THE PLEDGE OF A WYANDOT A single glance told me who our unwelcome visitor must be.

That giant body, surmounted by the huge broad face, could belong to none other than the Wyandot, Sau-ga-nash,--him who had spoken for the warriors of this tribe before the torture-stake.

He stood erect and rigid, his stern, questioning eyes upon us, his lips a thin line of repression.
With a quick movement, I thrust the girl behind me, and faced him, motionless, but with every muscle strained for action.

The Indian spoke slowly, and used perfect English.
"Ugh!" he said.

"Who are you?
A prisoner?
Surely you cannot be that same Frenchman we helped entertain last night ?" "I am not the Frenchman," I answered deliberately, vainly hoping his watchful eyes might wander about the lodge long enough to yield me chance for a spring at his throat, "though I was one of his party.