BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

The amnesties that have been made between the Sioux and Chippeways for many years have been of short duration: it appears now that the two nations will be friendly only when the lion and the lamb shall lie down together, should the two nations exist at that happy period. The sight of each other's blood is as precious to a Chippeway or Sioux as would be the secret of perpetual youth to an octogenarian, who eagerly grasps his tenure for life, loving, and fearing to lose it to the last. At the time of my story, a longer peace than usual had existed between the two nations. They hunted and danced, and even married together. Many a child, that had never trembled at hearing the war-whoop, wondered at the old men's stories, that invariably closed with the triumph of the Dacota tomahawk over the weaker blade of the enemy: but that child grew to be a man only to hate a Chippeway, as his father had done in youth; one offence had brought on another, and the slumbering spirit of vengeance that had reposed in the hearts of the red men was roused up, and with a double vengeance foe sought foe. In vain were the women and children hidden in the holes of the earth at night for safety; they were hunted out, as the starving wolf scents its prey: after the desperate fight was over, when the strong were laid low, then were the aged and the infants dragged from their hiding-places.

The red morning sun, parting the sullen clouds, hid again from the sight of the blood that was covering the ground, and dyeing the very stream where but yesterday the village belle, seated by its fair banks, listened to the words that every maiden loves to hear.

A sad scene was presented at the village of Gray Eyes: the old chief lay helpless among those who had obeyed his slightest word, the glaze of death dimming an eye that for more than eighty winters had watched the snow, as it drifted from vale to vale. Life had not yet departed: you could feel the pulse still flutter, and the heart faintly beat, but the thoughts of the chief were in spirit-land, and his soul hasted to burst its prison bars, that it might renew the combat where the Dacotas would aye be the victors.

A gleam of life and consciousness passed over his faded features, as an Indian girl advanced towards him: it was a child he dearly loved, soon to be left without a protector.

"My daughter," said the old man feebly, as the maiden threw herself on the ground beside him, and covered with her tears his cold hands; then raising herself, as she saw the wound still bleeding, she tore a piece from her okendokenda, and endeavoured to staunch it. "It is too late, my child; the soul of your father longs to join the warriors who live in the land of spirits. Where are your brothers?"

"There!" said the weeping girl, pointing to the dead bodies that lay across each other.

"And your mother?"

"There too," she answered; "all are gone, my father, but you and me. I knew how the rocks lay, and where I could hide myself, and there I stayed, hearing my mother's cries, and my brothers' shouts, as they died. I saw, too, the Chippeways, as they carried away the scalps. When you are gone what will become of me? Who will care for Wenona?"

"Not Wenona," said her father, "but 'The Lonely One.' That will be your name when you will have neither father nor brother left. But see," continued the old man, "our enemies' blood! Your brothers fought well: they have already passed the warriors' road to the City of Spirits."

His breath came quickly—big drops stood on his forehead—another struggle—a last sigh—and Wenona was indeed "the lonely one."

The attack of the night before had not been unexpected. The Sioux had placed pickets around their village, and a guard had been kept; but their enemies were too wily for them. The violent storm that raged during the battle was favourable to the Chippeways; they were upon the Sioux ere the watches had heard the slightest sound, except the wind, and the peals of thunder that shook the earth. Some escaped with their families from the lower end of the village, but almost all who remained to fight for their families were massacred with them.

While Wenona awaited the struggle, she was overcome with fear and excitement; but now she was as one without hope. The blow had been struck. Chippeway and Sioux had fallen in the death-struggle, locked in the embrace which bound foe to foe. She had given her heart's devoted love to one whom she must now consider as her enemy. Sounding Wind, a noble young Chippeway, handsome in person, and already favoured among his own people, had promised to take her to his wigwam when the two nations were at peace, though there were many then who foreboded the strife that would rend the ties of friendship between the nations. Even after hostilities had commenced, Sounding Wind had sworn to himself the woman he loved should be his wife, though every brave in the nation might stand between him and the accomplishment of his vow.

Wenona, as she rose from her father's body, gazing upon the scene of terror before her, looked like the flower beside her, which still reared its head, though its fair companions were all crushed to the earth by the storm of the night. Silence and death reigned here—nature was as tranquil as the hearts of her children. Near by swept the lake of the thousand isles: undisturbed were its waters; there was no requiem for the dead, even in the passing breeze.

"My heart weeps," murmured the girl; "but shall the bodies of my friends remain until night brings the wolves and hungry birds? Sounding Wind has forgotten the maiden who loves him. He told me our village should be safe; that he would talk like a wise man; that he would lead the Chippeways far away from us: that, as the little islands sleep peacefully in the lake through the long summer's day, so might I rest from fear for myself and for my friends.

"I will go alone and find our people, that they may come and help me bury our dead. Why should I fear, when all who have loved me are gone, and he who once loved me would take my life as he would pierce the deer on the prairie?"

Wearily she turned her steps, intending to go to the nearest village, avoiding the dead bodies at every step: yet her moccasins were red with blood, which, as she pursued her way, crimsoned the earth at her feet. The reverence that every Indian woman feels for all things connected with death, gave her courage to undertake the task before her. Every change in the scene brought with it some reminiscence: grief for the dead were connected with each, but there were thoughts of the living hard to bear.

Here had she sat with her mother, working with porcupine quills gay garments for her brothers. Here had she stood and watched the canoe of her lover; here had he given her the charm which she still wore about her neck: it was to secure her from any accident till she had left her friends, and until the gods that the Chippeways worshipped were hers.

She pursued her way; but as the waters became bright with the warm rays of the sun, and the pleasant breezes were wafted to the shore, a sense of oppression and fatigue overcame her.

In vain she essayed to rouse herself to the task before her: it was, indeed, in vain, for at last she threw herself under a large tree, and yielded to the repose which exhausted nature demanded. She slept on for hours as calmly as if she could only remember and look forward to joy. Bright eyes were glancing before her—laughter greeted her ears, she was a child again in her dreams, and passing over the gay waters with her boy lover by her side.

Sounding Wind, we have said, was already a man of consequence in his tribe; but he had refused to accompany the war-party of the preceding night, nor did he seek to hide his reasons. They had lived peaceably with the band that lived near the Lake of the Thousand Isles. While he was willing to resent the aggressions of the band that by treacherous acts had broken their faith, he would not assail those who had given them no cause of offence.

A better reason was in his heart: the love he bore to Wenona was strong, even stronger than death; and could he raise a murderous tomahawk against her family? He was anxious to know the result of the attack on the Sioux. He met the Chippeways as, taking the trail by the river, they were on their way home.

Shortly after he joined them, they seated themselves by the great tree whose branches sheltered Wenona. They were resting and eating. Sounding Wind stood by them: no one interfered with his gloomy mood—there was that in him that kept them in control. They were all silent, when suddenly a sigh of grief and fatigue was uttered near them. Startled by it, each warrior rose to his feet and grasped his knife and tomahawk. Sounding Wind sprung over the bushes that were between them and the spot from whence the sigh issued.

At his feet, just rousing from slumber, was the girl who was dearer to him than home or friends. One gleam of joy at seeing her again, one shade of terror at her probable fate, and the young man, placing himself between her and the Chippeways who had followed him, showed himself ready to protect her so long as his arm could wield the tomahawk that glistened in the sun.

"Come not towards her," he said to them, for they had recognised her by her dress, "she is my prisoner. I first touched her—I claim her before you all. I am your chief. I have led you against the Sacs and Foxes, and I will lead you against the Dacotas, who have become our enemies, but this girl's life shall be spared, for she is to be my wife.

"I have taken her prisoner: I shall spare her life. Am I not a Chippeway? and shall I forget my promise to her, to make her my wife?"

Wenona had covered her face with her hands, every moment expecting the blow that would terminate her sorrows; but no one offered to touch her. They were many and strong in the love of revenge. Sounding Wind was but one; but stronger than a host was the love that made him brave the stern spirits before him.

She arose at the bidding of her lover. She eat of their food, and pursued, without fear of harm, her journey to her new home. There, amid the struggles of the Sioux and Chippeways, she was ever safe. And happy, too, save when the remembrance of the fate of her family came between her and the bright visions that cheer and gladden even an Indian woman's home, when the love of her husband and children hallow it.