In every Indian
village and camp, in every forest lodge, and to the lone hunter,
whenever they crossed his trail, did they proclaim the dread message of
the Metai by which Mahng, the Ojibwa, was outcast forever.

The uninitiated listened with fear and trembling; but everywhere they
found brave warriors and stately chiefs, who gave the answer of the
magic circle:--

"_He is cursed. Let him be cursed_," and did everything possible to
speed their errand.

In all this time they found no sign, nor until they began to retrace
their steps did they gain tidings of their quest. Now, here and there,
they began to come across trembling wretches who had been with Mahng on
that fatal night, but whom the terrible, far-reaching curse had since
driven terror-stricken from him. Of these they learned that he had,
from the first, made his way to the south to the country of the
Shawnees, who had at first received him kindly. Then, as the dread
sentence of the Metai reached those remoter parts, he was driven from
camp to camp until there was none who dared give him shelter or aid.
So he turned to the far west with a purpose of joining the fierce
Dacotahs beyond the great river.

Following this faint clue, Donald and Atoka crossed Lake Michigan,
ascended Green bay and the swift waters of the Fox until they could
portage into the wide torrent of the Wisconsin. This they purposed to
descend to the Mississippi, on whose banks they hoped for further news.

One day in the late autumn they came to a place where they must needs
carry around a great fall, the roar of whose plunging waters could be
heard for miles through the silent forest. From their landing Donald
entered the narrow trail of the carry first, bearing the canoe on his
head and shoulders, while Atoka followed after a slight delay, with
their rifles and scanty camp equipage. At the highest point of the
carry the pathway, barely wide enough for the passage of two persons,
skirted the very brink of the awful precipice over which thundered the
cataract.

Here Donald came suddenly face to face with a slight figure, bending
beneath a burden, whom he instantly recognized as Ah-mo, the daughter
of Pontiac. At the same moment a man emerged from behind a point of
rock a few paces beyond her, whom Donald knew by instinct to be Mahng.
Hurling his burden from him, careless of its fate, and shouting the
anathema of the Metai, the avenger sprang past the crouching girl to
grapple wi