Not far from the shores of a sunny lake in the depths of the American forest stood the rude log-hut of an emigrant. The site was one of surpassing loveliness—for nature here, in her unbounded domain, had done the work of ages, and the majestic oak towered in silent grandeur beside the graceful elm and the drooping willow, making mockery of art. Birds of glittering plumage sang all day in this wildwood retreat—for, save this one log-cottage, for miles and miles around was no human habitation. The slight clearing, scarcely sufficient for a garden-patch, sloping down to the water-side, told of no hardy adventurer hunting fortune in the wilderness of the new world; and it would have puzzled even a Yankee of this present age to have guessed at the pursuit or object of the tenants of that forest home, so contradictory seemed they in outward aspect.

The family consisted of but four members—a tall, noble-looking man, a little past the meridian of life, with piercing eyes, and dark locks sprinkled with white, falling rather thinly over his broad forehead. His dress was of the plainest, coarsest drab cloth; indeed, there was nothing to distinguish it from that of the negro servant who attended him, except the natural grace and dignity imparted by the manly form of the wearer. The other two occupants of this secluded abode were a young girl, who might have numbered seventeen summers, and an elderly female, who had once been her nurse, but who was now a sort of housekeeper in general, inasmuch as there was none other to superintend the domestic arrangements; but had you taken a peep into the interior of the cottage, you would have seen no lack of comfort, and even some faint show of taste, considering the dearth of material. A coarse carpet was thrown over the rough log-door, and ranged around the sides of the apartment were rustic seats composed of branches of trees, covered, sofa-like, with skins of animals, forming comfortable couches for sitting or reclining. Indian blankets, tastefully embroidered, served as a partition between this and a small room adjoining, which was fitted up for the young lady’s boudoir, and which was occupied in common by both females. Here, on a table of oak, covered with kid-skin, lay a few books, and a guitar, evidently the relics of other days. A large sea-shell served for a vase, and stood on the rude table, filled with wood-flowers, the first gift of summer. Perhaps, too, you might have noticed some large, massive chests in either apartment, and wondered how such ponderous articles had found place in so small a habitation; but we have a key to the mystery, reader, and will give it thee, together with the secret of this secluded family.

Some eighteen months prior to the time our chapter commences, a gentlemanly-looking resident of the new Quaker city, calling himself, John Brown, saw every where posted up, by order of the new king, directions for the seizure and arrest of all persons known or supposed to be implicated in the fate of Charles Stuart—with large rewards held out as an incentive, to those who should successfully aid the king’s officers in their search.

It was an hour of darkness to many a poor fugitive, for disguises were no longer to be trusted, and life’s last hope lay in strict concealment in rocks or forests, or amid the haunts of the savages. Every tie of kindred was now to be sundered—every communication with the world of mankind to be cut off, and the wanderer was henceforward to live with all the golden threads of being rudely snapped by a tyrant. There was no time to be lost, for “blood for blood” was the royal watchword, and his legions were on the track.

Brown was fully alive to his danger, but with the cool, undaunted heart of a man accustomed to war with obstacles, he sat down calmly to meditate the best course of procedure. To remain a day longer in the city he knew full well was madness, and every hour was fraught with danger. Could he leave here in a land of strangers, alone and unprotected save by one frail woman, the delicate blossom he had cherished as “Love’s lost token,” and borne over the waters to cheer his declining age? How could he talk of a separation of years, perhaps forever, from the gentle creature, whose life was all centered in his—how could she bear this last stroke also? True, he had wealth—treasures of gold and silver; wealth would purchase friends, but dangerous friends, too, he thought, for a lonely orphan girl.

He sat deep in thought for a moment longer, then reached his hand and touched a silver bell, exclaiming—“It shall be as she wishes. I will abide her choice at all events!”

The ring was speedily answered by a good-looking man-servant.

“I here, Massa Brown,” said the ebony, making a full display of ivory.

“Is Miss Anna in, Carle?” inquired the master.

“Do no! rudder tink she be, Massa.”

“Go then, and tell her I would see her. Be quick, Carle, and do you wait until I call, for I shall want you again soon.”

A moment after, a fairy-like creature bounded into the presence of her father, and winding her arms caressingly around his neck, waited his pleasure.

“You are ill, dear father,” said she at length, observing his pale forehead. “I have wasted all the morning on my pet birds, thinking you were out as usual.”

He kissed her cheek fondly, and replied—

“I did go out, my child, but quickly returned, for there is danger abroad, and there is no more rest for thy father. ’Tis a mournful summons for thee, darling, but there is no time to be lost in revealing the true cause of it. I must flee speedily, or the new king’s officers will soon bear me back to drop my head at Whitehall. Bear it bravely, Anna, you are my own daughter, and know well the happy days of the Protectorate are ended. There is gold, more than sufficient for all thy wants!”

“But, father, you are my wealth; all the treasure of this world to me! Whither would you flee, and wherefore leave me behind?”

“I know not, daughter—some secret hiding-place where the hand of a Stuart may not reach me, far from the abodes of civilized life. Every thing is to be encountered—want in its worst forms, and you, who have been nurtured in a palace, could poorly cope with cold and hunger! Stay here, my child, amid ease and plenty, and let thy father go forth to meet his fate alone.”

“No, father, Anna Temple is not the weak child you suppose, if you can urge her to forsake her gray-haired parent, because, perchance she must leave behind the downy pillow on which she was cradled! There is no privation in going which I cannot readily undergo, and who knows, father, but we may make us a new home in the wilderness. At all events, wherever thou goest I will go, and thy lot shall be mine for ever!”

The noble Lord Temple—for the self-styled John Brown was no other than the friend and ally of Cromwell, clasped his child to his heart, and said—

“If this be your wish, Anna, I will see what can be effected in a few brief hours. Carle must be summoned immediately, and you may proceed to put in as small compass as possible your own treasures and your mother’s relics, and provide yourself with plain Quaker apparel, for such must be our disguise. Judy, your old nurse must be let into the secret without loss of time, and I will inform Carle; the other servants must be kept in the dark.”

Anna departed with alacrity to obey the directions of her father, for in her breast the fount of life still sparkled with the delightful romance of youth; while her sire, who had seen bubble after bubble rise and break upon its surface, proceeded with emotions entirely different to unfold to the faithful Carle the plan of procedure.

The trusty negro was directed to go and purchase a number of suits of Quaker clothing for his master, with the broad-brim hat, to render the disguise as complete as possible, while he, himself made haste to fill the large chests they had brought over sea with treasure, and whatever they would be most likely to need in their unknown resting-place; and in less than three hours every thing had been prepared for their departure. John Brown, with his felt-hat and wide lappel made a pattern Quaker, and Anna looked rogueishly out from beneath her straight bonnet—then arose the question when, and how they should depart. After some consultation, it was agreed they should wait until nightfall; when master and the ladies should set forward on foot, and walk on as fast as possible, and Carle should put the carriage-horses into an emigrant’s waggon, with boxes, chests, etc., not forgetting a supply of axes and fire-arms, and meet them at a spot designated a few miles from the city.

There remained but one more apparent difficulty; the other servants of the household must be informed of their sudden purpose, as all efforts to conceal their departure would be ineffectual, and the truth could not be confided to them with safety. The disguises were again thrown aside, the servants all summoned, and Lord Temple addressed them, thus—

“I have received an unexpected summons from the new king, and must depart immediately. I shall take but Carle with the young mistress and her nurse, and leave the rest of you in charge of the house until our return; but should any thing occur to prevent my coming back in the spring, you are one and all entitled to your freedom. Until then you will be faithful to the interest of your master!”

“Yes, massa. Lord bless good Massa Brown and young missey, too!” chimed in half-a-dozen voices at once; for the refugee had maintained an independent household, and lived as became a man of wealth and fashion. He had left England immediately after the death of Cromwell, foreseeing the probable issue of the Protectorate; and wishing to spend the residue of his days in peace, he dropped at once his name and title, and was known only in the young city as a private gentleman of good fortune.

That night, when all was hushed in the good “City of Brotherly Love,” Lord Temple, with his daughter and nurse Judy, stole softly from their new and pleasant home, to seek some sheltering asylum from the merciless hand of persecution. They walked on in silence until they gained the outskirts of the city, the young and delicate Anna clinging to both her father and nurse; for the deep silence of the night filled her heart with strange fancies.

“Your strength is not sufficient for your purpose, Anna,” said her father, noticing how nervously she clung to him. “The way will be long and solitary for a tender child like you! Will not my daughter return now to a home, that will afford her still a shelter at least?”

“And would not the way seem longer and darker to my father, if his only child were behind him? Think not because I tremble a little now at first that my heart is weak and cowardly. I have never before walked in the street at midnight, you know, and every rustle seems a king’s officer to me.”

“Bless you, my darling,” exclaimed her father. “The blood of the Temple’s is in your veins, warm and noble; I cannot bear to see it chilled by misfortune.”

“I have no regrets for the world we are leaving behind save on your account, my dearest father; on the contrary, I feel it will be charming to dwell alone in the great forest of the West, where the fetters of fashion, pride and ambition will cease to enthral, and we may learn of the great Creator by the infinity of his works, instead of the multitude of man’s words.”

Thus did the brave girl attempt to cheer the desponding spirits of her father as they moved forward amid the darkness of their solitary way. They directed their course northward, and although they were in the main road, the “woods of centuries” were all around them, and their giant shadows seemed like some spectral army gathered in the gloom of night.

The morning dawned on the little band nearly ten miles from the city, and although they had two or three times paused for a little rest by the wayside, it found them weak and weary; but the spot where they were to turn aside and wait for their wagon and refreshments was near, and they pressed forward. Their stopping-place was a few hundred yards from the road-side—a beautiful spot, by a spring of fresh water, where hunting parties often stopped to regale themselves with a dinner of game, or at least, to quaff a drink of water from the spring. Carle had often been there, and had described the spot so minutely it could not be mistaken; and when at length they seated themselves, and Judy took from her pocket some cakes, which, woman-like, she had been provident enough to bring along with her, their drooping spirits revived, and they ate the morsel cheerfully and drank from the spring, for they were faint as well as weary.

It was a bright morning of early autumn! The breath of summer yet lingered in the air, though the mists were on the hill-tops, and the forest was tinged with the faintest hue of red—the first presage of decay.

“O, father, is it not magnificent!” exclaimed Anna Temple, as she pointed to the boundless woods rising like an ampitheatre on either hand! “This is like what I have read of the new world, only more sublime if possible. Positively there is more of grandeur in this one scene than in all the courts of royalty in the world. Why, just see—the Eastern kings have never worn mantles more elegantly tinged with scarlet and gold, than these old patriarch trees have put on. It really makes our Quaker garb look sombre, and I expect the very birds will be theeing and thouing us as we pass on through their territory.” And the happy-hearted creature clapped her hands and laughed until the hills sent back an echo.

“Hush, hush, daughter; there is the rumbling of wheels near—nearer than the main road, too, I fear! It may be some party of hunters who have made this a place of rendezvous; it cannot be that foes are thus early on the track, I think.”

At the mention of foes the cheek of Anna was pale as clay, and she nestled close beside her father; but a moment afterward she started to her feet, and the red blood again mantled her brow as she exclaimed:

“’Tis Carle, I really think—’tis only Carle, father! I know by the snap of his whip, for no other person ever snapped one like him. Why, Judy, he thinks it time you are making coffee, and has whipped up!”

It was indeed Carle, who came thus unexpectedly upon them, two hours at least sooner than looked for by his master, who had recommended him to stay behind until they had got a fair start, lest some suspicious eye should detect them, and the whole plan be frustrated.

“He! he! he! You got here fust, anyhow,” said the darkey, as he brought his horses to a stand beside them; “though I tried hard to catch up and give young missy a ride. Guess we had better eat breakfast in a hurry and be off, for some of dem nigger ask a great many question last night ’specting de big boxes we load in. But I guess I set ’em on de wrong track, any how. He! he! he!”

A flint was produced and fire struck, and shortly after the air was fragrant with boiling coffee, and a very comfortable breakfast was eaten on the green grass by the spring side; after which, things were quickly put in place, and the little company took the seats arranged for them in the broad, emigrant’s wagon, and sped on as ignorant of their destination as the ancient patriarch journeying on to the “Land of Promise.”

For five long, tedious days they went forward as fast as the miserable state of the roads and the jaded condition of the horses would allow, stopping occasionally to refresh themselves by some pleasant stream that crossed their path in the wilderness. They occasionally fell in with some person who questioned them of their journey, and their reply was invariably, “Going north to settle;” but one real Quaker was not thus contented.

“Thee lookest tired friend, wilt thou partake of a brother’s hospitality on thy way? Nay, no refusal, the young woman looketh sick and needeth a night’s rest! Rachel will give her nursing right gladly, for no Friends have crossed our threshold for months.”

It was the third day of their flight, and worn down with fatigue and loss of rest, they could not resist this pressing appeal of the good brother, and accordingly the horses were allowed to stop in front of a large log farm-house on the banks of the Susquehanna.

But the soi disant John Brown had some trouble in sustaining the new character he had assumed, for he not only made laughable blunders in the Quaker dialect, but when questioned of the prosperity and welfare of his brethren in the good city, betrayed an ignorance certainly unwarrantable in a brother; but his host was a shrewd, sensible man, and soon guessed more of his guest’s secret than would have rendered his stay comfortable had he surmised it. But the secret was in safe keeping, and the poor fugitives were loaded with kindness and sent forward on the morrow with the nicest provisions of the dairy for their future necessity.

“Beware of New England Friends,” said their hospitable host, with a sly look, at parting, “or the good Puritans there may send thee back with holes in thy tongue, or minus ears.”

The last two days of their journey were beset with difficulties and dangers. They had forsaken the public way, and their path was literally in the wilderness, and so thickly strewn with obstacles as to render every step tedious and toilsome; but death was behind, and the hope of life before, and so they went forward steadily and patiently.

Near the close of the fifth day they came suddenly into a beautiful valley, sheltered on all sides by bold hills, and encircling in its bosom a clear, quiet lake. Not a vestige of human kind was discernible in this spot, so charming that it seemed fresh from the hand of its Creator.

“Is not this such a spot as we have been seeking, father?” inquired Anna, with a pleading look.

“Yes, daughter, if there is peace and safety on earth it must be in this Eden of the forest. Here we will fix our dwelling-place, in the midst of this romantic scenery. To-morrow, Carle, we must set to work to prepare a habitation; you are something of a carpenter I think?”

“O, yes, massa; me learn de trade in good old England, but not wid such big log as dis.”

We have now traced the flight of the illustrious but unfortunate Judge Temple from the Quaker city—his first resting-place in the Western world—to the forest home introduced to our reader at the commencement of the chapter. More than a year and a half had passed since the wanderers had sought refuge in the friendly wild, whose shelter had afforded a safe retreat from friend or foe; for no white face had smiled or frowned on them in their new habitation. They had lived alone! The forest and lake supplied them with food, and they had a little garden which furnished them with vegetables, having brought with them a variety of seed and utensils for the culture of the soil. They had a few books, and Anna and her father read together, to while away the long hours of winter; but in summer they dragged not heavily; for there was life and beauty around them, and in the warm breast of Anna Temple was a perpetual fountain of sunlight. To her father she seemed as happy as the birds that warbled all day in gladness—and she was truly happy—happy in herself, in her only parent, and in every thing bright and beautiful around her; still her thoughts in their loneliness often reverted to her first home, and the blessed hours of her childhood.

But not for lost splendor did she dwell thus fondly the memory of the past, it was for the lost companions of those rainbow-tinted years, whose fate she might never know. Scattered far and wide over the earth she knew them to be, but who among them had fallen victims, she vainly strove to conjecture.

And one among those whose images were linked with her dreams, was the dark-haired Vaudois student, who had taught her the Alpine shepherd songs which she still loved to play at nightfall, as she watched the stars peering out, with their angel-eyes, and she would sometimes weep as she thought that pale-browed youth might even then be wearing the golden crown he had so early sought to win.

It surely was a solitary life for an ardent young creature like Anna Temple to dwell thus apart from the world, shut out from every association of her earlier and happier years; still she was never for a moment discontented with her lot. A nest of young birds she fed and tamed, and every wild-flower of rare beauty was transplanted in her garden-plot—so her loving heart had food for its impassioned yearnings. One human creature, too, had found a place in her affections even here in the wilderness. The summer after their arrival, a party of Indians from a neighboring tribe had sought, as was their custom, the shores of this sunny lake to fish. Among them came the chief, with his only daughter, nearly the same age as Anna.

Weetano was a most superb creature; graceful as a fawn, with eyes clear and dark as a gazelle’s, and she burst upon them like a glorious vision—so unlike any thing they had seen, or even fancied. Her father, the old chief, seemed not at first well pleased to find his summer retreat invaded by a pale face, but Lord Temple’s courteous address soon won his favor, and he came with confidence to the cottage, where he was entertained with so many presents and novelties, that he went and brought his daughter to see the “white squaw,” as he called Anna, and hear her sing.

Anna took her guitar and sang with it to the infinite delight of her visitors, who asked her if the creature were alive, for they had learned a little English from the fur-traders. She then displayed to the Indian maiden her treasures, and presented her with a beautiful coral necklace, that had pleased her fancy better than any thing else. The chief looked highly gratified to see Anna clasp the trinket round his daughter’s neck, and he inquired with some pride—“Will the Pale-Lily sail in the canoe with Red-Bird?” for thus he called his daughter.

Anna was delighted with the novelty of the proposition, and hastened to accompany her new companion to the lake-side, leaving the old chief with her father at the cottage. She had never before seen a canoe like Weetano’s, it was befitting a chief’s daughter, or a princess royal, with its snowy mat of swan’s-down, and decorated with the quills of the porcupine and feathers of every hue. The Indian girl seized the paddles, and jumping into the fairy-looking bark motioned Anna to a seat on the mat opposite, but with all the romance and enthusiasm of her nature, she hesitated; for the thing seemed all too frail for the burden of a human weight on the dark waters.

“Does the white girl fear?” inquired Weetano, in most musical accents. “Look how Red-Bird can guide a canoe.”

And quick as thought she dipped the oars, and the boat darted away like a bird on the wing. Round and round she went in swift circles, and a more picturesque looking creature could not be imagined than the beautiful forest-girl in the wild costume of her tribe. Her richly beaded robe, clasped on the right shoulder, fell gracefully over a form of the most perfect mould, and was confined around the left knee, leaving the arms and limbs entirely bare; while her long, raven hair floated wildly over her neck; but encircling her head was a fillet of beads, into which were woven feathers of the white-hawk—the insignia of their tribe. Anna gazed with delight and astonishment on the glorious creature in her fantastic bark skimming the blue lake with a motion as light and graceful as we image a fairy’s.

The Indian girl soon rowed to the shore again, and Anna now seated herself on the soft mat beside Weetano with delight, and away they went—the high-born daughter of Europe and the red forest-maiden in happy companionship; and though differing widely in outward mien, each wore the seal of beauty and the air of nobility.

From that day there was an ardent attachment between Anna Temple and the chief’s daughter. Every day found the little canoe moored at the point of the lake nearest the cottage, and many a bright summer hour was passed by them roaming the woods, or sailing the fairy boat, before the chief and his party were ready to depart. It was with real sorrow that Anna heard she was to lose her new companion, but Weetano told her they would come again the next summer, and Pale-Lily should have a canoe like hers.

Oliwibatuc was the chief of the Mohawks, and his principal village was about thirty miles from the north shore of the lake. He was a powerful chieftain, and held a stern body of warriors and braves ready to do his bidding. His wigwam was hung with the trophies of his own deeds and daring. He was now going back to sound the war-cry and seek revenge for the real or fancied injury done his tribe by the French traders on the Canadian frontier. It was a dark passion and bloody would be its fruits, but surely one less reprehensible in an unenlightened savage than in those who wear the garments of Christianity.

The second winter passed more fleetly with our fugitives than the first, and at the time our chapter commenced they had gathered around them many conveniences and comforts in their forest home. As the season advanced, Anna began to watch with impatience for their summer visitors, for she longed for something to disturb the monotony of her life, and Red-Bird’s visit would be sure to bring with it new amusements and pleasures.

One morning she descried a speck on the distant water, and exclaimed with delight—“A canoe, father—it must be a canoe! There is a speck on the lake; now another, and another—it must be the party of Oliwibatuc with darling Red-Bird! O, I am so happy! Hasten, and go with me, father, to the shore to meet and welcome them.”

It was indeed the party of the Mohawk chief, who had come this season to encamp on the south shore of the lake at a little distance from the emigrant’s cottage. Their number was much greater than on the summer preceding, and their dress and appearance far more imposing. Every warrior wore the tuft of hawk’s-feathers, and a gay wampum-belt, and Oliwibatuc was borne down almost with his symbolic decorations, among which the claws of the eagle were most conspicuous. They had come back from their last campaign victorious, and the savage and Christian victor must alike wear the regalia in the hour of triumph.

Weetano had been true to her promise, and brought the Pale-Lily a little canoe, the very counterpart of her own, and after she had gained a little experience in rowing side by side, they glided over the smooth waters gathering white lilies in the shallows to wreathe in their hair, or starting up the wild birds that often lay in multitudes on the bosom of the lake.

But Anna was not long in discovering that a change was on her young companion. Weetano was not now the glad, sunny-hearted creature she had known in the year gone by. Her wild, musical laugh no longer awoke the mountain echo, and her step had lost its fleetness—for, the delicate white girl could now outstrip the forest-maiden who so lately outstripped the deer. She would sometimes sit silent and motionless in her canoe, gazing down into the deep waters with an intensity that both surprised and alarmed her companion, and once, when questioned by her, she replied—“She was listening for whisperings of the Great Spirit.”

“Will the Lily teach Weetano to read the Great Book of the white man?” inquired the Indian girl one morning, as they were sitting alone in Anna’s little room. “She has a new brother in her father’s lodge; he is a Book man, and will not take up the bow and tomahawk! He sings the songs of the spirit-land, but no war-song; and when Weetano was sick and dying, he pointed her to the blue home of the weary! Weetano has looked on the face of her pale brother, and the image of her Brave has faded from her heart! The Huron’s spirit no longer comes to me in dreams! Owanaw should take a warrior maiden to his wigwam, and leave the daughter of the Mohawk to dwell in peace! Teach me the Book then, but tell it not to Oliwibatuc.”

It has been already stated that the Mohawk chief and his party had returned from their last campaign victorious. The hair of many a scalp was braided with serpent-skins around their necks, and twelve young captives had been brought home to suffer in the presence of the whole tribe. As they drew near their principal city, the captors sent up a savage yell, and prolonged it until the hills sent back the sound; but the aged warriors and the braves who remained at home echoed it not. Wherefore came they not forth as was their custom, to greet their triumphant brethren? The silence boded no good, and Oliwibatuc led on his band with a sullen, down-cast eye. He approached his lodge with the prisoners and their guard, and entered it in silence; but within, all was noise and distraction. Hideous outcries, mingled with strange incantations saluted his ears, and there on a low couch lay the prostrate form of the chief’s daughter. The low moaning of the poor maiden was a sad welcome for the old warrior, for Weetano had been the song-bird of his lodge, and the sunlight of her face had once been the sunlight of her mother’s. He stood by her couch with stern composure, and thrice uttered “Weetano,” but the ear of his daughter was dull to the voice of affection, and the haughty warrior uttered a deep groan, and bowed his head, for his pride was low.

There was one among the prisoners of Oliwibatuc who looked not unmoved on the mournful spectacle—one, whose faith taught “Love to enemies,” and whose mission on earth was that of his Master—to do good. It was a youthful “soldier of the Cross,” that stood a captive in the lodge of the Mohawk chief. Torture and death he was expecting soon to receive from the hands of his merciless captors, but the light of his faith was clear and bright, and his last deed should be one of mercy. He saw that the disease had formed a crisis, and the poor sufferer seemed rapidly sinking with exhaustion; but there was still life, and a shadow of hope, and he approached the stricken chief, and laying his hand gently on his arm, said—

“The Great Spirit has given the Pale Face the art of healing; if it be not too late, I will restore thy daughter; but the tumult must first be hushed!”

There was gratitude in the old chief’s eye: for a tone of sympathy falls never unheeded, no matter how barren the heart; and with a motion of his hand the savage din was hushed.

“Yes, save her, and ye shall live, young Pale Face!” murmured the chief. “She is my only child—the last of the eagle’s nest! Save her, and ye shall be as Olo, the son of Oliwibatuc, who fell by the great Lakes in battle!”

The captive knew that a flask of brandy was in possession of one of the prisoners. The Indians had not then learned its use, though something of its abuse they had found out in their intercourse with the traders. He obtained this immediately, and diluting a little with water, put it to the lips of the poor girl, who lay unconscious of all around her. She swallowed with great difficulty, and he perceived an unearthly chill in the perspiration that damped her forehead.

“Blankets and fire, chief,” said the young man, with a trembling voice. “Soon, or it will be too late! Set these prisoners to work,” added he, on looking round and perceiving the lodge deserted save by the chief and his captives. “Hot blankets must be had immediately!” And he set himself to work, chafing the cold hands of the poor moaning sufferer, with an activity that manifested the earnestness of his purpose.

Oliwibatuc went to the door of his wigwam, and sent up a cry, that immediately brought a dozen of his tribe at his feet.

“Fire and hot blankets must be had instantly,” said he, in the tone of one accustomed to command. “Where is the old woman, Zohah? Summon her again—the maiden must not die!”

His directions were promptly obeyed. But the red men looked sullen and displeased to see the young captive employed in the service of their chief. The old Indian nurse-woman, too, had come again, and seeing the preparations, she muttered—

“No good! No good! Bad Spirit will not submit, and Good Spirit has forsaken Weetano! Zohah has used all healing herbs, but—bad, bad. Zohah’s arts cannot hush the voice from the far south-west! The maiden has heard the call! She will die!”

“Perhaps, not, mother,” said the young physician, soothingly. “The Great Spirit can hush the voice. Will you not lend your aid, that the daughter of your chief may live?”

Thus addressed, old Zohah seemed pleased to follow his directions, and after the patient had been carefully wrapped in the heated blankets, and a few more drops of the brandy put into her mouth, they sat down to watch for its effects, on the unconscious girl. Long, long seemed the moments of that weary watch, and yet the anxious prisoner could discern no change. He took her hand in his, and counted the feeble pulsations—it was still chill and cold, yet his heart encouraged him on in his ministry of mercy.

“Some herbs, good Zohah. Put some herbs on her feet—the long dock-leaves will do, if bruised and withered. She must have some more of the liquid, too,” and for the third time the red beverage was put to her lips. She now swallowed with less difficulty, and her breath was not so hurried and faint; still there was no sign of consciousness, and her attendant relapsed again to his watch, still retaining the wrist of the sufferer in his hand.

The old chief stood a little apart, gazing with an eagle-eye on every movement, but not a word had escaped his lips since his first orders had been obeyed, and he betrayed no sign of weariness, though he had not been seated since his long march.

An hour afterward, the low moaning had died away, and the voice of the captive youth whispered in the ears of Oliwibatuc—

“She sleeps: thy daughter sleeps!”

“Seven suns have set, and this is the maiden’s first quiet sleep,” said old Zohah. “The Pale Face brings witch-water.”

“Nay, nay, mother, thy good herbs and gentle nursing have aided the sufferer; but we must still watch, for on this slumber perhaps, depends her life.”

The old chief approached his captive, and said in grateful accents—

“Thy life is not sufficient; what boon wilt thou ask at the hand of the Mohawk?”

“That thou wilt send my fellow-captives back to their country, chief; and I will still be thy prisoner. They have homes there. I have neither country nor home. I will stay and watch the recovery of thy daughter, but let my brethren go without torture.”

It was a great request for an Indian to give up his prisoners, and for a moment he seemed wavering—then he added—

“It is more than leagues of wampun—but it shall be done. To-morrow, they shall go, and thou shalt stay in the lodge of Oliwibatuc—not my prisoner, but my son, instead of Olo.”

All was silence again in that forest wigwam, and the youthful captive held on his watch. Old Zohah was snoring loudly on one hand, and the old chief had at last spread his blanket, and laid down to rest after his weary march. The youth was alone. The deep shadows of the night hung a solitude over the wilderness, and as he sat there in the rude wigwam of the savage, his thoughts took backward wing: he was a child again, climbing the mountain-path with the flocks—gathering wild grapes in the valleys, and returning to a happy cottage-home at evening. Then a soft footstep was in his ear, and a gentle tone—they were his mother’s! A little hand was nestled in his, as his sire took the Book of God and read the words of wisdom from its holy pages; then came back to his weary heart those home-voices mingling in the evening psalm, and his face brightened—but memory was soon too faithful to the reality, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

A new leaf was turned in his life-book! He was a youth in a foreign land: strange objects were around him—the tones of strangers in his ears. The cottage of the Alps had been exchanged for a home in a kingly palace. Men of learning and science had there been his teachers, and his ardent heart had loved and treasured up the words of wisdom. Gentle forms had floated around him, and the image of one sweet, youthful face, was yet a dew-drop on his spirit.

Another leaf—and he was again a wanderer! Another cloud had burst in storm over his head, and a wide ocean spread its stormy waves betwixt him and the land of his birth. He had come a fugitive over its waters, bearing the gospel seed, which he hoped ere long to see springing up in the boundless field of the west; but a twelvemonth had scarcely passed, ere a merciless war-party had numbered him with its victims. Persecution and torture had no power to make his youthful spirit quail, for men of iron purpose had moulded him for a martyr to his creed, and as he sat there that night in his lonely watch, he looked upward to his home above, with a clear unshaken confidence, and forward into the dim, uncertain future without a fear. He had been the happy instrument of saving a number of his fellow-beings from torturing death, and on the morrow they would be restored to home and freedom. He had no home—had left behind him no kindred, and here, perchance, was the vineyard which his Master had given him to plant with the “Living Vine.”

Such were the thoughts that rapidly winged their way through the mind of the young captive as he sat listening to the now low, soft breathing of the Indian maiden, and his heart was happy in the consciousness of its right and holy purpose.

There was a low murmur—he turned his head and the dark eye of the chief’s daughter was fixed upon him with a look of conscious scrutiny, but in a moment the lids were heavy again with slumber. He went cautiously to Zohah and awoke her, lest the maiden might fear finding herself with a stranger. Old Zohah took the cup, and bending over the couch said—

“Is Weetano thirsty? Here is drink.”

She opened her eyes again, and said—

“Is it you, good Zohah? I dreamed a Pale Face was beside me. Has my father yet returned?”

“He sleeps weary with the war-chase. He spoke to Weetano, but she answered not. Will the maiden see her father?”

“No, let him rest until morning. The warrior is aged, and comes to his lodge weary.”

But the old chief was awake to the first tone of his daughter’s voice, and he bent over her couch caressingly, saying—

“Red-Bird is better now; she has a new brother, and he has saved her life! He must slumber now, for the march was long! He shall eat, hereafter, at the board of Oliwibatuc.”

The captive came forward again, and gave some directions to Zohah for the remainder of the night, and then gladly lay down as the chief desired, for the danger was past, and he was sorely fatigued. Sweet were his first slumbers in the lodge of the Mohawk chief, and his dreams like the waking vision, were of the Alps; for as the reader has already imagined, the stranger was no other than Francois Waldo—the Vaudois peasant-boy.

——