care with which the renegade sought to destroy all vestiges of their course, their last gleam of hope became nearly extinguished.

We have previously stated that Ella was left unbound; but wherefore, would perhaps be hard to conjecture; unless we suppose that the renegade—feeling for her that selfish affection which pervades the breasts of all beings, however base or criminal, to a greater or less degree—fancied it would be adding unnecessary cruelty to bind heir delicate hands. Whatever the cause, matters but little; but the fact itself was of considerable importance to Ella; who took advantage of her freedom, in passing the bushes before noticed, to snatch a leaf unperceived, whereon, by great adroitness, she managed to trace with a pin a few almost illegible characters; and also, in ascending the bank, which she was allowed to do in her own way, to throw down with her foot the stone, break the twig at the same instant, and pin the leaf to it, in the faint hope that an old hunter might follow on the trail, who, if he came to the spot, would hardly fail to notice it.

The freedom thus given to Ella, and the deference shown her by the renegade and his allies—who appeared to treat her with the same respect they would have done the wife of their chief—were in striking contrast with their manners toward Algernon, on whom they seemed disposed to vent their scorn by petty insults. Believing that his doom was sealed, he became apparently resigned to his fate, nor seemed to notice, save with stoical indifference, any thing that took place around him. This quiet, inoffensive manner, was far from pleasing to Girty, who would much rather have seen him chafing under his bondage, and manifesting a desire to escape its toil. But if this was the outward appearance, not so was the inward feelings of our hero. He knew his fate—unless he could effect an escape, of which he had little hope—and he nerved himself to meet and seem to his captors careless of it; but his soul was already on the rack of torture. This was not for himself alone; for Algernon was a brave man, and in reality feared not death; though, like many another brave man, be had no desire to die at his time of life, especially with all the tortures of the stake, which he knew, from Girty's remark, would be his assignment; but his soul was harrowed at the thought of Ella—her awful doom—and what she might be called upon to undergo: perhaps a punishment a thousand times worse than death—that of being the pretended wife, but in reality the mistress, of the loathsome renegade. This thought to him was torture—almost madness—and it was only by the most powerful struggle with himself, that he could avoid exposing his feelings.

For a time, after ascending the rocky bank of the stream and gaining the hill, the renegade and his Indian allies, with their captives, moved silently onward at a fast pace; but at length, slackening his speed somewhat, Girty approached the side of Algernon, who was bound in a manner similar to Younker, with his wrists corded to a cross bar behind his back; and apparently examining them a moment or two, in a sneering tone, said:

"How-comes it that the bully fighter of the British, under the cowardly General Gates, should be so tightly bound, away out in this Indian country, and a captive to a renegade agent?—ha, ha, ha!"

The pale features of Algernon, as he heard this taunt, grew suddenly crimson, and then more deadly white than ever—his fingers fairly worked in their cords, and his respiration seemed almost to stifle him—so powerfully were his passions wrought upon by the cowardly insults of his adversary; but at last all became calm and stoical again; when turning to Girty, he coolly examined him from head to heel, from heel to head; and then moving away his eyes, as if the sight were offensive to him, quietly said:

"An honest man would be degraded by condescending to hold discourse with so mean a thing as Simon Girty the renegade."

At these words Girty started, as if bit by a serpent—the aspect of his dark sinister features changed to one concentrated expression of hellish rage—his eyes seemed to turn red—his lips quivered—the nostrils of his flat ugly nose distended—froth issued from his mouth—while his fingers worked convulsively at the handle of his tomahawk, and his whole frame trembled like a tree shaken by a whirlwind. For some time he essayed to speak, in vain; but at last he hissed forth, as he whirled the tomahawk aloft:

"Die!—dog!—die!"

Ella uttered a piercing shriek of fear, and sprung forward to arrest the blow; but ere she could have reached the renegade; the axe would have been buried to the helve in the brain of Algernon, had not a tall, powerful Indian suddenly interposed his rifle between it and the victim.

"Is the great chief a child, or in his dotage," he said to Girty, in the Shawanoe dialect, "that he lets passion run away with his reason? Is not the Big Knife already doomed to the tortures? And would the white chief give him the death of a warrior?"

"No, by ——!" cried Girty, with an oath. "He shall have a dog's death! Right! Mugwaha—right! I thank you for your interference—I was beside myself. The stake—the torture—the stake—ha, ha, ha!" added he in English, with a hoarse laugh, which his recent passion made sound fiend-like and unearthly; and as he concluded, he smote Algernon on the cheek with the palm of his hand.

The latter winced somewhat, but mastered his feelings and made no reply; and the renegade resuming his former pace, the party again proceeded in silence.

Toward night, Ella became so fatigued and exhausted by the long day's march, that it was with the greatest difficulty she could move forward at all; and Girty, taking some compassion on her, ordered the party to halt, until a rough kind of litter could be prepared; on which being seated, she was borne forward by four of the Indians. At dark they halted at the base of a hill, where they encamped and found a partial shelter from the wind and rain. At daylight they again resumed their journey; and by four o'clock in the afternoon arrived at the river, which they immediately crossed in their canoes; and, as the water was found in a good stage, did not land until they reached the first bend of the Miami—the place agreed on for the meeting between Girty and Wild-cat.

As the latter chief and his party had not yet made their appearance, Girty and his band went ashore with their prisoners, and took shelter under one of the largest trees in the vicinity, to await their coming. Of this expected meeting, the captives as yet knew nothing; and it was of course not without considerable surprise, mingled with a saddened joy, that they observed the approach, some half an hour later, of their friends and enemies.

Ella, on first perceiving their canoes silently advancing up the stream, started up with a cry of joy, which was the next moment saddened by the thought that she was only welcoming her relatives to a miserable doom. Still it was a joy to know they were yet alive; and as the sinking heart is ever buoyed up with hope, until completely engulfed in the dark billows of despair—so she could not, or would not, altogether banish the animating feeling, that something might yet interfere to save them all from destruction. As the canoes touched the shore, Ella sprung forward to greet her adopted mother and father; but her course was suddenly checked by one of the Indian warriors, who, grasping her somewhat roughly by the arm, with a gutteral grunt and fierce gesture of displeasure, pointed her back to her former place. Ella, downcast and frightened, tremblingly retraced her steps, and could only observe the pale faces and fatigued looks of her relatives and the little girl at a distance; but she saw enough to send a thrill of anguish to her heart; and Girty, who perceived the expressions of agony her sweet features now displayed, at once advanced to her, and, modulating his voice somewhat from its usual tones, said:

"Grieve not, Ella. I will endeavor to procure you an interview with your friends."

The kindness manifested in the tones of the speaker, caused Ella to look up with a start of surprise and hope; and thinking he might perhaps be moved to mercy, by a direct appeal to his better feelings, she replied, energetically, with a flush on her now animated countenance:

"Oh, sir! I perceive you are not lost to all feelings of humanity." Here the compression of Girty's lips, and a knitting together of his shaggy brows, warned Ella she was treading on dangerous ground, and she quickly added: "All of us are liable to err; and there may be circumstances, unknown to others, that force us to be, or seem to be, that which in our hearts we are not; and to do acts which our calm moments of reason tell us are wrong, and which we afterwards sincerely regret."

"I know not that I understand you," said the renegade, evasively.

"To be more explicit, then," rejoined Ella, "I trust that you, Simon Girty, whose acts hitherto have been such as to draw down reproaches and even curses upon your head, from many of your own race, may now be induced, by the prayer of her before you, to do an act of justice and generosity."

"Speak out your desire!" returned Girty, as Ella, evidently fearful of broaching the subject too suddenly, paused, in order to observe the effect of what had already been said. "Speak out briefly, girl; for yonder stands Wild-cat awaiting me."

"Oh, then, let me implore you to listen, and God grant your heart may be touched by my words!" rejoined Ella, eagerly, as she fancied she saw something of relentment in his stern features. "Look yonder! Behold that poor old man!—whose head is already sprinkled with the silvery threads of over fifty winters—beside whom stands the companion of his sorrows—both of whose lives have been spent in quiet, honest pursuits—whose doors have ever stood open—whose board has ever been free to the needy wayfarer. You yourself have been a partaker of their hospitality, in their own home—which, alas! I have since learned is in ashes—and can testify to their liberality and kindness. Is this a proper return therefor, think you?"

"But did not he, yon gray-headed man, then and there curse me to my face?" returned the renegade, fiercely, in whose eye could be seen the cold, sullen gleam of deadly hate; "and shall I, the outcast of my race—I, whose deeds have made the boldest tremble—I, whose name is a by-word for curses—now spare him, that has defied and called down God's maledictions on me?"

"Oh, yes! yes!" cried Ella, energetically. "Convince him, by your acts of generosity, that you are not deserving of his censure, and he, I assure you, will be eager to do you justice. Oh, return good for evil, where evil has been done you, and God's blessing, instead of His curse, will be yours!"

"It may be the Christian's creed to return good for evil," answered Girty, with a strong emphasis on the word Christian, accompanied with a sneer; "but by ——! such belongs not to me, nor to those I mate with! Hark you, Ella Barnwell! I could be induced to do much for you—for I possess for you a passion stronger than I have ever before felt for any human being—but were I ever so much disposed to grant your request, it is now beyond my power."

"As how?" asked Ella, quickly.

"Listen! I will tell you briefly. When first I saw, I felt I loved you, and from that moment resolved you should be mine. Nay, do not shudder so, and turn away, and look so pale—a worse fate than being the wife of a British agent might have been apportioned you. To win you by fair words, I knew at once was out of the question—for one glance showed me my rival. Besides, I was not handsome, I knew—had not an oily tongue, and did not like the plan of venturing too much among those who have good reasons for fearing and hating me—therefore I resolved on your capture. I had already meditated an attack on some of the settlers in the vicinity, and I resolved that both should be accomplished at one time. The result you know. Younker and his wife became my prisoners. This was done for two purposes. First, to revenge me for the insults heaped upon Simon Girty. Secondly, to spare their lives; for had it not been for my positive injunctions, they would have shared the fate of their neighbors. My design, I say, was to spare their lives and send them back, whenever it could be done with safety, provided they showed any signs of contrition. Did they? No! they again upbraided me to my face. I was again cursed. My blood is hot—my nature revengeful. That moment sealed their doom. I gave them up to Peshewa. They are no longer my prisoners. For their lives you must plead with him. I can do nothing. Have you more to ask?"

Girty, toward the last, spoke rapidly, in short sentences, as one to whom the conversation was disagreeable; and Ella listened breathlessly, with a pale cheek and trembling form; for she saw, alas! there was nothing favorable to be gained. As he concluded, she suddenly started, clasped her hands together, and looked up into his stern countenance, with a wild, thrilling expression, saying, in a trembling voice:

"You have said you love me!"

"I repeat it."

"Then, for Heaven's sake! as you are a human being, and hope for peace in this world and salvation in the next—restore me—restore us all to our homes—and to my dying day will I bless and pray for you."

"Umph!" returned the renegade, drily; "I had much rather hear your sweet voice, though in anger, than to merely think you may be praying for me at a distance. But I see Wild-cat is getting impatient;" and as he concluded, he turned abruptly on his heel, and advanced to Peshewa—who was now standing with his warriors and prisoners on the bank of the stream, some fifty paces distant, awaiting a consultation with him—while Ella hid her face in her hands and wept convulsively.

"Welcome, Peshewa!" said Girty, as he approached the chief. "You and your band are here safe, I perceive; and by ——! you have timed it well, too, for we have only headed you by half an hour."

"Ugh!" grunted Wild-cat, with that look and gutteral sound peculiar to the Indian. "Kitchokema has learned Peshewa is here!"

"Come! come!" answered the renegade, in a somewhat nettled manner; "no insinuations! I saw Peshewa when he arrived."

"But could not leave the Big Knife squaw to greet him," added the Indian.

"Why, I am not particularly fond of being hurried in my affairs, you know."

"But there may be that which will not leave Kitchokema slow to act, in safety," rejoined Wild-cat, significantly.

"How, chief! what mean you?" asked Girty, quickly.

It was about ten o'clock on the evening in question, and Simon Girty was seated by a fire, around which lay stretched at full length some six or eight dark Indian forms, and near him, on the right, two of another sex and race. He was evidently in some deep contemplation; for his hat and rifle were lying by his side, his hands were locked just below his knees, as if for the purpose of balancing his body in an easy position, and his eyes fixed intently on the flame, that, waving to and fro in the wind, threw over his ugly features a ruddy, flickering light, and extended his shadow to the size and shape of some frightful monster. The clouds of the late storm had entirely passed away, and through the checkered openings in the trees overhead could be discerned a few bright stars, which seemed to sparkle with uncommon brilliancy, owing to the clearness of the atmosphere. All beyond the immediate circle lighted by the fire, appeared dark and silent, save the solemn, almost mournful, sighing of the wind, as it swept among the tree-tops and through the branches of the surrounding mighty forest.

What the meditations of the renegade were, we shall not essay to tell; but doubtless they were of a gloomy nature; for after sitting in the position we have described, some moments, without moving, he suddenly started, unclasped his hands, and looked hurriedly around him on every side, as if half expecting, yet fearful of beholding, some frightful phantom; but he apparently saw nothing to confirm his fears; and with a heavy sigh, he resumed his former position.

What were the thoughts of that dark man, as he sat there?—he whose soul had been steeped in crime!—he whose hands had long been made red with the blood of numberless innocent victims! Who shall say what guilty deeds of the past might have been harrowing up his soul to fear and even remorse? Who shall say he was not then and there meditating upon death, and the dread eternity and judgment that must quickly follow dissolution? Who shall say he was not secretly repenting of that life of crime, which had already drawn down the curses of thousands upon his head? Something of the kind, or something equally powerful, must have been at work within him; for his features ever and anon, by their mournful contortions—if we may be allowed the phrase—gave visible tokens of one in deep agony of mind. It would be no pleasant task to analyze and lay bare the secret workings of so dark a spirit, even had we power to do it; and so we will leave his thoughts, whether good or evil, to himself and his God.

By his side, and within two feet of the renegade, lay extended the beautiful form of Ella Barnwell—with nothing but a blanket and her own garments between her and the earth—with none but a similar covering over her—with her head resting upon a stone, and apparently asleep. We say apparently asleep; but the drowsy son of Erebus and Nox had not yet closed her eyelids in slumber; for there were thoughts in her breast more potent than all his persuasive arts of forgetfulness, or those of his prime minister, Morpheus. Was she thinking of her own hard fate—away there in that lonely forest—with not a friend nigh that could render her assistance—with no hope of escape from the awful doom to which she was hastening? Or was she thinking of him, for whom her heart yearned with all the thousand, undefined, indescribable sympathies of affection?—of him who so lately had been her companion?—for the heart of love measures duration, not by the cold mathematical calculation of minutes and hours, and days and weeks, and months and years, but by events and feelings; and the acquaintance of weeks may seem the friend of years, and the acquaintance of years be almost forgotten in weeks;—was she thinking of him, we say—of Algernon? who, even in misery, had been torn from her side, had said perchance his last trembling farewell, and gone to suffer a death at which humanity must shudder! Ay, all these thoughts, and a thousand others, were rushing wildly through her feverish brain. She thought of her own fate—of his—of her relations—pictured out in her imagination the terrible doom of each—and her tender heart became wrung to the most excruciating point of agony.

By the side of Ella, was her adopted mother—buried in that troubled sleep which great fatigue sends to the body, even when the mind is ill at ease, filling it with startling visions—and around the fire, as we said before, lay the dusky forms of the savages, lost to all consciousness of the outer world. The position of Ella was such, that, by slightly turning her head, she could command a view of the features of the renegade; whose strange workings, as before noted, served to fix her attention and divide her thoughts between him, as the cause of her present unhappiness, and that unhappiness itself—and she gazed on his loathsome, contorted countenance, with much the same feeling as one might be supposed to gaze upon a serpent coiling itself around the body, whose deadly fangs, either sooner or later, would assuredly give the fatal stroke of death. She noted the sudden start of Girty, and the wildness with which he peered around him, with feelings of hope and fear—hope, that rescue might be at hand—fear, lest something more dreadful was about to happen. At length Girty started again, and turned his head toward Ella so suddenly, that she had not time to withdraw her eyes ere his were fixed searchingly upon them.

"And are you too awake?" he said, with something resembling a sigh. "I thought the innocent could ever sleep!"

"Not when the guilty are abroad, with deeds of death, and friends exposed," returned Ella, bitterly.

"Ah! true—true!" rejoined Girty, again looking toward the fire, in a musing mood.

"Well may you muse and writhe under the tortures of your guilty acts," continued Ella, in the same bitter tone; "for you have much to answer for, Simon Girty."

"And who told you the past tortured me?" cried Girty, quickly, turning on her a fierce expression.

"Your changing features and guilty starts," answered Ella.

"Ha! then you have been a spy upon me, have you?" said Girty, pressing the words slowly through his clenched teeth, knitting his shaggy brows, and fixing his eye with intensity upon hers, until she quailed and trembled beneath its seeming fiery glance; which the light, whereby it was seen, rendered more demon-like than usual; while it made shadow chase shadow, like waves of the sea, across his face: "You have been a spy upon my actions, eh? Beware! Ella Barnwell—beware! Do not put your head in the lion's mouth too often, or he may think the bait troublesome; and by ——! had other than you told me what I just now heard, he or she had not lived to repeat it."

"Far better an early death and innocence, than a long life of guilt and misery," returned Ella, at once regaining her boldness of speech; "Far better the fate you speak of, than mine."

"And would you prefer being wedded to death, rather than me?" asked Girty, quickly, in surprise.

"Ay, a thousand times!" replied Ella, energetically, rising as she spoke, into a sitting posture, and looking fearlessly upon the renegade, her previously pale features now flushed with excitement. "I fear not death, Simon Girty; I have done no act that should make me fear the change that all must sooner or later undergo; but I could not join my hand to that of a man of blood, without loathing and horror, and feeling criminal in the sight of God and man; and least of all to you, Simon Girty, whose name has become a word of terror to the weak and innocent of my race, and whose deeds of late have been such as to make me join my voice in the general maledictions called down upon you."

During this speech of Ella, Girty sat and gazed upon her with the look of a baffled demon; and, as she concluded, fairly hissed through his teeth:

"And so you would prefer death to me, eh? By ——! you shall have your choice!"

As he spoke, he grasped Ella by the wrist with one hand, seized his tomahawk with the other, and sprung upon his feet. His rapid movement and wild manner now really frightened her; and uttering a faint cry of horror, she endeavored to release his hold; while the warriors, aroused by the noise, bounded up from the earth, weapon in hand, with looks of alarm.

Turning to them, Girty now spoke a few words in the Indian tongue; and, with significant glances at Ella, they were just in the act of again encamping, when crack went some five or six rifles, followed by yells little less savage than their own, and four of them rolled upon the earth, groaning with pain; while the others, surprised and bewildered, grasped their weapons and shouted:

"The Shemanoes!" "The Long Knives!" not knowing whether to stand or fly.

Girty, meantime, had been left unharmed; although the shivering of the helve of the tomahawk in his hand, in front of his breast, showed him he had been a target for no mean marksman, and that his life had been preserved almost by a miracle. For a moment he stood irresolute—his nostrils fairly dilated with fear and rage, still holding Ella by the wrist, who was too paralyzed with what she had seen to speak or move—straining his eyes in every direction to note, if possible, the number of his foes and whence their approach. The whole glance was momentary; but he saw himself nearly surrounded by his enemies, who were fast closing in toward the center with fierce yells; and pausing no longer in indecision, he encircled Ella's waist with his left arm, raised her from the ground, and keeping her as much as possible between himself and his enemies, to deter them from firing, darted away toward a thicket, some fifty yards distant, pursued by two of the attacking party.

Just as Girty gained the thicket, one of his pursuers made a sudden bound forward and grasped him by the arm; but his hold was the next moment shaken off by the renegade, who, being now rendered desperate, drew a pistol from his belt, with the rapidity of lightning, and laid the bold adventurer dead at his feet. Almost at the same moment, Girty received a blow on the back of his head, from the breech of the rifle of his other antagonist, that staggered him forward; when, releasing his hold of Ella, he turned and darted off in another direction, firing a pistol as he went, the ball of which whizzed close to the head of him for whom it was designed; and in a moment more he was lost in the mazes of the forest.

Meantime the bloody work was going forward in the center; for at the moment when Girty darted away, the report of some three or four rifles again echoed through the wood, two more of the red warriors bit the dust, while the other two fled in opposite directions, leaving Boone and his party sole masters of the field.

Eager, excited, reckless and wild, several of the young men now rushed forward, with yells of triumph, to the wounded Indians, whom they immediately tomahawked without mercy, and began to scalp, when the voice of Boone, who had been more cautious, reached them from a distance: