But Braxton Wyatt, the renegade, could not sleep. His evil
spirit warned him to rise and go to the huts, where the two
remaining prisoners were kept. It was then about one o'clock in
the morning, and as he passed he saw the Onondaga runner at the
door of one of the prison lodges. He was about to cry out, but
the Onondaga turned and struck him such a violent blow with the
butt of a pistol, snatched from under his deerskin tunic, that he
fell senseless. When a Mohawk sentinel found and revived him an
hour later, the door of the hut was open, and the oldest of the
prisoners, the one called Ross, was gone.

Now, indeed, were the Iroquois certain that the Spirit of Evil
was among them. When great chiefs like Timmendiquas and
Thayendanegea were deceived, how could a common warrior hope to
escape its wicked influence!

But Braxton Wyatt, with a sore and aching head, lay all day on a
bed of skins, and his friend, Moses Blackstaffe, could give him
no comfort.

The following night the camp was swept by a sudden and tremendous
storm of thunder and lightning, wind and rain. Many of the
lodges were thrown down, and when the storm finally whirled
itself away, it was found that the last of the prisoners, he of
the long arms and long legs, had gone on the edge of the blast.

Truly the Evil Spirit had been hovering over the Iroquois
village.