Those who had sent forth the cry were swiftly approaching the camp.
Four warriors came through the undergrowth and they were pushing a figure before them.

It was that of a man in a bedraggled and torn red uniform, his hands tied behind him, and all the color gone from his face.

Powerful as was his self-control, Tayoga uttered a low cry of surprise.

It was the young Englishman, Grosvenor, a prisoner of the hostile warriors, and in a most desperate case.
The Onondaga wondered how he had been taken, but whatever the way, he was in the hands of enemies who knew little mercy.
The warriors around the fire uttered a universal yell of triumph when they saw the captain, and many of them ran forward to meet Grosvenor, whirling their tomahawks and knives in his face, and dancing about as if mad with joy.

It was a truly ferocious scene, the like of which was witnessed thousands of times in the great North American forests, and Tayoga, softened by long contact with high types of white men, felt pity.