Overcome with grief and weariness Nell unconsciously obeyed orders ere many minutes had passed, and as the hours dragged on bringing no new cause of alarm, very many followed her example, even Mrs. Barbour at length succumbing to the spell of tired Nature's sweet restorer.

They had a rude awaking. With the first streak of dawn in the east, the sudden, loud roll of the drum burst upon the startled air;—the appointed signal of the near approach of their savage foe.

Women and children sprang up with wild shrieks and cries of terror and despair. Kenneth, who had been pacing the hall, a self-appointed sentry, stepped hastily in at the door of the room where the Lamars were, his eyes turning anxiously toward their corner of it.

Mrs. Lamar sat on the side of the couch, trembling with agitation, clasping her babe close to her breast and trying to soothe the older ones, who were clinging about her, with the exception of Bertie whom Nell, deathly pale, but calm and quiet, was sheltering in her arms.

Watching her with tell-tale eyes, Kenneth essayed to speak; but could not make his voice heard amid the weeping and wailing.

"O doctor, save me, save me!" shrieked Mrs. Barbour, rushing toward him with outstretched arms and streaming eyes. "I'll be the first they'll attack; I know I will, and Tom isn't here to take care of me." "Yes, he is," shouted Mr. Barbour hurrying in, "yes, he is, Nancy; though there's no great occasion, for it's a false alarm, all a mistake. The Indians are as much scared as we are, and are running the other way."

The excitement toned down rapidly while he spoke, and now the room was nearly quiet, all who were old enough to understand being eager to catch every word.

"God be praised," ejaculated Kenneth fervently. "But the signal, why was it given?"

"Ah," said Barbour, smiling, "our old friend had gone back, in feeling at least, to old revolutionary times and could not refrain from sounding the reveille."

"'Twas just good sport for him, no doubt, to frighten a parcel of poor women and children nearly out of their wits!" was Mrs. Barbour's indignant comment.

"Not at all," said her husband; "he thought every body would understand it."

Mothers caressed their little ones with murmured words of joy and thankfulness, feeling as if they had been suddenly rescued from impending horrible death, or captivity hardly less to be feared; neighbors and friends shook hands or embraced with mingled smiles and tears, congratulating each other that they were, after all, in no immediate danger.

The party sent in search of Wolf returned without him; he had made good his escape from that part of the country.

There was a large body of Indians at that time near Greenville, and to them Chillicothe presently sent a deputation of her prominent citizens.

The Indians, among whom was the celebrated chief, Tecumseh, gathered in their council house, received the white men and listened to their account of the late unfortunate occurrence, their detestation of Wolf's bloody deed, their ineffectual efforts to catch him, and determination to put him to death if ever they could secure his person.

The Indians replied that they knew nothing of these matters and desired to remain at peace with the whites, and finally Tecumseh and some others of the chiefs were persuaded to return with the deputation, and repeat these assurances to the people of Chillicothe and its vicinity.

A day was appointed, and the people gathered, an immense throng, to look upon and listen to the great Shawnee chief.

Major Lamar, his wife and sister were there; the older children too, for the major said it would be something for them to remember all their lives.

Captain Bernard and Lyttleton contrived to be near the Lamars, the latter close at Nell's side, leaning over her now and then, with an air of devotion and proprietorship exceedingly distasteful to Kenneth, who furtively watched them from afar.

But when Tecumseh's tall, commanding figure stood before them, and he began to speak, every eye turned toward him, every ear was intent to listen to his voice and that of his interpreter, a white man who had been a prisoner among the Indians.

Even as translated the speech was full of eloquent passages. He spoke in the strongest terms of the friendly relations existing between the whites and the Indians; said they were brothers, and that the Indians would never violate their treaty. He hoped both parties would abide by it forever, and the peace and brotherly love between them be as lasting as time. A shaking of hands followed the speech, and the throng quietly dispersed.