denly that even Plume, who witnessed the entire
incident, could not coherently explain it. Reveille was just over and
the men were going to breakfast when the major's voice was heard
shouting for the guard. Graham, first man to reach the scene, had
collided with Janet Wren, whimpering and unnerved, as he bounded into
the hallway. His first thought was that Plume's prophecy about the
knifing had come true, and that Blakely was the victim. His first
sight, when his eyes could do their office in that darkened room, was
of Blakely wresting something from the grasp of the Indian girl, whose
gaze was now riveted on that writhing object on the floor.

"See to him, doctor," he heard Blakely say, in feeble, but commanding
tone. "I will see to her." But Blakely was soon in no condition to see
to her or to anybody. The flicker of strength that came to him for a
second or two at sight of the tragedy, left him as suddenly--left him
feebler than before. He had no voice with which to protest when the
stretchermen, who bore away poor Todd, were followed instantly by
stout guardsmen who bore away Natzie. The dignity of the chieftain's
daughter had vanished now. She had no knife with which to deal death
to these new and most reluctant assailants--Graham found it under
Blakely's pillow, long hours later. But, with all her savage, lissome
strength she scratched and struck and struggled. It took three of
their burliest to carry her away, and they did it with shame-hidden
faces, while rude comrades chaffed and jeered and even shouted
laughing encouragement to the girl, whose screams of rage had drawn
all Camp Sandy to the scene. One doctor, two men, and the steward went
with their groaning burden one way to the hospital. One officer, one
sergeant, and half a dozen men had all they could do to take their
raging charge another way to the guard-house. Ah, Plume, you might
have spared that brave girl such indignity! But, where one face
followed the wounded man with sympathetic eyes, there were twenty that
never turned from the Indian girl until her screams were deadened by
the prison doors.

"She stabbed a soldier who meant her no harm," was Plume's sullen and
stubborn answer to all appeals, for good and gentle women went to him,
begging permission to go to her. It angered him presently to the
extent of repeating his words with needless emphasis and additions
when Mother Shaughnessy came to make her special appeal. Shure she had
learned how to