The turmoil and excitement over the Indian outbreak increased during the day. A constant stream of refugees, mostly old men, women and children, poured into Lafayette from regions west of the Wabash. By nightfall fully three hundred of them were being cared for by the people of the town, and more were coming. Shortly after noon a mounted scout rode in from Warren County with the word that the militia of his county was preparing to start off at once to meet the advancing hordes; he brought in the report that farther north the frontier was being abandoned by the settlers and that massacres already had occurred. There was also a well-supported rumour that a portion of the Illinois militia, some two hundred and fifty men in all, had been routed on Hickory Creek by Black Hawk's invincible warriors, with appalling losses to the whites. He bore a stirring message from his commanding officer, urging the men of Tippecanoe to rouse themselves and join Warren County troops in an immediate movement to repel or at least to check the Sacs and Miamis and Pottawattomies who were swarming over the prairies like locusts.

The appearance of this messenger, worn and spent after his long ride, created a profound sensation. Here at last was official verification of the stories brought in by the panic-stricken refugees; here was something that caused the whole town suddenly to awake to the fact that a real menace existed, and that it was not, after all, another of those rattle-brained "scares" which were constantly cropping up.

For months there had been talk of old Black Hawk and his Sacs going on the warpath over the occupation of their lands in Northern Illinois by the swift-advancing, ruthless whites. The old Sac, or Sauk, chieftain had long threatened to resist by force of arms this violation of the treaty. He had been so long, however, in even making a start to carry out his threat that the more enlightened pioneers had ceased to take any stock in his spoutings.

The Free Press, Lafayette's only newspaper, had from time to time printed news seeping out of the Northwest by means of carrier or voyageur; their tales bore out the reports furnished by Federal and State authorities on the more or less unsettled conditions. There was, for example, the extremely disquieting story that Black Hawk, on his return from a hunting trip west of the Mississippi, had travelled far eastward across Northern Indiana to seek the advice of the British commander in Canada. Not only was the story of this pilgrimage true, but the fact was afterward definitely established that the British official advised the chief to make war on the white settlers,—this being late in 1831, nearly twenty years after the close of the War of 1812. Many of Black Hawk's warriors had served under Tecumseh in the last war with England, and they still were rabid British sympathizers.

Amidst the greatest enthusiasm and excitement, the men of Lafayette organized the "Guards," a company some three hundred strong. After several days of intensive and, for a time, ludicrous "drilling," they were ready and eager to ride out into the terrorized Northwest.

Kenneth Gwynne was a private in "The Guards."

During the thrilling days of preparation for the expedition, he saw little of the women next door. Doubtless for reasons of their own, Viola and her mother maintained a strange and persistent aloofness. It was not until the evening before the departure of the "Guards" that he took matters into his own hands and walked over to Rachel's house.

The few glimpses he had had of Viola during these busy days and nights served not only to increase his ardent craving for her but caused him the most acute misery as well. Utter despond had fallen upon him.

It was significant of her new attitude toward life that she had cast aside the sombre habiliments of mourning. She was now appearing in bright, though not gay, colours,—unmistakable evidence of her decision to abandon all pretence of grief for the man she had looked upon for so many years as her father.

There was a strange, new vivacity in her manner, too,—something that hurt rather than cheered him. He heard her singing about the house,—gay, larksome little snatches,—and she whistled merrily as she worked in the garden. Somehow her very light-heartedness added to his despair. What right had she to be happy and gay and cheerful whilst he was so miserable? Had he not told her in so many words that he loved her? Did that mean nothing to her? Why should she sing and whistle in her own domain when she must have known that he was suffering in his, not twenty rods away? He was conscious at times of a sense of injury, and as the time drew near for his departure without so much as a sign of regret or even interest on her part, this feeling deepened into resentment.

He was very stiff and formal as he approached the porch on which Viola and her mother were seated, enjoying the cool evening breeze that had sprung up at the end of the hot and sultry day. A strange woman and two small children, refugees from the Grand Prairie, had been given shelter by Mrs. Gwyn, but they had already gone to bed.

"We are off at daybreak," he said, standing before them, his hat in his hand. "I thought I would come over to say good-bye."

His hungry gaze swept over the figure of the girl, shadowy and indistinct in the semi-darkness. To his amazement, he saw that she was attired in the frock she had worn on that unforgettable night at Striker's. She leaned forward and held out her hand to him. As he took it he looked up into her dusky face and caught his breath. Good heaven! She was actually smiling! Smiling when he was going away perhaps never to return alive!

She did not speak. It was Rachel Carter who said, quietly:

"Thank you for coming over, Kenneth. We would not have allowed you to go, however, without saying good-bye and wishing you well on this hazardous undertaking. May God protect you and all the brave men who go out with you."

He had not released Viola's hand. Suddenly her grip tightened; her other hand was raised quickly to her face, and he was dumbfounded to see that she was dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. His heart swelled. She had been smiling bravely all the while her eyes were filled with tears. And now he knew why she was silent. He lifted her hand to his lips.

"I want you to know, Viola dear, before I go away," he said huskily, "that I can and will give you back the name of Gwynne, and with my name I give more love than ever any man had for woman before in all this world. I lay my heart at your feet. It is yours whether you choose to pick it up or not."

She slowly withdrew her hand. Neither of them heard the long, deep sigh in the darkness beside them.

"I don't know what to say to you, Kenny," she murmured, almost inaudibly.

"There is nothing for you to say, Viola, unless you love me. I am sorry if I have distressed you. I only wanted you to know before I go away that I love you."

"I—I am glad you love me, Kenny. It makes me very happy. But it is all so strange, so unreal. I can't seem to convince myself that it is right for you to love me or for me to love you. Some day, perhaps, it will all straighten itself out in my mind and then I will know whether it is love,—the kind of love you want,—or just a dear, sweet affection that I feel for you."

"I understand," he said gravely. "It is too soon for you to know. A brother turned into a lover, as if by magic, and you are bewildered. I can only pray that the time will come when your heart tells you that you love me as I want you to, and as I love you."

They spoke thus freely before the girl's mother, for those were the days when a man's courting was not done surreptitiously. It is doubtful, however, if they remembered her presence.

"There have been times—" she began, a trace of eagerness in her voice, "when something seemed to tell me that—that I ought to keep away from you. I used to have the queerest sensations running all over—" She did not complete the sentence; instead, as if in a sudden panic over the nearness of unmaidenly revelations, she somewhat breathlessly began all over again: "I guess it must have been a—a warning, or something."

"They say there is such a thing as a magnetic current between human beings," he said. "It was that, Viola. You felt my love laying hold upon you, touching you, caressing you."

"The other night, when you held me so close to you, I—I couldn't think of you as my brother."

Out of the darkness spoke Rachel Carter.

"You love each other," she said. "There is no use trying to explain or account for your feelings. The day you came here, Kenneth Gwynne, I saw the handwriting on the wall. I knew that this would happen. It was as certain as the rising of the sun. It would have been as useless for me to attempt to stop the rising sun as to try to keep you two from falling in love with each other. It was so written long ago."

"But, mother, I am not sure,—how can you say that I am in love with him when I don't know it myself?" cried Viola.

"When you came, Kenneth, I knew that my days were numbered," went on the older woman, leaning forward in her chair. "The truth would have to come out. A force I could not stand up against had entered the field. For want of a better word we will call it Fate. It is useless to fight against Fate. If I had never told you two the truth about yourselves, you would have found it out anyway. You would have found it out in the touch of your hands, in the leap of the blood, in the strange, mysterious desire of the flesh over which the soul has no control. You began loving him, Viola,—without knowing it,—that night at Phineas Striker's. You—"

"How can you say such a thing, mother?" cried Viola hotly. "I was in love with Barry Lapelle at that—"

"You were never in love with Barry," broke in her mother calmly.

"I think I ought to know when I am in love and when I am not!"

"Be that as it may, you now know that you were never in love with him,—so it comes to the same thing."

Kenneth's heart gave a joyous bound. "I—I wish I could believe that. I wish I knew that you are not thinking of him now, Viola, and wanting him back in spite of all he has done."

Viola arose suddenly. "I am going in the house," she said haughtily. "Neither of you seems to think I have a grain of sense. First mother says I am in love with you without knowing it, and now you are wondering if I am in love with Barry without knowing it, I suppose. Don't you give me credit for having a mind of my own? And, mother, I've just got to say it, even if it is insolent,—I will be very much obliged to you if you will allow me to make up my own mind about Kenny. It is not for you or anybody else to say I am in love with him."

"Oh, don't go away angry, Viola," cried Kenneth, distressed. "Let's forget all we've said and—"

"I don't want to forget all we've said," she exclaimed, stamping her foot. "How dare you come over here and tell me you love me and then ask me to forget—Oh, if that's all it amounts to with you, Kenneth, I dare say I can make up my mind right now. I—"

"You will find, Kenneth," broke in her mother drily, "that she has a temper."

"I guess he has found that out before this," said Viola, from the doorstep. "He has had a taste of it. If he doesn't like—"

"I am used to tempers," said he, now lightly. "I have a devil of a temper myself."

"I don't believe it," she cried. "You've got the kindest, sweetest, gentlest nature I've ever—"

"Come and sit down, Viola," interrupted her mother, arising. "I am going in the house myself."

"You needn't, mother. I am going to bed. Good night, Kenny."

"I came to say good-bye," he reminded her.

She paused with her hand on the latch. He heard the little catch in her breath. Then she turned impulsively and came back to him. He was still standing on the ground, several feet below her.

"What a beast I am, Kenny," she murmured contritely. "I waited out here all evening for you to come over so that I could say good-bye and tell you how much I shall miss you,—and to wish you a speedy and safe return. And you paid me a great compliment,—the greatest a girl can have. I don't deserve it. But I will miss you, Kenny,—I will miss you terribly. Now, I MUST go in. If I stay another second longer I'll say something mean and spiteful,—because I AM mean and spiteful, and no one knows it better than I do. Good-bye, Kenneth Gwynne."

"Good-bye, Minda Carter," he said softly, and again raised her hand to his lips. "My little Minda grown up to be the most beautiful queen in all the world."

She turned and fled swiftly into the house. They heard her go racing up the stairs,—then a door open and slam shut again.

"She would be very happy to-night, Kenneth, if it were not for one thing," said Rachel. "I still stand in the way. She cannot give herself to you except at a cost to me. There can be nothing between you until I stand before the world and say there is no reason why you should not be married to each other. Do you wonder that she does not know her own heart?"

"And I would not deserve her love and trust if I were to ask you to pay that price, Rachel Carter," said he steadily.

"Good-bye, Kenneth," she said, after a moment. She held out her hand. "Will you take my hand,—just this once, boy?"

He did not hesitate. He grasped the hard, toil-worn hand firmly in his.

"We can never be friends, Rachel Carter,—but, as God is my witness, I am no longer your enemy," he said, with feeling. "Good-bye."

He was half-way down to the gate when she called to him:

"Wait, Kenneth. Moll has something for you."

He turned back and met Moll Hawk as she came swiftly toward him.

"Here's somethin' fer you to carry in your pocket, Mr. Gwynne," said the girl in her hoarse, low-pitched voice. "No harm c'n ever come to you as long as you got this with you,—in your pocket er anywheres. Hit's a charm an old Injin chief give my Pap when he wuz with the tribe, long before I wuz born. Pap lost it the day before he wuz tooken up by the sheriff, er else he never would ha' had setch bad luck. I found it day before yesterday when I wuz down to the cabin, seein' about movin' our hogs an' chickens an' hosses over to Mis' Gwyn's barn. The only reason the Injun give it to Pap wuz because he wuz over a hundred years old an' didn't want to warn off death no longer. Hit's just a little round stone with somethin' fer all the world like eyes an' nose an' mouth on one side of it,—jest as if hit had been carved out, only hit wuzn't. Hit's jest natural. Hit keeps off sickness an' death an' bad luck, Mr. Gwynne. Pap knowed he wuz goin' to ketch the devil the minute he found out he lost it. I tole Miss Violy I wanted fer you to have it with you while you wuz off fightin' the Injuns, an' she said she'd love me to her dyin' day if I would give you the loan of it. Mebby you don't believe in charms an' signs an' all setch, but it can't hurt you to carry it an'—an' hit's best to be on the safe side. Please keep it, Mr. Gwynne."

It was a round object no bigger than a hickory nut. He had taken it from her and was running his thumb over its surface while she was speaking. He could feel the tiny nose and the little indentations that produced the effect of eyes.

"Thank you, Moll," he said, sincerely touched. "It's mighty good of you. I will bring it back to you, never fear, and I hope that after it has served me faithfully for a little while it may do the same for you till you, too, have seen a hundred and don't want to live any longer. What was it Miss Viola said to you?"

"I guess I hadn't ought to said that," she mumbled. "Anyhow, I ain't goin' to say it over again. Good-bye, Mr. Gwynne,—and take good keer o' yourself."

With that she hurried back to the house, and he, after a glance up at the second story window which he knew to be Viola's, bent his steps homeward.

His saddle-bags were already packed, his pistols cleaned and oiled; the long-barrelled rifle he had borrowed from the tavern keeper was in prime order for the expedition. Zachariah had gotten out his oldest clothes, his thick riding boots, a linsey shirt and the rough but serviceable buckskin cap that old Mr. Price had hobbled over to the office to give him after the first day of drill with the sententious remark that a "plug hat was a perty thing to perade around in but it wasn't a very handy sort of a hat to be buried in."

His lamp burned far into the night. He tried to read but his thoughts would not stay fixed on the printed page. Not once but many times he took up from the table a short, legal-looking document and re-read its contents, which were entirely in his own cramped, scholastic hand save for the names of two witnesses at the end. It was his last will and testament, drawn up that very day. Minda Carter was named therein as his sole legatee,—"Minda Carter, at present known as Viola Gwyn, the daughter of Owen and Rachel Carter." His father had, to all intents and purposes, cut her off without a penny, an injustice which would be righted in case of his own death.

It was near midnight when he blew out the light and threw himself fully dressed upon the bed. Sleep would not come. At last, in desperation, he got up and stole guiltily, self-consciously out into the yard, treading softly lest he should wake the vehement Zachariah in his cubbyhole off the kitchen. Presently he was standing at the fence separating the two yards, his elbows on the top rail, his gloomy, lovelorn gaze fixed upon Viola's darkened window.

The stars were shining. A cool, murky mantle lay over the land. He did not know how long he had been standing there when his ear caught the sound of a gently-closing door. A moment later a dim, shadowy figure appeared at the corner of the house, stood motionless for a few seconds, and then came directly toward him. The blood rushed thunderously to his head. He could not believe his senses. He had been wishing—aye, vainly wishing that by some marvellous enchantment she could be transported through the dark little window into his arms. He rubbed his eyes.

"Viola!" he whispered.

"Oh, Kenny," she faltered, and her voice was low and soft like the sighing of the wind. "I—I am so ashamed. What will you think of me for coming out here like this?"

The god of Love gave him wings. He was over the fence, she was in his arms, and he was straining the warm, pliant body close to his bursting breast. His lips were on hers. He felt her stiffen and then relax in swift surrender. Her heart, stilled at first, began to beat tumultuously against his breast; her free arm stole about his neck and tightened as the urge of a sweet, overwhelming passion swept over her.

At last she released herself from his embrace and stood with bowed head, her hands pressed to her eyes.

"I didn't mean to do it,—I didn't mean to do this," she was murmuring.

"You love me,—you love me," he whispered, his voice trembling with joy. He drew her hands down from her eyes and held them tight in his own. "Say you do, Viola,—speak the words."

"It must be love," she sighed. "What else could make me feel as I do now,—as I did when you were holding me,—and kissing me? Oh,—oh,—yes, I DO love you, Kenny. I know it now. I love you with all my soul." She was in his arms again. "But," she panted a little later, "I swear I didn't know it when I came out here, Kenny,—I swear I didn't."

"Oh, yes, you did," he cried triumphantly. "You've known it all the time, only you didn't understand."

"I wonder," she mused. Then quickly, shyly: "I had no idea it could come like this,—that it would BE like this. I feel so queer. My knees are all trembly,—it's the strangest feeling. Now you must let me go, Kenny. I must not stay out here with you. It is terribly late. I—"

"I can't let you go in yet, dearest. Come! We will sit for a little while on the steps. Don't leave me yet, Viola. It is all so wonderful, so unbelievable. And to think I was looking up at your window only a few minutes ago, wishing that you would fly down to me. Good heavens! It can't be a dream, can it? All this is real, isn't it?" She laughed softly. "It can't be a dream with me, because I haven't even been in bed. I've been sitting up there in my window for hours, looking over at your house. When your light went out, I was terribly lonely. Yes, and I was a little put out with you for going to bed. Then I saw you come and lean on the fence. I knew you were looking up at my window,—and I was sure that you could see me in spite of the darkness. You never moved,—just stood there with your elbows on the fence, staring up at me. It made me very uncomfortable, because I was in my nightgown. So I made up my mind to get into bed and pull the coverlet up over my head. But I didn't do it. I put on my dress,—everything,—shoes and stockings and all,—and then I went back to see if you were still there. There you were. You hadn't moved. So I sat down again and watched you. After awhile I—I—well, I just couldn't help creeping downstairs and coming out to—to say good-bye to you again, Kenny. You looked so lonesome."

"I was lonesome," he said,—"terribly lonesome."

She led him to a crudely constructed bench at the foot of a towering elm whose lower branches swept the fore-corner of the roof.

"Let us sit here, Kenny dear," she said. "It is where I shall come and sit every night while you are gone away. I shall sit with my back against it and close my eyes and dream that you are beside me as you are now, with your arms around me and your cheek against mine,—and it will be the trysting place for our thoughts."

"That's wonderful, Viola," he said, impressed. "'The trysting place for our thoughts.' Aye, and that it shall be. Every night, no matter where my body may be or what peril it may be in, I shall be here beside you in my thoughts."

She rested against him, in the crook of his strong right arm, her head against his shoulder, and they both fell silent and pensive under the spell of a wondrous enchantment.

After a while, she spoke, and there was a note of despair in her voice:

"What is to become of us, Kenny? What are we to do?"

"No power on earth can take you away from me now, Minda," he said.

"Ah,—that's it," she said miserably. "You call me Minda,—and still you wonder why I ask what we are to do."

"You mean—about—"

"We can be nothing more to each other than we are now. There is some one else we must think of. I—I forgot her for a little while, Kenny,—I was so happy that I forgot her."

"Were ever two souls so tried as ours," he groaned, and again silence fell between them.

Kneeling at the window from which Viola had peered so short a time before, looking down upon the figures under the tree, was Rachel Carter. She could hear their low voices, and her ears, made sharp by pain, caught the rapturous and the forlorn passages breathed upon the still air.

She arose stiffly and drew back into the darkness, out of the dim, starlit path, and standing there with her head high, her arms outspread, she made her solemn vow of self-renunciation.

"I have no right to stand between them and happiness. They have done no wrong. They do not deserve to be punished. My mind is made up. To-morrow I shall speak. God has brought them together. It is not for me to keep them apart. Aye, to-morrow I shall speak."

Then Rachel Carter, at peace with herself, went back to her bed across the hall and was soon asleep, a smile upon her lips, the creases wiped from between her eyes as if by some magic soothing hand.