Darkness was about to throw her veil over the earth, when a lofty tent might have been seen pitched on the extreme summit of a ridge beyond which lay the horizon in golden beauty. Buffalo skins formed a floor to the inclosure, and upon these reposed the forms of three human beings. One was an Indian, evidently of the rank of a chief. He lay on one of the skins at his lazy length, his feet reaching beyond the opening of the tent, and his head reposing on a rude pillow, formed of the furry hides of other wild animals. He smoked a pipe, while his roving eye often rested upon the farthest of his companions.

At a little distance from the savage we have described sat a female, whose hair, complexion, and whole looks bespoke her Indian birth. Her dress, likewise, was that of her tribe, and was of the quality and texture to mark her as the probable wife of the chief whose company she bore. A wooden bowl was at her side, and from this she was now in the act of feeding herself with a spoon of the same material, but with a slovenly negligence indicative of her origin.

The farthest extremity of the tent revealed another woman, whose appearance denoted her to be of European extraction. She was blue-eyed, and of surpassing fairness of skin. Her attitude indicated a mind too powerfully absorbed in grief to be heedful of appearances, for she sat with her limbs contracted, and rocking her body to and fro with a motion that seemed to have its origin in no efforts of her own. Her long, golden hair hung negligently over a neck of dazzling whiteness; and a blanket drawn over the top of her head like a veil, and extending partly around her person, disclosed here and there portions of an apparel which was strictly American, though much torn. A bowl similar to that of the Indian female, and filled with the same food, was at her side, but this was untasted.

“Why does the pale-face refuse to eat?” asked the warrior of her next to him, as he rolled a volume of smoke from his lips. “Make her eat, for I would speak to her afterward.”

“Why does she refuse to eat?” echoed the woman, dropping her spoon as she spoke, and turning to the object of remark, “It is good,” she continued, as she touched the arm of the heedless sufferer. “Daughter of the pale-faces, eat.”

A cry of distress burst from the lips of the unhappy girl, as apparently roused from her abstraction, she suffered the blanket to fall from her head, and stared wildly at her questioner.

“Is the air of the tent not pleasant to the blossom of the clearings?” asked the warrior, evidently touched by her seeming misery.

Seeing that she made no answer, he continued, “What is written is written. The Red-man cannot lie. We must bear thee to the great white father at a distance. But perchance the door may one day be left open, and the bird can escape from its nest.”

“Ah! whither can I fly?” exclaimed Grace Bartlett, at length bursting into tears. “My native village is destroyed, my home is burned, and my parents and neighbors have fallen victims to the general ruin.” She wept for some moments bitter tears, which seemed to relieve her overcharged heart—the chief and his squaw looking on her with more of pity than is usual in their race.

The next morning their march commenced again through the interminable forest. The Indian traveled on foot, while the two females were mounted on mules. The wretchedness of the unfortunate prisoner seemed to increase throughout the whole route, her companions wearing the stolid indifference of the North American tribes, except when momently touched by her situation: For the most part, during the slow ride, Grace Bartlett was left to her own miserable reflections, receiving only at rare intervals some rude attentions from the female, who accompanied her.

The slow pace of the travelers, with various other causes of delay which it is needless to mention, detained them three nights upon their road. As soon as darkness approached the tent was again spread, and a halt was made until the morning. On the fourth evening, instead of encamping as before, they continued their journey until a late hour, when the eyes of the captive maiden, wearied with a succession of wild wood scenery, gazed with something like pleasure upon the scene that now opened before her.

The object that thus met the gaze of Grace Bartlett as they emerged from the forest, was one of those stern fortresses of which so many, in our early history, seemed to accuse England of designs against the Indians. It had external pretensions to the name by which we call it, for it looked strong enough to bid defiance to any attempts against it by siege or storm. A deep moat surrounded the lofty stone turrets on all sides, and a drawbridge was the only means of crossing to the entrance of the fort. To Grace, the sight of the fortification, though she gazed on it at first with pleasure, immediately after brought feelings of pain and apprehension; and however confident she might be in the good providence and protection of God, it cannot be denied that she felt deeply and with an anxious and sickening heart her entrance in a place which might prove to her a final prison.

After assisting his companions to dismount, the Indian blew a loud, shrill whistle. He was answered by a sentinel, who carried on a brief conversation with him, and withdrew to an inner lodge for the key of the great gate. He soon returned, it creaked upon its hinges, and the heavy drawbridge swung slowly up with a jarring sound of chains and huge iron-work—sadly harmonious with the uses of the building which they shut out. The bell, communicating with the mansion connected with the fortress, rung, and the chief, with his prisoner, passed slowly in to an inner court, leaving the squaw standing without.

The glare of light, the sound of music, mingled with the tones of the human voice in merry laughter and light conversation reached her ear, and startled the wretched girl with wonder. The Indian, with the utmost tranquillity and with slow and important steps, led the way toward this portion of the large and heavy mass of gloomy masonry, which, with its tall chimneys, loomed up before them. An immense doorway opened upon a broad staircase that seemed formed to make the head dizzy with its many windings. Up this the savage proceeded with his prisoner, whom he held by the arm, half-supporting her weight as she moved passively and like a piece of mechanism in his fingers. On the first landing they passed a drawing-room, splendidly illuminated and filled with revelers, from whence the noise that had reached the court-yard proceeded. Continuing up the various turnings until they had accomplished another flight, the savage paused, and opened a door communicating with a single chamber handsomely furnished.

Its solitary occupant was a man past the prime of life. He seemed immersed in business, examining documents and reading letters which were strewn on a table before him. He arose as our party entered, held out his hand to the Indian, and asked, “Any prisoners?”

“We have taken a daughter of the pale-faces, a blossom of the clearings,” was the reply of the savage as he pointed to his captive. “But the air of the woods is not pleasant to her: she pines after the wigwam of her fathers.”

Grace Bartlett had no sooner entered the apartment than her whole frame trembled violently, and the color leaving her cheeks, she sank down on the floor, resting her elbows on her knees and pressing her hands to her forehead.

The appearance and attitude, indicative at once of extreme fatigue and the abandonment of despair, did not fail to move the compassionate feelings of General Lincoln, who raised her gently and seated her in a large arm-chair.

“Alas!” said he to the warrior, when he had performed this act, “why did you bring so frail a creature? It were a pity to have made her a sacrifice to my courtly intrigues and ambitious plans: she is only fit to be the darling of her parents.”

“My parents!” exclaimed the unhappy girl at this mention of them, “would to God that I knew their fate!”

“You shall be treated kindly,” said the general to her with much considerateness of manner, and in a gentle tone. “Every thing shall be done to make your residence here pleasant. You are fatigued,” he continued, “sweet maiden,” as he turned to a bell that was suspended near.

A servant in livery appeared, and after a few brief words from his master again vanished. He returned presently, followed by a neat maid-servant.

“Go now,” said Lincoln to Grace, in tones of encouragement, as he gently assisted her from the chair whereon he had placed her, “to the chamber provided for you. Susette will perform the offices of your toilet for you, and furnish you with nourishment suited to your weak condition.”

When left alone with the Indian he paced the room with a disturbed air and gigantic strides. Suddenly he paused short, and glanced his eye toward his dusky companion. He beheld the savage regarding him with the calm but sullen attention which marks the expression of this subtle people. Instantly recollecting himself, he asked in a friendly tone—

“Tuscalameetah, is the settlement wholly exterminated?”

“It is,” replied the chief. “The pale-faced daughter of her people is left to mourn over the ashes of her wigwam. In the morning the sun rose upon the white men as they trod the grass happy and strong, and when the night came, only their bones were left among the ashes. Tuscalameetah has done thy bidding.”

“And the youth, called Charles Lincoln, what of him?” inquired the other. “It is some months since he went to scour the settlements as a spy. Have any of the tribes met with him?”

“Before the moon go her course,” answered Tuscalameetah, “the stolen bird will tread the halls of the great white man who is to him as a father. He is now left with no kindred and no people. The man that drove back the tribe of Tuscalameetah’s brethren,” continued the Indian, and his eyes flashed with successful revenge, “is brought to have his tent destroyed, and his own dust scattered by the whirlwinds.”

Again General Lincoln paced the room, and there was a silence. “You can depart,” he said at length to the savage.

“It is hard,” muttered he, as he was left alone, “to be stretched on the rack of a responsibility such as this. But things prosper, and my royal master is gliding through life enjoying the fruits of my joyless days, and sleepless nights, and periled salvation, while I am wearing myself down to the grave. He has none of the remorse which haunts me, making the dying looks of these massacred people pursue me to my fireside, and molest the joys of my home.”

“And the poor boy’s parents are dead,” he continued, after a pause. “Since blood had to be shed, better theirs than that of others, for there is now naught to come between him and his heirship to my titles and estates. God be thanked for this, for I love him as if he were the son whose place I have given him and whose name he bears.”

——