The Indian was fleet-footed, like most of his race. After obtaining possession of the child, he struck across the fields, for on the public road he would have been liable to be seen and stopped. Little Carrie was in the deep sleep of childhood, and did not awake for some time. This of course was favorable to his design, for he had over a mile to go before he reached the woods, in which the instinct of his race led him to take refuge. It was not till a stray twig touched her cheek that the little girl awoke.

Opening her eyes, her glance rested on the dark face of the Indian, and, as might have been expected, she uttered a shriek of terror. At the same time she tried to get away.

“Put me down,” she cried in her fright.

“Not yet,” said the Indian.

“Where are you taking me, you ugly Indian? I want to go to my mamma.”

“No go,” said the Indian.

“I want to go home,” said Carrie; and she renewed her efforts to get away.

“No go home. Stay with John,” said the Indian.{171}

“I don’t want to stay with you. Take me home.”

“No take home,” said the Indian; but he put her down, tired perhaps with carrying her.

Carrie looked about her bewildered. All about her were thick woods, and she could not see her way out. She did not know in what direction lay the home to which she was so anxious to return, but she thought it might be in the direction from which they had come. She started to run, but in an instant the Indian was at her side. He seized her hand in his firm grasp, and frowned upon her.

“Where go?” he asked.

“Home to my mamma.”

“No go,” said he, shaking his head.

“Why did you take me away from my mamma?” asked the poor child.

“Bad woman! No give poor Indian money,” responded the savage.

“Take me home, and she will give you money,” urged the child.

“Not now. Did not give before. Too late,” responded John.

“Are you going to keep me here? Will you never take me home?” asked Carrie, overwhelmed with alarm.

“Little girl stay with Indian; be Indian’s pickaninny.”

“I don’t want to be a pickaninny,” said Carrie. “Poor{172} mamma will be so frightened. Did she see you take me away?”

“No. She go out. Leave child asleep. Indian jump through window. Take little girl.”

When Carrie understood how it was that she had been kidnapped, she felt very much frightened; but even in her terror she felt some curiosity about the Indian, and his mode of life.

“Where is your house?” she asked. “Is it here in the woods?”

“All places, under trees.”

“What! do you sleep under trees, without any roof?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you build a house?”

“Indian live in wigwam.”

“Then why don’t you live in a wigwam?”

“My wigwam far away—over there,” and he pointed to the north.

“Where will you sleep to-night?”

“Under tree.”

“Then you must take me home, I can’t sleep under a tree. I would catch my death of cold. So mamma says.”

“Must stay. Get used to it. Indian make bed of leaves for pickaninny.”

“I don’t want to sleep on leaves. I want to sleep in my little bed at home.”{173}

“Come,” said John; and he dragged the child forward.

“Where are you taking me? Oh, carry me home!” pleaded Carrie.

“Stop!” said the Indian, sternly. “No cry, or I kill you.”

Carrie stopped, in greater fear than ever. The stern face of her companion made it not improbable that he might carry out the fearful threat he had uttered. So she checked her audible manifestations of grief, but the tears still coursed silently down her cheeks.

“What will mamma say, and papa—and Julius?” This was the thought that continually occupied her mind. Would she never see these dear ones again? Must she spend all her life with the wicked Indian? At any rate, when she got to be a woman—a great, strong woman, and knew her way about, she would run away, and go home. But there would be a good many years first. She wondered whether her skin would turn red, and she would look like the Indians. Then her father and mother would not know her, and would send her back again to live with the Indians. Altogether, however groundless some of her fears might be, little Carrie was very miserable and unhappy.

Meanwhile the Indian strode along. The little girl was forced at times to run, in order to keep up with{174} her companion. She began to feel tired, but did not dare to complain.

At length they stopped. It was at a place where the Indian had spent the previous night. A few leaves had been piled up, and the pile was arched over by some branches which he had broken off from the surrounding trees. It was a rude shelter, but was a little better than lying on the bare ground.

He turned to the little girl, and said, “This Indian’s house.”

“Where?” asked the child, bewildered.

“There,” he said, pointing to the pile of leaves. “Suppose pickaninny tired; lie down.”

Carrie sat down on the leaves, for she did feel tired, and it was a relief to sit. Had Julius been with her, or her father, she would have enjoyed the novel sensation of being in the heart of the woods, knowing that she would be carried home again. But with the Indian it was different. Her situation seemed to her very dreadful, and she would have cried, but that she had already cried till she could cry no more.

The Indian gathered some more leaves, and threw himself down by her side. He looked grave and impassive, and did not speak. Carrie stole glances at him from time to time, but also kept silence. She felt too miserable even to repeat her entreaties that he would take her home.{175}

But a child cannot always keep silence. After an hour she mustered courage to accost her fearful companion.

“Are you married?” she asked.

The Indian looked at her, and grunted, but did not reply.

“Have you got a wife?”

“Had squaw once—she dead,” answered John.

“Have you got any little girls like me?”

“No.”

“I wish you had,” sighed Carrie.

“What for you wish?”

“Because, then you would let me go to my papa. If you had a little girl, you would not like to have any one carry her off, would you?” and the little girl fixed her eyes on his face.

He grunted once more, but did not reply.

“Think how sorry your little girl would be,” said Carrie.

But the Indian was not strong in the way of sentiment. His feelings were not easily touched. Besides, he felt sleepy. So he answered thus: “Little girl no talk. Indian tired. He go sleep.”

So saying, he stretched himself out at length on the leaves. But first he thought it necessary to give the child a caution.

“Little girl stay here,” he said. “Sleep, too.”{176}

“I am not sleepy any more,” said Carrie.

“No go way. Suppose go, then Indian kill her,” he concluded, with a fierce expression.

“You wouldn’t be so wicked as to kill me, would you?” said Carrie, turning pale.

“Me kill you, if go away.”

Carrie implicitly believed him; and, as she did not know her way about, she would not have dared to disobey his commands. Then all at once there came another fear. The evening before Julius had read her a story of a traveler meeting a lion in the forest, and narrowly escaping with his life. It is true the forest was in Africa, but Carrie did not remember that. She did not know but that lions were in the habit of prowling about in the very forest where she was. Suppose one should come along while the Indian was asleep. She shuddered at the thought, and the fear made her speak.

“Are there any lions in this wood?” she asked.

“Why ask?” said the Indian.

“If one came while you were asleep, he might eat me up.”

The Indian was quick-witted enough to avail himself of this fear to prevent the child’s leaving him.

“Suppose one come; you wake me. Me kill him.”

“Then there are lions here?” she repeated, terror-stricken.{177}

“Yes. Suppose you go away. Maybe meet him; he kill you.”

“I won’t go away,” said Carrie, quickly. “Are you sure you could kill one, if he came?”

“Yes; me kill many,” answered the Indian, with a disregard of truth more often to be found among civilized than barbarous nations.

Poor Carrie!—her sensations were by no means to be envied, as she sat by the side of the sleeping Indian, agitated by fears which, to her, were very real. On the one side was the Indian, on the other the lion who might spring upon her at any minute. From time to time she cast a terrified glance about her in search of the possible lion. She did not see him; but what was her delight when, as a result of one of these glances, she caught sight of a boy’s face—the face of Julius—peeping from behind a tree!

She would have uttered a cry of joy, but he put his hand to his lips, and shook his head earnestly. She understood the sign, and instantly checked herself.{178}