"Fire, of course, but---" Jim did not voice his fear; he looked
closely at Wingenund.
The chieftain stood silent a moment as was his wont when addressed.
The dull glow of the sun was reflected in the dark eyes that gazed
far away over forest and field.
"Fire," said Wingenund, and it seemed that as he spoke a sterner
shadow flitted across his bronzed face. "The sun sets to-night over
the ashes of the Village of Peace."
He resumed his rapid march eastward. With never a backward glance
the saddened party followed. Nell kept close beside Jim, and the old
man tramped after them with bowed head. The sun set, but Wingenund
never slackened his stride. Twilight deepened, yet he kept on.
"Indian, we can go no further to-night, we must rest," cried Jim, as
Nell stumbled against him, and Mr. Wells panted wearily in the rear.
"Rest soon," replied the chief, and kept on.
Darkness had settled down when Wingenund at last halted. The
fugitives could see little in the gloom, but they heard the music of
running water, and felt soft moss beneath their feet.
They sank wearily down upon a projecting stone. The moss was restful
to their tired limbs. Opening the pack they found food with which to
satisfy the demands of hunger. Then, close under the stone, the
fugitives sank into slumber while the watchful Indian stood silent
and motionless.
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