The sight witnessed by Rushing River was one which might indeed have stirred the spirit of a mere stranger, much more that of one who was well acquainted with, and more or less interested in, all the actors in the scene.  
Seated on the floor in a row, with their backs against the wall of the hut, and bound hand and foot were his old enemies Bounding Bull, Little Tim and his big son, and Whitewing, the prairie chief. In a corner lay a man with closed eyes, clasped hands, and a face, the ashy paleness of which indicated the near approach of death, if not its actual presence. In him he at once recognised the preacher, who, years ago, had directed his youthful mind to Jesus, the Saviour of mankind.
 
In front of these stood one of the warriors of his own nation, brandishing a tomahawk, and apparently threatening instant destruction to Little Tim, who, to do him justice, met the scowls and threats of the savage with an unflinching gaze. There was, however, no touch of pride or defiance in Tim’s look, but in the frowns of Bounding Bull and Big Tim we feel constrained to say that there were both pride and defiance. Several Blackfoot Indians stood beside the prisoners with knives in their hands, ready at a moment’s notice to execute their leader’s commands. Rushing River knew that leader to be one of the fiercest and most cruel of his tribe. Softswan was seated at the feet of the missionary, with her face bowed upon her knees. She was not bound, but a savage stood near to watch her. Whitewing’s old mother sat or rather crouched, close to her.
 
What had already passed Rushing River of course could only guess. Of what followed his ears and eyes took note.
 
“You look very brave just now,” said the Blackfoot leader, “but I will make you change your looks before I take your scalps to dry in the Blackfoot wigwams.”
 
“You had better take our lives at once,” said Big Tim fiercely, “else we will begin to think that we have had the mischance to fall into the hands of cowardly squaws.”
 
“Wah!” exclaimed Bounding Bull, with a nod of assent as he directed a look of scorn at his adversary.
 
“Tush, tush, boy,” said Little Tim to his son reprovingly, in an undertone. “It ill becomes a man with white blood in his veins, an’ who calls hisself a Christian, to go boastin’ like an or’nary savage. I thowt I had thrashed that out of ’ee when ye was a small boy.”
 
“Daddy,” remonstrated Big Tim, “is not Softswan sittin’ there at his marcy?”
 
“No, lad, no. We are at the marcy of the Lord, an’ His marcies are everlastin’.”
 
A faint smile flickered on the lips of the missionary at that moment, and, opening his eyes, he said solemnly—
 
“My son, hope thou in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him who is the health of thy countenance and thy God.”
 
The savage leader was for the moment startled by the words, uttered in his own language, by one whom he had thought to be dead, but recovering himself quickly, he said—
 
“Your trust will be vain, for you are now in my power, and I only spare you long enough to tell you that a Blackfoot brave has just met us, who brings us the good news of what our great Blackfoot chief did when he crept into the camp of Bounding Bull and carried away his little daughter from under his very nose, and also the daughter of Leetil Tim. Wah! Did I not say that I would make you change your looks?”
 
The savage was so far right that this reference to their great loss was a terrible stab, and produced considerable change of expression on the faces of the captives; but with a great effort Bounding Bull resumed his look of contempt and said that what was news to the Blackfoot leader was no news to him, and that not many days would pass before his warriors would pay a visit to the Blackfoot nation.
 
“That may be so,” retorted the savage, “but they shall not be led by Bounding Bull, for his last hour has come.”
 
So saying, the Blackfoot raised his tomahawk, and advanced to the chief, who drew himself up, and returned his glare of hate with a smile of contempt. Softswan sprang up with a shriek, and would have flung herself between them, but was held back by the savage who guarded her. At that moment the back door of the hut flew open, and Rushing River stood in the midst of them.
 
One word from him sent all the savages crestfallen out of the hut. He followed them. Returning alone a few seconds later, he passed the astonished captives, and, kneeling down by the couch of the missionary, said, in tones that were too low to be heard by the others—
 
“Does my white father remember Rushing River?”
 
The missionary opened his eyes with a puzzled look of inquiry, and gazed at the Indian’s face.
 
“Rushing River was but a boy,” continued the chief, “when the pale-face preacher came to the camp of the Blackfeet.”
 
A gleam of intelligence seemed to shoot from the eyes of the dying man.
 
“Yes, yes,” he said faintly; “I remember.”
 
“My father,” continued the chief, “spoke to Rushing River about his sins—about the Great Manitou; about Jesus, the Saviour of all men, and about the Great Spirit. Rushing River did not believe then—he could not—but the Great Spirit must have been whispering to him since, for he believes now.”
 
A look of quiet joy settled on the preacher’s face while the chief spoke.
 
Rousing himself with an effort, he said, as he turned a glance towards the captives—
 
“If you truly love Jesus, let these go free.”
 
The chief had to bend down to catch the feebly-spoken words. Rising instantly, he drew his knife, went to Little Tim, and cut the thongs that bound him. Then he cut those of Big Tim and Whitewing, and lastly those of Bounding Bull.
 
He had scarcely completed the latter act when his old enemy suddenly snatched the knife out of his hand, caught him by the right arm with a vice-like grasp, and pointed the weapon at his heart.
 
“Bounding Bull,” he said fiercely, “knows not the meaning of all this, but he knows that his child is in the Blackfoot camp, and that Rushing River is at his mercy.”
 
No effort did Rushing River make to avert the impending blow, but stood perfectly still, and, with a look of simple gravity, said—
 
“Skipping Rabbit is not in the Blackfoot camp. She is now in the camp of her kindred; and Moonlight,” he added, turning a glance on Little Tim, “is safe.”
 
“Your face looks truthful and your tone sounds honest, Rushing River,” said Little Tim, “but the Blackfeet are clever at deceiving, and the chief is our bitter foe. What surety have we that he is not telling lies? Rushing River knows well he has only to give a signal and his red reptiles will swarm in on us, all unarmed as we are, and take our scalps.”
 
“My young men are beyond hearing,” returned the chief. “I have sent them away. My breast is open to the knife in the hand of Bounding Bull. I am no longer an enemy, but a follower of Jesus, and the preacher has told us that He is the Prince of peace.”
 
At this the prairie chief stepped forward.
 
“Friends,” he said, “my heart is glad this day, for I am sure that you may trust the word of Rushing River. Something of his change of mind I have heard of in the course of my wanderings, but I had not been sure that there was truth in the report till now.”
 
Still Bounding Bull maintained his grasp on his old foe, and held the knife in readiness, so that if there should be any sudden attempt at rescue, he, at least, should not escape.
 
The two Tims, Little and Big, although moved by Whitewing’s remarks, were clearly not quite convinced. They seemed uncertain how to view the matter, and were still hesitating when Rushing River again spoke.
 
“The pale-faces,” he said, “do not seem to be so trustful as the red men. I have put myself in your power, yet you do not believe me. Why, then, does not Bounding Bull strike his ancient enemy? His great opportunity has come. His squaws are waiting in his wigwam fur the scalp of Rushing River.”
 
For the first time in his life Bounding Bull was rendered incapable of action. In all his extensive experience of Indian warfare he had never been placed in such a predicament. If he had been an out-and-out heathen, he would have known what to do, and would have done it at once—he would have gratified revenge. Had Rushing River been an out-and-out heathen, he never would have given him the chance he now possessed of wreaking his vengeance. Then the thought of Skipping Rabbit filled his heart with tender anxiety, and confused his judgment still more. It was very perplexing! But Rushing River brought the perplexity to an end by saying—
 
“If you wish for further proof that Rushing River tells no lies, Moonlight will give it. Let her come forward.”
 
Little Tim was beginning to think that the Blackfoot chief was, as he expressed it, somewhat “off his head,” when Moonlight ran into the room, and seized him with her wonted energy round the neck.
 
“Yes, father, it’s all true. I am safe, as you see, and happy.”
 
“An’ Skippin’ Rabbit?” said Little Tim.
 
“Is in her own wigwam by this time.”
 
As she spoke in the Indian tongue, Bounding Bull understood her. He at once let go his hold of his old foe. Returning the knife to him, he grasped his right hand after the manner of the pale-faces, and said—
 
“My brother.”
 
By this time Eaglenose and Umqua had appeared upon the scene, and added their testimony to that of their............