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Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1840], The pathfinder, or, The inland sea. Vol. II (Lea and Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf068v2T].
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Front matter Covers, Edges and Spine

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Preliminaries

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Title Page THE
PATHFINDER:
OR,
THE INLAND SEA.


— Here the heart
May give a useful lesson to the head,
And Learning wiser grow without his books.
Cowper.
PHILADELPHIA:
LEA AND BLANCHARD,
1840.

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Acknowledgment

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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1839, by
J. FENIMORE COOPER,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States,
in and for the Northern District of New York.

STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN.........PHILADELPHIA.

PRINTED BY T. K. AND P. G. COLLINS.

Main text

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CHAPTER I.

“Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime —
The image of Eternity; the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.”
Byron.

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As the day advanced, that portion of the inmates of the
vessel which had the liberty of doing so, appeared on deck.
As yet, the sea was not very high, from which it was inferred,
that the cutter was still under the lee of the islands; but
it was apparent to all who understood the lake, that they
were about to experience one of the heavy autumnal gales
of that region. Land was nowhere visible; and the horizon,
on every side, exhibited that gloomy void, which lends to all
views, on vast bodies of water, the sublimity of mystery.
The swells, or, as landsmen term them, the waves, were
short and curling, breaking of necessity sooner than the
longer seas of the ocean; while the element itself, instead of
presenting that beautiful hue, which rivals the deep tint of
the southern sky, looked green and angry, though wanting
in the lustre that is derived from the rays of the sun.

The soldiers were soon satisfied with the prospect, and,
one by one, they disappeared, until none were left on deck,
but the crew, the serjeant, Cap, Pathfinder, the Quarter-Master,
and Mabel. There was a shade on the brow of the

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latter, who had been made acquainted with the real state of
things; and who had fruitlessly ventured an appeal in favour
of Jasper's restoration to the command. A night's rest, and a
night's reflection, appeared also to have confirmed the Pathfinder
in his opinion of the young man's innocence; and
he, too, had made a warm appeal in behalf of his friend,
though with the same want of success.

Several hours passed away, the wind gradually getting to
be heavier, and the sea rising, unfil the motion of the cutter
compelled Mabel and the Quarter-Master to retreat, also.
Cap wore several times; and it was now evident that the
Scud was drifting into the broader and deeper parts of the
lake, the seas raging down upon her in a way that none
but a vessel of superior mould and build could have long
ridden, and withstood. All this, however, gave Cap no
uneasiness; but like the hunter that pricks his ears at the
sound of the horn, or the war-horse that paws and snorts
with pleasure at the roll of the drum, the whole scene
awakened all that was man within him; and instead of the
captious, supercilious, and dogmatic critic, quarrelling with
trifles, and exaggerating immaterial things, he began to exhibit
the qualities of the hardy and experienced seaman, that
he truly was. The hands soon imbibed a respect for his
skill; and, though they wondered at the disappearance of
their old commander, and the pilot, for which no reason had
been publicly given, they soon yielded an implicit and cheerful
obedience to the new one.

“This bit of fresh-water, after all, brother Dunham, has
some spirit, I find,” cried Cap, about noon, rubbing his
hands in pure satisfaction at finding himself once more
wrestling with the elements. “The wind seems to be an
honest old-fashioned gale, and the seas have a fanciful resemblance
to those of the gulf stream. I like this, serjeant,
I like this; and shall get to respect your lake, if it hold out
twenty-four hours longer in the fashion in which it has begun.”

“Land, ho!” shouted the man who was stationed on the
forecastle.

Cap hurried forward; and there, sure enough, the land
was visible through the drizzle, at the distance of about half
a mile,—the cutter heading directly towards it. The first
impulse of the old seaman was to give an order to “stand

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by, to ware off shore;” but the cool-headed soldier restrained
him.

“By going a little nearer,” said the serjeant, “some of
us may recognize the place. Most of us know the American
shore, in this part of the lake; and it will be something
gained to learn our position.”

“Very true—very true; if, indeed, there is any chance
of that, we will hold on. What is this off here, a little on
our weather bow? It looks like a low headland.”

“The garrison, by Jove!” exclaimed the other, whose
trained eye sooner recognized the military outlines than the
less instructed senses of his connection.

The serjeant was not mistaken. There was the fort, sure
enough, though it looked dim and indistinct through the fine
rain, as if it were seen in the dusk of evening, or the haze
of morning. The low, sodded, and verdant ramparts, the
sombre palisades, now darker than ever with water, the roof
of a house or two, the tall, solitary flag-staff, with its halyards
blown steadily out, into a curve that appeared traced
in immovable lines in the air, were all soon to be seen,
though no sign of animated life could be discovered. Even
the sentinel was housed; and, at first, it was believed that
no eye would detect the presence of their own vessel. But
the unceasing vigilance of a border garrison did not slumber.
One of the look-outs probably made the interesting discovery;
a man or two were seen on some elevated stands, and then
the entire ramparts, next the lake, were dotted with human
beings.

The whole scene was one in which sublimity was singularly
relieved by the picturesque. The raging of the tempest
had a character of duration, that rendered it easy to imagine
it might be a permanent feature of the spot. The
roar of the wind was without intermission, and the raging
water answered to its dull but grand strains, with hissing
spray, a menacing wash, and sullen surges. The drizzle
made a medium for the eye which closely resembled that
of a thin mist, softening and rendering mysterious the images
it revealed, while the genial feeling that is apt to accompany
a gale of wind on water, contributed to aid the milder influences
of the moment. The dark, interminable forest hove
up out of the obscurity, grand, sombre and impressive, while

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the solitary, peculiar and picturesque glimpses of life that
were caught in and about the fort, formed a refuge for the
eye to retreat to, when oppressed with the more imposing
objects of nature.

“They see us,” said the serjeant, “and think we have
returned on account of the gale, and have fallen to leeward
of the port. Yes, there is Major Duncan himself, on the
north-eastern bastion; I know him by his height, and by the
officers around him!”

“Serjeant, it would be worth standing a little jeering, if we
could fetch into the river, and come safely to an anchor! In
that case, too, we might land this Master Eau-douce, and
purify the boat.”

“It would indeed; but as poor a sailor as I am, I well know
it cannot be done. Nothing that sails the lake can turn to
windward against this gale; and there is no anchorage outside,
in weather like this.”

“I know it—I see it—serjeant, and pleasant as is that
sight to you landsmen, we must leave it. For myself, I am
never as happy, in heavy weather, as when I am certain that
the land is behind me.”

The Scud had now forged so near in, that it became indispensable
to lay her head off shore, again, and the necessary
orders were given. The storm-staysail was set forward, the
gaff lowered, the helm put up, and the light craft, that seemed
to sport with the elements like a duck, fell off a little, drew
ahead swiftly, obeyed her rudder, and was soon flying away
on the top of the surges, dead before the gale. While making
this rapid flight, though the land still remained in view,
on her larboard beam, the fort, and the groups of anxious
spectators on its rampart, were swallowed up in the mist.
Then followed the evolutions necessary to bring the head of
the cutter up to the wind, when she again began to wallow
her weary way towards the north shore.

Hours now passed, before any further change was made, the
wind increasing in force, until even the dogmatical Cap fairly
admitted it was blowing a thorough gale of wind. About
sunset the Scud wore again, to keep her off the north shore,
during the hours of darkness; and at midnight her temporary
master, who, by questioning the crew in an indirect manner,
had obtained some general knowledge of the size and shape

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of the lake, believed himself to be about midway between the
two shores. The height and length of the seas, aided this
impression; and it must be added that Cap, by this time,
began to feel a respect for fresh-water, that twenty-four hours
earlier, he would have derided as impossible. Just as the
night turned, the fury of the wind became so great, that he
found it impossible to bear up against it, the water falling on
the deck of the little craft in such masses as to cause it to
shake to the centre, and, though a vessel of singularly lively
qualities, to threaten to bury it beneath its weight. The people
of the Scud averred that never before had they been out
in such a tempest; which was true; for, possessing a perfect
knowledge of all the rivers and head-lands and havens, Jasper
would have carried the cutter in shore, long ere this, and
placed her in safety, in some secure anchorage. But, Cap
still disdained to consult the young master, who continued
below, determining to act like a mariner of the broad
ocean.

It was one in the morning, when the storm-staysail was
again got on the Scud, the head of the mainsail lowered, and
the cutter put before the wind. Although the canvass now
exposed was merely a rag in surface, the little craft nobly
justified the use of the name she bore. For eight hours did
she scud, in truth; and it was almost with the velocity of the
gulls that wheeled wildly over her in the tempest, apparently
afraid to alight in the boiling caldron of the lake. The
dawn of day brought little change; for no other horizon became
visible, than the little circle of drizzling sky and water,
already described, in which it seemed as if the elements were
rioting in a sort of chaotic confusion. During this time the
crew and passengers of the cutter were of necessity passive.
Jasper and the pilot remained below; but, the motion of the
vessel having become easier, nearly all the rest were on deck.
The morning meal had been taken in silence, and eye met
eye, as if their owners asked each other, in dumb show, what
was to be the end of this strife in the elements. Cap, however,
was perfectly composed, and his face brightened, his
step grew firmer, and his whole air more assured, as the
storm increased, making larger demands on his professional
skill, and personal spirit. He stood on the forecastle, his
arms crossed, balancing his body with a seaman's instinct,

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while his eyes watched the caps of the seas, as they broke and
glanced past the reeling cutter, itself in such swift motion,
as if they were the scud flying athwart the sky. At this
sublime instant one of the hands gave the unexpected cry of
“a sail!”

There was so much of the wild and solitary character of
the wilderness about Ontario, that one scarcely expected to
meet with a vessel on its waters. The Scud, herself, to
those who were in her, resembled a man threading the forest
alone, and the meeting was like that of two solitary hunters
beneath the broad canopy of leaves that then covered so
many millions of acres on the continent of America. The
peculiar state of the weather served to increase the romantic,
almost supernatural appearance of the passage. Cap alone
regarded it with practised eyes, and even he felt his iron
nerves thrill under the sensations that were awakened by the
wild features of the scene.

The strange vessel was about two cables' length ahead of
the Scud, standing by the wind athwart her bows, and steering
a course to render it probable that the latter would pass
within a few yards of her. She was a full-rigged ship,
and seen through the misty medium of the tempest, the most
experienced eye could detect no imperfection in her gear or
construction. The only canvass she had set, was a close-reefed
main-top-sail, and two small storm-staysails, one forward
and the other aft. Still the power of the wind pressed
so hard upon her as to bear her down nearly to her beamends,
whenever the hull was not righted by the buoyancy of
some wave under her lee. Her spars were all in their places,
and by her motion through the water, which might have
equalled four knots in the hour, it was apparent that she
steered a little free.

“The fellow must know his position well,” said Cap, as
the cutter flew down towards the ship, with a velocity almost
equalling that of the gale, “for he is standing boldly to the
southward, where he expects to find anchorage or a haven.
No man in his senses would run off free in that fashion, that
was not driven to scudding, like ourselves, who did not perfectly
understand where he was going.”

“We have made an awful run, captain,” returned the man
to whom this remark had been addressed. “That is the

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French king's ship, Lee-my-calm, (le Montcalm,) and she is
standing in for the Niagara, where her owner has a garrison
and a port. We 've have made an awful run of it!”

“Ay, bad luck to him! Frenchman like, he skulks into
port the moment he sees an English bottom.”

“It might be well for us, if we could follow him,” returned
the man shaking his head despondingly, “for we are getting
into the end of a bay up here at the head of the lake,
and it is uncertain whether we ever get out of it again!”

“Poh! man, poh!—We have plenty of sea room, and a
good English hull beneath us. We are no Johnny Crapauds
to hide ourselves behind a point or a fort, on account of a
puff of wind. Mind your helm, sir!”

The order was given on account of the menacing appearance
of the approaching passage. The Scud was now heading
directly for the fore-foot of the Frenchman; and, the distance
between the two vessels having diminished to a hundred
yards, it was momentarily questionable if there was room to
pass.

“Port, sir—port!” shouted Cap. “Port your helm and
pass astern!”

The crew of the Frenchman were seen assembling to windward,
and a few muskets were pointed, as if to order the people
of the Scud to keep off. Gesticulations were observed, but
the sea was too wild and menacing to admit of the ordinary
expedients of war. The water was dripping from the muzzles
of two or three light guns on board the ship, but no one
thought of loosening them for service in such a tempest. Her
black sides, as they emerged from a wave, glistened and
seemed to frown, but the wind howled through her rigging,
whistling the thousand notes of a ship; and the hails and cries
that escape a Frenchman with so much readiness, were inaudible.

“Let him hollow himself hoarse!” growled Cap. “This
is no weather to whisper secrets in. Port, sir, port!”

The man at the helm obeyed, and the next send of the sea
drove the Scud down upon the quarter of the ship, so near her
that the old mariner, himself, recoiled a step, in a vague expectation
that, at the next surge ahead, she would drive bows
foremost directly into the planks of the other vessel. But
this was not to be. Rising from the crouching posture she

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had taken, like a panther about to leap, the cutter dashed onward,
and, at the next instant, she was glancing past the stern
of her enemy, just clearing the end of her spanker-boom with
her own lower yard.

The young Frenchman, who commanded the Montcalm,
leaped on the taffrail, and with that high-toned courtesy which
relieves even the worst acts of his countrymen, he raised his
cap and smiled a salutation as the Scud shot past. There
were bonhommie and good taste in this act of courtesy, when
circumstances allowed of no other communications; but they
were lost on Cap, who, with an instinct quite as true to his
race, shook his fist menacingly, and muttered to himself—

“Ay—ay—it 's d—d lucky for you I 've no armament
on board here, or I 'd send you in to get new cabin-windows
fitted. Serjeant, he 's a humbug.”

“'T was civil, brother Cap,” returned the other, lowering
his hand from the military salute which his pride as a soldier
had induced him to return—“'t was civil, and that 's as much
as you can expect from a Frenchman. What he really meant
by it, no one can say.”

“He is not heading up to this sea without an object, neither!
Well, let him run in, if he can get there; we will
keep the lake, like hearty English mariners.”

This sounded gloriously, but Cap eyed with envy, the glittering
black mass of the Montcalm's hull, her waving top-sail,
and the misty tracery of her spars, as she grew less and less
distinct, and finally disappeared in the drizzle, in a form as
shadowy as that of some unreal image. Gladly would he
have followed in her wake, had he dared; for to own the truth,
the prospect of another stormy night in the midst of the wild
waters that were raging around him, brought little consolation.
Still he had too much professional pride to betray his
uneasiness, and those under his care relied on his knowledge
and resources, with the implicit and blind confidence that the
ignorant are apt to feel.

A few hours succeeded, and darkness came again to increase
the perils of the Scud. A lull in the gale, however,
had induced Cap to come by the wind once more, and throughout
the night, the cutter was lying-to, as before, headreaching
as a matter of course, and occasionally waring to
keep off the land. It is unnecessary to dwell on the

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incidents of this night, which resembled those of any other gale
of wind. There were the pitching of the vessel, the hissing
of the waters, the dashing of spray, the shocks that menaced
annihilation to the little craft as she plunged into the seas, the
undying howling of the wind, and the fearful drift. The
last was the most serious danger; for, though exceedingly
weatherly under her canvass, and totally without top-hamper,
the Scud was so light, that the combing of the swells would
seem, at times, to wash her down to leeward, with a velocity
as great as that of the surges themselves.

During this night, Cap slept soundly and for several hours.
The day was just dawning, when he felt himself shaken by
the shoulder, and arousing himself, he found the Pathfinder
standing at his side. During the gale, the guide had appeared
little on deck, for his natural modesty told him that
seamen alone should interfere with the management of the
vessel; and he was willing to show the same reliance on those
who had charge of the Scud, as he expected those who followed
through the forest to manifest in his own skill. But
he now thought himself justified in interfering, which he did
in his own unsophisticated and peculiar manner.

“Sleep is sweet, Master Cap,” he said, as soon as the eyes
of the latter were fairly open, and his consciousness had sufficiently
returned—“Sleep is sweet, as I know from experience,
but life is sweeter still. Look about you, and say if
this is exactly the moment for a commander to be off his feet.”

“How now — how now — Master Pathfinder!” growled
Cap, in the first moments of his awakened faculties—“Are
you, too, getting on the side of the grumblers? When ashore,
I admired your sagacity in running through the worst shoals,
without a compass, and since we have been afloat, your
meekness and submission have been as pleasant, as your
confidence on your own ground; I little expected such a
summons from you.”

“As for myself, Master Cap, I feel I have my gifts, and I
believe they 'll interfere with those of no other man; but the
case may be different with Mabel Dunham. She has her gifts,
too, it is true; but they are not rude like ours, but gentle, and
womanish, as they ought to be. It 's on her account that I
speak, and not on my own.”

“Ay—ay—I begin to understand. The girl is a good

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girl, my worthy friend, but she is a soldier's daughter and a
sailor's niece, and ought not to be too tame, or too tender, in
a gale. Does she show any fear?”

“Not she—not she. Mabel is a woman, but she is reasonable
and silent. Not a word have I heard from her, concerning
our doings; though I do think, Master Cap, she would
like it better, if Jasper Eau-douce were put into his proper
place, and things were restored to their old situation, like.
This is human natur'.”

“I 'll warrant it!—Girl-like, and Dunham-like, too. Anything
is better than an old uncle, and everybody knows more
than an old seaman! This is human natur', Master Pathfinder,
and d—e, if I 'm the man to sheer a fathom, starboard
or port, for all the human natur' that can be found in
a minx of twenty—ay,—or”—lowering his voice a little—
“for all that can be paraded in his majesty's 55th regiment
of foot. I 've not been at sea forty years, to come up on this
bit of fresh-water to be taught human natur'.—How this gale
holds out! It blows as hard, at this moment, as if Boreas
had just clapped his hand upon the bellows. And what is all
this to leeward?” rubbing his eyes—“land, as sure as my
name is Cap;—and high land, too!”

The Pathfinder made no immediate answer, but shaking
his head, he watched the expression of his companion's face,
with a look of strong anxiety, in his own.

“Land, as certain as this is the Scud!”—repeated Cap—
“a lee shore, and that, too, within a league of us, with as
pretty a line of breakers as one could find on the beach of
all Long Island!”

“And is that encouraging, or is it disheartening?” demanded
the Pathfinder.

“Ha! encouraging, disheartening?—Why, neither. No,
no—there is nothing encouraging about it; and, as for disheartening,
nothing ought to dishearten a seaman. You
never get disheartened or afraid in the woods, my friend.”

“I 'll not say that—I 'll not say that. When the danger
is great, it is my gift to see it, and know it, and to try to
avoid it; else would my scalp, long since, have been drying
in a Mingo wigwam. On this lake, however, I can see no
trail, and I feel it my duty to submit; though I think we
ought to remember there is such a person as Mabel Dunham

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on board. But here comes her father, and he will naturally
feel for his own child.”

“We are seriously situated, I believe, brother Cap,” said
the serjeant, when he had reached the spot, “by what I can
gather from the two hands on the forecastle. They tell me
the cutter cannot carry any more sail, and her drift is so
great we shall go ashore in an hour or two. I hope their
fears have deceived them?”

Cap made no reply, but he gazed at the land with a rueful
face, and then looked to windward, with an expression of ferocity,
as if he would gladly have quarrelled with the weather.

“It may be well, brother,” the serjeant continued, “to
send for Jasper and consult him as to what is to be done.
There are no French here to dread, and, under all circumstances,
the boy will save us from drowning if possible.”

“Ay—ay—'t is these cursed circumstances that have done
all the mischief! But let the fellow come; let him come; a
few well-managed questions will bring the truth out of him,
I 'll warrant you.”

This acquiescence on the part of the dogmatical Cap was
no sooner obtained, than Jasper was sent for. The young
man instantly made his appearance, his whole air, countenance
and mien, expressive of mortification, humility, and,
as his observers fancied, rebuked deception. When he first
stepped on deck, Jasper cast one hurried anxious glance
around, as if curious to know the situation of the cutter; and
that glance sufficed, it would seem, to let him into the secret-of
all her perils. At first he looked to windward, as is usual
with every seaman; then he turned round the horizon, until
his eye caught a view of the highlands to leeward, when the
whole truth burst upon him at once.

“I 've sent for you, Master Jasper,” said Cap, folding his
arms, and balancing his body with the dignity of the forecastle,
“in order to learn something about the haven to leeward.
We take it for granted, you do not bear malice so hard, as
to wish to drown us all, especially the women; and I suppose
you will be man enough to help us to run the cutter into
some safe berth, until this bit of a gale has done blowing?”

“I would die myself, rather than harm should come to
Mabel Dunham,” the young man earnestly answered.

“I knew it!—I knew it!” cried the Pathfinder, clapping

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his hand kindly on Jasper's shoulder. “The lad is as true
as the best compass that ever run a boundary, or brought a
man off from a blind trail! It is a moral sin to believe
otherwise.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Cap, “especially the women!—As
if they were in any particular danger. Never mind, young
man; we shall understand each other by talking like two
plain seamen. Do you know of any port under our lee?”

“None. There is a large bay at this end of the lake, but
it is unknown to us all; and not easy of entrance.”

“And this coast to leeward — it has nothing particular to
recommend it, I suppose?”

“It is a wilderness until you reach the mouth of the
Niagara, in one direction, and Frontenac in the other. North
and west, they tell me, there is nothing but forest and prairies,
for a thousand miles.”

“Thank God, then, there can be no French. Are there
many savages, hereaway, on the land?”

“The Indians are to be found in all directions; though
they are nowhere very numerous. By accident, we might
find a party at any point on the shore; or, we might pass
months there, without seeing one.”

“We must take our chance, then, as to the blackguards—
but, to be frank with you, Master Western—if this little unpleasant
matter about the French had not come to pass, what
would you now do with the cutter?”

“I am a much younger sailor than yourself, Master Cap,”
said Jasper, modestly, “and am hardly fitted to advise you.”

“Ay—ay—we all know that. In a common case, perhaps
not. But this is an uncommon case, and a circumstance;
and on this bit of fresh-water, it has what may be called,
its peculiarities; and so, every thing considered, you may be
fitted to advise even your own father. At all events, you can
speak, and I can judge of your opinions, agreeably to my
own experience.”

“I think, sir, before two hours are over, the cutter will
have to anchor.”

“Anchor! — not out here, in the lake?”

“No, sir; but in yonder, near the land.”

“You do not mean to say, Master Eau-deuce, you would
anchor on a lee shore, in a gale of wind!”

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“If I would save my vessel, that is exactly what I would
do, Master Cap.”

“Whe—e—e—w!—this is fresh-water, with a vengeance.
Harkee, young man, I 've been a seafaring animal, boy and
man, forty-one years, and I never yet heard of such a thing.
I 'd throw my ground-tackle overboard, before I would be
guilty of so lubberly an act!”

“That is what we do, on this lake,” modestly replied
Jasper, “when we are hard pressed. I dare say, we might
do better, had we been better taught.”

“That you might indeed! No; no man induces me to
commit such a sin against my own bringing up. I should
never dare show my face inside of Sandy Hook again,
had I committed so know-nothing an exploit. Why, Pathfinder,
here, has more seamanship in him than that comes to.
You can go below, again, Master Eau-deuce.”

Jasper quietly bowed and withdrew; still, as he passed
down the ladder, the spectators observed that he cast a lingering,
anxious look at the horizon to windward, and the land
to leeward, and then disappeared with concern strongly expressed
in every lineament of his face.

CHAPTER II.

“His still refuted quirks he still repeats;
New raised objections with new quibbles meets,
Till sinking in the quicksand he defends,
He dies disputing, and the contest ends.”
Cowper.

As the soldier's wife was sick in her berth, Mabel Dunham
was the only person in the outer cabin, when Jasper returned
to it; for, by an act of grace in the serjeant, he had been
permitted to resume his proper place, in this part of the
vessel. We should be ascribing too much simplicity of
character to our heroine, if we said that she had felt no distrust

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of the young man, in consequence of his arrest; but we
should also be doing injustice to her warmth of feeling, and
generosity of disposition, if we did not add, that this distrust
was insignificant and transient. As he now took his seat
near her, his whole countenance clouded with the uneasiness
he felt concerning the situation of the cutter, everything
like suspicion was banished from her mind, and she saw in
him only an injured man.

“You let this affair weigh too heavily on your mind, Jasper,”
she said, eagerly, or with that forgetfulness of self,
with which the youthful of her sex are wont to betray their
feelings, when a strong and generous interest has attained
the ascendency — “no one, who knows you, can, or does,
believe you guilty. Pathfinder says he will pledge his life
for you.”

“Then you, Mabel,” returned the youth, his eyes flashing
fire, “do not look upon me, as the traitor that your father
seems to believe me to be?”

“My dear father is a soldier, and is obliged to act as one.
My father's daughter is not, and will think of you, as she
ought to think of a man who has done so much to serve her
already.”

“Mabel—I 'm not used to talking with one like you—or,
saying all I think and feel with any. I never had a sister,
and my mother died when I was a child, so that I know little
what your sex most likes to hear—”

Mabel would have given the world to know what lay behind
the teeming word, at which Jasper hesitated; but the
indefinable and controlling sense of womanly diffidence made
her suppress her womanly curiosity. She waited in silence
for him to explain his own meaning.

“I wish to say, Mabel,” the young man continued, after a
pause which he found sufficiently embarrassing, “that I am
unused to the ways and opinions of one like you, and that
you must imagine all I would add.”

Mabel had imagination enough to fancy anything, but
there are ideas and feelings that her sex prefer to have expressed,
before they yield them all their own sympathies,
and she had a vague consciousness that these of Jasper's
might properly be enumerated in the class; with a readiness
that belonged to her sex, therefore, she preferred changing

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the discourse to permitting it to proceed any further, in a
manner so awkward and so unsatisfactory.

“Tell me one thing, Jasper, and I shall be content,” she
said, speaking now with a firmness that denoted confidence not
only in herself, but in her companion—“you do not deserve
this cruel suspicion which rests upon you?”

“I do not, Mabel,” answered Jasper, looking into her full
blue eyes, with an openness and simplicity that might have
shaken strong distrust. “As I hope for mercy, hereafter, I
do not.”

“I knew it—I could have sworn it,” returned the girl,
warmly. “And yet my father means well: but do not let
this matter disturb you, Jasper.”

“There is so much more to apprehend from another quarter,
just now, that I scarce think of it.”

“Jasper!”

“I do not wish to alarm you, Mabel, but if your uncle
could be persuaded to change his notions about handling the
Scud—and yet, he is so much older, and more experienced
than I am, that he ought, perhaps, to place more reliance on
his own judgment than on mine.”

“Do you think the cutter in any danger?” demanded Mabel,
quick as thought.

“I fear so—at least she would have been thought in great
danger, by us of the lake; perhaps an old seaman of the
ocean may have means of his own to take care of her.”

“Jasper, all agree in giving you credit for skill in managing
the Scud! You know the lake, you know the cutter—
you must be the best judge of our real situation!”

“My concern for you, Mabel, may make me more cowardly
than common; but, to be frank, I see but one method
of keeping the cutter from being wrecked in the course of
the next two or three hours, and that your uncle refuses to
take. After all, this may be my ignorance; for, as he says,
Ontario is merely fresh-water.”

“You cannot believe this will make any difference. Think
of my dear father, Jasper!—Think of yourself, of all the lives
that depend on a timely word from you to save them!”

“I think of you, Mabel, and that is more, much more,
than all the rest put together,” returned the young man, with

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a strength of expression and an earnestness of look, that uttered
infinitely more than the words themselves.

Mabel's heart beat quick, and a gleam of grateful satisfaction
shot across her blushing features; but the alarm was
too vivid and too serious to admit of much relief from happier
thoughts. She did not attempt to repress a look of gratitude,
and then she returned to the feeling that was naturally uppermost.

“My uncle's obstinacy must not be permitted to occasion
this disaster. Go once more on deck, Jasper, and ask my
father to come into the cabin.”

While the young man was complying with this request,
Mabel sat listening to the howling of the storm, and the dashing
of the water against the cutter, in a dread to which she
had hitherto been a stranger. Constitutionally an excellent
sailor, as the term is used among passengers, she had not,
hitherto, bethought her of any danger, and had passed her
time, since the commencement of the gale, in such womanly
employments, as her situation allowed; but now alarm was
seriously awakened, she did not fail to perceive, that never
before had she been on the water in such a tempest. The
minute or two that elapsed ere the serjeant came appeared
an hour, and she scarcely breathed when she saw him and
Jasper descending the ladder in company. Quick as language
could express her meaning, she acquainted her father
with Jasper's opinion of their situation, and entreated him, if
he loved her, or had any regard for his own life, or for those
of his men, to interfere with her uncle, and to induce him
to yield the control of the cutter, again, to its proper commander.

“Jasper is true, father,” she added earnestly, “and if false,
he could have no motive in wrecking us in this distant part
of the lake, at the risk of all our lives, his own included.
I will pledge my own life for his truth.”

“Ay, this is well enough for a young woman who is frightened,”
answered the more phlegmatic parent; “but it might
not be so prudent, or excusable in one in command of an expedition.
Jasper may think the chance of drowning in getting
ashore, fully repaid by the chance of escaping as soon
as he reaches the land.”

“Serjeant Dunham!”

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“Father!”

These exclamations were made simultaneously, but they
were uttered in tones expressive of different feelings. In Jasper,
surprise was the emotion uppermost; in Mabel, reproach.
The old soldier, however, was too much accustomed to deal
frankly with subordinates to heed either; and, after a moment's
thought, he continued, as if neither had spoken.

“Nor is brother Cap a man likely to submit to be taught
his duty on board a vessel.”

“But, father, when all our lives are in the utmost jeopardy!”

“So much the worse. The fair-weather commander is no
great matter; it is when things go wrong, that the best officer
shows himself in his true colours. Charles Cap will not be
likely to quit the helm because the ship is in danger. Besides,
Jasper Eau-douce, he says, your proposal, in itself, has a suspicious
air about it, and sounds more like treachery than reason.”

“He may think so, but let him send for the pilot, and hear
his opinion. It is well known, I have not seen the man since
yesterday evening.”

“This does sound reasonably, and the experiment shall be
tried. Follow me on deck, then, that all may be honest and
above-board.”

Jasper obeyed, and so keen was the interest of Mabel, that
she, too, ventured as far as the companion-way, where her
garments were sufficiently protected against the violence of
the wind, and her person from the spray. Here maiden modesty
induced her to remain, though an absorbed witness of
what was passing.

The pilot soon appeared, and there was no mistaking the
look of concern that he cast around at the scene, as soon as
he was in the open air. Some rumours of the situation of
the Scud had found their way below, it is true; but, in this
instance, rumour had lessened, instead of magnifying the danger.
He was allowed a few minutes to look about him, and
then the question was put as to the course that he thought it
prudent to follow.

“I see no means of saving the cutter but to anchor,” he
answered simply, and without hesitation.

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“What, out here, in the lake?” inquired Cap, as he had
previously done of Jasper.

“No—but closer in; just at the outer line of the breakers.”

The effect of this communication was to leave no doubt, in
the mind of Cap, that there was a secret arrangement, between
her commander and the pilot, to cast away the Scud; most
probably with the hope of effecting their escape. He consequently
treated the opinion of the latter with the indifference
he had manifested towards that of the former.

“I tell you, brother Dunham,” he said, in answer to the
remonstrances of the serjeant against his turning a deaf ear
to this double representation, “that no seaman would give
such an opinion honestly. To anchor on a lee shore, in a
gale of wind, would be an act of madness that I could never
excuse to the underwriters, under any circumstances, as long
as a rag can be set—but to anchor close to breakers would
be insanity.”

“His majesty underwriters the Scud, brother, and I am responsible
for the lives of my command. These men are better
acquainted with Lake Ontario than we can possibly be,
and I do think their telling the same tale entitles them to some
credit.”

“Uncle!” said Mabel, earnestly,—but a gesture from Jasper
induced the girl to restrain her feelings.

“We are drifting down upon the breakers so rapidly,” said
the young man, “that little need be said on the subject. Half
an hour must settle the matter, one way or the other; but I
warn Master Cap that the surest-footed man among us will
not be able to keep his feet an instant on the deck of this low
craft, should she fairly get within them. Indeed, I make little
doubt that we shall fill and founder before the second line
of rollers is passed!”

“And how would anchoring help the matter?” demanded
Cap, furiously, as if he felt that Jasper was responsible for
the effects of the gale, as well as for the opinion he had just
given.

“It would at least do no harm,” Eau-douce mildly replied.
“By bringing the cutter head to sea we should lessen her
drift; and even if we dragged through the breakers, it would
be with the least possible danger. I hope, Master Cap, you

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will allow the pilot and myself to prepare for anchoring,
since the precaution may do good, and can do no harm.”

“Overhaul your ranges if you will, and get your anchors
clear, with all my heart. We are now in a situation that
cannot be much affected by anything of that sort. Serjeant,
a word with you, aft here, if you please.”

Cap led his brother-in-law out of ear-shot; and then, with
more of human feeling in his voice and manner than he was
apt to exhibit, he opened his heart on the subject of their real
situation.

“This is a melancholy affair for poor Mabel,” he said,
blowing his nose, and speaking with a slight tremour—“You
and I, serjeant, are old fellows, and used to being near death,
if not to actually dying. Our trades fit us for such scenes;
but poor Mabel, she is an affectionate and kind-hearted girl,
and I had hoped to see her comfortably settled and a mother,
before my time came. Well, well; we must take the bad
with the good, in every v'y'ge, and the only serious objection
that an old sea-faring man can with propriety make to such
an event, is that it should happen on this bit of d—d fresh-water.”

Serjeant Dunham was a brave man, and had shown his
spirit in scenes that looked much more appalling than this.
But, on all such occasions, he had been able to act his part
against his foes, while here he was pressed upon by an enemy
whom he had no means of resisting. For himself, he
cared far less, than for his daughter; feeling some of that
self-reliance which seldom deserts a man of firmness, who is
in vigorous health, and who has been accustomed to personal
exertions, in moments of jeopardy. But, as respects Mabel,
he saw no means of escape, and with a father's fondness he
at once determined that, if either was doomed to perish, he
and his daughter must perish together.

“Do you think this must come to pass?” he asked of Cap,
firmly, but with strong feeling.

“Twenty minutes will carry us into the breakers, and,
look for yourself, serjeant, what chance will even the stoutest
man among us have in that caldron to leeward!”

The prospect was, indeed, little calculated to encourage
hope. By this time the Scud was within a mile of the shore,
on which the gale was blowing at right angles, with a vio

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lence that forbade the idea of showing any additional canvass,
with a view to claw off. The small portion of the
mainsail that was actually set, and which merely served to
keep the head of the Scud so near the wind as to prevent the
waves from breaking over her, quivered under the gusts, as
if, at each moment, the stout threads which held the complicated
fabric together, were about to be torn asunder. The
drizzle had ceased; but the air, for a hundred feet above the
surface of the lake, was filled with dazzling spray, which
had an appearance not unlike that of a brilliant mist, while
above all, the sun was shining gloriously, in a cloudless sky.
Jasper had noted the omen; and had foretold that it announced
a speedy termination to the gale, though the next
hour or two must decide their fate. Between the cutter and
the shore, the view was still more wild and appalling. The
breakers extended near a half a mile; while the water within
their line was white with foam, the air above them was so far
filled with vapour and spray, as to render the land beyond hazy
and indistinct. Still it could be seen that the latter was high;
not a usual thing for the shores of Ontario; and that it was
covered with the verdant mantle of the interminable forest.

While the serjeant and Cap were gazing at this scene, in
silence, Jasper and his people were actively engaged on the
forecastle. No sooner had the young man received permission
to resume his old employment, than appealing to some
of the soldiers for aid, he mustered five or six assistants, and
set about in earnest, the performance of a duty that had been
too long delayed. On these narrow waters, anchors are
never stowed in-board, or cables that are intended for service
unbent, and Jasper was saved much of the labour that would
have been necessary in a vessel at sea. The two bowers
were soon ready to be let go, ranges of the cables were overhauled,
and then the party paused to look about them.
No changes for the better had occurred; but the cutter was
falling slowly in, and each instant rendered it more certain
that she could not gain an inch to windward.

One long, earnest survey of the lake ended, Jasper gave
new orders in a manner to prove how much he thought
that the time pressed. Two kedges were got on deck, and
hawsers were bent to them; the inner ends of the hawsers
were bent, in their turns, to the crowns of the anchors, and

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[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

everything was got ready to throw them overboard, at the
proper moment. These preparations completed, Jasper's
manner changed from the excitement of exertion, to a look
of calm, but settled, concern. He quitted the forecastle,
where the seas were dashing inboard, at every plunge of
the vessel; the duty just mentioned having been executed
with the bodies of the crew frequently buried in the water,
and walked to a drier part of the deck, aft. Here he was
met by the Pathfinder, who was standing near Mabel and the
Quarter-Master. Most of those on board, with the exception
of the individuals who have already been particularly mentioned,
were below, some seeking relief from physical suffering
on their pallets; and others tardily bethinking them of
their sins. For the first time, most probably, since her keel
had dipped into the limpid waters of Ontario, the voice of
prayer was heard on board on board the Scud.

“Jasper,” commenced his friend, the guide, “I have been
of no use this morning, for my gifts are of little account, as
you know, in a vessel like this; but, should it please God to
let the serjeant's daughter reach the shore, alive, my acquaintance
with the forest may still carry her through in
safety to the garrison.”

“'Tis a fearful distance thither, Pathfinder!” Mabel rejoined,
the party being so near together that all that was
said by one, was overheard by the others. “I am afraid none
of us could live to reach the fort.”

“It would be a risky path, Mabel, and a crooked one;
though some of your sex have undergone even more than
that, in this wilderness. But, Jasper, either you or I, or
both of us, must man this bark canoe; Mabel's only chance
will lie in getting through the breakers in that.”

“I would willingly man any thing to save Mabel,” answered
Jasper, with a melancholy smile; “but no human
hand, Pathfinder, could carry that canoe through yonder
breakers, in a gale like this. I have hopes from anchoring,
after all; for, once before, have we saved the Scud in an
extremity nearly as great as this.”

“If we are to anchor, Jasper,” the serjeant inquired,
“why not do it at once? Every foot we lose in drifting
now, would come into the distance we shall probably drag,
when the anchors are let go.”

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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

Jasper drew nearer to the serjeant, and took his hand,
pressing it earnestly, and in a way to denote strong, almost
uncontrollable feelings.

“Serjeant Dunham,” he said, solemnly, “you are a good
man, though you have treated me harshly in this business.
You love your daughter?”

“That you cannot doubt, Eau-douce,” returned the serjeant,
huskily.

“Will you give her — give us all, the only chance for
life, that is left?”

“What would you have me do, boy; what would you
have me do? I have acted according to my judgment, hitherto—
what would you have me do?”

“Support me against Master Cap, for five minutes, and all
that man can do, towards saving the Scud, shall be done.”

The serjeant hesitated, for he was too much of a disciplinarian
to fly in the face of regular orders. He disliked the
appearance of vacillation, too; and then he had a profound
respect for his kinsman's seamanship. While he was deliberating,
Cap came from the post he had some time occupied,
which was at the side of the man at the helm, and drew
nigh the group.

“Master Eau-deuce,” he said, as soon as near enough to
be heard, “I have come to inquire, if you know any spot
near by, where this cutter can be beached? The moment
has arrived when we are driven to this hard alternative?”

That instant of indecision on the part of Cap, secured the
triumph of Jasper. Looking at the serjeant, the young man
received a nod that assured him of all he asked, and he lost
not one of those moments that were getting to be so very
precious.

“Shall I take the helm?” he inquired of Cap, “and see if
we can reach a creek that lies to leeward?”

“Do so—do so—” said the other, hemming to clear his
throat, for he felt oppressed by a responsibility that weighed
all the heavier on his shoulders, on account of his ignorance.
“Do so, Eau-deuce, since, to be frank with you, I can see
nothing better to be done. We must beach, or swamp!”

Jasper required no more; springing aft, he soon had the
tiller in his own hands. The pilot was prepared for what
was to follow, and, at a sign from his young commander, the

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rag of sail that had so long been set was taken in. At that
moment, Jasper, watching his time, put the helm up, the head
of a staysail was loosened forward, and the light cutter, as
if conscious she was now under the control of familiar hands,
fell off, and was soon in the trough of the sea. This perilous
instant was passed in safety, and at the next moment, the
little vessel appeared flying down toward the breakers, at a
rate that threatened instant destruction. The distances had
got to be so short, that five or six minutes sufficed for all that
Jasper wished, and he put the helm dowm again, when the
bows of the Scud came up to the wind, notwithstanding the
turbulence of the waters, as gracefully as the duck varies its
line of direction on the glassy pond. A sign from Jasper set
all in motion on the forecastle, and a kedge was thrown from
each bow. The fearful nature of the drift was now apparent
even to Mabel's eyes, for the two hawsers ran out like towlines.
As soon as they straightened to a slight strain, both
anchors were let go, and cable was given to each, nearly to
the better-ends. It was not a difficult task to snub so light a
craft, with ground-tackle of a quality better than common;
and in less than ten minutes from the moment when Jasper
went to the helm, the Scud was riding, head to sea, with
the two cables stretched ahead in lines that resembled bars
of iron.

“This is not well done, Master Jasper!” angrily exclaimed
Cap, as soon as he perceived the trick that had been played
him—“this is not well done, sir; I order you to cut, and to
beach the cutter, without a moment's delay.”

No one, however, seemed disposed to comply with this
order, for so long as Eau-douce saw fit to command, his own
people were disposed to obey. Finding that the men remained
passive, Cap, who believed they were in the utmost
peril, turned fiercely to Jasper, and renewed his remonstrances.

“You did not head for your pretended creek,” he added,
after dealing in some objurgatory remarks that we do not
deem it necessary to record, “but steered for that bluff, where
every soul on board would have been drowned, had we gone
ashore!”

“And you wish to cut, and put every soul ashore, at that
very spot!” Jasper retorted, a little drily.

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“Throw a lead-line overboard, and ascertain the drift—”
Cap now roared to the people forward. A sign from Jasper,
sustaining this order, it was instantly obeyed. All on deck
gathered round the spot, and watched, with nearly breathless
interest, the result of the experiment. The lead was no
sooner on the bottom, than the line tended forward, and in
about two minutes it was seen that the cutter had drifted her
length, dead in towards the bluff. Jasper looked grave, for
he well know nothing would hold the vessel did she get within
the vortex of the breakers, the first line of which was appearing
and disappearing about a cable's length directly under
their stern.

“Traitor!” exclaimed Cap, shaking a finger at the young
commander, though passion choked the rest. “You must
answer for this with your life!” he added after a short pause,
“If I were at the head of this expedition, serjeant, I would
hang him at the end of the main-boom, lest he escape
drowning.”

“Moderate your feelings, brother—be more moderate, I
beseech you; Jasper appears to have done all for the best,
and matters may not be as bad as you believe them.”

“Why did he not run for the creek, he mentioned—why
has he brought us here, dead to windward of that bluff, and
to a spot where even the breakers are only of half the ordinary
width, as if in a hurry to drown all on board?”

“I headed for the bluff, for the precise reason that the
breakers are so narrow at this spot,” answered Jasper, mildly,
though his gorge had risen at the language the other held.

“Do you mean to tell an old seaman like me, that this cutter
could live in those breakers?”

“I do not, sir. I think she would fill and swamp, if driven
into the first line of them—I am certain she would never
reach the shore on her bottom, if fairly entered. I hope to
keep her clear of them, altogether.”

“With a drift of her length in a minute!”

“The backing of the anchors does not yet fairly tell, nor
do I even hope that they will entirely bring her up.”

“On what then do you rely? To moor a craft, head and
stern, by faith, hope, and charity!”

“No, sir—I trust to the under-tow. I headed for the bluff,
because I knew that it was stronger at that point than at any

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other, and because we could get nearer in with the land without
entering the breakers.”

This was said with spirit, though without any particular
show of resentment. Its effect on Cap was marked, the
feeling that was uppermost being evidently that of surprise.

“Under-tow!” he repeated—“who the devil ever heard of
saving a vessel from going ashore by the under-tow!”

“This may never happen on the ocean, sir,” Jasper answered,
modestly, “but we have known it to happen here.”

“The lad is right, brother,” put in the serjeant; “for though
I do not well understand it, I have often heard the sailors
of the lake speak of such a thing. We shall do well to trust
to Jasper, in this strait.”

Cap grumbled and swore, but as there was no remedy, he was
compelled to acquiesce. Jasper being now called on to explain
what he meant by the under-tow, gave this account of
the matter. The water that was driven up on the shore by
the gale, was necessarily compelled to find its level by returning
to the lake by some secret channels. This could not be
done on the surface, where both wind and waves were constantly
urging it towards the land, and it necessarily formed
a sort of lower eddy, by means of which it flowed back again
to its ancient and proper bed. This inferior current had received
the name of the under-tow; and as it would necessarily
act on the bottom of a vessel that drew as much water
as the Scud, Jasper trusted to the aid of this reaction to keep
his cables from parting. In short, the upper and lower currents
would, in a manner, counteract each other.

Simple and ingenious as was this theory, however, as yet
there was little evidence of its being reduced to practice.
The drift continued; though as the kedges and hawsers with
which the anchors were backed, took the strains, it became
sensibly less. At length the man at the lead announced the
joyful intelligence, that the anchors had ceased to drag,
and that the vessel had brought up! At this precise moment,
the first line of breakers was about a hundred feet astern of
the Scud, even appearing to approach much nearer, as the
foam vanished and returned on the raging surges. Jasper
sprang forward, and casting a glance over the bows, he
smiled in triumph, as he pointed exultingly to the cables. Instead
of resembling bars of iron in rigidity, as before, they

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were curving downwards, and to a seamen's senses, it was
evident that the cutter rose and fell on the seas as they came
in, with the ease of a ship in a tides-way, when the power of
the wind is relieved by the counteracting pressure of the water.

“'T is the under-tow!” he exclaimed, with delight, fairly
bounding along the deck to steady the helm, in order that
the cutter might ride still easier—“Providence has placed us
directly in its current, and there is no longer any danger!”

“Ay-ay, Providence is a good seaman”—growled Cap,—
“and often helps lubbers out of difficulty. Under tow, or
upper tow, the gale has abated, and fortunately for us all, the
anchors have met with good holding-ground. Then this
d—d fresh-water has an unnatural way with it.”

Men are seldom inclined to quarrel with good fortune, but
it is in distress that they grow clamorous and critical. Most
on board were disposed to believe that they had been saved
from shipwreck by the skill and knowledge of Jasper, without
regarding the opinions of Cap, whose remarks were now
little heeded.

There was half an hour of uncertainty and doubt, it is
true, during which period the lead was anxiously watched;
and then a feeling of security came over all, and the weary
slept without dreaming of instant death.

CHAPTER III.

“It is to be all made of sighs and tears;—
It is to be all made of faith and service:—
It is to be all made of fantasy,—
All made of passion, and all made of wishes:
All adoration, duty, and observance;
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance.”
Shakspeare.

It was near noon when the gale broke; and then its force
abated as suddenly as its violence had arisen. In less
than two hours after the wind fell, the surface of the lake,
though still agitated, was no longer glittering with foam;

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and in double that time, the entire sheet presented the ordinary
scene of disturbed water, that was unbroken by the
violence of a tempest. Still the waves came rolling incessantly
towards the shore, and the lines of breakers remained,
though the spray had ceased to fly: the combing of the
swells was more moderate, and all that there was of violence
proceeded from the impulsion of wind that had abated.

As it was impossible to make head against the sea that
was still up, with the light opposing air that blew from the
eastward, all thoughts of getting under way that afternoon
were abandoned. Jasper, who had now quietly resumed the
command of the Scud, busied himself, however, in heaving
up to the anchors, which were lifted in succession. The
kedges that backed them were weighed, and everything was
got in readiness for a prompt departure, as soon as the state
of the weather would allow. In the meantime, they who
had no concern with these duties sought such means of
amusement as their peculiar circumstances allowed.

As is common with those who are unused to the confinement
of a vessel, Mabel cast wistful eyes towards the shore;
nor was it long before she expressed a wish that it were possible
to land. The Pathfinder was near her at the time, and
he assured her that nothing would be easier, as they had a
bark canoe on deck, which was the best possible mode of
conveyance to go through a surf. After the usual doubts
and misgivings, the serjeant was appealed to:—his opinion
proved to be favourable, and preparations to carry the whim
into effect were immediately made.

The party that was to land, consisted of Serjeant Dunham,
his daughter and the Pathfinder. Accustomed to the canoe,
Mabel took her seat in the centre with great steadiness, her
father was placed in the bows, while the guide assumed the
office of conductor, by steering in the stern. There was little
need of impelling the canoe by means of the paddle, for
the rollers sent it forward, at moments, with a violence that
set every effort to govern its movements at defiance. More
than once, ere the shore was reached, Mabel repented of her
temerity, but Pathfinder encouraged her, and really manifested
so much self-possession, coolness and strength of arm, himself,
that even a female might have hesitated about owning all her
apprehensions. Our heroine was no coward, and while she

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felt the novelty of her situation, in landing through a surf,
she also experienced a fair proportion of its wild delight. At
moments, indeed, her heart was in her mouth, as the bubble
of a boat floated on the very crest of a foaming breaker, appearing
to skim the water like a swallow, and then she flushed
and laughed, as, left by the glancing element, they appeared
to linger behind, as if ashamed of having been out-done in
the headlong race. A few minutes sufficed for this excitement,
for, though the distance between the cutter and the land considerably
exceeded a quarter of a mile, the intermediate space
was passed in a very few minutes.

On landing, the serjeant kissed his daughter kindly, for he
was so much of a soldier as always to feel more at home, on
terra-firma, than when afloat, and taking his gun, he announced
his intention to pass an hour, in quest of game.

“Pathfinder will remain near you, girl, and no doubt he
will tell you some of the traditions of this part of the world,
or some of his own experiences with the Mingos.”

The guide laughed, promised to have a care of Mabel, and
in a few minutes the father had ascended a steep acclivity,
and disappeared in the forest. The others took another direction,
which, after a few minutes of a sharp ascent also,
brought them to a small naked point on the promontory,
where the eye overlooked an extensive and very peculiar panorama.
Here Mabel seated herself on a fragment of fallen
rock, to recover her breath and strength, while her companion,
on whose sinews no personal exertion seemed to make any
impression, stood at her side, leaning in his own and not
ungraceful manner on his long rifle. Several minutes passed,
and neither spoke; Mabel, in particular, being lost in admiration
of the view.

The position the two had obtained, was sufficiently elevated
to command a wide reach of the lake, which stretched away
towards the north-east, in a boundless sheet, glittering beneath
the rays of an afternoon's sun, and yet betraying the remains
of that agitation which it had endured while tossed by the
late tempest. The land set bounds to its limits, in a huge
crescent, disappearing in distance towards the south-east and
the north. Far as the eye could reach, nothing but forest
was visible, not even a solitary sign of civilization breaking
in upon the uniform and grand magnificence of nature. The

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gale had driven the Scud beyond the line of those forts, with
which the French were then endeavouring to gird the English
North American possessions; for, following the channels of
communication between the great lakes, their posts were on
the banks of the Niagara, while our adventurers had reached
a point many leagues westward of that celebrated streight.
The cutter rode at single anchor, without the breakers,
resembling some well imagined and accurately executed toy,
that was intended rather for a glass case, than for the struggles
with the elements which she had so lately gone through,
while the canoe lay on the narrow beach, just out of reach
of the waves that came booming upon the land, a speck upon
the shingles.

“We are very far, here, from human habitations!” exclaimed
Mabel, when, after a long and musing survey of the
scene, its principal peculiarities forced themselves on her active
and ever brilliant imagination; “this is indeed being on
a frontier!”

“Have they more sightly scenes than this, nearer the sea,
and around their large towns?” demanded Pathfinder, with
an interest he was apt to discover in such a subject.

“I will not say that; there is more to remind one of his
fellow beings, there than here; less, perhaps, to remind one
of God.”

“Ay, Mabel, that is what my own feelings say. I am
but a poor hunter, I know; untaught and unlarned; but God
is as near me, in this my home, as he is near the king in his
royal palace.”

“Who can doubt it?”—returned Mabel, looking from the
view up into the hard-featured but honest face of her companion,
though not without surprise at the energy of his manner—
“One feels nearer to God, in such a spot, I think, than
when the mind is distracted by the objects of the towns.”

“You say all I wish to say myself, Mabel, but in so much
plainer speech, that you make me ashamed of wishing to let
others know what I feel on such matters. I have coasted
this lake, in search of skins, afore the war, and have been
here already; not at this very spot, for we landed yonder
where you may see the blasted oak that stands above the
cluster of hemlocks—”

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“How! Pathfinder, can you remember all these trifles so
accurately!”

“These are our streets and houses; our churches and
palaces. Remember them, indeed! I once made an appointment
with the Big Sarpent, to meet at twelve o'clock at noon,
near the foot of a certain pine, at the end of six months,
when neither of us was within three hundred miles of the
spot. The tree stood, and stands still, unless the judgment
of Providence has lighted on that too, in the midst of the
forest, fifty miles from any settlement, but in a most extraordinary
neighbourhood for beaver.”

“And did you meet at that very spot and hour!”

“Does the sun rise and set? when I reached the tree, I
found the Sarpent leaning against its trunk, with torn leggings
and muddied moccasins. The Delaware had got into
a swamp, and it worried him not a little to find his way out
of it; but, as the sun which comes over the eastern hills in the
morning, goes down behind the western at night, so was he
true to time and place. No fear of Chingachgook when
there is either a friend or an enemy in the case. He is
equally sartain with each.”

“And where is the Delaware now—why is he not with us
to-day?”

“He is scouting on the Mingo trail, where I ought to have
been too, but for a great human infirmity.”

“You seem above, beyond, superior, to all infirmity, Pathfinder;
I never yet met with a man who appeared to be so
little liable to the weaknesses of nature.”

“If you mean in the way of health and strength, Mabel,
Providence has been kind to me; though I fancy the open
air, long hunts, active scoutings, forest fare, and the sleep
of a good conscience, may always keep the doctors at a distance.
But I am human, after all; yes, I find I'm very human,
in some of my feelings.”

Mabel looked surprised, and it would be no more than delineating
the character of her sex, if we added that, her sweet
countenance expressed a good deal of curiosity, too, though
her tongue was more discreet.

“There is something bewitching in this wild life of yours,
Pathfinder,” she exclaimed, a tinge of enthusiasm mantling
her cheeks. “I find I'm fast getting to be a frontier girl,

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and am coming to love all this grand silence of the woods.
The towns seem tame to me, and, as my father will probably
pass the remainder of his days here, where he has already
lived so long, I begin to feel that I should be happy to continue
with him, and not to return to the sea shore.”

“The woods are never silent, Mabel, to such as understand
their meaning. Days at a time, have I travelled them
alone, without feeling the want of company; and, as for conversation,
for such as can comprehend their language, there
is no want of rational and instructive discourse.”

“I believe you are happier when alone, Pathfinder, than
when mingling with your fellow-creatures.”

“I will not say that—I will not say exactly that! I have
seen the time when I have thought that God was sufficient
for me in the forest, and that I craved no more than his bounty
and his care. But other feelings have got uppermost, and
I suppose natur' will have its way.—All other creatur's
mate, Mabel, and it was intended man should do so, too.”

“And have you never bethought you of seeking a wife,
Pathfinder, to share your fortunes,” enquired the girl, with
the directness and simplicity that the pure of heart, and the
undesigning, are the most apt to manifest, and with that feeling
of affection which is inbred in her sex. “To me, it seems,
you only want a home to return to, from your wanderings,
to render your life completely happy. Were I a man, it
would be my delight to roam through these forests at will, or
to sail over this beautiful lake.”

“I understand you, Mabel; and God bless you for thinking
of the welfare of men as humble as we are. We have
our pleasures, it is true, as well as our gifts, but we might be
happier; yes, I do think we might be happier.”

“Happier! in what way, Pathfinder? In this pure air,
with these cool and shaded forests to wander through, this
lovely lake to gaze at, and sail upon, with clear consciences,
and abundance for all the real wants, men ought to be nothing
less than as perfectly happy, as their infirmities will allow.”

“Every creatur' has its gifts, Mabel, and men have theirs,”
answered the guide, looking stealthily at his beautiful companion,
whose cheeks had flushed and eyes brightened under
the ardour of feelings, excited by the novelty of her striking
situation; “and all must obey them. Do you see yonder

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pigeon that is just alightin' on the beach,—here in a line with
the fallen chestnut?”

“Certainly; it is the only thing stirring with life in it, besides
ourselves, that is to be seen in this vast solitude.”

“Not so, Mabel, not so; Providence makes nothing that
lives, to live quite alone.—Here is its mate, just rising on the
wing; it has been feeding near the other beach, but it will
not long be separated from its companion.”

“I understand you, Pathfinder;” returned Mabel, smiling
sweetly, though as calmly as if the discourse was with her
father. “But a hunter may find a mate, even in this wild region.
The Indian girls are affectionate and true, I know, for
such was the wife of Arrowhead, to a husband who oftener
frowned than smiled.”

“That would never do, Mabel, and good would never
come of it. Kind must cling to kind, and country to country,
if one would find happiness. If, indeed, I could meet
with one like you, who would consent to be a hunter's wife,
and who would not scorn my ignorance and rudeness, then,
indeed, would all the toil of the past appear like the sporting
of the young deer, and all the future like sunshine!”

“One like me!—A girl of my years and indiscretion
would hardly make a fit companion for the boldest scout and
surest hunter on the lines!”

“Ah! Mabel, I fear me, that I have been improving a
red-skin's gifts, with a pale-face's natur'! Such a character
would insure a wife, in an Indian village.”

“Surely, surely, Pathfinder, you would not think of choosing
one as ignorant, as frivolous, as vain, and as inexperienced
as I, for your wife!” Mabel would have added, “and
as young,” but an instinctive feeling of delicacy repressed
the words.

“And why not, Mabel? If you are ignorant of frontier
usages, you know more than all of us, of pleasant anecdotes
and town customs; as for frivolous, I know not what it
means, but if it signifies beauty, ah's me! I fear it is no fault
in my eyes. Vain you are not, as is seen by the kind manner
in which you listen to all my idle tales about scoutings
and trails; and as for experience, that will come with years.
Besides, Mabel, I fear men think little of these matters, when
they are about to take wives, I do.”

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“Pathfinder—your words—your looks—surely all this is
meant in trifling—you speak in pleasantry!”

“To me it is always agreeable to be near you, Mabel, and
I should sleep sounder this blessed night, than I have done
for a week past, could I think that you find such discourse as
pleasant as I do.”

We shall not say that Mabel Dunham had not believed herself
a favourite with the guide. This her quick, feminine
sagacity had early discovered, and perhaps she had occasionally
thought there had mingled with his regard and friendship,
some of that manly tenderness which the ruder sex
must be coarse indeed not to show, on occasions, to the
gentler; but the idea that he seriously sought her for his
wife, had never before crossed the mind of the spirited and
ingenuous girl. Now, however, a gleam of something like
the truth broke in upon her imagination, less induced by the
words of her companion, perhaps, than by his manner.
Looking earnestly into the rugged, honest countenance of the
scout, Mabel's own features became concerned and grave,
and when she spoke again, it was with a gentleness of manner
that attracted him to her, even more powerfully than the
words themselves were calculated to repel.

“You and I should understand each other, Pathfinder,”
she said, with an earnest sincerity, “nor should there be any
cloud between us. You are too upright and frank to meet
with any thing but sincerity and frankness in return. Surely—
surely, all this means nothing—has no other connexion
with your feelings, than such a friendship as one of your
wisdom and character would naturally feel for a girl like me?”

“I believe it 's all nat'ral, Mabel; yes, I do; the sarjeant
tells me he had such feelings towards your own mother, and
I think I 've seen something like it, in the young people I
have, from time to time, guided through the wilderness. Yes,
yes—I dare say it 's all nat'ral enough, and that makes it
come so easy, and is a great comfort to me.”

“Pathfinder, your words make me uneasy! Speak plainer,
or change the subject for ever. You do not—cannot mean
that—you—cannot wish me to understand—” even the tongue
of the spirited Mabel faltered, and she shrunk with maiden
shame, from adding what she wished so earnestly to say.
Rallying her courage, however, and determined to know all

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as soon and as plainly as possible, after a moment's hesitation
she continued—“I mean, Pathfinder, that you do not
wish me to understand that you seriously think of me as a
wife?”

“I do, Mabel; that's it—that's just it, and you have put
the matter in a much better point of view than I, with my
forest gifts and frontier ways, would ever be able to do. The
Sarjeant and I have concluded on the matter, if it is agreeable
to you, as he thinks is likely to be the case, though I doubt
my own power to please one who deserves the best husband
America can produce.”

Mabel's countenance changed from uneasiness to surprise,
and then by a transition still quicker, from surprise to pain.

“My father!” she exclaimed. “My dear father has thought
of my becoming your wife, Pathfinder!”

“Yes, he has, Mabel; he has indeed. He has even thought
such a thing might be agreeable to you, and has almost encouraged
me to fancy it might be true.”

“But, you, yourself—you, certainly can care nothing,
whether this singular expectation shall ever be realized or
not?”

“Anan?”

“I mean, Pathfinder, that you have talked of this match
more to oblige my father than any thing else; that your
feelings are no way concerned, let my answer be what it
may?”

The scout looked earnestly into the beautiful face of Mabel,
which had flushed with the ardour and novelty of her sensations,
and it was not possible to mistake the intense admiration
that betrayed itself in every lineament of his ingenuous
countenance.

“I have often thought myself happy, Mabel, when ranging
the woods, on a successful hunt, breathing the pure air of
the hills, and filled with vigour and health, but, I now know
that it has all been idleness and vanity compared with the
delight it would give me to know that you thought better of
me than you think of most others.”

“Better of you!—I do indeed think better of you, Pathfinder,
than of most others—I am not certain that I do not
think better of you, than of any other; for your truth,

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honesty, simplicity, justice and courage are scarcely equalled
by any of earth.”

“Ah! Mabel!—These are sweet and encouraging words
from you, and the sarjeant, after all, was not as near wrong
as I feared.”

“Nay, Pathfinder—in the name of all that is sacred and
just, do not let us misunderstand each other, in a matter of
so much importance. While I esteem, respect—nay, reverence
you, almost as much as I reverence my own dear
father, it is impossible that I should ever become your wife—
that I”—

The change in her companion's countenance was so sudden
and so great, that the moment the effect of what she had
uttered became visible in the face of the Pathfinder, Mabel
arrested her own words, notwithstanding her strong desire to
be explicit, the reluctance with which she could at any time
cause pain being sufficient of itself to induce the pause.
Neither spoke for some time, the shade of disappointment
that crossed the rugged lineaments of the hunter, amounting
so nearly to anguish, as to frighten his companion, while the
sensation of choking became so strong in the Pathfinder, that
he fairly griped his throat, like one who sought physical
relief for physical suffering. The convulsive manner in
which his fingers worked actually struck the alarmed girl
with a feeling of awe.

“Nay, Pathfinder,” Mabel eagerly added, the instant she
could command her voice—“I may have said more than I
mean, for all things of this nature are possible, and women,
they say, are never sure of their own minds. What I wish
you to understand is, that it is not likely that you and I
should ever think of each other, as man and wife ought to
think of each other.”

“I do not—I shall never think in that way again, Mabel—”
gasped forth the Pathfinder, who appeared to utter his words,
like one just raised above the pressure of some suffocating
substance. “No—no—I shall never think of you, or any
one else, again, in that way.”

“Pathfinder—dear Pathfinder—understand me—do not
attach more meaning to my words than I do myself—a match
like that would be unwise—unnatural, perhaps.”

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“Yes, unnat'ral—ag'in natur'; and so I told the sarjeant,
but he would have it otherwise.”

“Pathfinder!—Oh! this is worse than I could have imagined—
take my hand, excellent Pathfinder, and let me see
that you do not hate me. For God's sake smile upon me
again!”

“Hate you, Mabel!—Smile upon you!—Ah's me!”

“Nay, give me your hand; your hardy, true and manly
hand—both, both, Pathfinder, for I shall not be easy until I
feel certain that we are friends again, and that all this has
been a mistake.”

“Mabel,” said the guide, looking wistfully into the face
of the generous and impetuous girl, as she held his two
hard and sunburnt hands in her own pretty and delicate
fingers, and laughing in his own silent and peculiar manner,
while anguish gleamed over lineaments which seemed incapable
of deception, even while agitated with emotions so conflicting,
“Mabel, the sarjeant was wrong!”

The pent-up feelings could endure no more, and the tears
rolled down the cheeks of the scout like rain. His fingers
again worked convulsively at his throat, and his breast
heaved, as if it possessed a tenant of which it would be rid,
by any effort, however desperate.

“Pathfinder! — Pathfinder!” Mabel almost shrieked,—
“any thing but this—any thing but this. Speak to me,
Pathfinder,—smile again—say one kind word—any thing to
prove you can forgive me.”

“The sarjeant was wrong;” exclaimed the guide, laughing
amid his agony, in a way to terrify his companion by
the unnatural mixture of anguish and light-heartedness. “I
knew it—I knew it, and said it; yes, the sarjeant was wrong,
after all.”

“We can be friends, though we cannot be man and wife,”
continued Mabel, almost as much disturbed as her companion,
scarce knowing what she said; “we can always be
friends, and always will.”

“I thought the sarjeant was mistaken,” resumed the Pathfinder,
when a great effort had enabled him to command
himself, “for I did not think my gifts were such as would
please the fancy of a town-bred girl. It would have been
better, Mabel, had he not over-persuaded me into a different

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notion; and it might have been better, too, had you not been
so pleasant and confiding, like; yes, it would.”

“If I thought any error of mine had raised false expectations
in you, Pathfinder, however unintentionally on my part,
I should never forgive myself; for, believe me, I would rather
endure pain in my own feelings, than you should suffer.”

“That 's just it, Mabel; that 's just it. These speeches
and opinions, spoken in so soft a voice, and in a way I 'm so
unused to in the woods, have done the mischief. But I now
see plainly, and begin to understand the difference between
us better, and will strive to keep down thought, and to go
abroad again as I used to do, looking for the game and the
inimy. Ah's me! Mabel, I have indeed been on a false trail,
since we met!”

“But you will now travel on the true one. In a little
while you will forget all this, and think of me as a friend, who
owes you her life.”

“This may be the way in the towns, but I doubt if it 's
nat'ral to the woods. With us, when the eye sees a lovely
sight, it is apt to keep it long in view, or when the mind
takes in an upright and proper feeling, it is loath to part
with it.”

“But it is not a proper feeling that you should love me,
nor am I a lovely sight. You will forget it all, when you
come seriously to recollect that I am altogether unsuited to be
your wife.”

“So I told the sarjeant—but he would have it otherwise.
I knew you was too young and beautiful for one of middle
age, like myself, and who never was comely to look at, even
in youth; and then your ways have not been my ways, nor
would a hunter's cabin be a fitting place for one who was
edicated among chiefs, as it were. If I were younger and
comelier, though, like Jasper Eau-douce—”

“Never mind Jasper Eau-douce,” interrupted Mabel, impatiently;
“we can talk of something else.”

“Jasper is a worthy lad, Mabel; ay, and a comely;” returned
the guileless guide, looking earnestly at the girl, as if
he distrusted her judgment in speaking slightingly of his
friend. “Were I only half as comely as Jasper Western,
my misgivings in this affair would not have been so great, and
they might not have been so true.”

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“We will not talk of Jasper Western,” repeated Mabel,
the colour mounting to her temples—“he may be good
enough in a gale, or on the lake, but he is not good enough
to talk of here.”

“I fear me, Mabel, he is better than the man who is likely
to be your husband, though the sarjeant says that never can
take place. But the sarjeant was wrong once, and he may
be wrong twice.”

“And who is likely to be my husband, Pathfinder?—This
is scarcely less strange, than what has just passed between
us!”

“I know it is nat'ral for like to seek like, and for them
that have consorted much with officers' ladies, to wish to be
officers' ladies themselves. But, Mabel, I may speak plainly
to you, I know, and I hope my words will not give you pain,
for, now I understand what it is to be disappointed in such
feelings, I wouldn't wish to cause even a Mingo sorrow, on
this head. But happiness is not always to be found in a
marquee, any more than in a tent, and though the officers'
quarters may look more tempting than the rest of the barracks,
there is often great misery, between husband and
wife, inside of their doors.”

“I do not doubt it, in the least, Pathfinder; and did it rest
with me to decide, I would sooner follow you to some cabin
in the woods, and share your fortune, whether it might be
better or worse, than go inside the door of any officer I know,
with an intention of remaining there as its master's wife.”

“Mabel, this is not what Lundie hopes, or Lundie thinks!”

“And what care I for Lundie? He is major of the 55th,
and may command his men to wheel and march about as he
pleases, but he cannot compel me to wed the greatest or the
meanest of his mess: besides, what can you know of Lundie's
wishes on such a subject?”

“From Lundie's own mouth. The sarjeant had told him
that he wished me for a son-in-law; and the major being an
old and a true friend, conversed with me on the subject: he
put it to me, plainly, whether it would not be more ginerous in
me to let an officer succeed, than to strive to make you share
a hunter's fortune. I owned the truth, I did; and that was,
that I thought it might; but when he told me that the quarter-master
would be his choice, I would not abide by the

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conditions. No—no—Mabel; I know Davy Muir well, and
though he may make you a lady, he can never make you a
happy woman, or himself a gentleman. I say this honestly,
I do; for I now plainly see that the sarjeant has been wrong.”

“My father has been very wrong, if he has said or done
aught to cause you sorrow, Pathfinder; and so great is my
respect for you, so sincere my friendship, that were it not for
one—I mean that no person need fear Lieutenant Muir's influence
with me. I would rather remain as I am, to my
dying day, than become a lady, at the cost of being his
wife.”

“I do not think you would say that which you do not feel,
Mabel,” returned Pathfinder, earnestly.

“Not at such a moment, on such a subject, and least of
all, to you. No; Lieutenant Muir may find wives where he
can—my name shall never be on his catalogue.”

“Thank you—thank you, for that, Mabel; for though
there is no longer any hope for me, I could never be happy
were you to take to the Quarter-master. I feared the commission
might count for something, I did, and I know the
man. It is not jealousy that makes me speak in this manner,
but truth, for I know the man. Now, were you to fancy
a desarving youth, one like Jasper Western, for instance—”

“Why always mention Jasper Eau-douce, Pathfinder? he
can have no concern with our friendship; let us talk of yourself,
and of the manner in which you intend to pass the
winter.”

“Ah's me!—I'm little worth at the best, Mabel, unless it
may be on a trial, or with the rifle; and less worth now
that I 've discovered the sarjeant's mistake. There is no
need, therefore, of talking of me. It has been very pleasant
to me, to be near you so long, and even to fancy that the
sarjeant was right; but that is all over now. I shall go
down the lake with Jasper, and then there will be business to
occupy us, and that will keep useless thoughts out of the
mind.”

“And you will forget this—forget me—no, not forget me,
either, Pathfinder; but you will resume your old pursuits,
and cease to think a girl of sufficient importance to disturb
your peace?”

“I never know'd it afore, Mabel, but girls, as you call

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them, though gals is the name I 've been taught to use, are
of more account in this life, than I could have believed.
Now, afore I know'd you, the new-born babe did not sleep
more sweetly than I used to could; my head was no sooner
on the root, or the stone, or mayhap on the skin, than all was
lost to the senses, unless it might be to go over, in the night,
the business of the day, in a dream, like; and there I lay till
the moment came to be stirring, and the swallows were not
more certain to be on the wing, with the light, than I to be
afoot, at the moment I wished to be. All this seemed a gift,
and might be calculated on, even in the midst of a Mingo
camp; for I 've been outlying, in my time, in the very villages
of the vagabonds.”

“And all this will return to you, Pathfinder; for one so
upright and sincere will never waste his happiness on a mere
fancy. You will dream again, of your hunts, of the deer you
have slain, and of the beaver you have taken.”

“Ah's me, Mabel, I wish never to dream again! Before
we met, I had a sort of pleasure in following up the hounds,
in fancy, as it might be; and even in striking a trail of the
Iroquois—nay, I 've been in skrimmages, and ambushments,
in thought, like, and found satisfaction in it, according to my
gifts; but all those things have lost their charms since I 've
made acquaintance with you. Now, I think no longer of any
thing rude in my dreams, but the very last night we staid in
the garrison, I imagined I had a cabin in a grove of sugar
maples, and at the root of every tree was a Mabel Dunham,
while the birds that were among the branches, sung ballads,
instead of the notes that natur' gave, and even the deer stopped
to listen. I tried to shoot a fa'an, but Killdeer missed fire, and
the creatur' laughed in my face, as pleasantly as a young
girl laughs in her merriment, and then it bounded away, looking
back, as if expecting me to follow.”

“No more of this, Pathfinder—we 'll talk no more of these
things,” said Mabel, dashing the tears from her eyes; for the
simple, earnest manner in which this hardy woodsman
betrayed the deep hold she had taken of his feelings, nearly
proved too much for her own generous heart. “Now, let us
look for my father; he cannot be distant, as I heard his gun,
quite near.”

“The sarjeant was wrong—yes, he was wrong, and it 's

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of no avail to attempt to make the dove consort with the
wolf.”

“Here comes my dear father,” interrupted Mabel; “let
us look cheerful and happy, Pathfinder, as such good friends
ought to look, and keep each other's secrets.”

A pause succeeded; the serjeant's foot was heard crushing
the dried twigs hard by, and then his form appeared shoving
aside the bushes of a copse, quite near. As he issued into
the open ground, the old soldier scrutinized his daughter and
her companion, and speaking good-naturedly, he said—

“Mabel, child; you are young and light of foot—look for
a bird I 've shot, that fell just beyond the thicket of young
hemlocks, on the shore; and, as Jasper is showing signs of
an intention of getting under way, you need not take the
trouble to clamber up this hill again, but we will meet you,
on the beach, in a few minutes.”

Mabel obeyed, bounding down the hill with the elastic step
of youth and health. But, notwithstanding the lightness of
her steps, the heart of the girl was heavy, and no sooner was
she hid from observation, by the thicket, than she threw herself
on the root of a tree, and wept as if her heart would
break. The serjeant watched her until she disappeared, with
a father's pride, and then turned to his companion, with a
smile as kind and as familiar as his habits would allow him
to use towards any.

“She has her mother's lightness and activity, my friend,
with somewhat of her father's force,” he said. “Her mother
was not quite as handsome, I think myself; but the Dunhams
were always thought comely, whether men or women. Well,
Pathfinder, I take it for granted you 've not overlooked the
opportunity, but have spoken plainly to the girl? women like
frankness, in matters of this sort.”

“I believe Mabel and I understand each other, at last,
sarjeant,” returned the other, looking another way to avoid
the soldier's face.

“So much the better. Some people fancy that a little
doubt and uncertainty makes love all the livelier, but I am
one of those who think the plainer the tongue speaks, the
easier the mind will comprehend. Was Mabel surprised?”

“I fear she was, sarjeant; I fear she was taken quite by
surprise—yes, I do.”

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“Well, well, surprises in love, are like an ambush in war,
and quite as lawful; though it is not as easy to tell when a
woman is surprised, as to tell when it happens to an enemy.
Mabel did not run away, my worthy friend, did she?”

“No, sarjeant, Mabel did not try to escape; that I can
say with a clear conscience.”

“I hope the girl was not too willing, neither! Her mother
was shy and coy for a month, at least—but frankness, after
all, is a recommendation, in man or woman.”

“That it is—that it is—and judgment, too.”

“You are not to look for too much judgment in a young
creature of twenty, Pathfinder, but it will come with experience.
A mistake in you, or in me, for instance, might not
be so easily overlooked, but in a girl of Mabel's years, one
is not to strain at a gnat, lest they swallow a camel.”

The reader will remember that Serjeant Dunham was not
a Hebrew scholar.

The muscles of the listener's face twitched, as the serjeant
was thus delivering his sentiments, though the former had
now recovered a portion of that stoicism which formed so
large a part of his character, and which he had probably
imbibed from long association with the Indians. His eyes
rose and fell, and once a gleam shot athwart his hard features,
as if he were about to indulge in his peculiar laugh,
but the joyous feeling, if it really existed, was as quickly
lost in a look allied to anguish. It was this unusual mixture
of wild and keen mental agony, with native, simple, joyousness,
that had most struck Mabel, who, in the interview just
related, had a dozen times been on the point of believing that
her suitor's heart was only lightly touched, as images of happiness
and humour gleamed over a mind that was almost
infantine in its simplicity and nature; an impression, however,
that was soon driven away, by the discovery of emotions
so painful and so deep, that they seemed to harrow the
very soul. Indeed, in this respect, the Pathfinder was a mere
child: unpractised in the ways of the world, he had no idea
of concealing a thought of any kind, and his mind received
and reflected each emotion, with the pliability and readiness
of that period of life; the infant scarcely yielding its wayward
imagination to the passing impression, with greater
facility, than this man, so simple in all his personal feelings,

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so stern, stoical, masculine and severe in all that touched his
ordinary pursuits.

“You say true, sarjeant,” Pathfinder answered—“a mistake
in one like you is a more serious matter.”

“You will find Mabel sincere and honest in the end, give
her but a little time.”

“Ah's me, sarjeant!”

“A man of your merits, would make an impression on a
rock, give him time, Pathfinder.”

“Sarjeant Dunham, we are old fellow campaigners—that
is, as campaigns are carried on here in the wilderness; and
we have done so many kind acts to each other, that we can
afford to be candid—what has caused you to believe that a
girl like Mabel could ever fancy one as rude as I am?”

“What?—why a variety of reasons, and good reasons,
too, my friend. Those same acts of kindness, perhaps,
and the campaigns you mention; moreover, you are my
sworn and tried comrade.”

“All this sounds well, so far as you and I are consarned,
but they do not touch the case of your pretty daughter. She
may think these very campaigns have destroyed the little
comeliness I may once have had, and I am not quite sartain
that being an old friend of her father would lead any young
maiden's mind into a particular affection for a suitor. Like
loves like, I tell you, sarjeant, and my gifts are not altogether
the gifts of Mabel Dunham.”

“These are some of your old modest qualms, Pathfinder,
and will do you no credit with the girl. Women distrust
men who distrust themselves, and take to men who distrust
nothing. Modesty is a capital thing in a recruit, I grant you;
or in a young subaltern who has just joined, for it prevents
his railing at the non-commissioned officers, before he knows
what to rail at; I'm not sure it is out of place in a commissary,
or a parson, but it 's the devil and all when it gets possession
of either a real soldier, or a lover. Have as little to
do with it as possible, if you would win a woman's heart.
As for your doctrine that like loves like, it is as wrong as
possible, in matters of this sort. If like loved like, women
would love one another, and men also. No—no—like loves
dislike,”—the serjeant was merely a scholar of the camp,
“and you have nothing to fear from Mabel on that score.

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Look at Lieutenant Muir; the man has had five wives, already,
they tell me, and there is no more modesty in him
than there is in a cat-o'-nine-tails.”

“Lieutenant Muir will never be the husband of Mabel
Dunham, let him ruffle his feathers as much as he may.”

“That is a sensible remark of yours, Pathfinder, for my
mind is made up that you shall be my son-in-law. If I were
an officer myself, Mr. Muir might have some chance; but
time has placed one door between my child and myself, and
I don't intend there shall be that of a marquee, also.”

“Sarjeant, we must let Mabel follow her own fancy; she
is young and light of heart, and God forbid that any wish
of mine should lay the weight of a feather on a mind that is
all gaiety now, or take one note of happiness from her
laughter.”

“Have you conversed freely with the girl?” the serjeant
demanded quickly, and with some asperity of manner.

Pathfinder was too honest to deny a truth plain as that
which the answer required, and yet too honourable to betray
Mabel, and expose her to the resentment of one whom he
well knew to be stern in his anger.

“We have laid open our minds,” he said, “and though
Mabel's is one that any man might love to look at, I find
little there, sarjeant, to make me think any better of myself.”

“The girl has not dared to refuse you — to refuse her
father's best friend?”

Pathfinder turned his face away to conceal the look of
anguish, that consciousness told him was passing athwart it,
but he continued the discourse in his own quiet manly tones.

“Mabel is too kind to refuse any thing, or to utter harsh
words to a dog. I have not put the question in a way to be
downright refused, serjeant.”

“And did you expect my daughter to jump into your arms,
before you asked her? She would not have been her mother's
child had she done any such thing, nor do I think she would
have been mine. The Dunhams like plain dealing, as well
as the King's Majesty, but they are no jumpers. Leave me
to manage this matter for you, Pathfinder, and there shall be
no unnecessary delay. I 'll speak to Mabel myself, this very
evening, using your name as principal in the affair.”

“I'd rather not—I'd rather not, sarjeant. Leave the

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matter to Mabel and me, and I think all will come right in the
ind. Young girls are like timorsome birds; they do not overrelish
being hurried or spoken harshly to, nither. Leave the
matter to Mabel and me.”

“On one condition I will, my friend; and that is, that you
promise me on the honour of a scout, that you will put the
matter plainly to Mabel, the first suitable opportunity, and no
mincing of words.”

“I will ask her, sarjeant—yes, I will ask her, on condition
that you promise not to meddle in the affair—yes, I will
promise to ask Mabel the question whether she will marry
me, even though she laugh in my face, at my doing so, on
that condition.”

Serjeant Dunham gave the desired promise, very cheerfully,
for he had completely wrought himself up into the
belief that the man he so much esteemed and respected himself,
must be acceptable to his daughter. He had married a
woman much younger than himself, and he saw no unfitness
in the respective years of the intended couple. Mabel was
educated so much above him, too, that he was not aware of
the difference which actually existed between the parent and
child, in this respect; for it is one of the most unpleasant features
in the intercourse between knowledge and ignorance,
taste and unsophistication, refinement and vulgarity, that the
higher qualities are often necessarily subjected to the judgments
of those who have absolutely no perception of their existence.
It followed that Serjeant Dunham was not altogether qualified
to appreciate his daughter's tastes, or to form a very probable
conjecture what would be the direction taken by those
feelings, which oftener depend on impulses and passion, than
on reason. Still, the worthy soldier was not so wrong in
his estimate of the Pathfinder's chances, as might at first
appear. Knowing, as he well did, all the sterling qualities
of the man, his truth, integrity of purpose, courage, self-devotion,
disinterestedness, it was far from unreasonable to
suppose that qualities like these would produce a deep impression
on any female heart, where there was an opportunity
to acquire a knowledge of their existence; and the father
erred principally in fancying that the daughter might know,
as it might be, by intuition, what he himself had acquired by
years of intercourse and adventure.

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As Pathfinder and his military friend descended the hill to
the shore of the lake, the discourse did not flag. The latter
continued to persuade the former that his diffidence, alone,
prevented complete success with Mabel, and that he had
only to persevere in order to prevail. Pathfinder was much
too modest by nature, and had been too plainly, though so
delicately, discouraged, in the recent interview, to believe all
he heard; still the father used so many arguments that seemed
plausible, and it was so grateful to fancy that the daughter
might yet be his, the reader is not to be surprised, when he
is told that this unsophisticated being did not view Mabel's
recent conduct in precisely the light in which he may be
inclined to view it himself. He did not credit all that the
serjeant told him, it is true; but he began to think virgin
coyness, and ignorance of her own feelings, might have
induced Mabel to use the language she had.

“The Quarter Master is no favourite,” said Pathfinder, in
answer to one of his companion's remarks. “Mabel will
never look on him as more than one who has had four or five
wives already.”

“Which is more than his share. A man may marry
twice, without offence to good morals and decency, I allow;
but four times is an aggravation.”

“I should think even marrying once, what Master Cap
calls a circumstance!” put in Pathfinder, laughing in his
quiet way, for, by this time, his spirits had recovered some
of their buoyancy.

“It is indeed, my friend, and a most solemn circumstance
too. If it were not that Mabel is to be your wife, I would
advise you to remain single. But here is the girl herself,
and discretion is the word.”

“Ah's me! sarjeant, I fear you are mistaken!”

-- 049 --

CHAPTER IV.

“Thus was this place
A happy rural seat of various view.”
Milton.

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

Mabel was in waiting on the beach, and the canoe was
soon launched. Pathfinder carried the party out through the
surf, in the same skilful manner as he had brought it in, and,
though Mabel's colour heightened with excitement, and her
heart seemed often ready to leap out of her mouth again,
they reached the side of the Scud without having received
even a drop of spray.

Ontario is like a quick-tempered man, sudden to be angered,
and as soon appeased. The sea had already fallen, and
though the breakers bounded the shore, far as the eye could
reach, it was merely in lines of brightness, that appeared and
vanished, like the returning waves produced by a stone that
had been dropped into a pool. The cable of the Scud was
scarce seen above the water, and Jasper had already hoisted
his sails, in readiness to depart, as soon as the expected
breeze from the shore should fill the canvass.

It was just sun-set, as the cutter's mainsail flapped, and its
stem began to sever the water. The air was light and southerly,
and the head of the vessel was kept looking up along
the south shore, it being the intention to get to the eastward
again, as fast as possible. The night that succeeded was
quiet, and the rest of those who slept, deep and tranquil.

Some difficulty occurred concerning the command of the
vessel, but the matter had been finally settled by an amicable
compromise. As the distrust of Jasper was far from
being appeased, Cap retained a supervisory power, while
the young man was allowed to work the craft, subject, at all
times, to the control and interference of the old seaman.
To this Jasper consented, in preference to exposing Mabel
any longer to the dangers of their present situation; for, now
that the violence of the elements had ceased, he well knew
that the Montcalm would be in search of them. He had the
discretion, however, not to reveal his apprehensions on this
head, for it happened that the very means he deemed the best

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to escape the enemy, were those which would be most likely
to awaken new suspicions of his honesty, in the minds of
those who held the power to defeat his intentions. In other
words, Jasper believed that the gallant young Frenchman,
who commanded the ship of the enemy, would quit his anchorage
under the fort at Niagara, and stand up the lake, as
soon as the wind abated, in order to ascertain the fate of the
Scud; keeping mid-way between the two shores, as the best
means of commanding a broad view; and that, on his part,
it would be expedient to hug one coast or the other, not only
to avoid a meeting, but as affording a chance of passing without
detection, by blending his sails and spars with objects on
the land. He preferred the south, because it was the weather
shore, and because he thought it was that which the enemy
would the least expect him to take, though it necessarily led
near his settlements, and in front of one of the strongest posts
he held in that part of the world.

Of all this however, Cap was happily ignorant, and the
serjeant's mind was too much occupied with the details of his
military trust to enter into these niceties, which so properly
belonged to another profession. No opposition was made,
therefore, and, ere morning, Jasper had apparently dropped
quietly into all his former authority, issuing his orders freely,
and meeting with obedience without hesitation or cavil.

The appearance of day, brought all on board on deck
again, and, as is usual with adventurers on the water, the
opening horizon was curiously examined, as objects started
out of the obscurity, and the panorama brightened under the
growing light. East, west, and north, nothing was visible
but water, glittering in the rising sun; but southward, stretched
the endless belt of woods, that then held Ontario in a setting
of forest verdure. Suddenly an opening appeared ahead,
and then the massive walls of a château-looking house, with
outworks, bastions, block-houses, and palisadoes, frowned on
a head-land, that bordered the outlet of a broad stream.
Just as the fort became visible, a little cloud rose over it, and
the white ensign of France was seen fluttering from a lofty
flag-staff.

Cap gave an ejaculation as he witnessed this ungrateful
exhibition, and he cast a quick suspicious glance at his brother-in-law.

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“The dirty table-cloth hung up to air, as my name is
Charles Cap!” he muttered, “and we hugging this d—d
shore, as if it were our wife and children, met on the return
from an India v'y'ge! Harkee, Jasper, are you in search
of a cargo of frogs, that you keep so near in to this New
France?”

“I hug the land, sir, in the hope of passing the enemy's
ship without being seen, for I think she must be somewhere
down here to leeward.”

“Ay, ay; this sounds well, and I hope it may turn out as
you say. I trust there is no under-tow here?”

“We are on a weather shore, now,” said Jasper, smiling;
“and, I think you will admit, Master Cap, that a strong under-tow
makes an easy cable: we owe all our lives to the under-tow
of this very lake.”

“French flummery!” growled Cap, though he did not care
to be heard by Jasper. “Give me a fair, honest, English-Yankee-American
tow, above board, and above water too, if
I must have a tow at all, and none of your sneaking drift
that is below the surface, where one can neither see nor feel.
I dare say, if the truth could be come at, that this late escape
of ours was all a contrived affair.”

“We have now a good opportunity, at least, to reconnoitre
the enemy's post at Niagara, brother, for such I take this fort
to be,” put in the serjeant. “Let us be all eyes in passing,
and remember that we are almost in face of the enemy.”

This advice of the serjeant's needed nothing to enforce it,
for the interest and novelty of passing a spot occupied by
human beings, were of themselves sufficient to attract deep
attention in that scene of a vast but deserted nature. The
wind was now fresh enough to urge the Scud through the
water with considerable velocity, and Jasper eased her helm
as she opened the river, and luffed nearly into the mouth of
that noble strait, or river, as it is termed. A dull, distant,
heavy roar came down through the opening in the banks,
swelling on the currents of the air, like the deeper notes of
some immense organ, and occasionally seeming to cause the
earth, itself, to tremble.

“That sounds like surf on some long unbroken coast!”
exclaimed Cap, as a swell, deeper than common came to his
ears.

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[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

“Ay, that is such surf as we have in this quarter of the
world,” Pathfinder answered. “There is no under-tow there,
Master Cap, but all the water that strikes the rocks stays
there, so far as going back ag'in is consarned. That is old
Niagara that you hear, or this noble stream tumbling down a
mountain!”

“No one will have the impudence to pretend that this
fine broad river falls over yonder hills?”

“It does, Master Cap, it does; and all for the want of
stairs, or a road, to come down by. This is natur', as we
have it up hereaway, though I dare say you beat us down on
the ocean. Ah's me! Mabel; a pleasant hour it would be if
we could walk on the shore some ten or fifteen miles up this
stream, and gaze on all that God has done there!”

“You have, then, seen these renowned falls, Pathfinder?”
the girl eagerly enquired.

“I have—yes, I have; and an awful sight I witnessed at
that same time. The Sarpent and I were out, scouting about
the garrison there, when he told me that the traditions of his
people gave an account of a mighty cataract in this neighbourhood,
and he asked me to vary from the line of march a
little to look at the wonder. I had heard some marvels consarning
the spot, from the soldiers of the 60th, which is my
nat'ral corps, like, and not the 55th, with which I have sojourned
so much of late, but there are so many terrible liars
in all rijiments, that I hardly believed half they had told me.
Well, we went; and though we expected to be led by our
ears, and to hear some of that awful roaring that we hear
to-day, we were disappointed, for natur' was not then speaking
in thunder, as she is this morning. Thus it is, in the
forest, Master Cap; there being moments when God seems to
be walking abroad in power, and then, again, there is a calm
over all, as if his spirit lay in quiet along the 'arth. Well,
we came suddenly upon the stream, a short distance above
the fall, and a young Delaware, who was in our company,
found a bark canoe, and he would push into the current, to
reach an island that lies in the very centre of the confusion and
strife. We told him of his folly, we did, and we reasoned with
him on the wickedness of tempting Providence by seeking danger
that led to no ind; but the youth among the Delawares are
very much the same as the youth among the soldiers, risky

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[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

and vain. All we could say did not change his mind, and
the lad had his way. To me it seems, Mabel, that whenever
a thing is really grand and potent, it has a quiet majesty
about it, that is altogether unlike the frothy and flustering
manner of smaller matters, and so it was with them rapids.
The canoe was no sooner fairly in them, than down it went,
as it might be, as one sails through the air on the 'arth, and
no skill of the young Delaware could resist the stream. And
yet he struggled manfully for life, using the paddle to the
last, like the deer that is swimming to cast the hounds. At
first, he shot across the current so swiftly, that we thought
he would prevail, but he had miscalculated his distance, and
when the truth really struck him, he turned the head up
stream, and struggled in a way that was fearful to look at.
I could have pitied him even had he been a Mingo! For a
few moments his efforts were so frantic, that he actually prevailed
over the power of the cataract; but natur' has its
limits, and one faltering stroke of the paddle set him back,
and then he lost ground, foot by foot, inch by inch, until he
got near the spot where the river looked even and green, and
as if it were made of millions of threads of water, all bent
over some huge rock, when he shot backwards like an arrow
and disappeared, the bow of the canoe tipping just enough to
let us see what had become of him. I met a Mohawk, some
years later, who had witnessed the whole affair, from the bed
of the stream below, and he told me that the Delaware continued
to paddle, in the air, until he was lost in the mists
of the falls!”

“And what became of the poor wretch?” demanded Mabel,
who had been strongly interested by the natural eloquence of
the speaker.

“He went to the happy hunting-grounds of his people, no
doubt; for though he was risky and vain, he was also just
and brave. Yes, he died foolishly, but the Manitou of the
red-skins has compassion on his creatur's, as well as the God
of a Christian!”

A gun, at this moment, was discharged from a block-house
near the fort, and the shot, one of light weight, came whistling
over the cutter's mast, an admonition to approach no
nearer. Jasper was at the helm, and he kept away, smiling
at the same time, as if he felt no anger at the rudeness of

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[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

the salutation. The Scud was now in the current, and her
outward set soon carried her far enough to leeward to avoid
the danger of a repetition of the shot, and then she quietly
continued her course along the land. As soon as the river
was fairly opened, Jasper ascertained that the Montcalm was
not at anchor in it; and a man sent aloft came down with
the report that the horizon showed no sail. The hope was
now strong, that the artifice of Jasper had succeeded, and
that the French commander had missed them by keeping the
middle of the lake, as he steered towards its head.

All that day the wind hung to the southward, and the
cutter continued her course about a league from the land,
running six or eight knots the hour, in perfectly smooth
water. Although the scene had one feature of monotony,
the outline of unbroken forest, it was not without its interest
and pleasures. Various head-lands presented themselves,
and the cutter, in running from one to another,
stretched across bays so deep, as almost to deserve the
names of gulfs, but nowhere did the eye meet with the evidences
of civilization. Rivers occasionally poured their tribute
into the great reservoir of the lake, but their banks could
be traced inland for miles, by the same outlines of trees; and
even large bays, that lay embosomed in woods, communicating
with Ontario, only by narrow outlets, appeared and
disappeared, without bringing with them a single trace of a
human habitation.

Of all on board, the Pathfinder viewed the scene with the
most unmingled delight. His eyes feasted on the endless
line of forest, and, more than once that day, notwithstanding
he found it so grateful to be near Mabel, listening to her
pleasant voice, and echoing, in feelings at least, her joyous
laugh, did his soul pine to be wandering beneath the high
arches of the maples, oaks, and lindens, where his habits had
induced him to fancy lasting and true joys were only to be
found. Cap viewed the prospect differently. More than
once, he expressed his disgust at there being no light-houses,
church-towers, beacons, or roadsteads with their shipping.
Such another coast, he protested, the world did not contain;
and, taking the serjeant aside, he gravely assured him that
the region could never come to any thing, as the havens were
neglected, the rivers had a deserted and useless look, and

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that even the breeze had a smell of the forest about it, which
spoke ill of its properties.

But the humours of the different individuals in her, did not
stay the speed of the Scud. When the sun was setting, she
was already a hundred miles on her route towards Oswego,
into which river Serjeant Dunham now thought it his duty to
go, in order to receive any communications that Major Duncan
might please to make. With a view to effect this purpose,
Jasper continued to hug the shore all night, and though
the wind began to fail him towards morning, it lasted long
enough to carry the cutter up to a point that was known to
be but a league or two from the fort. Here the breeze came
out light at the northward, and the cutter hauled a little from
the land in order to obtain a safe offing should it come on to
blow, or should the weather again get to be easterly.

When the day dawned, the cutter had the mouth of the
Oswego well under her lee, distant about two miles, and just
as the morning gun from the fort was fired, Jasper gave the
order to ease off the sheets, and to bear up for his port.
At that moment a cry from the forecastle drew all eyes
towards the point on the eastern side of the outlet, and there,
just without the range of shot from the light guns of the
works, with her canvass reduced to barely enough to keep
her stationary, lay the Montcalm, evidently in waiting for
their appearance. To pass her was impossible, for, by filling
her sails, the French ship could have intercepted them in
a few minutes; and the circumstances called for a prompt
decision. After a short consultation, the serjeant again
changed his plan, determining to make the best of his way
towards the station for which he had been originally destined,
trusting to the speed of the Scud to throw the enemy so far
astern, as to leave no clue to her movements.

The cutter, accordingly, hauled upon a wind, with the
least possible delay, with every thing set that would draw.
Guns were fired from the fort, ensigns shown, and the ramparts
were again crowded. But sympathy was all the aid
that Lundie could lend to his party, and the Montcalm, also
firing four or five guns of defiance, and throwing abroad
several of the banners of France, was soon in chase, under
a cloud of canvass.

For several hours the two vessels were pressing through

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the water as fast as possible, making short stretches to windward,
apparently with a view to keep the port under their
lee, the one to enter it, if possible, and the other to intercept
it in the attempt.

At meridian, the French ship was hull down, dead to leeward,
the disparity of sailing on a wind being very great,
and some islands were near by, behind which Jasper said it
would be possible for the cutter to conceal her future movements.
Although Cap and the serjeant, and particularly
Lieutenant Muir, to judge by his language, still felt a good
deal of distrust of the young man, and Frontenac was not
distant, this advice was followed, for time pressed, and the
Quarter-Master discreetly observed that Jasper could not well
betray them, without running openly into the enemy's harbour,
a step they could at any time prevent, since the only
cruiser of force the French possessed, at the moment, was
under their lee, and not in a situation to do them any immediate
injury.

Left to himself, Jasper Western soon proved how much
was really in him. He weathered upon the islands, passed
them, and, on coming out to the eastward, kept broad away,
with nothing in sight, in his wake, or to leeward. By sun-set,
again, the cutter was up with the first of the islands that
lie in the outlet of the lake, and ere it was dark she was running
through the narrow channels, on her way to the longsought
station. At nine o'clock, however, Cap insisted that
they should anchor, for the maze of islands became so complicated
and obscure, that he feared, at every opening, the
party would find themselves under the guns of a French fort.
Jasper consented cheerfully, it being a part of his standing
instructions to approach the station, under such circumstances
as would prevent the men from obtaining any very accurate
notions of its position, lest a deserter might betray the little
garrison to the enemy.

The Scud was brought-to in a small retired bay, where it
would have been difficult to find her by day-light, and where
she was perfectly concealed at night, when all but a solitary
sentinel on deck sought their rest. Cap had been so harassed
during the previous eight-and-forty hours, that his slumbers
were long and deep, nor did he awake from his first
nap, until the day was just beginning to dawn. His eyes

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were scarcely open, however, when his nautical instinct told
him, that the cutter was under way. Springing up, he found
the Scud threading the islands again, with no one on deck
but Jasper and the pilot, unless the sentinel be excepted, who
had not in the least interfered with movements that he had
every reason to believe were as regular as they were necessary.

“How 's this, Master Western!” demanded Cap, with sufficient
fierceness for the occasion—“are you running us into
Frontenac, at last, and we all asleep below, like so many
mariners waiting for the `sentry go.”'

“This is according to orders, Master Cap, Major Duncan
having commanded me never to approach the station, unless
at a moment when the people were below; for he does not
wish there should be more pilots in these waters, than the
king has need of.”

“Whe-e-e-w! a pretty job I should have made of running
down among these bushes and rocks with no one on deck!
Why a regular York branch could make nothing of such a
channel.”

“I always thought, sir,” said Jasper smiling, “you would
have done better, had you left the cutter in my hands, until
she had safely reached her place of destination.”

“We should have done it, Jasper, we should have done it,
had it not been for a circumstance—these circumstances are
serious matters, and no prudent man will overlook them.”

“Well, sir, I hope there is now an end of them. We
shall arrive in less than an hour, if the wind hold, and then
you 'll be safe from any circumstances that I can contrive.”

“Humph!”

Cap was obliged to acquiesce, and as every thing around
him had the appearance of Jasper's being sincere, there was
not much difficulty in making up his mind to submit. It
would not have been easy, indeed, for a person the most sensitive
on the subject of circumstances, to fancy that the Scud
was anywhere in the vicinity of a port as long established,
and as well known on the frontiers, as Frontenac. The
islands might not have been literally a thousand in number,
but they were so numerous and small as to baffle calculation,
though occasionally one of larger size than common was
passed. Jasper had quitted what might have been termed

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the main channel, and was winding his way, with a good
stiff breeze, and a favourable current, through passes that
were sometimes so narrow that there appeared to be barely
room sufficient for the Scud's spars to clear the trees, while
at other moments he shot across little bays, and buried the
cutter again, amid rocks, forests and bushes. The water
was so transparent, that there was no occasion for the lead,
and being of very equal depth, little risk was actually run,
though Cap, with his maritime habits, was in a constant
fever lest they should strike.

“I give it up!—I give it up, Pathfinder!”—the old seaman
at length exclaimed, when the little vessel emerged in
safety from the twentieth of these narrow inlets, through
which she had been so boldly carried—“this is defying the
very nature of seamanship, and sending all its laws and
rules to the d—l!”

“Nay, nay, Salt-water, 't is the parfection of the art.
You perceive that Jasper never falters, but, like a hound
with a true nose, he runs with his head high, as if he had a
strong scent. My life on it, the lad brings us out right in
the ind, as he would have done in the beginning had we
given him leave.”

“No pilot, no lead, no beacons, buoys or light-houses,
no—”

“Trail!” interrupted Pathfinder, “for that, to me, is the
most mysterious part of the business. Water leaves no
trail, as every one knows, and yet here is Jasper moving
ahead as boldly as if he had before his eyes, the prints of
moccasins on leaves, as plainly as we can see the sun in the
heaven.”

“D—e, if I believe there is even any compass!”

“Stand by, to haul down the jib,” called out Jasper, who
merely smiled at the remarks of his companion. “Haul
down—starboard your helm—starboard hard—so—meet her—
gently there with the helm—touch her lightly—now jump
ashore with the fast, lad—no, heave—there are some of our
people ready to take it.”

All this passed so quickly as barely to allow the spectators
time to note the different evolutions, ere the Scud had been
thrown into the wind until her mainsail shivered, next cast a
little by the use of the rudder only, and then she set bodily

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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

alongside of a natural rocky quay, where she was immediately
secured by good fasts run to the shore. In a word,
the station was reached, and the men of the 55th were greeted
by their expecting comrades, with the satisfaction that a
relief usually brings.

Mabel sprang upon the shore with a delight which she did
not care to express, and her father led his men after her,
with an alacrity which proved how wearied he had become
of the cutter. The station, as the place was familiarly termed
by the soldiers of the 55th, was indeed a spot to raise expectations
of enjoyment, among those who had been cooped up
so long in a vessel of the dimensions of the Scud. None of
the islands were high, though all lay at a sufficient elevation
above the water, to render them perfectly healthy and secure.
Each had more or less of wood, and the greater number, at
that distant day, were clothed with the virgin forest. The
one selected by the troops for their purpose was small, containing
about twenty acres of land, and by some of the accidents
of the wilderness it had been partly stripped of its trees,
probably centuries before the period of which we are writing,
and a little grassy glade covered nearly half its surface. It
was the opinion of the officer who had made the selection of
this spot for a military post, that a sparkling spring near by,
had early caught the attention of the Indians, and that they
had long frequented this particular place, in their hunts, or
when fishing for salmon, a circumstance that had kept down
the second growth, and given time for the natural grasses to
take root, and to gain dominion over the soil. Let the cause
be what it might, the effect was to render this island far more
beautiful than most of those around it, and to lend it an air
of civilization that was then wanting in so much of that vast
region of country.

The shores of Station Island were completely fringed with
bushes, and great care had been taken to preserve them, as
they answered as a screen to conceal the persons and things
collected within their circle. Favoured by this shelter, as
well as by that of several thickets of trees, and different
copses, some six or eight low huts had been erected to be used
as quarters for the officer and his men, to contain stores, and
to serve the purposes of kitchen, hospital, &c. These huts
were built of logs, in the usual manner, had been roofed by

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[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

bark brought from a distance, lest the signs of labour should
attract attention, and as they had now been inhabited some
months, were as comfortable as dwellings of that description
usually ever get to be.

At the eastern extremity of the island, however, was a
small densely wooded peninsula, with a thicket of under-brush
so closely matted, as nearly to prevent the possibility of seeing
across it, so long as the leaves remained on the branches.
Near the narrow neck that connected this acre with the rest
of the island, a small block-house had been erected, with
some attention to its means of resistance. The logs were
bullet-proof, squared and jointed with a care to leave no defenceless
points; the windows were loop-holes; the door massive
and small, and the roof, like the rest of the structure
was framed of hewn timber, covered properly with bark to
exclude the rain. The lower apartment, as usual, contained
stores and provisions; here indeed the party kept all their supplies;
the second story was intended for a dwelling, as well
as for the citadel, and a low garret was subdivided into two
or three rooms, and could hold the pallets of some ten or fifteen
persons. All the arrangements were exceedingly simple
and cheap, but they were sufficient to protect the soldiers
against the effects of a surprise. As the whole building was
considerably less than forty feet high, its summit was concealed
by the tops of the trees, except from the eyes of those
who had reached the interior of the island. On that side the
view was open from the upper loops, though bushes even
there, more or less, concealed the base of the wooden tower.

The object being purely defence, care had been taken to
place the block-house so near an opening in the lime-stone
rock, that formed the base of the island, as to admit of a
bucket's being dropped into the water, in order to obtain that
great essential, in the event of a siege. In order to facilitate
this operation, and to enfilade the base of the building, the
upper stories projected several feet beyond the lower, in the
manner usual to block-houses, and pieces of wood filled the
apertures cut in the log flooring, which were intended as loops
and traps. The communications between the different stories
were by means of ladders. If we add, that these block-houses
were intended as citadels, for garrisons or settlements
to retreat to, in the cases of attacks, the general reader will

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[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

obtain a sufficiently correct idea of the arrangements it is
our wish to explain.

But the situation of the island, itself, formed its principal
merit as a military position. Lying in the midst of twenty
others, it was not an easy matter to find it, since boats might
pass quite near, and, by the glimpses caught through the openings,
this particular island would be taken for a part of some
other. Indeed, the channels between the islands, that lay
around the one we have been describing, were so narrow
that it was even difficult to say which portions of the land
were connected, or which separated, even as one stood in
their centre, with the express desire of ascertaining the truth.
The little bay, in particular, that Jasper used as a harbour, was
so embowered with bushes, and shut in with islands, that, the
sails of the cutter being lowered, her own people, on one
occasion, had searched for hours, before they could find the
Scud, in their return from a short excursion among the adjacent
channels, in quest of fish. In short, the place was admirably
adapted to its present objects, and its natural advantages
had been as ingeniously improved as economy and the
limited means of a frontier post would very well allow.

The hour that succeeded the arrival of the Scud was one
of hurried excitement. The party in possession had done
nothing worthy of being mentioned, and wearied with their
seclusion, they were all eager to return to Oswego. The
serjeant and the officer he came to relieve, had no sooner
gone through the little ceremonies of transferring the command,
than the latter hurried on board the Scud, with his
whole party; and Jasper, who would gladly have passed
the day on the island, was required to get under way, forthwith,
the wind promising a quick passage up the river, and
across the lake. Before separating, however, Lieutenant
Muir, Cap, and the serjeant had a private conference with the
ensign, who had been relieved, in which the latter was made
acquainted with the suspicions that existed against the fidelity
of the young sailor. Promising due caution, the officer embarked,
and in less than three hours from the time when she
had arrived, the cutter was again in motion.

Mabel had taken possession of a hut, and with female
readiness and skill, she made all the simple little domestic
arrangements, of which the circumstances would admit, not

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[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

only for her own comfort, but for that of her father. To save
labour, a mess table was prepared in a hut set apart for that
purpose, where all the heads of the detachment were to eat,
the soldier's wife performing the necessary labour. The hut
of the serjeant, which was the best on the island, being thus
freed from any of the vulgar offices of a household, admitted
of such a display of womanly taste, that for the first time
since her arrival on the frontier, the girl felt proud of her
home. As soon as these important duties were discharged,
she strolled out on the island, taking a path that led through
the pretty glade, and which conducted to the only point that
was not covered with bushes. Here she stood gazing at the
limpid water, which lay with scarcely a ruffle on it, at her
feet, musing on the novel situation in which she was placed,
and permitting a pleasing and deep excitement to steal over
her feelings, as she remembered the scenes through which
she had so lately passed, and conjectured those which still
lay veiled in the future.

“You 're a beautiful fixture, in a beautiful spot, Mistress
Mabel,” said David Muir, suddenly appearing at her elbow,
“and I 'll no engage you 're not just the handsomest of the
two.”

“I will not say, Mr. Muir, that compliments on my person
are altogether unwelcome, for I should not gain credit for
speaking the truth, perhaps,” answered Mabel with spirit,
“but I will say that if you would condescend to address to
me some remarks of a different nature, I may be led to believe
you think I have sufficient faculties to understand them.”

“Hoot! your mind, beautiful Mabel, is polished just like
the barrel of a soldier's musket, and your conversation is
only too discreet and wise for a poor d—l, who has been
chewing birch, up here these four years, on the lines, instead
of receiving it in an application that has the virtue of imparting
knowledge. But you are no sorry, I take it, young
lady, that you 've got your pretty foot on terra firma, once
more.”

“I thought so, two hours since, Mr. Muir, but the Scud
looks so beautiful, as she sails through these vistas of trees,
that I almost regret I am no longer one of her passengers.”

As Mabel ceased speaking, she waved her handkerchief in
return to a salutation from Jasper, who kept his eyes

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fastened on her form, until the white sails of the cutter had swept
round a point, and were nearly lost behind its green fringe
of leaves.

“There they go, and I 'll no say `joy go with them,' but
may they have the luck to return safely, for without them
we shall be in danger of passing the winter on this island;
unless, indeed, we have the alternative of the castle at
Quebec. Yon Jasper Eau-douce is a vagrant sort of a lad, and
they have reports of him in the garrison, that it pains my very
heart to hear. Your worthy father, and almost-as-worthy
uncle, have none of the best opinion of him.”

“I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Muir; I doubt not that time
will remove all their distrust.”

“If time would only remove mine, pretty Mabel,” rejoined
the Quarter-Master, in a wheedling tone, “I should feel
no envy of the commander-in-chief. I think if I were in a
condition to retire, the serjeant would just step into my
shoes.”

“If my dear father is worthy to step into your shoes, Mr.
Muir,” returned the girl, with malicious pleasure, “I 'm
sure that the qualification is mutual, and that you are every
way worthy to step into his.”

“The deuce is in the child! you would not reduce me to
the rank of a non-commissioned officer, Mabel!”

“No indeed, sir, I was not thinking of the army at all, as
you spoke of retiring. My thoughts were more egotistical,
and I was thinking how much you reminded me of my
dear father, by your experience, wisdom, and suitableness to
take his place, as the head of a family.”

“As its bridegroom, pretty Mabel, but not as its parent,
or natural chief. I see how it is with you, loving your
repartee, and brilliant with wit! Well, I like spirit in a
young woman, so it be not the spirit of a scold. This Pathfinder
is an extraordinair, Mabel, if truth may be said of the
man.”

“Truth should be said of him, or nothing. Pathfinder is
my friend—my very particular friend, Mr. Muir, and no evil
can be said of him, in my presence, that I shall not deny.”

“I shall say nothing evil of him, I can assure you, Mabel;
but, at the same time, I doubt if much good can be said in
his favour.”

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[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

“He is at least expert with the rifle,” returned Mabel,
smiling. “That you cannot deny.”

“Let him have all the credit of his exploits in that way,
if you please; but he is as illiterate as a Mohawk.”

“He may not understand Latin, but his knowledge of
Iroquois is greater than that of most men, and it is the more
useful language of the two, in this part of the world.”

“If Lundie, himself, were to call on me for an opinion
which I admired most, your person or your wit, beautiful
and caustic Mabel, I should be at a loss to answer. My
admiration is so nearly divided between them, that I often
fancy this is the one that bears off the palm, and then the
other! Ah! The late Mrs. Muir was a paragon, in that way,
also!”

“The latest Mrs. Muir, did you say, sir?” asked Mabel,
looking up innocently at her companion.

“Hoot—hoot!—That is some of Pathfinder's scandal.
Now, I dare say, that the fellow has been trying to persuade
you, Mabel, that I have had more than one wife, already.”

“In that case, his time would have been thrown away,
sir, as every body knows that you have been so unfortunate
as to have had four.”

“Only three, as sure as my name is David Muir. The
fourth is pure scandal—or, rather, pretty Mabel, she is yet
in petto, as they say at Rome; and that means, in matters of
love, in the heart, my dear.”

“Well, I 'm glad, I 'm not that fourth person, in petto, or
in any thing else, as I should not like to be a scandal!”

“No fear of that, charming Mabel; for were you the
fourth, all the others would be forgotten, and your wonderful
beauty and merit would, at once, elevate you to be the first.
No fear of your being the fourth in any thing.”

“There is consolation in that assurance, Mr. Muir,” said
Mabel laughing, “whatever there may be in your other
assurance, for I confess I should prefer being even a fourthrate
beauty, to being a fourth wife.”

So saying, she tripped away, leaving the Quarter-Master
to meditate on his success. Mabel had been induced to use
her female means of defence thus freely, partly because her
suitor had of late been so pointed, as to stand in need of a
pretty strong repulse, and partly on account of his innuendoes

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against Jasper and the Pathfinder. Though full of spirit and
quick of intellect, she was not naturally pert; but, on the
present occasion, she thought circumstances called for more
than usual decision. When she left her companion, therefore,
she believed she was now finally released from attentions
that she thought as ill bestowed as they were certainly
disagreeable. Not so, however, with David Muir; accustomed
to rebuffs, and familiar with the virtue of perseverance,
he saw no reason to despair, though the half menacing, half
self-satisfied manner in which he shook his head towards
the retreating girl, might have betrayed designs as sinister as
they were determined. While he was thus occupied, the
Pathfinder approached, and got within a few feet of him,
unseen.

“'T will never do, Quarter-Master, 't will never do!” commenced
the latter, laughing in his noiseless way; “she is
young and actyve, and none but a quick foot can overtake
her. They tell me you are her suitor, if you're not her follower.”

“And I hear the same of yourself, man, though the presumption
would be so great, that I scarce can think it true.”

“I fear you're right, I do; yes, I fear you're right!—
when I consider myself—what I am—how little I know, and
how rude my life has been, I altogether distrust my claim,
even to think a moment, of one so tutored, and gay, and
light of heart, and delicate—”

“You forget handsome,” coarsely interrupted Muir.

“And handsome, too, I fear,” returned the meek and self-abased
guide; “I might have said handsome, at once, among
her other qualities, for the young fa'an, just as it learns to
bound, is not more pleasant to the eye of the hunter, than
Mabel is lovely in mine. I do indeed fear that all the
thoughts I have harboured about her, are vain and presumptuous.”

“If you think this, my friend, of your own accord, and
natural modesty, as it might be, my duty to you as an old
fellow-campaigner compels me to say—”

“Quarter-Master,” interrupted the other, regarding his
companion keenly, “you and I have lived together much
behind the ramparts of forts, but very little in the open
woods, or in front of the enemy.”

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[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

“Garrison or tent, it all passes for part of the same campaign,
you know, Pathfinder; and then my duty keeps me
much within sight of the store-houses, greatly contrary to
my inclinations, as ye may well suppose, having yourself
the ardour of battle in your temperament. But had ye heard
what Mabel has just been saying of you, ye'd no think another
minute of making yourself agreeable to the saucy and
uncompromising hussy.”

Pathfinder looked earnestly at the lieutenant, for it was
impossible he should not feel an interest in what might be
Mabel's opinion, but he had too much of the innate and true
feeling of a gentleman, to ask to hear what another had said
of him. Muir, however, was not to be foiled by this self-denial
and self-respect; for, believing he had a man of great
truth and simplicity to deal with, he determined to practise
on his credulity, as one means of getting rid of his rivalry.
He, therefore, pursued the subject, as soon as he perceived
that his companion's self-denial was stronger than his
curiosity.

“You ought to know her opinion, Pathfinder,” he continued;
“and I think every man ought to hear what his
friends and acquaintances say of him; and so, by way of
proving my own regard for your character and feelings, I 'll
just tell you, in as few words as possible. You know that
Mabel has a wicked malicious way with them eyes of her
own, when she has a mind to be hard upon one's feelings.”

“To me her eyes, Lieutenant Muir, have always seemed
winning and soft—though I will acknowledge that they sometimes
laugh—yes, I have known them to laugh; and that
right heartily, and with downright good will.”

“Well, it was just that, then; her eyes were laughing
with all their might, as it were, and in the midst of all her
fun, she broke out with an exclamation to this effect—I hope
't will no hurt your sensibility, Pathfinder?”

“I will not say, Quarter-Master, I will not say—Mabel's
opinion of me is of more account than that of most others.”

“Then I'll no tell ye, but just keep discretion on the subject;
and why should a man be telling another what his
friends say of him, especially when they happen to say that
which may not be pleasant to hear. I'll not add another
word to this present communication.”

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[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

“I cannot make you speak, Quarter-Master, if you are
not so minded, and perhaps it is better for me not to know
Mabel's opinion, as you seem to think it is not in my favour.
Ah's me—if we could be what we wish to be, instead of being
only what we are, there would be a great difference in
our characters, and knowledge, and appearance. One may
be rude, and coarse, and ignorant, and yet happy, if he
does not know it; but it is hard to see our own failings, in
the strongest light, just as we wish to hear the least about
them.”

“That's just the rationale, as the French say, of the matter;
and so I was telling Mabel, when she ran away and left
me. You noticed the manner in which she skipped off, as
you approached?”

“It was very observable,” answered Pathfinder, drawing
a long breath, and clenching the barrel of his rifle, as if the
fingers would bury themselves in the iron.

“It was more than observable—it was flagrant—that's
just the word, and the dictionary wouldn't supply a better,
after an hour's search. Well, you must know, Pathfinder,
for I cannot reasonably deny you the gratification of hearing
this—so you must know, the minx bounded off in that manner,
in preference to hearing what I had to say in your justification.”

“And what could you find to say in my behalf, Quarter-Master?”

“Why, d'ye understand, my friend, I was ruled by circumstances,
and no ventured indiscreetly into generalities, but
was preparing to meet particulars, as it might be, with particulars.
If you were thought wild, half-savage, or of a
frontier formation, I could tell her, ye know, that it came of
the frontier, wild, and half-savage life ye 'd led; and all her
objections must cease at once, or there would be a sort of a
misunderstanding with Providence.”

“And did you tell her this, Quarter-Master?”

“I 'll no swear to the exact words, but the idea was prevalent
in my mind, ye 'll understand. The girl was impatient,
and would not hear the half I had to say; but away
she skipped, as ye saw with your own eyes, Pathfinder, as
if her opinion were fully made up, and she cared to listen no

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longer. I fear her mind may be said to have come to its
conclusion.”

“I fear it has, indeed, Quarter-Master, and her father,
after all, is mistaken. Yes, yes; the sarjeant has fallen into
a grievous error.”

“Well, man, why need ye lament, and undo all the grand
reputation ye 've been so many weary years making? Shoulder
the rifle that ye use so well, and off into the woods with
ye, for there 's not the female breathing that is worth a heavy
heart for a minute, as I know from experience. Tak' the
word of one who knows the sax, and has had two wives,
that women, after all, are very much the sort of creatures
we do not imagine them to be. Now, if you would really
mortify Mabel, here is as glorious an occasion, as any rejected
lover could desire.”

“The last wish I have, lieutenant, would be to mortify
Mabel.”

“Well, ye 'll come to that in the end, notwithstanding;
for it 's human nature to desire to give unpleasant feelings to
them, that give unpleasant feelings to us. But a better occasion
never offered to make your friends love you, than is to
be had at this very moment, and that is the certain means
of causing one's enemies to envy us.”

“Quarter-Master, Mabel is not my inemy; and if she
was, the last thing I could desire, would be to give her an
uneasy moment.”

“Ye say so, Pathfinder—ye say so, and I dare say, ye
think so; but reason and nature are both against you, as
ye 'll find in the end. Ye 've heard the saying of `love me,
love my dog:” well, now, that means, read backwards,
`do n't love me, do n't love my dog.' Now, listen to what
is in your power to do. You know we occupy an exceedingly
precarious and uncertain position here, almost in the
jaws of the lion, as it were?”

“Do you mean the Frenchers, by the lion, and this island
as his jaws, lieutenant?”

“Metaphorically only, my friend, for the French are no
lions, and this island is not a jaw—unless, indeed, it may
prove to be, what I greatly fear may come true, the jaw-bone
of an ass!”

Here the Quarter-Master indulged in a sneering laugh,

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that proclaimed any thing but respect and admiration for his
friend Lundie's sagacity in selecting that particular spot for
his operations.

“The post is as well chosen, as any I ever put foot in,”
said Pathfinder, looking around him, as one surveys a picture.

“I 'll no deny it—I 'll no deny it. Lundie is a great soldier,
in a small way; and his father was a great laird, with
the same qualification. I was born on the estate, and have
followed the Major so long, that I 've got to reverence all he
says and does. That 's just my weakness ye 'll know, Pathfinder.
Well, this post may be the post of an ass, or of a
Solomon, as men fancy; but its most critically placed, as is
apparent by all Lundie's precautions and injunctions. There
are savages out, scouting through these thousand islands, and
over the forest, searching for this very spot, as is known to
Lundie himself, on certain information; and the greatest service
you can render the 55th, is to discover their trails, and
lead them off, on a false scent. Unhappily, Serjeant Dunham
has taken up the notion, that the danger is to be apprehended
from up-stream, because Frontenac lies above us; whereas,
all experience tells us, that Indians come on the side that is
most contrary to reason, and, consequently, are to be expected
from below. Take your canoe, therefore, and go down
stream, among the islands, that we may have notice if any
danger approaches from that quarter. If ye should look a
few miles on the main, especially on the York side, the information
you 'd bring in would be all the more accurate,
and, consequently, the more valuable.

“The Big Sarpent is on the look-out, in that quarter, and
as he knows the station well, no doubt he will give us timely
notice, should any wish to sarcumvent us, in that direction.”

“He is but an Indian, after all, Pathfinder, and this is an
affair that calls for the knowledge of a white man. Lundie
will be eternally grateful to the man that shall help this little
enterprise to come off with flying colours. To tell you the
truth, my friend, he is conscious it should never have been
attempted; but he has too much of the old laird's obstinacy
about him, to own an error, though it be as manifest as the
morning star.”

The Quarter-Master then continued to reason with his

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companion, in order to induce him to quit the island, without
delay, using such arguments as first suggested themselves,
sometimes contradicting himself, and not unfrequently urging
at one moment a motive that at the next was directly opposed
by another. The Pathfinder, simple as he was, detected
these flaws in the lieutenant's philosophy, though he was far
from suspecting that they proceeded from a desire to clear
the coast of Mabel's suitor. He met bad reasons by good
ones, resisted every inducement that was not legitimate, by
his intimate acquaintance with his peculiar duties, and was
blind, as usual, to the influence of every incentive that could
not stand the test of integrity. He did not exactly suspect
the secret objects of Muir, but he was far from being blind to
his sophistry. The result was that the two parted, after a
long dialogue, unconvinced and distrustful of each other's
motives, though the distrust of the guide, like all that was
connected with the man, partook of his own upright, disinterested
and ingenuous nature.

A conference that took place, soon after, between Serjeant
Dunham and the lieutenant, led to more consequences. When
it was ended, secret orders were issued to the men, the block-house
was taken possession of, the huts were occupied, and
one accustomed to the movements of soldiers, might have
detected that an expedition was in the wind. In fact, just as
the sun was setting, the serjeant, who had been much occupied
at what was called the harbour, came into his own
hut, followed by Pathfinder and Cap, and as he took his seat
at the neat table that Mabel had prepared for him, he opened
the budget of his intelligence.

“You are likely to be of some use, here, my child;” the
old soldier commenced, “as this tidy and well-ordered supper
can testify; and, I trust, when the proper moment arrives,
you will show yourself to be the descendant of those who
know how to face their enemies.”

“You do not expect me, dear father, to play Joan of Arc,
and to lead the men to battle?”

“Play whom, child—did you ever hear of the person Mabel
mentions, Pathfinder?”

“Not I, sarjeant; but what of that? I am ignorant and unedicated,
and it is too great a pleasure to me to listen to her
voice, and take in her words, to be particular about persons.”

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“I know her,” said Cap, decidedly; “she sailed a privateer
out of Morlaix, in the last war; and good cruises she made
of them.”

Mabel blushed at having inadvertently made an allusion
that went beyond her father's reading, to say nothing of her
uncle's dogmatism; and, perhaps, a little at the Pathfinder's
simple, ingenuous earnestness; but she did not forbear
the less to smile.

“Why, father, I am not expected to fall in with the men,
and to help defend the island?”

“And, yet, women have often done such things, in this
quarter of the world, girl, as our friend, the Pathfinder, here,
will tell you. But, lest you should be surprised at not seeing
us, when you awake in the morning, it is proper that I
now tell you we intend to march in the course of this very
night.”

We, father—and leave me and Jennie on this island
alone!”

“No, my daughter, not quite as unmilitary as that. We
shall leave Lieutenant Muir, brother Cap, Corporal McNab,
and three men, to compose the garrison during our absence.
Jennie will remain with you in this hut, and brother Cap
will occupy my place.”

“And Mr. Muir?” said Mabel, half unconscious of what
she uttered, though she foresaw a great deal of unpleasant
persecution in the arrangement.

“Why, he can make love to you, if you like it, girl; for
he is an amorous youth, and having already disposed of four
wives, is impatient to show how much he honours their memories,
by taking a fifth.”

“The Quarter-Master tells me,” said Pathfinder, innocently,
“that when a man's feelings have been harrowed by so
many losses, there is no wiser way to soothe them, than by
ploughing up the soil anew, in such a manner as to leave no
traces of what have gone over it before.”

“Ay, that is just the difference between ploughing and
harrowing,” returned the serjeant with a grim smile. “But
let him tell Mabel his mind, and there will be an end of his
suit. I very well know that my daughter will never be the
wife of Lieutenant Muir.”

This was said in a way that was tantamount to declaring

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that no daughter of his, ever should become the wife of the
person in question. Mabel had coloured, trembled, half
laughed, and looked uneasy; but, rallying her spirit, she said
in a voice so cheerful as completely to conceal her agitation—

“But, father, we might better wait until Mr. Muir manifests
a wish that your daughter would have him—or rather
a wish to have your daughter, lest we get the fable of sour
grapes thrown into our faces.”

“And what is that fable, Mabel,” eagerly demanded Pathfinder,
who was any thing but learned in the ordinary lore of
white men—“tell it to us, in your own pretty way; I dare
say the sarjeant never heard it.”

Mabel repeated the well-known fable, and as her suitor
had desired, in her own pretty way, which was a way to
keep his eyes riveted on her face, and the whole of his honest
countenance covered with a smile.

“That was like a fox!” cried Pathfinder, when she had
ceased, “ay, and like a Mingo, too, cunning and cruel; that
is the way with both the riptyles. As to grapes, they are
sour enough in this part of the country, even to them that
can get at them, though I dare say there are seasons, and
times, and places, where they are sourer to them that can't.
I should judge, now, my scalp is very sour in Mingo eyes.”

“The sour grapes will be the other way, child, and it is
Mr. Muir who will make the complaint. You would never
marry that man, Mabel?”

“Not she,” put in Cap; “a fellow who is only half a
soldier, after all! The story of them there grapes is quite a
circumstance.”

“I think little of marrying any one, dear father, and dear
uncle, and would rather talk about it less, if you please.
But, did I think of marrying at all, I do believe a man whose
affections have already been tried by three or four wives
would scarcely be my choice.”

The serjeant nodded at the guide, as much as to say, you
see how the land lies; and then he had sufficient consideration
for his daughter's feelings to change the subject.

“Neither you, nor Mabel, brother Cap,” he resumed, “can
have any legal authority with the little garrison I leave behind,
on the island; but you may counsel and influence.

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Strictly speaking, Corporal McNab will be the commanding
officer, and I have endeavoured to impress him with a sense
of his dignity, lest he might give way too much to the superior
rank of Lieutenant Muir, who, being a volunteer, can
have no right to interfere with the duty. I wish you to sustain
the corporal, brother Cap, for should the Quarter-Master
once break through the regulations of the expedition, he may
pretend to command me, as well as McNab.”

“More particularly, should Mabel really cut him adrift,
while you are absent. Of course, serjeant, you 'll leave
every thing that is afloat, under my care? The most d—le
confusion has grown out of misunderstandings between commanders-in-chief,
ashore and afloat.”

“In one sense, brother, though, in a general way, the corporal
is commander-in-chief. History does indeed tell us
that a division of command leads to difficulties, and I shall
avoid that danger. The corporal must command, but you
can counsel freely, particularly in all matters relating to the
boats, of which I shall leave one behind, to secure your retreat
should there be occasion. I know the corporal well;
he is a brave man, and a good soldier; and one that may be
relied on, if the Santa Cruz can be kept from him. But then
he is a Scotchman, and will be liable to the Quarter-Master's
influence, against which I desire both you and Mabel to be
on your guard.”

“But why leave us behind, dear father? I have come
thus far to be a comfort to you, and why not go farther?”

“You are a good girl, Mabel, and very like the Dunhams!
But you must halt here. We shall leave the island to-morrow,
before the day dawns, in order not to be seen by any
prying eyes, coming from our cover, and we shall take the
two largest boats, leaving you the other, and one bark canoe.
We are about to go into the channel used by the French,
where we shall lie in wait, perhaps a week, to intercept their
supply-boats that are about to pass up, on their way to
Frontenac, loaded, in particular, with a heavy amount of
Indian goods.”

“Have you looked well to your papers, brother?” Cap
anxiously demanded. “Of course, you know a capture on
the high seas is piracy, unless your boat is regularily commissioned,
either as a public, or a private armed cruiser.”

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“I have the honour to hold the colonel's appointment as
Serjeant-Major of the 55th,” returned the other, drawing
himself up with dignity, “and that will be sufficient even for
the French King. If not, I have Major Duncan's written
orders.”

“No papers them, for a warlike cruiser.”

“They must suffice, brother, as I have no other. It is of
vast importance to His Majesty's interests, in this part of the
world, that the boats in question should be captured and carried
into Oswego. They contain the blankets, trinkets, rifles,
ammunition,—in short, all the stores with which the French
bribe their accursed savage allies to commit their unholy
acts, setting at naught our holy religion and its precepts, the
laws of humanity, and all that is sacred and dear among
men. By cutting off these supplies, we shall derange their
plans, and gain time on them; for the articles cannot be sent
across the ocean again, this autumn.”

“But, father, does not his Majesty employ Indians, also?”
asked Mabel, with some curiosity.

“Certainly, girl, and he has a right to employ them—God
bless him! It 's a very different thing, whether an Englishman
or a Frenchman employs a savage, as every body can
understand.”

“That is plain enough, brother Dunham; but I do not
see my way so clear, in the matter of the ship's papers.”

“An English colonel's appointment ought to satisfy any
Frenchman of my authority; and what is more, brother, it
shall.”

“But I do not see the difference, father, between an Englishman's
and a Frenchman's employing savages in war?”

“All the odds in the world, child, though you may not be
able to see it. In the first place, an Englishman is naturally
humane and considerate, while a Frenchman is naturally
ferocious and timid.”

“And you may add, brother, that he will dance from
morning till night, if you 'll let him.”

“Very true,” gravely returned the serjeant.

“But, father, I cannot see that all this alters the case. If
it be wrong in a Frenchman to hire savages to fight his enemies,
it would seem to be equally wrong in an Englishman.
You will admit this, Pathfinder?”

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“It 's reasonable—it 's reasonable, and I have never been
one of them that has raised a cry ag'in the Frenchers for
doing the very thing we do ourselves. Still, it is worse to
consort with a Mingo, than to consort with a Delaware. If
any of that just tribe were left, I should think it no sin to
send them out ag'in the foe.”

“And yet they scalp, and slay young and old—women
and children!”

“They have their gifts, Mabel, and are not to be blamed for
following them. Natur' is natur', though the different tribes
have different ways of showing it. For my part, I am white,
and endeavour to maintain white feelings.”

“This is all unintelligible to me,” answered Mabel. “What
is right in King George, it would seem, ought to be right in
King Louis.”

“The King of France's real name is Caput,” observed
Cap, with his mouth full of venison. “I once carried a great
scholar, as a passenger, and he told me that these Lewises
thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth, were all humbugs, and
that the men's real name was Caput; which is French for
`head;' meaning that they ought to be put at the foot of the
ladder, until ready to go up to be hanged.”

“Well, this does look like being given to scalping, as a
nat'ral gift,” Pathfinder remarked, with the air of surprise
with which one receives a novel idea, “and I shall have less
compunction than ever in sarving ag'in the miscreants,
though I can't say I ever yet felt any worth naming.”

As all parties, Mabel excepted, seemed satisfied with the
course the discussion had taken, no one appeared to think it
necessary to pursue the subject. The trio of men, indeed, in
this particular, so much resembled the great mass of their
fellow-creatures, who usually judge of character equally
without knowledge and without justice, that we might not
have thought it necessary to record the discourse, had it not
some bearing in its facts on the incidents of the legend, and
in its opinions on the motives of the characters.

Supper was no sooner ended, than the serjeant dismissed
his guests, and then held a long and confidential dialogue
with his daughter. He was little addicted to giving way to
the gentler emotions, but the novelty of his present situation
awakened feelings that he was unused to experience. The

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soldier, or the sailor, so long as he acts under the immediate
supervision of a superior, thinks little of the risks he runs;
but the moment he feels the responsibility of command, all
the hazards of his undertaking begin to associate themselves
in his mind, with the chances of success or failure. While
he dwells less on his own personal danger, perhaps, than
when that is the principal consideration, he has more lively
general perceptions of all the risks, and submits more to the
influence of the feelings which doubt creates. Such was now
the case with Serjeant Dunham, who, instead of looking forward
to victory as certain, according to his usual habits,
began to feel the possibility that he might be parting with
his child for ever.

Never before had Mabel struck him as so beautiful, as she
appeared that night. Possibly she never had displayed so
many engaging qualities to her father; for concern on his
account had begun to be active in her breast, and then her
sympathies met with unusual encouragement, through those
which had been stirred up in the sterner bosom of the veteran.
She had never been entirely at her ease with her
parent, the great superiority of her education creating a sort
of chasm, which had been widened by the military severity
of manner he had acquired, by dealing so long and intimately
with beings who could only be kept in subjection by an
unremitted discipline. On the present occasion, however, or
after they were left alone, the conversation between the father
and daughter became more confidential than usual, until Mabel
rejoiced to find that it was gradually becoming endearing;
a state of feeling that the warm-hearted girl had silently
pined for in vain, ever since her arrival.

“Then, mother was about my height?” Mabel said, as she
held one of her father's hands in both her own, looking up
into his face with humid eyes. “I had thought her taller.”

“That is the way with most children, who get a habit of
thinking of their parents with respect, until they fancy them
larger and more commanding than they actually are. Your
mother, Mabel, was as near your height, as one woman could
be to another.”

“And her eyes, father?”

“Her eyes were like thine, child, too—blue and soft, and
inviting like; though hardly so laughing.”

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“Mine will never laugh again, dearest father, if you do
not take care of yourself in this expedition.”

“Thank you, Mabel—hem—thank you, child; but I must
do my duty. I wish I had seen you comfortably married
before we left Oswego!—my mind would be casier.”

“Married!—to whom, father?”

“You know the man I wish you to love. You may meet
with many gayer, and many dressed in finer clothes; but with
none with so true a heart, and just a mind.”

“None, father?”

“I know of none; in these particulars, Pathfinder has few
equals, at least.”

“But I need not marry at all. You are single, and I can
remain to take care of you.”

“God bless you, Mabel!—I know you would, and I do
not say that the feeling is not right, for I suppose it is; and
yet I believe there is another, that is more so.”

“What can be more right than to honour one's parents?”

“It is just as right to honour one's husband, my dear child.”

“But I have no husband, father.”

“Then take one, as soon as possible, that you may have
a husband to honour. I cannot live for ever, Mabel, but must
drop off in the course of nature, ere long, if I am not carried
off in the course of war. You are young, and may yet live
long; and it is proper that you should have a male protector,
who can see you safe through life, and take care of you in
age, as you now wish to take care of me.”

“And do you think, father—” said Mabel, playing with
his sinewy fingers, with her own little hands, and looking
down at them, as if they were subjects of intense interest,
though her lips curled in a slight smile, as the words came
from them—“and do you think, father, that Pathfinder is
just the man to do this?—Is he not, within ten or twelve
years, as old as yourself?”

“What of that?—His life has been one of moderation and
exercise, and years are less to be counted, girl, than constitution.
Do you know another more likely to be your protector?”

Mabel did not; at least another who had expressed a desire
to that effect, whatever might have been her hopes and
her wishes.

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“Nay, father, we are not talking of another, but of the
Pathfinder,” she answered evasively. “If he were younger,
I think it would be more natural for me to think of him for
a husband.”

“'T is all in the constitution, I tell you, child: Pathfinder
is a younger man than half our subalterns.”

“He is certainly younger than one, sir—Lieutenant Muir.”

Mabel's laugh was joyous and light-hearted, as if just then
she felt no care.

“That he is—young enough to be his grandson—he is
younger in years too. God forbid, Mabel! that you should
ever become an officer's lady, at least until you are an officer's
daughter.”

“There will be little fear of that, father, if I marry Pathfinder!”
returned the girl, looking up archly in the serjeant's
face again.

“Not by the King's commission, perhaps, though the man
is even now the friend and companion of generals. I think
I could die happy, Mabel, if you were his wife.”

“Father!”

“'T is a sad thing to go into battle, with the weight of an
unprotected daughter laid upon the heart.”

“I would give the world to lighten yours of its load, my
dear sir!”

“It might be done—” said the serjeant, looking fondly at
his child, “though I could not wish to put a burthen on
yours, in order to do so.”

The voice was deep and tremulous, and never before had
Mabel witnessed such a show of affection in her parent. The
habitual sternness of the man, lent an interest to his emotions,
that they might otherwise have wanted, and the daughter's
heart yearned to relieve the father's mind.

“Father, speak plainly,” she cried, almost convulsively.

“Nay, Mabel, it might not be right—your wishes and
mine may be very different.”

“I have no wishes—know nothing of what you mean—
would you speak of my future marriage?”

“If I could see you promised to Pathfinder—know that
you were pledged to become his wife, let my own fate be
what it might, I think I could die happy. But I will ask
no pledge of you, my child—I will not force you to do

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what you might repent. Kiss me, Mabel, and go to your
bed.”

Had Serjeant Dunham exacted of Mabel the pledge that
he really so much desired, he would have encountered a
resistance that he might have found difficult to overcome; but,
by letting nature have its course, he enlisted a powerful ally
on his side, and the warm-hearted, generous-minded Mabel
was ready to concede to her affections, much more than she
would ever have yielded to menace. At that touching moment
she thought only of her parent, who was about to quit
her, perhaps for ever; and all of that ardent love for him,
which had possibly been as much fed by the imagination as
by any thing else, but which had received a little check by
the restrained intercourse of the last fortnight, now returned
with a force that was increased by pure and intense feeling.
Her father seemed all in all to her, and to render him
happy, there was no proper sacrifice that she was not ready
to make. One painful, rapid, almost wild gleam of thought
shot across the brain of the girl, and her resolution wavered;
but endeavouring to trace the foundation of the pleasing hope
on which it was based, she found nothing positive to support
it. Trained like a woman, to subdue her most ardent feelings,
her thoughts reverted to her father, and to the blessings
that awaited the child who yielded to a parent's wishes.

“Father,” she said quietly, almost with a holy calm—
“God blesses the dutiful daughter!”

“He will, Mabel; we have the good book for that.”

“I will marry whomever you desire.”

“Nay—nay, Mabel—you may have a choice of your
own”—

“I have no choice—that is—none have asked me to have
a choice, but Pathfinder and Mr. Muir; and between them,
neither of us would hesitate. No, father; I will marry
whomever you may choose.”

“Thou knowest my choice, beloved child; none other can
make thee as happy, as the noble-hearted guide.”

“Well then, if he wish it—if he ask me again—for, father,
you would not have me offer myself, or that any one should
do that office for me”—and the blood stole across the pallid
cheeks of Mabel, as she spoke, for high and generous resolutions
had driven back the stream of life to her heart,—“no

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one must speak to him of it; but if he seek me again, and,
knowing all that a true girl ought to tell the man she marries,
and he then wishes to make me his wife, I will be his.”

“Bless you, my Mabel—God in heaven bless you, and
reward you as a pious daughter deserves to be rewarded.”

“Yes, father—put your mind at peace—go on this expedition
with a light heart, and trust in God. For me, you
will have, now, no care. In the spring—I must have a little
time, father—but, in the spring, I will marry Pathfinder, if
that noble-hearted hunter shall then desire it.”

“Mabel, he loves you as I loved your mother. I have
seen him weep like a child, when speaking of his feelings
towards you.”

“Yes, I believe it—I 've seen enough to satisfy me, that
he thinks better of me than I deserve; and certainly the man
is not living for whom I have more respect, than for Pathfinder;
not even for you, dear father.”

“That is as it should be, child, and the union will be
blessed. May I not tell Pathfinder this?”

“I would rather you would not, father. Let it come of
itself—come naturally—the man should seek the woman,
and not the woman the man—” The smile that illuminated
Mabel's handsome face, was angelic, as even her parent
thought, though one better practised in detecting the passing
emotions, as they betray themselves in the countenance, might
have traced something wild and unnatural in it—“No—
no—we must let things take their course; father, you have
my solemn promise.”

“That will do—that will do, Mabel; now kiss me—God
bless and protect you, girl—you are a good daughter.”

Mabel threw herself into her father's arms,—it was the first
time in her life,—and sobbed on his bosom like an infant.
The stern soldier's heart was melted, and the tears of the
two mingled: but Serjeant Dunham soon started, as if
ashamed of himself, and gently forcing his daughter from
him, he bade her good night, and sought his pallet. Mabel
went sobbing to the rude corner that had been prepared for
her reception, and in a few minutes the hut was undisturbed
by any sound, save the heavy breathing of the veteran.

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CHAPTER V.

“Wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial stone, aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness, left on its stalk,
To mark where a garden had been.”
Campbell.

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It was not only broad day-light, when Mabel awoke, but
the sun had actually been up some time. Her sleep had
been tranquil, for she rested on an approving conscience, and
fatigue contributed to render it sweet; and no sound of those
who had been so early in motion, had interfered with her
rest. Springing to her feet, and rapidly dressing herself, the
girl was soon breathing the fragrance of the morning, in the
open air. For the first time, she was sensibly struck with
the singular beauties, as well as with the profound retirement
of her present situation. The day proved to be one of those
of the autumnal glory, so common to a climate that is more
abused than appreciated, and its influence was every way inspiriting
and genial. Mabel was benefited by this circumstance,
for, as she fancied, her heart was heavy on account
of the dangers to which a father, whom she now began to
love, as women love, when confidence is created.

But the island seemed absolutely deserted. The previous
night, the bustle of the arrival had given the spot an appearance
of life that was now entirely gone, and our heroine had
turned her eyes nearly around on every object in sight, before
she caught a view of a single human being to remove the sense
of utter solitude. Then, indeed, she beheld all who were
left behind, collected in a group, around a fire which might
be said to belong to the camp. The person of her uncle, to
whom she was so much accustomed, reassured the girl, and
she examined the remainder, with a curiosity natural to her
situation. Besides Cap, and the Quarter-Master, there were
the corporal, the three soldiers, and the woman who was
cooking. The huts were silent and empty, and the low, but
tower-like summit of the block-house, rose above the bushes,
by which it was half concealed, in picturesque beauty. The
sun was just casting its brightness into the open places of the

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glade, and the vault, over her head, was impending in the
soft sublimity of the blue void. Not a cloud was visible, and
she secretly fancied the circumstance might be taken as a
harbinger of peace and security.

Perceiving that all the others were occupied with that great
concern of human nature, a breakfast, Mabel walked, unobserved,
towards an end of the island, where she was completely
shut out of view, by the trees and bushes. Here she
got a stand on the very edge of the water, by forcing aside
the low branches, and stood watching the barely perceptible
flow and re-flow of the miniature waves that laved the shore;
a sort of physical echo to the agitation that prevailed on the
lake, fifty miles above her. The glimpses of natural scenery
that offered, were very soft and pleasing; and, our heroine,
who had a quick and true eye for all that was lovely in nature,
was not slow in selecting the most striking bits of landscape.
She gazed through the different vistas formed by the
openings between the islands, and thought she had never looked
on aught more lovely.

While thus occupied, Mabel was suddenly alarmed by fancying
that she caught a glimpse of a human form, among the
bushes that lined the shore of the island that lay directly before
her. The distance across the water was not a hundred
yards, and though she might be mistaken, and her fancy was
wandering when the form passed before her sight, still she
did not think she could be deceived. Aware that her sex
would be no protection against a rifle-bullet, should an Iroquois
get a view of her, the girl instinctively drew back,
taking care to conceal her person as much as possible by
the leaves, while she kept her own look riveted on the opposite
shore, vainly waiting for some time, in the expectation of
the stranger. She was about to quit her post in the bushes,
and hasten to her uncle in order to acquaint him of her suspicions,
when she saw the branch of an alder thrust beyond
the fringe of bushes, on the other island, and waved toward
her significantly, and, as she fancied in token of amity. This
was a breathless and a trying moment, to one as inexperienced
in frontier warfare as our heroine, and yet she felt
the great necessity that existed for preserving her recollection,
and of acting with steadiness and discretion.

It was one of the peculiarities of the exposure to which

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those who dwelt on the frontiers of America were liable, to
bring out the moral qualities of the women to a degree that
they must themselves, under other circumstances, have believed
they were incapable of manifesting; and Mabel well knew
that the borderers loved to dwell, in their legends, on the presence
of mind, fortitude, and spirit that their wives and sisters
had displayed, under circumstances the most trying.
Her emulation had been awakened by what she had heard
on such subjects; and it at once struck her, that now was
the moment for her to show that she was truly Serjeant
Dunham's child. The motion of the branch was such as,
she believed, indicated amity; and, after a moment's hesitatation,
she broke off a twig, fastened it to a stick, and, thrusting
it through an opening, waved it in return, imitating, as
closely as possible, the manner of the other.

This dumb show lasted two or three minutes on both
sides, when Mabel perceived that the bushes opposite were
cautiously pushed aside, and a human face appeared at an
opening. A glance sufficed to let Mabel see that it was the
countenance of a red-skin, as well as that of a woman. A
second and a better look satisfied her that it was the face of the
Dew of June, the wife of Arrowhead. During the time she had
travelled in company with this woman, Mabel had been won
by the gentleness of manner, the meek simplicity, and the
mingled awe and affection with which she regarded her husband.
Once or twice, in the course of the journey, she
fancied the Tuscarora had manifested towards herself an unpleasant
degree of attention; and on those occasions, it had
struck her, that his wife exhibited sorrow and mortification.
As Mabel, however, had more than compensated for any pain
she might, in this way, unintentionally have caused her companion,
by her own kindness of manner and attentions, the
woman had shown much attachment to her, and they had
parted, with a deep conviction on the mind of our heroine,
that in the Dew of June she had lost a friend.

It is useless to attempt to analyze all the ways by which
the human heart is led into confidence. Such a feeling,
however, had the young Tuscarora woman awakened in the
breast of our heroine; and the latter, under the impression
that this extraordinary visit was intended for her own good,
felt every disposition to have a closer communication. She

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no longer hesitated about showing herself clear of the bushes,
and was not sorry to see the Dew of June imitate her confidence,
by stepping fearlessly out of her own cover. The
two girls, for the Tuscarora, though married, was even
younger than Mabel, now openly exchanged signs of friendship,
and the latter beckoned to her friend to approach,
though she knew not the manner, herself, in which this object
could be effected. But the Dew of June was not slow in
letting it be seen that it was in her power; for, disappearing
a moment, she soon showed herself again in the end of a bark
canoe, the bows of which she had drawn to the edge of the
bushes, and of which the body still lay in a sort of covered
creek. Mabel was about to invite her to cross, when her
own name was called aloud, in the stentorian voice of her
uncle. Making a hurried gesture for the Tuscarora girl to
conceal herself; Mabel sprang from the bushes, and tripped
up the glade towards the sound, and perceived that the whole
party had just seated themselves at breakfast; Cap having
barely put his appetite under sufficient restraint to summon
her to join them. That this was the most favourable instant
for the interview flashed on the mind of Mabel; and, excusing
herself on the plea of not being prepared for the
meal, she bounded back to the thicket, and soon renewed her
communications with the young Indian woman.

Dew of June was quick of comprehension; and with halfa-dozen
noiseless strokes of the paddles, her canoe was concealed
in the bushes of Station Island. In another minute,
Mabel held her hand, and was leading her through the grove
towards her own hut. Fortunately, the latter was so placed
as to be completely hid from the sight of those at the fire,
and they both entered it unseen. Hastily explaining to her
guest, in the best manner she could, the necessity of quitting
her for a short time, Mabel, first placing the Dew of June in
her own room, with a full certainty that she would not quit
it until told to do so, went to the fire, and took her seat
among the rest, with all the composure it was in her power
to command.

“Late come, late served, Mabel,” said her uncle, between
two mouthfuls of broiled salmon, for though the cookery
might be very unsophisticated on that remote frontier, the

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viands were generally delicious; “late come, late served: it
is a good rule, and keeps laggards up to their work.”

“I am no laggard, uncle, for I have been stirring near an
hour, and exploring our island.”

“It's little you'll make o' that, Mistress Mabel,” put in
Muir, “that's little by nature. Lundie, or it might be better
to style him Major Duncan in this presence”—this was said
in consideration of the corporal and the common men, though
they were taking their meal a little apart—“it might be better
to style him Major Duncan in this presence, has not added
an empire to his Majesty's dominions in getting possession
of this island, which is likely to equal that of the celebrated
Sancho, in revenues and profits—Sancho of whom, doubtless,
Master Cap, you'll often have been reading in your leisure
hours, more especially in calms, and moments of inactivity.”

“I know the spot you mean, Quarter-Master; Sancho's
Island—coral rock, of new formation, and as bad a landfall,
in a dark night and blowing weather, as a sinner could wish
to keep clear of. It's a famous place for cocoa-nuts and bitter
water, that Sancho's Island!”

“It's no very famous for dinners,” returned Muir, repressing
the smile that was struggling to his lips, out of respect to
Mabel, “nor do I think there'll be much to choose between
its revenue and that of this spot. In my judgment, Master
Cap, this is a very unmilitary position, and I look to some
calamity's befalling it, sooner or later.”

“It is to be hoped not until our turn of duty is over,” observed
Mabel. “I have no wish to study the French language.”

“We might think ourselves happy, did it not prove to be
the Iroquois. I have reasoned with Major Duncan on the
occupation of this position, but `a wilfu' man maun ha' his
way.' My first object, in accompanying this party, was to
endeavour to make myself acceptable and useful to your
beautiful niece, Master Cap; and the second was to take such
an account of the stores that belong to my particular department,
as shall leave no question open to controversy, concerning
the manner of expenditure, when they shall have
disappeared by means of the enemy.”

“Do you look upon matters as so serious?” demanded

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Cap, actually suspending his mastication of a bit of venison,
for he passed alternately, like a modern élégant, from fish
to flesh and back again, in the interest he took in the answer.
“Is the danger pressing?”

“I'll no say just that; and I'll no say, just the contrary.
There is always danger in war, and there is more of it at
the advanced posts than at the main encampment. It ought,
therefore, to occasion no surprise were we to be visited by
the French, at any moment.”

“And what the devil is to be done in that case?—Six men
and two women would make but a poor job, in defending
such a place as this, should the enemy invade us, as no
doubt, Frenchman-like, they would take very good care to
come strong-handed.”

“That we may depend on. Some very formidable force,
at the very lowest. A military disposition might be made,
in defence of the island, out of all question, and according to
the art of war, though we would probably fail in the force
necessary to carry out the design, in any very creditable
manner. In the first place, a detachment should be sent off
to the shore, with orders to annoy the enemy in landing. A
strong party ought instantly to be thrown into the block-house,
as the citadel, for on that all the different detachments
would naturally fall back for support, as the French advanced;
and an entrenched camp might be laid out around
the strong-hold, as it would be very unmilitary, indeed, to let
the foe get near enough to the foot of the walls to mine them.
Chevaux-de-frise would keep the cavalry in check, and as for
the artillery, redoubts should be thrown up, under cover of
yon woods. Strong skirmishing parties, moreover, would
be exceedingly serviceable in retarding the march of the
enemy; and these different huts, if properly picketed and
ditched, would be converted into very eligible positions for
that object.”

“Whe-e-e-w! Quarter-Master. And who the d—l is to
find all the men to carry out such a plan?”

“The King, out of all question, Master Cap. It is his
quarrel, and it's just he should bear the burthen o' it.”

“And we are only six! This is fine talking, with a vengeance.
You could be sent down to the shore to oppose the
landing, Mabel might skirmish with her tongue at least, the

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soldier's wife might act chevaux-de-frise, to entangle the
cavalry, the corporal should command the entrenched camp,
his three men could occupy the five huts, and I would take
the block-house. Whe-e-e-w, you describe well, Lieutenant,
and should have been a limner instead of a soldier!”

“Na—I 've been very literal and upright in my exposition
of matters. That there is no greater force here to carry out
the plan, is a fault of His Majesty's ministers, and none of
mine.”

“But should our enemy really appear,” asked Mabel, with
more interest than she might have shown, had she not remembered
the guest in the hut, “what course ought we to
pursue?”

“My advice would be to attempt to achieve that, pretty
Mabel, which rendered Xenophon so justly celebrated.”

“I think you mean a retreat, though I half guess at your
allusion.”

“You've imagined my meaning from the possession of a
strong native sense, young lady. I am aware that your worthy
father has pointed out to the corporal, certain modes and
methods by which he fancies this island could be held, in
case the French should discover its position; but the excellent
serjeant, though your father, and as good a man in his
duties as ever wielded a spontoon, is not the great Lord Stair,
or even the Duke of Marlborough. I 'll no deny the serjeant's
merits, in his particular sphere, though I cannot exaggerate
qualities, however excellent, into those of men who may be,
in some trifling degree, his superiors. Serjeant Dunham has
taken counsel of his heart, instead of his head, in resolving
to issue such orders; but, if the fort fall, the blame will lie
on him that ordered it to be occupied, and not on him whose
duty it was to defend it. Whatever may be the determination
of the latter, should the French and their allies land, a
good commander never neglects the preparations necessary
to effect a retreat; and I would advise Master Cap, who is
the admiral of our navy, to have a boat in readiness to evacuate
the island, if need comes to need. The largest boat
that we have left, carries a very ample sail, and by hauling
it round here, and mooring it under those bushes, there will
be a convenient place for a hurried embarkation, and then
you 'll perceive, pretty Mabel, that it is scarce fifty yards

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before we shall be in a channel between two other islands,
and hid from the sight of those who may happen to be on this.”

“All that you say, is very true, Mr. Muir; but may not
the French come from that quarter themselves? If it is so
good for a retreat, it is equally good for an advance.”

“They'll no have the sense to do so discreet a thing,” returned
Muir, looking furtively and a little uneasily around
him; “they'll no have sufficient discretion. Your French
are a head-over-heels nation, and usually come forward in a
random way; so, we may look for them, if they come at all,
on the other side of the island.”

The discourse now became exceedingly desultory, touching
principally, however, on the probabilities of an invasion, and
the best means of meeting it.

To most of this, Mabel paid but little attention, though
she felt some surprise that Lieutenant Muir, an officer whose
character for courage stood well, should openly recommend
an abandonment of what appeared to her to be doubly a duty,
her father's character being connected with the defence of
the island. Her mind, however, was so much occupied
with her guest, that, seizing the first favourable moment, she
left the table, and was soon in her own hut again. Carefully
fastening the door, and seeing that the simple curtain was
drawn before the single little window, Mabel next led the
Dew of June, or June, as she was familiarly termed by those
who spoke to her in English, into the outer room, making
signs of affection and confidence.

“I am glad to see you, June,” said Mabel, with one of her
sweetest smiles, and in her own winning voice; “very glad
to see you—what has brought you hither, and how did you
discover the island?”

“Speak slow,” said June, returning smile for smile, and
pressing the little hand she held, with one of her own, that
was scarcely larger, though it had been hardened by labour,
“more slow—too quick.”

Mabel repeated her questions, endeavouring to repress the
impetuosity of her feelings, and she succeeded in speaking
so distinctly as to be understood.

“June, friend,” returned the Indian woman.

“I believe you, June—from my soul I believe you; what
has this to do with your visit?”

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“Friend come to see friend,” answered June, again
smiling openly in the other's face.

“There is some other reason, June: else would you never
run this risk, and alone—you are alone, June?”

“June wid you—no one else. June come alone—paddle
canoe.”

“I hope so—I think so—nay, I know so. You would not
be treacherous with me, June?”

“What treacherous?”

“You would not betray me—would not give me to the
French—to the Iroquois—to Arrowhead”—June shook her
head earnestly,—“you would not sell my scalp?”

Here June passed her arm fondly around the slender waist
of Mabel, and pressed her to her heart, with a tenderness
and affection, that brought tears into the eyes of our heroine.
It was done in the fond caressing manner of a woman, and
it was scarcely possible that it should not obtain credit for
sincerity, with a young and ingenuous person of the same
sex. Mabel returned the pressure, and then held the other
off at the length of her arm, looked her steadily in the face,
and continued her inquiries.

“If June has something to tell her friend, let her speak
plainly,” she said. “My ears are open.”

“June 'fraid Arrowhead kill her.”

“But Arrowhead will never know it.” Mabel's blood
mounted to her temples, as she said this; for she felt that she
was urging a wife to be treacherous to her husband. “That
is, Mabel will not tell him.”

“He bury tomahawk in June's head.”

“That must never be, dear June; I would rather you
should say no more, than run this risk.”

“Block-house good place to sleep—good place to stay.”

“Do you mean that I may save my life by keeping in the
block-house, June? Surely, surely, Arrowhead will not hurt
you for telling me that. He cannot wish me any great harm,
for I never injured him.”

“Arrowhead wish no harm to handsome pale-face,” returned
June, averting her face, and, though she always spoke
in the soft gentle voice of an Indian girl, permitting its notes
to fall so low as to cause them to sound melancholy and
timid,—“Arrowhead love pale-face girl.”

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Mabel blushed, she knew not why, and, for a moment, her
questions were repressed by a feeling of inherent delicacy.
But it was necessary to know more, for her apprehensions
had been keenly awakened, and she resumed her inquiries.

“Arrowhead can have no reason to love, or to hate me,
she said. “Is he near you?”

“Husband always near wife, here,” said June, laying her
hand on her heart.

“Excellent creature!—But, tell me June, ought I to keep
in the block-house to-day—this morning—now?”

“Block-house very good; good for women. Block-house
got no scalp.”

“I fear I understand you only too well, June. Do you
wish to see my father?”

“No here; gone away.”

“You cannot know that, June; you see the island is
full of his soldiers.”

“No full; gone away,”—here June held up four of her
fingers,—“so many red-coats.”

“And Pathfinder—would you not like to see the Pathfinder?—
he can talk to you in the Iroquois tongue.”

“Tongue gone wid him,” said June, laughing; “keep
tongue in his mout'.”

There was something so sweet and contagious in the infantile
laugh of an Indian girl, that Mabel could not refrain
from joining in it, much as her fears were aroused by all that
had passed.

“You appear to know, or to think you know, all about
us, June. But, if Pathfinder be gone, Eau-douce can speak
French, too. You know Eau-douce; shall I run and bring
him to talk with you?”

“Eau-douce gone, too, all but heart; that there.” As June
said this, she laughed again, looked in different directions, as
if unwilling to confuse the other, and laid her hand on Mabel's
bosom.

Our heroine had often heard of the wonderful sagacity of
the Indians, and of the surprising manner in which they
noted all things, while they appeared to regard none, but
she was scarce prepared for the direction the discourse had
so singularly taken. Willing to change it, and, at the same
time, truly anxious to learn how great the danger that

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impended over them might really be, she rose from the camp-stool, on
which she had been seated, and, by assuming an attitude of
less affectionate confidence, she hoped to hear more of that
she really desired to learn, and to avoid allusions to that
which she found so embarrassing.

“You know how much or how little you ought to tell me,
June,” she said, “and I hope you love me well enough to
give me the information I ought to hear. My dear uncle,
too, is on the island, and you are, or ought to be, his friend,
as well as mine; and both of us will remember your conduct,
when we get back to Oswego.”

“Maybe never get back;—who know?” This was said
doubtingly, or as one lays down an uncertain proposition, and
not with a taunt, or a desire to alarm.

“No one knows what will happen, but God. Our lives
are in his hands. Still I think you are to be his instrument
in saving us.”

This passed June's comprehension, and she only looked
her ignorance, for it was evident she wished to be of use.

“Block-house very good,” she repeated, as soon as her
countenance ceased to express uncertainty, laying strong emphasis
on the two last words.

“Well, I understand this, June, and will sleep in it to-night.
Of course, I am to tell my uncle what you have
said.”

The Dew of June started, and she discovered a very manifest
uneasiness, at the interrogatory.

“No—no—no—no”—she answered, with a volubility and
vehemence that was imitated from the French of the Canadas,
“no good to tell Salt-water. He much talk and long tongue.
Thinks woods all water; understand not'ing. Tell Arrowhead,
and June die.”

“You do my dear uncle injustice, for he would be as little
likely to betray you, as any one.”

“No understand. Salt-water got tongue, but no eyes, no
ears, no nose—not'ing but tongue, tongue, tongue.”

Although Mabel did not exactly coincide in this opinion,
she saw that Cap had not the confidence of the young Indian
woman, and that it was idle to expect she would consent to
his being admitted to their interview.

“You appear to think you know our situation pretty well,

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June,” Mabel continued—“have you been on the island before
this visit?”

“Just come.”

“How then do you know that what you say is true; my
father, the Pathfinder and Eau-douce may all be here within
sound of my voice, if I choose to call them.”

“All gone,” said June positively, smiling good-humouredly
at the same time.

“Nay, this is more than you can say certainly, not having
been over the island to examine it.”

“Got good eyes; see boat with men go away—see ship
with Eau-douce.”

“Then you have been some time watching us.—I think,
however, you have not counted them that remain.”

June laughed, held up her four fingers again, and then
pointed to her two thumbs—passing a finger over the first,
she repeated the words “red-coats,” and touching the last, she
added—“Salt-water,” “Quarter-Master.” All this was being
very accurate, and Mabel began to entertain serious doubts
of the propriety of her permitting her visiter to depart without
her becoming more explicit. Still it was so repugnant to
her feelings to abuse the confidence this gentle and affectionate
creature had evidently reposed in her, that Mabel had no
sooner admitted the thought of summoning her uncle, than
she rejected it, as unworthy of herself, and unjust to her
friend. To aid this good resolution, too, there was the certainty
that June would reveal nothing, but take refuge in a
stubborn silence, if any attempt was made to coerce her.

“You think, then, June,” Mabel continued, as soon as
these thoughts had passed through her mind, “that I had
better live in the block-house?”

“Good place for woman. Block-house got no scalp.
Logs t'ick.”

“You speak confidently, June, as if you had been in it,
and had measured its walls.”

June laughed, and she looked knowing, though she said
nothing.

“Does any one but yourself know how to find this island—
have any of the Iroquois seen it?”

June looked sad, and she cast her eyes warily about her,
as if distrusting a listener.

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“Tuscarora everywhere—Oswego, here, Frontenac, Mohawk—
everywhere. If he see June, kill her.”

“But we thought that no one knew of this island, and that
we had no reason to fear our enemies while on it.”

“Much eye, Iroquois.”

“Eyes will not always do, June.—This spot is hid from
ordinary sight, and few of even our own people know how
to find it.”

“One man can tell—some Yengeese talk French.”

Mabel felt a chill at her heart. All the suspicions against
Jasper, which she had hitherto disdained entertaining, crowded
in a body on her thoughts, and the sensation that they brought
was so sickening, that for an instant she imagined she was
about to faint. Arousing herself, and remembering her promise
to her father, she arose and walked up and down the
hut for a minute, fancying that Jasper's delinquencies were
naught to her, though her inmost heart yearned with the
desire to think him innocent.

“I understand your meaning, June,” she then said—“You
wish me to know that some one has treacherously told your
people where and how to find the island.”

June laughed, for in her eyes artifice in war was oftener a
merit than a crime; but she was too true to her tribe herself,
to say more than the occasion required. Her object was to
save Mabel, and Mabel only, and she saw no sufficient reason
for “travelling out of the record,” as the lawyers express
it, in order to do any thing else.

“Pale-face know now—” she added—“Block-house good
for girl—no matter for men and warriors.”

“But it is much matter with me, June, for one of these
men is my uncle, whom I love, and the others are my countrymen
and friends. I must tell them what has passed.”

“Then June be kill”—returned the young Indian quietly,
though she evidently spoke with concern.

“No—they shall not know that you have been here.
Still, they must be on their guard, and we can all go into the
block-house.”

“Arrowhead know—see every thing, and June be kill.
June come to tell young pale-face friend, not to tell men.
Every warrior watch his own scalp. June woman, and tell
woman; no tell men.”

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Mabel was greatly distressed at this declaration of her
wild friend, for it was now evident the young creature understood
that her communication was to go no farther. She
was ignorant how far these people considered the point of
honour interested in her keeping the secret; and, most of all,
was she unable to say how far any indiscretion of her own
might actually commit June, and endanger her life. All
these considerations flashed on her mind, and reflection only
rendered their influence more painful. June, too, manifestly
viewed the matter gravely, for she began to gather up the
different little articles she had dropped, in taking Mabel's
hand, and was preparing to depart. To attempt detaining
her was out of the question, and to part from her, after all
she had hazarded to serve her, was repugnant to all the just
and kind feelings of our heroine's nature.

“June,” she said eagerly, folding her arms round the gentle,
but uneducated being, “we are friends. From me you
have nothing to fear, for no one shall know of your visit. If
you could give me some signal just before the danger comes,
some sign by which to know when to go into the block-house,—
how to take care of myself.”

June paused, for she had been in earnest in her intention
to depart; and then she said quietly—

“Bring June pigeon.”

“A pigeon! Where shall I find a pigeon to bring you?”

“Next hut—bring old one—June go to canoe.”

“I think I understand you, June; but had I not better lead
you back to the bushes, lest you meet some of the men?”

“Go out first—count men—one—two—t'ree—four—five—
six”—here June held up her fingers, and laughed—“all
out of way—good—all but one—call him one side. Then
sing, and fetch pigeon.”

Mabel smiled at the readiness and ingenuity of the girl,
and prepared to execute her requests. At the door, however,
she stopped, and looked back entreatingly at the Indian
woman.

“Is there no hope of your telling me more, June?” she said.

“Know all now—block-house good—pigeon tell—Arrowhead
kill.”

The last words sufficed; for Mabel could not urge further
communications, when her companion herself told her, that

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the penalty of her revelations might be death by the hand of
her husband. Throwing open the door, she made a sign of
adieu to June, and went out of the hut. Mabel resorted to the
simple expedient of the young Indian girl, to ascertain the situation
of the different individuals on the island. Instead of looking
about her with the intention of recognizing faces and
dresses, she merely counted them; and found that three still
remained at the fire, while two had gone to the boat, one of
whom was Mr. Muir. The sixth man was her uncle; and
he was coolly arranging some fishing tackle, at no great distance
from the fire. The woman was just entering her own
hut; and this accounted for the whole party. Mabel now,
affecting to have dropped something, returned nearly to the
hut she had left, warbling an air, stooped as if to pick up
some object from the ground, and hurried towards the hut
June had mentioned. This was a dilapidated structure, and
it had been converted, by the soldiers of the last detachment,
into a sort of store-house for their live stock. Among other
things, it contained a few dozen pigeons, which were regaling
on a pile of wheat, that had been brought off from one of
the farms plundered on the Canada shore. Mabel had not
much difficulty in catching one of these pigeons, although
they fluttered and flew about the hut, with a noise like that of
drums; and, concealing it in her dress, she stole back towards
her own hut with the prize. It was empty; and, without
doing more than cast a glance in at the door, the eager girl
hurried down to the shore. She had no difficulty in escaping
observation, for the trees and bushes made a complete cover
to her person. At the canoe, she found June; who took the
pigeon, placed it in a basket of her own manufacturing,
and repeating the words, “block-house good,” she glided out
of the bushes, and across the narrow passage, as noiselessly
as she had come. Mabel waited some time to catch a signal
of leave-taking or amity, after her friend had landed; but
none was given. The adjacent islands, without exception,
were as quiet as if no one had ever disturbed the sublime repose
of nature; and nowhere could any sign or symptom be
discovered, as Mabel then thought, that might denote the
proximity of the sort of danger of which June had given
notice.

On returning, however, from the shore, Mabel was struck

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with a little circumstance, that, in an ordinary situation,
would have attracted no attention, but which, now that her
suspicions had been aroused, did not pass before her uneasy
eye unnoticed. A small piece of red bunting, such as is used
in the ensigns of ships, was fluttering at the lower branch of
a small tree, fastened in a way to permit it to blow out, or
to droop like a vessel's pennant.

Now that Mabel's fears were awakened, June herself could
not have manifested greater quickness in analyzing facts that
she believed might affect the safety of the party. She saw
at a glance, that this bit of cloth could be observed from an
adjacent island; that it lay so near the line between her own
hut and the canoe, as to leave no doubt that June had passed
near it, if not directly under it; and that it might be a
signal to communicate some important fact connected with
the mode of attack, to those who were probably lying in
ambush near them. Tearing the little strip of bunting from
the tree, Mabel hastened on, scarce knowing what her duty
next required of her. June might be false to her; but her manner,
her looks, her affection, and her disposition as Mabel had
known it in the journey, forbade the idea. Then came
the allusion to Arrowhead's admiration of the pale-face
beauties, some dim recollections of the looks of the Tuscarora,
and a painful consciousness that few wives could view
with kindness one who had estranged a husband's affections.
None of these images were distinct and clear, but they rather
gleamed over the mind of our heroine than rested in it, and
they quickened her pulses, as they did her step, without
bringing with them the prompt and clear decisions that
usually followed her reflections. She had hurried onwards
towards the hut occupied by the soldier's wife, intending to
remove at once to the block-house, with the woman, though
she could persuade no other to follow, when her impatient
walk was interrupted by the voice of Muir.

“Whither so fast, pretty Mabel,” he cried, “and why so
given to solitude?—the worthy serjeant will deride my breeding,
if he hear that his daughter passes the mornings alone
and unattended to, though he well knows that it is my ardent
wish to be her slave and companion, from the beginning of
the year to its end.”

“Surely, Mr. Muir, you must have some authority here,”

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Mabel suddenly arrested her steps to say. “One of your
rank would be listened to, at least, by a corporal!”

“I don't know that—I don't know that,”—interrupted
Muir, with an impatience and appearance of alarm that
might have excited Mabel's attention at another moment.
“Command is command, discipline, discipline, and authority,
authority. Your good father would be sore grieved did he
find me interfering to sully, or carry off the laurels he is
about to win; and I cannot command the corporal, without
equally commanding the serjeant. The wisest way will be
for me to remain in the obscurity of a private individual in
this enterprise; and it is so that all parties, from Lundie
down, understand the transaction.”

“This I know, and it may be well; nor would I give my
dear father any cause of complaint, but you may influence
the corporal to his own good.”

“I 'll no say that,” returned Muir, in his sly Scotch way;—
“it would be far safer to promise to influence him to
his injury. Mankind, pretty Mabel, have their peculiarities,
and to influence a fellow-being to his own good, is one of the
most difficult tasks of human nature, while the opposite is
just the easiest. You 'll no forget this, my dear; but bear it
in mind for your edification and government; but, what is
that you 're twisting round your slender finger, as you may
be said to twist hearts?”

“It is nothing but a bit of cloth—a sort of flag—a trifle
that is hardly worth our attention at this grave moment—
If”—

“A trifle! It 's no so trifling as ye may imagine, Mistress
Mabel,” taking the bit of bunting from her, and stretching it
at full length with both his arms extended, while his face
grew grave, and his eye watchful. “Ye 'll no ha' been
finding this, Mabel Dunham, in the breakfast?”

Mabel simply acquainted him with the spot where, and the
manner in which he had found the bit of cloth. While she
was speaking, the eye of the Quarter-Master was not quiet
for a moment, glancing from the rag to the face of our heroine,
then back again to the rag. That his suspicions were
awakened was easy to be seen, nor was he long in letting it
be known what direction they had taken.

“We are not in a part of the world, where our ensigns

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and gauds ought to be spread abroad to the wind, Mabel
Dunham!” he said, with an ominous shake of the head.

“I thought as much myself, Mr. Muir, and brought away
the little flag, lest it might be the means of betraying our
presence here, to the enemy, even though nothing is intended
by its display. Ought not my uncle to be made acquainted
with the circumstance?”

“I no see the necessity for that, pretty Mabel, for as you
justly say it is a circumstance, and circumstances sometimes
worry the worthy mariner. But this flag, if flag it can be
called, belongs to a seaman's craft. You may perceive that it
is made of what is called bunting, and that is a description
of cloth used only by vessels for such purposes, our colours
being of silk, as you may understand, or painted canvass.
It 's surprisingly like the fly of the Scud's ensign! And now
I recollect me, to have observed that a piece had been cut
from that very flag!”

Mabel felt her heart sink, but she had sufficient self-command
not to attempt an answer.

“It must be looked to,” Muir continued, “and after all, I
think it may be well to hold a short consultation with Master
Cap, than whom a more loyal subject does not exist in the
British Empire.”

“I have thought the warning so serious,” Mabel rejoined,
“that I am about to remove to the block-house, and to take
the woman with me.”

“I do not see the prudence of that, Mabel. The block-house
will be the first spot assailed, should there really be
an attack; and it 's no well provided for a siege, that must be
allowed. If I might advise in so delicate a contingency, I
would recommend your taking refuge in the boat, which, as
you may now perceive, is most favourably placed to retreat
by that channel opposite, where all in it would be hid by the
islands, in one or two minutes. Water leaves no trail, as
Pathfinder well expresses it, and there appears to be so many
different passages in that quarter, that escape would be more
than probable. I 've always been of opinion that Lundie
hazarded too much, in occupying a post as far advanced, and
as much exposed, as this.”

“It 's too late to regret it now, Mr. Muir, and we have
only to consult our own security.”

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“And the King's honour, pretty Mabel. Yes, His Majesty's
arms, and his glorious name, are not to be overlooked
on any occasion.”

“Then I think it might be better, if we all turned our
eyes towards the place that has been built to maintain them,
instead of the boat,” said Mabel, smiling; “and so, Mr. Muir,
I am for the block-house, with a disposition to await there
the return of my father, and his party. He would be sadly
grieved, at finding we had fled, when he got back, successful
himself, and filled with the confidence of our having been as
faithful to our duties, as he has been to his own.”

“Nay, nay, for Heaven's sake, do not misunderstand me,
Mabel,” Muir interrupted with some alarm of manner, “I
am far from intimating that any but you females ought to
take refuge in the boat. The duty of us men is sufficiently
plain no doubt, and my resolution has been formed from the
first, to stand or fall by the block-house.”

“And did you imagine, Mr. Muir, that two females could
row that heavy boat, in a way to escape the bark canoe of
an Indian?”

“Ah! my pretty Mabel, love is seldom logical, and its
fears and misgivings are apt to warp the faculties. I only
saw your sweet person in possession of the means of safety,
and overlooked the want of ability to use them. But you 'll
no be so cruel, lovely creature, as to impute to me as a fault,
my intense anxiety on your own account!”

Mabel had heard enough. Her mind was too much occupied
with what had passed that morning, and with her fears, to
wish to linger further to listen to love speeches, that, in her
most joyous and buoyant moments, she would have found unpleasant.
She took a hasty leave of her companion, and was
about to trip away towards the hut of the other woman,
when Muir arrested the movement, by laying a hand on her
arm.

“One word, Mabel,” he said, “before you leave me. This
little flag may, or it may not have a particular meaning; if
it has, now that we are aware of its being shown, may it
not be better to put it back again, while we watch vigilantly
for some answer, that may betray the conspiracy; and if it
mean nothing, why nothing will follow.”

“This may be all right, Mr. Muir, though if the whole is

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accidental, the flag might be the occasion of the fort's being
discovered.”

Mabel stayed to utter no more, but she was soon out of
sight, running into the hut towards which she had been first
proceeding. The Quarter-Master remained on the very spot,
and in the precise attitude in which she had left him, for
quite a minute, first looking at the bounding figure of the
girl, and then at the bit of bunting, which he still held before
him, in a way to denote indecision. His irresolution
lasted but for this minute, however, for he was soon beneath
the tree, where he fastened the mimic flag to a branch, again,
though from his ignorance of the precise spot from which it
had been taken by Mabel, he left it fluttering from a part of
the oak, where it was still more exposed than before, to the
eyes of any passenger on the river, though less in view from
the island, itself.

CHAPTER VI.

“Each one has had his supping mess,
The cheese is put into the press,
The pans and bowls clean scalded all,
Rear'd up against the milk-house wall.”
Cotton.

It seemed strange to Mabel Dunham, as she passed along
on her way to find her female companion, that others should
be so composed, while she, herself, felt as if the responsibilities
of life and death rested on her shoulders. It is true,
that distrust of June's motives mingled with her forebodings;
but when she came to recall the affectionate and natural manner
of the young Indian girl, and all the evidences of good
faith and sincerity that she had seen in her conduct, during
the familiar intercourse of their journey, she rejected the idea,
with the unwillingness of a generous disposition, to believe
ill of others. She saw, however, that she could not put
her companions properly on their guard, without letting them
into the secret of her conference with June, and she found

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herself compelled to act cautiously, and with a forethought
to which she was unaccustomed, more especially in a matter
of so much moment.

The soldier's wife was told to transport the necessaries into
the block-house, and admonished not to be far from it, at any
time, during the day. Mabel did not explain her reasons.
She merely stated that she had detected some signs in
walking about the island, that induced her to apprehend that
the enemy had more knowledge of its position, than had
been previously believed, and that they two, at least, would
do well to be in readiness to seek a refuge at the shortest notice.
It was not difficult to arouse the apprehension of this
person, who, though a stout-hearted Scotch woman, was
ready enough to listen to any thing that confirmed her dread
of Indian cruelties. As soon as Mabel believed that her companion
was sufficiently frightened to make her wary, she
threw out some hints, touching the inexpediency of letting
the soldiers know the extent of their own fears. This was
done with a view to prevent discussions and inquiries that
might embarrass our heroine; she determining to render her
uncle, the corporal, and his men, more cautious, by adopting
a different course. Unfortunately, the British army could
not have furnished a worse person, for the particular duty
that he was now required to discharge, than Corporal McNab,
the individual who had been left in command during the absence
of Serjeant Dunham. On the one hand he was resolute,
prompt, familiar with all the details of a soldier's life,
and used to war; on the other, he was supercilious as regards
the provincials, opinionated on every subject connected with
the narrow limits of his professional practice, much disposed
to fancy the British empire the centre of all that is excellent
in the world, and Scotland, the focus of, at least, all
moral excellence in that empire. In short, he was an epitome,
though on a scale suited to his rank, of those very
qualities, which were so peculiar to the servants of the crown,
that were sent into the colonies, as these servants estimated
themselves in comparison with the natives of the country; or,
in other words, he considered the American as an animal inferior
to the parent stock, and viewed all his notions of military
service, in particular, as undigested and absurd. Braddock,
himself, was not less disposed to take advice from a

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provincial, than his humble imitator; and he had been known,
on more than one occasion, to demur to the directions and
orders of two or three commissioned officers of the corps,
who happened to be born in America, simply for that reason;
taking care, at the same time, with true Scottish wariness, to
protect himself from the pains and penalties of positive disobedience.
A more impracticable subject, therefore, could
not well have offered for the purpose of Mabel, and yet she
felt obliged to lose no time in putting her plan in execution.

“My father has left you a responsible command, corporal,”
she said, as soon as she could catch McNab, a little apart
from the rest of the soldiers; “for should the island fall into
the hands of the enemy, not only would we be captured,
but the party that is now out, would in all probability become
their prisoners also.”

“It needs no journey from Scotland to this place, to know
the facts needful to be o' that way of thinking,” returned
McNab, drily.

“I do not doubt your understanding it, as well as myself,
Mr. McNab; but I'm fearful that you veterans, accustomed
as you are to dangers and battles, are a little apt to overlook
some of the precautions that may be necessary in a situation
as peculiar as ours.”

“They say Scotland is no conquered country, young woman,
but I 'm thinking there must be some mistak' in the
matter, as we, her children, are so drowsy-headed, and apt
to be o'crtaken when we least expect it.”

“Nay, my good friend, you mistake my meaning. In
the first place, I 'm not thinking of Scotland at all, but of this
island; and then I am far from doubting your vigilance when
you think it necessary to practise it; but my great fear is
that there may be danger to which your courage will make
you indifferent.”

“My courage, Mistress Dunham, is doubtless of a very
poor quality, being nothing but Scottish courage; your father's
is Yankee, and were he here amang us, we should see
different preparations beyond a doubt. Well, times are getting
wrang, when foreigners hold commissions and carry
halberds in Scottish corps; and I no wonder that battles
are lost, and campaigns go wrang end foremost.”

Mabel was almost in despair, but the quiet warning of

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June was still too vividly impressed on her mind, to allow
her to yield the matter. She changed her mode of operating,
therefore, still clinging to the hope of getting the whole party
within the block-house, without being compelled to betray
the source whence she obtained her notices of the necessity
of vigilance.

“I dare say you are right, Corporal McNab,” she observed,
“for I 've often heard of the heroes of your country, who
have been among the first of the civilized world, if what they
tell me of them is true.”

“Have you read the history of Scotland, Mistress Dunham?”
demanded the corporal, looking up at his pretty companion,
for the first time, with something like a smile on his hard,
repulsive countenance.

“I have read a little of it, corporal, but I 've heard much
more. The lady who brought me up had Scottish blood in
her veins, and was fond of the subject.”

“I 'll warrant ye, the serjeant no troubled himself to expatiate
on the renown of the country where his regiment was
raised?”

“My father has other things to think of, and the little
I know, was got from the lady I have mentioned.”

“She 'll no be forgetting to tall ye o' Wallace?”

“Of him, I 've even read a good deal.”

“And o' Bruce—and the affair o' Bannock-burn?”

“Of that too, as well as of Culloden-muir.”

The last of these battles was then a recent event, it having
actually been fought within the recollection of our heroine,
whose notions of it, however, were so confused that she
scarcely appreciated the effect her allusion might produce on
her companion. She knew it had been a victory, and had
often heard the guests of her patroness mention it with triumph;
and she fancied their feelings would find a sympathetic
chord in those of every British soldier. Unfortunately,
McNab had fought throughout that luckless day, on the side
of the Pretender; and a deep scar, that garnished his face,
had been left there, by the sabre of a German soldier, in the
service of the House of Hanover. He fancied that his wound
bled afresh, at Mabel's allusion; and it is certain that the
blood rushed to his face in a torrent, as if it would pour out
of his skin at the cicatrix.

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“Hoot! hoot awa'!” he fairly shouted, “with your Culloden
and Sherrif-muirs, young woman; ye 'll no be understanding
the subject at all, and will manifest not only
wisdom, but modesty, in speaking o' your ain country and
its many failings. King George has some loyal subjects in
the colonies, na doubt; but 't will be a lang time bafore he
sees or hears any guid of them.”

Mabel was surprised at the corporal's heat, for she had not
the smallest idea where the shoe pinched; but she was determined
not to give up the point.

“I 've always heard that the Scotch had two of the good
qualities of soldiers,” she said, “courage and circumspection;
and I feel persuaded that Corporal McNab will sustain
the national renown.”

“Ask ye'r own father, Mistress Dunham: he is acquaint'
with Corporal McNab, and will no be backward to point out
his demerits. We have been in battle the'gither, and he is
my superior officer, and has a sort o' official right to give the
characters of his subordinates.”

“My father thinks well of you, McNab, or he would not
have left you in charge of this island and all it contains, his
own daughter included. Among other things, I well know
that he calculates largely on your prudence. He expects the
block-house, in particular, to be strictly attended to.”

“If he wishes to defend the honour of the 55th behind
logs, he ought to have remained in command himsal'; for,
to speak frankly, it goes against a Scotsman's bluid and
opinions, to be beaten out of the field even before he is attacked.
We are broad-sword men, and love to stand foot to
foot with the foe. This American mode of fighting, that is
getting into so much favour, will destroy the reputation of
His Majesty's army, if it no destroy its spirit.”

“No true soldier despises caution. Even Major Duncan,
himself, than whom there is none braver, is celebrated for his
care of his men.”

“Lundie has his weakness, and is fast forgetting the broad-sword
and open heaths, in his tree and rifle practice. But,
Mistress Dunham, tak' the word of an old soldier, who has
seen his fifty-fifth year, when he talls ye, that there is no
surer method to encourage your enemy, than to seem to fear
him; and that there is no danger in this Indian warfare, that

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the fancies and imaginations of your Americans have not augmented
and enlarged upon, until they see a savage in every
bush. We Scots come from a naked region, and have no
need, and less relish, for covers, and so ye 'll be seeing, Mistress
Dunham”—

The corporal gave a spring into the air, fell forward on
his face, and rolled over on his back—the whole passing so
suddenly, that Mabel had scarcely heard the sharp crack of
the rifle that had sent a bullet through his body. Our heroine
did not shriek—did not even tremble; for the occurrence
was too sudden, too awful, and too unexpected for that
exhibition of weakness: on the contrary, she stepped hastily
forward, with a natural impulse to aid her companion. There
was just enough of life left in McNab to betray his entire
consciousness of all that had passed. His countenance had
the wild look of one who had been overtaken by death, by
surprise; and Mabel, in her cooler moments, fancied that
it showed the tardy repentance of a wilful and obstinate
sinner.

“Ye 'll be getting into the block-house, as fast as possible;”
McNab whispered, as Mabel leaned over him, to catch
his dying words.

Then came over our heroine the full consciousness of her
situation, and of the necessity of exertion. She cast a rapid
glance at the body at her feet, saw that it had ceased to
breathe, and fled. It was but a few minutes' run to the block-house,
the door of which Mabel had barely gained, when it
was closed violently in her face, by Jennie, the soldier's
wife, who, in blind terror, thought only of her own safety.
The reports of five or six rifles were heard while Mabel was
calling out for admittance; and the additional terror they produced,
prevented the woman within from undoing quickly
the very fastenings she had been so expert in applying. After
a minute's delay, however, Mabel found the door reluctantly.
yielding to her constant pressure, and she forced her slender
body through the opening, the instant it was large enough to
allow of its passage. By this time, Mabel's heart ceased to
beat tumultuously, and she gained sufficient self-command
to act collectedly. Instead of yielding to the almost convulsive
efforts of her companion to close the door again, she
held it open long enough to ascertain that none of her own

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party was in sight, or likely, on the instant, to endeavour to
gain admission; then she allowed the opening to be shut.
Her orders and proceedings now became more calm and
rational. But a single bar was crossed, and Jennie was directed
to stand in readiness to remove even that, at any application
from a friend. She then ascended the ladder to the
room above, where, by means of a loop-hole, she was enabled
to get as good a view of the island as the surrounding
bushes would allow. Admonishing her associate below to
be firm and steady, she made as careful an examination of
the environs as her situation permitted.

To her great surprise, Mabel could not, at first, see a living
soul on the island, friend or enemy. Neither Frenchman
nor Indian was visible, though a small straggling white
cloud that was floating before the wind, told her in which
quarter she ought to look for them. The rifles had been discharged
from the direction of the island whence June had
come, though whether the enemy were on that island, or had
actually landed on her own, Mabel could not say. Going to
the loop that commanded a view of the spot where McNab
lay, her blood curdled at perceiving all three of his soldiers
lying apparently lifeless at his side. These men had rushed
to a common centre, at the first alarm, and had been shot
down almost simultaneously by the invisible foe, whom the
corporal had affected to despise.

Neither Cap nor Lieutenant Muir was to be seen. With
a beating heart, Mabel examined every opening through the
trees, and ascended even to the upper story, or garret of the
block-house, where she got a full view of the whole island,
so far as its covers would allow; but with no better success.
She had expected to see the body of her uncle lying on the
grass, like those of the soldiers, but it was nowhere visible.
Turning towards the spot where the boat lay, Mabel saw that
it was still fastened to the shore; and then she supposed that,
by some accident, Muir had been prevented from effecting his
retreat in that quarter. In short, the island lay in the quiet
of the grave, the bodies of the soldiers rendering the scene
as fearful as it was extraordinary.

“For God's holy sake, Mistress Mabel,” called out the woman
from below, for, though her fear had got to be too ungovernable
to allow her to keep silence, our heroine's superior

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refinement, more than the regimental station of her father,
still controlled her mode of address; “for His holy sake!
Mistress Mabel, tell me if any of our friends are living? I
think I hear groans that grow fainter and fainter, and fear
that they will all be tomahawked!”

Mabel now remembered that one of the soldiers was this
woman's husband, and she trembled at what might be the
immediate effect of her sorrow, should his death become suddenly
known to her. The groans, too, gave a little hope,
though she feared they might come from her uncle, who lay
out of view.

“We are in his holy keeping, Jennie,” she answered.
“We must trust in Providence, while we neglect none of its
benevolent means of protecting ourselves. Be careful with
the door; on no account open it, without my directions.”

“Oh! tell me, Mistress Mabel, if you can anywhere see
Sandy?—If I could only let him know that I 'm in safety,
the guid man would be easier in his mind, whether free or a
prisoner!”

Sandy was Jennie's husband, and he lay dead in plain
view of the loop, from which our heroine was then looking.

“You no tell me if you 're seeing of Sandy,” the woman
repeated from below, impatient at Mabel's silence.

“There are some of our people gathered about the body
of McNab,” was the answer, for it seemed sacrilegious in
her eyes to tell a direct untruth, under the awful circumstances
in which she was placed.

“Is Sandy amang them?” demanded the woman, in a
voice that sounded appalling by its hoarseness and energy.

“He may be certainly—for I see, one, two, three, four,
and all in the scarlet coats of the regiment.”

“Sandy!” called out the woman frantically—“why d'ye
no care for yoursal', Sandy? Come hither the instant, man,
and share your wife's fortunes, in weal or woe. It 's no a
moment for your silly discipline, and vainglorious notions of
honour! Sandy!—Sandy!”

Mabel heard the bar turn, and then the door creaked on
its hinges. Expectation, not to say terror, held her in suspense
at the loop, and she soon beheld Jennie rushing through
the bushes, in the direction of the cluster of dead. It took
the woman but an instant to reach the fatal spot. So sudden

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and unexpected had been the blow, that she, in her terror,
did not appear to comprehend its weight. Some wild and
half-frantic notion of a deception troubled her fancy, and she
imagined that the men were trifling with her fears. She took
her husband's hand, and it was still warm, while she thought
a covert smile was struggling on his lip.

“Why will ye fool life away, Sandy?” she cried, pulling
at the arm. “Ye 'll all be murdered by these accursed
Indians, and you no takin' to the block like trusty soldiers!
Awa'!—awa', and no be losing the precious moments.”

In her desperate efforts, the woman pulled the body of her
husband in a way to cause the head to turn completely over,
when the small hole in the temple, caused by the entrance
of a rifle bullet, and a few drops of blood trickling over the
skin, revealed the meaning of her husband's silence. As the
horrid truth flashed, in its full extent, on her mind, the woman
clasped her hands, gave a shriek that pierced the glades
of every island near, and fell at length on the dead body of
the soldier. Thrilling, heart-reaching, appalling as was that
shriek, it was melody to the cry that followed it so quickly
as to blend the sounds. The terrific war-whoop arose out
of the covers of the island, and some twenty savages, horrible
in their paint, and the other devices of Indian ingenuity,
rushed forward, eager to secure the coveted scalps.
Arrowhead was foremost, and it was his tomahawk that
brained the insensible Jennie, and her reeking hair was hanging
at his girdle as a trophy, in less than two minutes after
she had quitted the block-house. His companions were
equally active, and McNab and his soldiers no longer presented
the quiet aspect of men who slumbered. They were
left in their gore, unequivocally butchered corpses.

All this passed in much less time than has been required
to relate it, and all this did Mabel witness. She had stood
riveted to the spot, gazing on the whole horrible scene, as if
enchained by some charm, nor did the idea of self, or of her
own danger, once obtrude itself on her thoughts. But no
sooner did she perceive the place where the men had fallen,
covered with savages, exulting in the success of their surprise,
than it occurred to her, that Jennie had left the block-house
door unbarred. Her heart beat violently, for that defence
alone stood between her and immediate death, and she

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sprang toward the ladder, with the intention of descending
to make sure of it. Her foot had not yet reached the floor
of the second story, however, when she heard the door grating
on its hinges, and she gave herself up for lost. Sinking
on her knees, the terrified but courageous girl, endeavoured
to prepare herself for death, and to raise her thoughts to God.
The instinct of life, however, was too strong for prayer, and
while her lips moved, the jealous senses watched every sound
beneath. When her ears heard the bars, which went on
pivots, secured to the centre of the door, turning into their
fastenings, not one, as she, herself, had directed, with a view
to admit her uncle, should he apply, but all three, she started
again to her feet, all spiritual contemplations vanishing in her
actual temporal condition, and it seemed as if all her faculties
were absorbed in the sense of hearing.

The thoughts are active, in a moment so fearful. At first
Mabel fancied that her uncle had entered the block-house,
and she was about to descend the ladder and throw herself
into his arms; then the idea that it might be an Indian, who
had barred the door to shut out intruders, while he plundered
at leisure, arrested the movement. The profound stillness
below, was unlike the bold, restless movements of Cap, and
it seemed to savour more of the artifices of an enemy; if a
friend, at all, it could only be her uncle, or the Quarter-Master;
for the horrible conviction now presented itself to
our heroine, that to these two, and herself, were the whole
party suddenly reduced, if, indeed, the two latter survived.
This consideration held Mabel in check, and for quite two
minutes more, a breathless silence reigned in the building.
During this time, the girl stood at the foot of the upper ladder,
the trap which led to the lower opening on the opposite
side of the floor; the eyes of Mabel were riveted on this
spot, for she now began to expect to see, at each instant, the
horrible sight of a savage face at the hole. This apprehension
soon became so intense, that she looked about her for a
place of concealment. The procrastination of the catastrophe
she now fully expected, though it were only for a moment,
afforded a relief. The room contained several barrels, and
behind two of these, Mabel crouched, placing her eyes at an
opening by which she could still watch the trap. She made
another effort to pray, but the moment was too horrible for

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that relief. She thought, too, that she heard a low rustling,
as if one were ascending the lower ladder, with an effort at
caution, so great, as to betray itself by its own excess; then
followed a creaking, that she was certain came from one of
the steps of the ladder, which had made the same noise, under
her own light weight, as she ascended. This was one of
those instants, into which are compressed the sensations of
years of ordinary existence.—Life, death, eternity, and extreme
bodily pain, were all standing out in bold relief, from
the plane of every-day occurrences; and she might have
been taken, at that moment, for a beautiful, pallid representation
of herself, equally without motion, and without vitality.
But, while such was the outward appearance of the form,
never had there been a time, in her brief career, when
Mabel heard more acutely, saw more clearly, or felt more
vividly. As yet, nothing was visible at the trap; but her ears,
rendered exquisitely sensitive by intense feeling, distinctly
acquainted her that some one was within a few inches of the
opening in the floor: next followed the evidence of her eyes,
which beheld the dark hair of an Indian rising so slowly
through the passage, that the movements of the head might
be likened to that of the minute-hand of a clock; then came
the dark skin and wild features, until the whole of the
swarthy face had risen above the floor. The human countenance
seldom appears to advantage, when partially concealed,
and Mabel imagined many additional horrors, as she first
saw the black, roving eyes, and the expression of wildness,
as the savage countenance was revealed, as it might be, inch
by inch; but, when the entire head was raised above the
floor, a second and a better look, assured our heroine that
she saw the gentle, anxious, and even handsome, face of
June.

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CHAPTER VII.

“—Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
But in reward of thy fidelity.”
Wordsworth.

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

It would be difficult to say which evinced the most satisfaction,
when Mabel sprang to her feet and appeared in the
centre of the room,—our heroine on finding that her visiter
was the wife of Arrowhead, and not Arrowhead himself, or
June, at discovering that her advice had been followed, and
that the block-house contained the person she had so anxiously
and almost hopelessly sought. They embraced each
other, and the unsophisticated Tuscarora woman laughed in
her sweet accents, as she held her friend at arm's-length, and
made certain of her presence.

“Block-house, good,” said the young Indian—“got no
scalp.”

“It is, indeed, good, June,” Mabel answered with a shudder,
veiling her eyes at the same time, as if to shut out a
view of the horrors she had so lately witnessed. “Tell me,
for God's sake! if you know what has become of my dear
uncle?—I have looked in all directions, without being able to
see him.”

“No here, in block-house?” June asked, with some
curiosity.

“Indeed he is not—I am quite alone in this place; Jennie,
the woman, who was with me, having rushed out to join her
husband, and perishing for her imprudence.”

“June know—June see; very bad, Arrowhead no feel for
any wife—no feel for his own.”

“Ah! June; your life, at least, is safe!”

“Don't know—Arrowhead kill me, if he know all.”

“God bless and protect you, June—he will bless and protect
you for this humanity. Tell me what is to be done, and
if my poor uncle is still living?”

“Don't know. Salt-water has boat; maybe he go on
river.”

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“The boat is still on the shore, but neither my uncle nor
the Quarter-Master is anywhere to be seen.”

“No kill, or June would see. Hide away! Red man hide;
no shame for pale-face.”

“It is not the shame that I fear for them, but the opportunity.
Your attack was awfully sudden, June!”

“Tuscarora!” returned the other, smiling with exultation
at the dexterity of her husband. “Arrowhead great warrior!”

“You are too good and gentle for this sort of life, June;
you cannot be happy in such scenes!”

June's countenance grew clouded, and Mabel fancied there
was some of the savage fire of a chief in her frown as she
answered:

“Yengeese too greedy—take away all hunting grounds—
chase Six Nation from morning to night; wicked king—wicked
people. Pale-face very bad.”

Mabel knew that, even in that distant day, there was
much truth in this opinion, though she was too well instructed
not to understand that the monarch, in this as in a thousand
other cases, was blamed for acts of which he was most probably
ignorant. She felt the justice of the rebuke, therefore, too
much to attempt an answer, and her thoughts naturally reverted
to her own situation.

“And what am I to do, June?” she demanded. “It can
not be long before your people will assault this building.”

“Block-house good—got no scalp.”

“But they will soon discover that it has got no garrison,
too, if they do not know it already. You, yourself, told me
the number of people that were on the island, and doubtless
you learned it from Arrowhead.”

“Arrowhead know,” answered June, holding up six fingers
to indicate the number of the men. “All red men know. Four
lose scalp already—two got 'em, yet!”

“Do not speak of it, June; the horrid thought curdles my
blood. Your people cannot know that I am alone in the
block-house, but may fancy my uncle and the Quarter-Master
with me, and may set fire to the building, in order to dislodge
them. They tell me that fire is the great danger to
such places.”

“No burn block-house,” said June, quietly.

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“You cannot know that, my good June, and I have no
means to keep them off.”

“No burn block-house. Block-house good; got no scalp.”

“But tell me why, June; I fear they will burn it!”

“Block-house wet—much rain—logs green—no burn easy.
Red man know it—fine t'ing—then no burn it to tell Yengeese
that Iroquois been here. Fader come back, miss
block-house, no found. No, no; Indian too much cunning;
no touch any thing.”

“I understand you, June, and hope your prediction may
be true; for as regards my dear father, should be escape—
perhaps he is already dead, or captured, June?”

“No touch fader—don't know where he gone—water got
no trail—red man can't follow. No burn block-house—
block-house good—got no scalp.”

“Do you think it possible for me to remain here, safely,
until my father returns?”

“Don't know — daughter tell best, when fader come
back.”

Mabel felt uneasy at the glance of June's dark eye, as
she uttered this, for the unpleasant surmise arose that her
companion was endeavouring to discover a fact that might
be useful to her own people, while it would lead to the destruction
of her parent and his party. She was about to
make an evasive answer, when a heavy push at the outer
door, suddenly drew all her thoughts to the immediate
danger.

“They come!” she exclaimed,—“perhaps, June, it is my
uncle, or the Quarter-Master. I cannot keep out even Mr.
Muir at a moment like this.”

“Why no look—plenty loop-hole—made purpose.”

Mabel took the hint, and going to one of the downward
loops, that had been cut through the logs in the part that
overhung the basement, she cautiously raised the little block
that ordinarily filled the small hole, and caught a glance at
what was passing at the door. The start and changing
countenance told her companion that some of her own people
were below.

“Red man,” said June, lifting a finger in admonition to
be prudent.

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“Four; and horrible in their paint and bloody trophies.
Arrowhead is among them.”

June had moved to a corner, where several spare rifles
had been deposited, and had already taken one into her hand,
when the name of her husband appeared to arrest her movements.
It was but for an instant, however, for she immediately
went to the loop, and was about to thrust the muzzle
of the piece through it, when a feeling of natural aversion
induced Mabel to seize her arm.

“No—no—no—June,” said the latter—“not against your
own husband, though my life be the penalty.”

“No hurt Arrowhead—” returned June, with a slight
shudder—“no hurt red man at all. No fire at 'em;—only
scare.”

Mabel now comprehended the intention of June, and no
longer opposed it. The latter thrust the muzzle of the rifle
through the loop-hole, and taking care to make noise enough
to attract attention, she pulled the trigger. The piece had no
sooner been discharged than Mabel reproached her friend, for
the very act that was intended to serve her.

“You declared it was not your intention to fire,” she said,
“and you may have destroyed your own husband.”

“All run away before I fire—” returned June laughing,
and going to another loop to watch the movements of her
friends, laughing still heartier.—“See—get cover—every
warrior. Think Salt-water and Quarter-Master here. Take
good care now.”

“Heaven be praised! And now, June, I may hope for a
little time to compose my thoughts to prayer, that I may not
die like Jennie, thinking only of life and the things of the
world!”

June laid aside the rifle, and came and seated herself near
the box on which Mabel had sunk, under that physical reaction
which accompanies joy as well as sorrow. She looked
steadily in our heroine's face, and the latter thought that her
countenance had an expression of severity mingled with its
concern.

“Arrowhead great warrior—” said the Tuscarora's wife.—
“All the girls of tribe look at him much. The pale-face
beauty has eyes too?”

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“June!—what do these words—that look imply—what
would you say?”

“Why you so 'fraid June shoot Arrowhead?”

“Would it not have been horrible, to see a wife destroy
her own husband! No, June; rather would I have died
myself.”

“Very sure, dat all?”

“That was all, June, as God is my judge—and surely
that was enough. No—no—there have been sufficient horrors
to-day, without increasing them by an act like this.
What other motive can you suspect?”

“Don't know. Poor Tuscarora girl very foolish. Arrowhead
great chief, and look all round him. Talk of pale-face
beauty in his sleep.—Great chief like many wives.”

“Can a chief possess more than one wife, June, among
your people?”

“Have as many as he can keep—great hunter marry
often. Arrowhead got only June now, but he look too much,—
see too much—talk too much of pale-face girl!”

Mabel was conscious of this fact, which had distressed her
not a little, in the course of their journey; but it shocked her
to hear this allusion, coming, as it did, from the mouth of
the wife herself. She knew that habit and opinions made
great differences in such matters, but, in addition to the pain
and mortification she experienced at being the unwilling rival
of a wife, she felt an apprehension that jealousy would be but
an equivocal guarantee for her personal safety, in her present
situation. A closer look at June, however, reassured her;
for while it was easy to trace in the unpractised features of
this unsophisticated being, the pain of blighted affections, no
distrust could have tortured the earnest expression of her honest
countenance into that of treachery or hate.

“You will not betray me, June,” Mabel said, pressing the
other's hand, and yielding to an impulse of generous confidence.
“You will not give up one of your own sex to the
tomahawk?”

“No tomahawk touch you. Arrowhead no let 'em. If
June must have sister-wife, love to have you.”

“No, June; my religion, my feelings, both forbid it; and,
if I could be the wife of an Indian at all, I would never take
the place that is yours, in a wigwam.”

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June made no answer, but she looked gratified, and even
grateful. She knew that few, perhaps no Indian girl, within
the circle of Arrowhead's acquaintance, could compare with
herself in personal attractions; and though it might suit her
husband to marry a dozen wives, she knew of no one, beside
Mabel, whose influence she could really dread. So keen an
interest, however, had she taken in the beauty, winning manners,
kindness, and feminine gentleness of our heroine, that
when jealousy came to chill these feelings, it had rather lent
strength to that interest, and, under its wayward influence,
had actually been one of the strongest of the incentives that
had induced her to risk so much, in order to save her imaginary
rival from the consequences of the attack that she so
well knew was about to take place. In a word, June, with
a wife's keenness of perception, had detected Arrowhead's
admiration of Mabel, and instead of feeling that harrowing
jealousy that might have rendered her rival hateful, as would
have been apt to be the case with a woman unaccustomed to
defer to the superior rights of the lordly sex, she had studied
the looks and character of the pale-face beauty, until, meeting
with nothing to repel her own feelings, but everything to
encourage them, she had got to entertain an admiration and
love for her, which, though certainly very different, was
scarcely less strong than that of her husband's. Arrowhead
himself had sent her to warn Mabel of the coming danger,
though he was ignorant that she had stolen upon the
island, in the rear of the assailants, and was now entrenched
in the citadel along with the object of their joint care. On
the contrary, he supposed, as his wife had said, that Cap and
Muir were in the block-house with Mabel, and that the
attempt to repel him and his companions had been made by
the men.

“June sorry, `the Lily,”' for so the Indian, in her poetical
language, had named our heroine—“June sorry, the
Lily no marry Arrowhead. His wigwam big, and a great
chief must get wives enough to fill it.”

“I thank you, June, for this preference, which is not according
to the notions of us white women,” returned Mabel,
smiling in spite of the fearful situation in which she was
placed; “but I may not, probably never shall, marry at all.”

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“Must have good husband,” said June—“marry Eau-douce,
if do'nt like Arrowhead.”

“June! this is not a fit subject for a girl who scarce knows
if she is to live another hour, or not. I would obtain some
signs of my dear uncle's being alive, and safe, if possible.”

“June go see.”

“Can you?—will you?—would it be safe for you to be
seen on the island—is your presence known to the warriors,
and would they be pleased to find a woman on the war-path
with them?”

All this, Mabel asked in rapid connection, fearing that the
answer might not be as she wished. She had thought it extraordinary
that June should be of the party, and, improbable
as it seemed, she had fancied that the woman had covertly
followed the Iroquois in her own canoe, and had got in their
advance, merely to give her the notice which had, probably,
saved her life. But in all this she was mistaken, as June, in
her imperfect manner, now found means to let her know.

Arrowhead, though a chief, was in disgrace with his own
people, and was acting with the Iroquois, temporarily, though
with a perfect understanding. He had a wigwam, it is true,
but was seldom in it; feigning friendship for the English, he
had passed the summer ostensibly in their service, while he
was, in truth, acting for the French, and his wife journeyed
with him in his many migrations, most of the distances being
passed over in canoes. In a word, her presence was no
secret, her husband seldom moving without her. Enough of
this to embolden Mabel to wish that her friend might go out,
to ascertain the fate of her uncle, did June succeed in letting
the other know; and it was soon settled between them, that
the Indian woman should quit the block-house with that object,
the moment a favourable opportunity offered.

They first examined the island, as thoroughly as their position
would allow, from the different loops, and found that
its conquerors were preparing for a feast, having seized upon
the provisions of the English, and rifled the huts. Most of
the stores were in the block-house, but enough were found
outside, to reward the Indians for an attack that had been
attended by so little risk. A party had already removed the
dead bodies, and Mabel saw that their arms were collected
in a pile, near the spot chosen for the banquet. June

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suggested that, by some signs which she understood, the dead,
themselves, were carried into a thicket, and either buried, or
concealed from view. None of the more prominent objects
on the island, however, were disturbed, it being the desire of
the conquerors to lure the party of the serjeant into an ambush,
on its return. June made her companion observe a
man in a tree, a look-out, as she said, to give timely notice
of the approach of any boat, although the departure of the
expedition being so recent, nothing but some unexpected event
would be likely to bring it back so soon. There did not appear
to be any intention to attack the block-house immediately;
but every indication, as understood by June, rather
showed that it was the intention of the Indians to keep it besieged
until the return of the serjeant's party, lest the signs
of an assault should give a warning to eyes as practised as
those of Pathfinder. The boat, however, had been secured,
and was removed to the spot where the canoes of the Indians
were hid in the bushes.

June now announced her intention to join her friends, the
moment being particularly favourable for her to quit the
block-house. Mabel felt some distrust as they descended the
ladder; but, at the next instant, she was ashamed of the
feeling, as unjust to her companion, and unworthy of herself:
and, by the time they both stood on the ground, her
confidence was restored. The process of unbarring the door
was conducted with the utmost caution; and when the last
bar was ready to be turned, June took her station near the
spot where the opening must necessarily be. The bar was
just turned free of the brackets—the door was opened merely
wide enough to allow her body to pass, and June glided
through the space. Mabel closed the door again, with a convulsive
movement; and, as the bar turned into its place, her
heart beat audibly. She then felt secure; and the two other
bars were turned down in a more deliberate manner. When
all was fast again, she ascended to the first floor, where, alone,
she could get a glimpse of what was going on without.

Long, and painfully melancholy hours passed, during
which Mabel had no intelligence from June. She heard the
yells of the savages; for liquor had carried them beyond the
bounds of precaution: occasionally caught glimpses of their
mad orgies through the loops, and, at all times, was

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conscious of their fearful presence, by sounds and sights that
would have chilled the blood of one who had not so lately
witnessed scenes so much more terrible. Toward the middle
of the day, she fancied she saw a white man on the island,
though his dress and wild appearance at first made her take
him for a newly arrived savage. A view of his face, although
it was swarthy naturally, and much darkened by
exposure, left no doubt that her conjecture was true; and
she felt as if there was now one of a species more like her
own present, and one to whom she might appeal for succour
in the last emergency. Mabel little knew, alas! how small
was the influence exercised by the whites over their savage
allies, when the latter had begun to taste of blood; or how
slight, indeed, was the disposition to divert them from their
cruelties.

The day seemed a month, by Mabel's computation; and
the only part of it that did not drag were the minutes spent
in prayer. She had recourse to this relief from time to time;
and at each effort, she found her spirit firmer, her mind more
tranquil, and her tendency to resignation more confirmed.
She understood the reasoning of June; and believed it highly
probable that the block-house would be left unmolested
until the return of her father, in order to entice him into an
ambuscade; and she felt much less apprehension of immediate
danger, in consequence: but the future offered little
ground of hope; and her thoughts had already begun to calculate
the chances of her captivity. At such moments,
Arrowhead, and his offensive admiration, filled a prominent
place in the back-ground; for our heroine well knew that
the Indians usually carried off to their villages, for the purposes
of adoption, such captives as they did not slay; and
that many instances had occurred, in which individuals of
her sex had passed the remainder of their lives in the wigwams
of their conquerors. Such thoughts as these invariably
drove her to her knees, and to her prayers.

While the light lasted, the situation of our heroine was
sufficiently alarming, but as the shades of evening gradually
gathered over the island, it became fearfully appalling. By
this time, the savages had wrought themselves up to the
point of fury, for they had possessed themselves of all the
liquor of the English, and their outcries and gesticulations

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were those of men truly possessed of evil spirits. All the
efforts of their French leader to restrain them, were entirely
fruitless, and he had wisely withdrawn to an adjacent island,
where he had a sort of bivouac, that he might keep at a safe
distance from friends so apt to run into excesses. Before quitting
the spot, however, this officer, at great risk to his own
life, had succeeded in extinguishing the fire, and in securing
the ordinary means to relight it. This precaution he took,
lest the Indians should burn the block-house, the preservation
of which was necessary to the success of his future plans.
He would gladly have removed all the arms, also, but this
he found impracticable, the warriors clinging to their knives
and tomahawks with the tenacity of men who regarded a
point of honour, as long as a faculty was left; and to carry
off the rifles, and leave behind him the very weapons that
were generally used on such occasions, would have been an
idle expedient. The extinguishing of the fire, proved to be
the most prudent measure, for no sooner was the officer's
back turned, than one of the warriors, in fact, proposed to
fire the block-house. Arrowhead had also withdrawn from
the group of drunkards, as soon as he found that they were
losing their senses, and had taken possession of a hut, where
he had thrown himself on the straw, and sought the rest that
two wakeful and watchful nights had rendered necessary. It
followed that no one was left among the Indians to care for
Mabel, if indeed any knew of her existence at all; and the
proposal of the drunkard was received with yells of delight
by eight or ten more, as much intoxicated and habitually as
brutal as himself.

This was the fearful moment for Mabel. The Indians, in
their present condition, were reckless of any rifles that the
block-house might hold, though they did retain dim recollections
of its containing living beings, an additional incentive to
their enterprise, and they approached its base whooping
and leaping like demons. As yet they were excited, not
overcome by the liquor they had drunk. The first attempt
was made at the door, against which they ran in a body; but
the solid structure, which was built entirely of logs, defied
their efforts. The rush of a hundred men, with the same
object, would have been useless. This Mabel, however, did
not know, and her heart seemed to leap into her mouth, as

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she heard the heavy shock, at each renewed effort. At
length, when she found that the door resisted these assaults,
as if it were of stone, neither trembling, nor yielding, and
only betraying its not being a part of the wall, by rattling a
little on its heavy hinges, her courage revived, and she seized
the first moment of a cessation, to look down through the
loop, in order, if possible, to learn the extent of her danger.
A silence, for which it was not easy to account, stimulated
her curiosity, for nothing is so alarming to those who are
conscious of the presence of imminent danger, as to be unable
to trace its approach.

Mabel found that two or three of the Iroquois had been
raking the embers, where they had found a few small coals,
and with these they were endeavouring to light a fire. The
interest with which they laboured, the hope of destroying,
and the force of habit enabled them to act intelligently and
in unison, so long as their fell object was kept in view. A
white man would have abandoned the attempt to light a fire
in despair, with coals that came out of the ashes resembling
sparks, but these children of the forests had many expedients
that were unknown to civilization. By the aid of a few dry
leaves, which they alone knew where to seek, a blaze was
finally kindled, and then the addition of a few light sticks
made sure of the advantage that had been obtained. When
Mabel stooped down over the loop, the Indians were making
a pile of brush against the door, and as she remained gazing
at their proceedings, she saw the twigs ignite, the flame dart
from branch to branch, until the whole pile was cracking and
snapping under a bright blaze. The Indians now gave a
yell of triumph and returned to their companions, well assured
that the work of destruction was commenced. Mabel remained
looking down, scarcely able to tear herself away
from the spot, so intense and engrossing was the interest she
felt in the progress of the fire. As the pile kindled throughout,
however, the flames mounted, until they flashed so near
her eyes, as to compel her to retreat. Just as she reached
the opposite side of the room, to which she had retired in her
alarm, a forked stream shot up through the loop-hole, the lid
of which she had left open, and illuminated the rude apartment,
with Mabel and her desolation. Our heroine now
naturally enough supposed that her hour was come, for the

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door, the only means of retreat, had been blocked up by the
brush and fire, with hellish ingenuity, and she addressed herself,
as she believed for the last time, to her Maker in prayer.
Her eyes were closed, and for more than a minute her spirit
was abstracted; but the interests of the world too strongly
divided her feelings, to be altogether suppressed; and when
they involuntarily opened again, she perceived that the streak
of flame was no longer flaring in the room, though the wood
around the little aperture had kindled, and the blaze was
slowly mounting under the impulsion of a current of air that
sucked inward. A barrel of water stood in a corner, and
Mabel, acting more by instinct than by reason, caught up a
vessel, filled it, and pouring it on the wood with a trembling
hand, succeeded in extinguishing the fire, at that particular
spot. The smoke prevented her from looking down again,
for a couple of minutes; but when she did, her heart beat
high with delight and hope, at finding that the pile of blazing
brush had been overturned and scattered, and that water had
been thrown on the logs of the door, which were still smoking,
though no longer burning.

“Who is there?” said Mabel, with her mouth at the loop.
“What friendly hand has a merciful Providence sent to my
succour?”

A light footstep was audible below, and one of those gentle
pushes at the door was heard, which just moved the massive
beams on the hinges.

“Who wishes to enter?—Is it you, dear, dear uncle?”

“Salt-water no here. St. Lawrence sweet water,” was
the answer. “Open quick—want to come in.”

The step of Mabel was never lighter, or her movements
more quick and natural, than while she was descending the
ladder and turning the bars, for all her motions were earnest
and active. This time she thought only of her escape, and
she opened the door with a rapidity that did not admit of caution.
Her first impulse was to rush into the open air, in the
blind hope of quitting the block-house, but June repulsed
the attempt, and, entering, she coolly barred the door again,
before she would notice Mabel's eager efforts to embrace her.

“Bless you—bless you, June,” cried our heroine most fervently—
“you are sent by Providence to be my guardian
angel!”

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“No hug so tight—” answered the Tuscarora woman.—
“Pale-face woman all cry, or all laugh. Let June fasten
door.”

Mabel became more rational, and in a few minutes the two
were again in the upper room, seated as before, hand in hand,
all feeling of distrust or rivalry between them, being banished
on the one side by the consciousness of favours received,
and on the other by the consciousness of favours conferred.

“Now tell me, June,” Mabel commenced, as soon as she
had given and received one warm embrace, “have you seen
or heard aught of my poor uncle?”

“Don't know. No one see him; no one hear him; no
one know any t'ing. Salt-water run into river, I t'ink, for
I no find him. Quarter-Master gone too. I look, and look,
and look; but no see 'em, one, t'other, no where.”

“Blessed be God! They must have escaped, though the
means are not known to us. I thought I saw a Frenchman
on the island, June?”

“Yes—French captain come, but he go away, too. Plenty
of Indian on island.”

“Oh! June, June, are there no means to prevent my beloved
father from falling into the hands of his enemies?”

“Don't know; t'ink dat warriors wait in ambush, and
Yengeese must lose scalp.”

“Surely, surely, June, you, who have done so much for
the daughter, will not refuse to help the father!”

“Don't know fader—don't love fader. June help her
own people, help Arrowhead—husband love scalp.”

“June, this is not yourself! I cannot, will not believe, that
you wish to see our men murdered!”

June turned her dark eyes quietly on Mabel, and, for a
moment, her look was stern, though it was soon changed into
one of melancholy compassion.

“Lily, Yengeese girl?” she said, as one asks a question.

“Certainly, and as a Yengeese girl, I would save my
countrymen from slaughter.”

“Very good—if can. June no Yengeese; June Tuscarora—
got Tuscarora husband — Tuscarora heart — Tuscarora
feeling—all over Tuscarora. Lily wouldn't run and tell
French that her fader was coming to gain victory?”

“Perhaps not,” returned Mabel, pressing a hand on a

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brain that felt bewildered,—“perhaps not; but you serve me,
aid me—have saved me, June! Why have you done this, if
you only feel as a Tuscarora?”

“Don't only feel as Tuscarora—feel as girl—feel as
squaw. Love pretty Lily, and put it in my bosom.”

Mabel melted into tears, and she pressed the affectionate
creature to her heart. It was near a minute before she could
renew the discourse, but then she succeeded in speaking more
calmly and with greater coherence.

“Let me know the worst, June;” she said. “To-night,
your people are feasting; what do they intend to do to-morrow?”

“Don't know—afraid to see Arrowhead—afraid to ask
question—t'ink hide away, till Yengeese come back.”

“Will they not attempt any thing against the block-house?
You have seen what they can threaten if they will?”

“Too much rum. Arrowhead sleep, or no dare; French
captain gone away, or no dare. All go to sleep, now.”

“And you think I am safe for this night, at least?”

“Too much rum. If Lily like June, might do much for
her people.”

“I am like you, June, if a wish to serve my countrymen
can make a resemblance with one as courageous as yourself.”

“No—no—no”—muttered June, in a low voice; “no got
heart, and June no let you, if had. June's moder prisoner
once, and warriors got drunk; moder tomahawked 'em all.
Such the way red-skin women do, when people in danger
and want scalp.”

“You say what is true,” returned Mabel, shuddering, and
unconsciously dropping June's hand. “I cannot do that.
I have neither the strength, the courage, nor the will to dip
my hands in blood.”

“T'ink that too; then stay where you be—block-house
good—got no scalp.”

“You believe, then, that I am safe here, at least until my
father and his people return?”

“Know so. No dare touch block-house in morning.
Hark! all still now—drink rum till head fall down, and
sleep like log.”

“Might I not escape? Are there not several canoes on

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the island?—might I not get one, and go and give my father
notice of what has happened?”

“Know how to paddle?” demanded June, glancing her eye
furtively at her companion.

“Not so well as yourself, perhaps; but enough to get out
of sight before morning.”

“What do then?—couldn't paddle six—ten—eight mile!”

“I do not know; I would do much to warn my father,
and the excellent Pathfinder, and all the rest, of the danger
they are in.”

“Like Pathfinder?”

“All like him who know him—you would like him, nay,
love him, if you only knew his heart!”

“No like him, at all. Too good rifle—too good eye—
too much shoot Iroquois, and June's people. Must get his
scalp if can.”

“And I must save it, if I can, June. In this respect, then,
we are opposed to each other. I will go and find a canoe
the instant they are all asleep, and quit the island.”

“No can—June won't let you. Call Arrowhead.”

“June! you would not betray me—you could not give
me up, after all you have done for me?”

“Just so,” returned June, making a backward gesture with
her hand, and speaking with a warmth and earnestness
Mabel had never witnessed in her before. “Call Arrowhead
in loud voice. One call from wife, wake a warrior up.
June no let Lily help enemy—no let Indian hurt Lily.”

“I understand you, June, and feel the nature and justice
of your sentiments; and, after all, it were better that I should
remain here, for I have most probably overrated my strength.
But, tell me one thing: if my uncle comes in the night, and
asks to be admitted, you will let me open the door of the
block-house that he may enter.”

“Sartain—he prisoner here, and June like prisoner, better
than scalp; scalp good for honour, prisoner good for feeling.
But, Salt-water hide so close, he don't know where he be,
himself.”

Here June laughed, in her girlish mirthful way, for to her,
scenes of violence were too familiar to leave impressions sufficiently
deep to change her natural character. A long and
discursive dialogue now followed, in which Mabel endeavoured

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to obtain clearer notions of her actual situation, under a faint
hope that she might possibly be enabled to turn some of the
facts she thus learned, to advantage. June answered all her
interrogatories, simply, but with a caution which showed she
fully distinguished between that which was immaterial, and
that which might endanger the safety, or embarrass the future
operations of her friends. Our heroine was incapable of
making an attempt to entrap her companion, though she
plainly perceived, that, could she have been guilty of the
meanness, she would have found the undertaking one of extreme
difficulty. June, however, was not required to exercise
more than a discreet discrimination about what she revealed;
and the substance of the information she gave, may be summed
up as follows.

Arrowhead had long been in communication with the
French, though this was the first occasion on which he had
ever, entirely, thrown aside the mask. He no longer intended
to trust himself among the English, for he had discovered
traces of distrust, particularly in Pathfinder; and with
Indian bravado, he now rather wished to blazon than to
conceal his treachery. He had led the party of warriors, in
the attack on the island, subject, however, to the supervision
of the Frenchman who has been mentioned, though June
declined saying whether he had been the means of discovering
the position of a place, that had been thought to be so
concealed from the eyes of the enemy, or not. On this point,
she would say nothing; but she admitted that she and her
husband had been watching the departure of the Scud, at the
time they were overtaken, and captured by the cutter. The
French had obtained their information of the precise position
of the station, but very recently; and Mabel felt a pang, like
that of some sharp instrument, piercing her heart, when she
thought that there were covert allusions of the Indian woman,
which would convey the meaning that the intelligence had
come from a pale-face, in the employment of Duncan of
Lundie. This was intimated, however, rather than said; and
when Mabel had time to reflect on her companion's words,
and to remember how sententious and brief her periods were,
she found room to hope that she had misunderstood her, and
that Jasper Western would yet come out of the affair, freed
from every injurious imputation.

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June did not hesitate to confess that she had been sent to
the island, to ascertain the precise number, and the occupations
of those who had been left on it, though she also betrayed,
in her naïve way, that the wish to serve Mabel, had
induced her, principally, to consent to come. In consequence
of her report, and information otherwise obtained, the enemy
was aware of precisely the force that could be brought against
them; they also knew the number of men that had gone with
Serjeant Dunham, and were acquainted with the object he had
in view, though they were ignorant of the spot where he expected
to meet the French boats. It would have been a
pleasant sight to witness the eager desire of each of these two
sincere females, to ascertain all that might be of consequence
to their respective friends; and yet the native delicacy, with
which each refrained from pressing the other to make revelations
that would have been improper, as well as the sensitive,
almost intuitive, feeling, with which each avoided saying
aught that might prove injurious to her own nation: as respects
each other, there was perfect confidence; as regarded
their respective people, entire fidelity. June was quite as
anxious, as Mabel could be on any other point, to know
where the serjeant had gone, and when he was expected to
return; but she abstained from putting the question, with a
delicacy that would have done honour to the highest civilization;
nor did she once frame any other inquiry, in a way to
lead, indirectly, to a betrayal of the much-desired information,
on that particular point; though, when Mabel, of her
own accord, touched on any matter that might, by possibility,
throw a light on the subject, she listened with an intentness
that almost suspended respiration.

In this manner, the hours passed away unheeded; for
both were too much interested to think of rest. Nature asserted
her rights, however, towards morning; and Mabel
was persuaded to lie down on one of the straw beds provided
for the soldiers, where she soon fell into a deep sleep. June
lay near her; and a quiet reigned on the whole island, as
profound as if the dominion of the forest had never been invaded
by man.

When Mabel awoke, the light of the sun was streaming in
through the loop-holes; and she found that the day was considerably
advanced. June still lay near her, sleeping as

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tranquilly as if she reposed on—we will not say down, for
the superior civilization of our own times repudiates the
simile—but on a French mattress; and as profoundly as if
she had never experienced concern. The movements of
Mabel, notwithstanding, soon awakened one so accustomed
to vigilance; and then the two took a survey of what was
passing around them, by means of the friendly apertures.

CHAPTER VIII.

“What had the Eternall Maker need of thee,
The world in his continuall course to keepe,
That doest all things deface? ne lettest see
The beautie of his worke? Indeede in sleepe,
The slouthfull body that doth love to steepe
His lustlesse limbs, and drowne his baser mind,
Doth praise thee oft, and oft from Stygian deepe,
Calles thee his goddesse, in his errour blind,
And great dame Nature's hand-maide, chearing every kind.”
Faerie Queen.

The tranquillity of the previous night was not contradicted
by the movements of the day. Although Mabel and June went
to every loop-hole, not a sign of the presence of a living being
on the island was at first to be seen, themselves excepted.
There was a smothered fire on the spot where McNab and
his comrades had cooked, as if the smoke that curled upwards
from it was intended as a lure to the absent; and all
around the huts had been restored to former order and
arrangement. Mabel started involuntarily, when her eye at
length fell on a group of three men, dressed in the scarlet of
the 55th, seated on the grass, in lounging attitudes, as if they
chatted in listless security; and her blood curdled, as, on a
second look, she traced the bloodless faces and glassy eyes
of the dead. They were quite near the block-house; so near,
indeed, as to have been overlooked at the first eager inquiry:
and there was a mocking levity in their postures and gestures,
for their limbs were stiffening in different attitudes,
intended to resemble life, at which the soul revolted. Still,

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horrible as these objects were to those near enough to discover
the frightful discrepancy between their assumed and
their real characters, the arrangement had been made with
an art that would have deceived a negligent observer, at
the distance of a hundred yards. After carefully examining
the shores of the island, June pointed out to her companion
the fourth soldier, seated with his feet hanging over
the water, his back fastened to a sapling, and holding a fishing-rod
in his hand. The scalpless heads were covered with
the caps, and all appearance of blood had been carefully
washed from each countenance.

Mabel sickened at this sight, which not only did so much
violence to all her notions of propriety, but which was in itself
so revolting, and so opposed to natural feeling. She
withdrew to a seat, and hid her face in her apron for several
minutes, until a low call from June again drew her to a loop-hole.
The latter then pointed out the body of Jennie, seemingly
standing in the door of a hut, leaning forward as if to
look at the group of men, her cap fluttering in the wind, and
her hand grasping a broom. The distance was too great to
distinguish the features very accurately; but Mabel fancied
that the jaw had been depressed, as if to distort the mouth
into a sort of horrible laugh.

“June! June!” she exclaimed, “this exceeds all I have
ever heard, or imagined as possible, in the treachery and
artifices of your people.”

“Tuscarora very cunning;” said June, in a way to show
that she rather approved of, than condemned, the uses to
which the dead bodies had been applied. “Do soldier no
harm now; do Iroquois good; got the scalp, first; now
make bodies work. By and by, burn 'em.”

This speech told Mabel how far she was separated from
her friend in character; and it was several minutes before
she could again address her. But this temporary aversion
was lost on June, who set about preparing their simple breakfast,
in a way to show how insensible she was to feelings in
others, that her own habits taught her to discard. Mabel
ate sparingly, and her companion as if nothing had happened.
Then they had leisure again for their thoughts, and
for further surveys of the island. Our heroine, though devoured
with a feverish desire to be always at the loops,

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seldom went that she did not immediately quit them in disgust,
though compelled by her apprehensions to return again in a
few minutes, called by the rustling of leaves, or the sighing
of the wind. It was, indeed, a solemn thing, to look out
upon that deserted spot, peopled by the dead in the panoply
of the living, and thrown into the attitudes and acts of careless
merriment and rude enjoyment. The effect on our heroine
was much as if she had found herself an observer of
the revelries of demons.

Throughout the livelong day, not an Indian nor a Frenchman
was to be seen, and night closed over the frightful but
silent masquerade, with the steady and unalterable progress
with which the earth obeys her laws, indifferent to the petty
actors, and petty scenes, that are in daily bustle and daily
occurrence on her bosom. The night was far more quiet
than that which had preceded it, and Mabel slept with an
increasing confidence, for she now felt satisfied that her own
fate would not be decided until the return of her father. The
following day he was expected, however, and when our heroine
awoke, she ran eagerly to the loops in order to ascertain
the state of the weather and the aspect of the skies, as
well as the condition of the island. There lounged the fearful
group on the grass; the fisherman still hung over the water,
seemingly intent on his sport; and the distorted countenance
of Jennie glared from out the hut, in horrible contortions.
But the weather had changed. The wind blew fresh from
the southward, and though the air was bland, it was filled
with the elements of storm.

“This grows more and more difficult to bear, June,” Mabel
said, when she left the window. “I could even prefer to
see the enemy, than to look any longer on this fearful array
of the dead.”

“Hush;—here they come. June thought hear a cry, like
a warrior's shout when he take a scalp.”

“What mean you!—There is no more butchery! There
can be no more.”

“Salt-water!” exclaimed June, laughing, as she stood
peeping through a loop-hole.

“My dear uncle!—Thank God, he then lives.—Oh! June—
June, you will not let them harm him?”

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“June poor squaw.—What warrior t'ink of what she say?
Arrowhead bring him here.”

By this time Mabel was at a loop, and, sure enough, there
were Cap and the Quarter-Master in the hands of the Indians,
eight or ten of whom were conducting them to the foot of the
block; for, by this capture, the enemy now well knew that
there could be no man in the building. Mabel scarcely
breathed until the whole party stood ranged directly before
the door, when she was rejoiced to see that the French officer
was among them. A low conversation followed, in
which both the white leader and Arrowhead spoke earnestly
to their captives, when the Quarter-Master called out to her,
in a voice loud enough to be heard.

“Pretty Mabel!—Pretty Mabel!” he said—“look out of
one of the loop-holes, and pity our condition. We are
threatened with instant death, unless you open the door to
the conquerors. Relent then, or we 'll no be wearing our
scalps half an hour from this blessed moment!”

Mabel thought there were mockery and levity in this appeal,
and its manner rather fortified than weakened her resolution
to hold the place as long as possible.

“Speak to me, uncle,” she said, with her mouth at a loop,
“and tell me what I ought to do.”

“Thank God!—thank God!” ejaculated Cap: “the sound
of your sweet voice, Magnet, lightens my heart of a heavy
load, for I feared you had shared the fate of poor Jennie.
My breast has felt the last four-and-twenty hours as if a ton
of kentledge had been stowed in it. You ask me what you
ought to do, child, and I do not know how to advise you,
though you are my own sister's daughter! The most I can
say, just now, my poor girl, is most heartily to curse the
day you or I ever saw this bit of fresh water.”

“But, uncle, is your life in danger—do you think I ought
to open the door?”

“A round turn, and two half-hitches make a fast belay:
and I would counsel no one, who is out of the hands of these
devils, to unbar or unfasten any thing, in order to fall into
them. As to the Quarter-Master and myself, we are both
elderly men, and not of much account to mankind in general,
as honest Pathfinder would say; and it can make no great
odds to him, whether he balances the purser's books this year

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or the next; and as for myself, why, if I were on the seaboard,
I should know what to do—but up here, in this watery
wilderness, I can only say, that if I were behind that bit of a
bulwark, it would take a good deal of Indian logic to rowse
me out of it.”

“You 'll no be minding all your uncle says, pretty Mabel,”
put in Muir, “for distress is obviously fast unsettling his
faculties, and he is far from calculating all the necessities of the
emergency. We are in the hands, here, of very considerate
and gentlemanly pairsons, it must be acknowledged, and one
has little occasion to apprehend disagreeable violence. The
casualties that have occurred, are the common incidents of
war, and can no change our sentiments of the enemy, for
they are far from indicating that any injustice will be done
the prisoners. I 'm sure that neither Master Cap, nor myself,
has any cause of complaint, since we have given ourselves
up to Master Arrowhead, who reminds me of a Roman, or a
Spartan, by his virtues and moderation; but ye 'll be remembering
that usages differ, and that our scalps may be lawful
sacrifices to appease the manes of fallen foes, unless you
save them by capitulation.”

“I shall do wiser to keep within the block-house, until the
fate of the island is settled,” returned Mabel. “Our enemies
can feel no concern on account of one like me, knowing that
I can do them no harm; and I greatly prefer to remain here,
as more befitting my sex, and years.”

“If nothing but your convenience were concerned, Mabel,
we should all cheerfully acquiesce in your wishes; but these
gentlemen fancy that the work will aid their operations, and
they have a strong, desire to possess it. To be frank with
you, finding myself, and your uncle, in a very peculiar situation,
I acknowledge that, to avert consequences, I have assumed
the power that belongs to His Majesty's commission,
and entered into a verbal capitulation, by which I have engaged
to give up the block-house, and the whole island. It is
the fortune of war, and must be submitted to; so open the
door, pretty Mabel, forthwith, and confide yourself to the
care of those who know how to treat beauty and virtue in
distress. There's no courtier in Scotland more complaisant
than this chief, or who is more familiar with the laws of decorum.”

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“No leave block-house,” muttered June, who stood at
Mabel's side, attentive to all that passed. “Block-house good;
got no scalp.”

Our heroine might have yielded, but for this appeal; for it
began to appear to her, that the wisest course would be to
conciliate the enemy by concessions, instead of exasperating
them by resistance. They must know that Muir and her
uncle were in their power; that there was no man in the
building; and she fancied they might proceed to batter down
the door, or to cut their way through the logs with axes, if
she obstinately refused to give them peaceable admission,
since there was no longer any reason to dread the rifle. But
the words of June induced her to hesitate; and the earnest
pressure of the hand, and entreating looks of her companion,
strengthened a resolution that was faltering.

“No prisoner yet,” whispered June—“let 'em make prisoner,
before 'ey take prisoner—talk big; June manage 'em.”

Mabel now began to parley more resolutely with Muir, for
her uncle seemed disposed to quiet his conscience by holding
his tongue; and she plainly intimated that it was not her intention
to yield the building.

“You forget the capitulation, Mistress Mabel,” said Muir;
“the honour of one of His Majesty's servants is concerned;
and the honour of His Majesty, through his servant. You
will remember the finesse and delicacy that belong to military
honour?”

“I know enough, Mr. Muir, to understand that you have
no command in this expedition, and, therefore, can have no
right to yield the block-house; and I remember, moreover,
to have heard my dear father say, that a prisoner loses all
his authority, for the time being.”

“Rank sophistry, pretty Mabel, and treason to the king,
as well as dishonouring his commission, and discrediting his
name. You 'll no be persevering in your intentions, when
your better judgment has had leisure to reflect, and to make
conclusions, on matters and circumstances.”

“Ay,” put in Cap, “this is a circumstance, and be d—d
to it!”

“No mind what 'e uncle say,” ejaculated June, who was
occupied in a far corner of the room. “Block-house good;
got no scalp.”

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“I shall remain as I am, Mr. Muir, until I get some
tidings of my father. He will return in the course of the
next ten days.”

“Ah! Mabel, this artifice will no deceive the enemy, who,
by means that would be unintelligible, did not our suspicions
rest on an unhappy young man with too much plausibility,
are familiar with all our doings and plans, and well know
that the sun will not set before the worthy serjeant and his
companions will be in their power. Aweel! Submission to
Providence is truly a Christian virtue!”

“Mr. Muir, you appear to be deceived in the strength of
this work, and to fancy it weaker than it is. Do you desire
to see what I can do in the way of defence, if so disposed?”

“I dinna' mind if I do,” answered the Quarter-Master,
who always grew Scotch as he grew interested.

“What do you think of that, then?—Look at the loop of
the upper story.”

As soon as Mabel had spoken, all eyes were turned upward,
and beheld the muzzle of a rifle cautiously thrust through a
hole—June having resorted again to a ruse that had already
proved so successful. The result did not disappoint expectation.
No sooner did the Indians catch a sight of the fatal
weapon, than they leaped aside, and, in less than a minute,
every man among them had sought a cover. The French
officer kept his eye on the barrel of the piece, in order to ascertain
that it was not pointed in his particular direction, and
he coolly took a pinch of snuff. As neither Muir nor Cap
had any thing to apprehead from the quarter in which the
others were menaced, they kept their ground.

“Be wise, my pretty Mabel, be wise,” exclaimed the
former, “and no be provoking useless contention. In the
name of all the kings of Albin, who have ye closeted with
you in that wooden tower, that seemeth so bloody-minded?
There is necromancy about this matter, and all our characters
may be involved in the explanation.”

“What do ye think of the Pathfinder, Master Muir, for a
garrison to so strong a post!” cried Mabel, resorting to an
equivocation that the circumstances rendered very excusable.
“What will your French and Indian companions think of the
aim of the Pathfinder's rifle?”

“Bear gently on the unfortunate, pretty Mabel, and do
not confound the king's servants, may Heaven bless him

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and all his royal lineage! with the king's enemies. If Pathfinder
be indeed in the block-house, let him speak, and we
will hold our negotiations directly with him. He knows us
as friends, and we fear no evil at his hands, and least of all
to myself; for a generous mind is apt to render rivalry in a
certain interest, a sure ground of respect and amity; since
admiration of the same woman proves a community of feeling
and tastes.”

The reliance on Pathfinder's friendship did not extend beyond
the Quarter-Master and Cap, however, for even the
French officer, who had hitherto stood his ground so well,
shrunk back at the sound of the terrible name. So unwilling
indeed did this individual, a man of iron nerves, and one
long accustomed to the dangers of the peculiar warfare in
which he was engaged, appear to be to remain exposed to
the assaults of Killdeer, whose reputation throughout all that
frontier was as well established as that of Marlborough in
Europe, that he did not disdain to seek a cover, insisting that
his two prisoners should follow him. Mabel was too glad to
be rid of her enemies to lament the departure of her friends,
though she kissed her hand to Cap, through the loop, and
called out to him in terms of affection as he moved slowly
and unwillingly away.

The enemy now seemed disposed to abandon all attempts
on the block-house, for the present; and June, who had ascended
to a trap in the roof, whence the best view was to be
obtained, reported that the whole party had assembled to eat,
on a distant and sheltered part of the island, where Muir and
Cap were quietly sharing in the good things that were going,
as if they had no concern on their minds. This information
greatly relieved Mabel, and she began to turn her thoughts
again to the means of effecting her own escape, or at least
of letting her father know of the danger that awaited him.
The serjeant was expected to return that afternoon, and she
knew that a moment gained or lost might decide his fate.

Three or four hours flew by. The island was again buried
in a profound quiet, the day was wearing away, and yet
Mabel had decided on nothing. June was in the basement
preparing their frugal meal, and Mabel herself had ascended
to the roof, which was provided with a trap that allowed her
to go out on the top of the building, whence she commanded

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the best view of surrounding objects that the island possessed.
Still it was limited, and much obstructed by the tops of trees.
The anxious girl did not dare to trust her person in sight, knowing
well that the unrestrained passions of some savage might
induce him to send a bullet through her brain. She merely
kept her head out of the trap, therefore, whence in the course
of the afternoon, she made as many surveys of the different
channels about the island, as “Anne, sister Anne” took of
the environs of the castle of Blue Beard.

The sun had actually set, no intelligence had been received
from the boats, and Mabel ascended to the roof, to take a
last look, hoping that the party would arrive in the darkness;
which would at least prevent the Indians from rendering their
ambuscade as fatal as it might otherwise prove, and which
possibly might enable her to give some more intelligible signal,
by means of fire, than it would otherwise be in her power
to do. Her eye had turned carefully round the whole horizon,
and she was just on the point of drawing in her person,
when an object that struck her as new, caught her attention.
The islands lay grouped so closely, that six or eight different
channels or passages between them were in view; and in one
of the most covered, concealed in a great measure by the
bushes of the shore, lay, what a second look assured her,
was a bark canoe. It contained a human being beyond a
question. Confident that, if an enemy, her signal could do
no harm, and, if a friend, that it might do good, the eager
girl waved a little flag towards the stranger, which she had
prepared for her father, taking care that it should not be seen
from the island.

Mabel had repeated her signal eight or ten times in vain,
and she began to despair of its being noticed, when a sign
was given in return, by the wave of a paddle, and the man
so far discovered himself, as to let her see it was Chingachgook.
Here, then, at last, was a friend; one, too, who was
able, and she doubted not would be willing to aid her! From
that instant her courage and her spirits revived. The Mohican
had seen her; must have recognised her, as he knew that
she was of the party; and no doubt, as soon as it was sufficiently
dark, he would take the steps necessary to release
her. That he was aware of the presence of the enemy was
apparent by the great caution he observed, and she had every

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reliance on his prudence and address. The principal difficulty
now existed with June, for Mabel had seen too much
of her fidelity to her own people, relieved as it was by sympathy
for herself, to believe she would consent to a hostile
Indian's entering the block-house, or indeed to her leaving it,
with a view to defeat Arrowhead's plans. The half hour
that succeeded the discovery of the presence of the Great
Serpent, was the most painful of Mabel Dunham's life. She
saw the means of effecting all she wished, as it might be
within reach of her hand, and yet it eluded her grasp. She
knew June's decision and coolness, notwithstanding all her
gentleness and womanly feeling, and at last she came reluctantly
to the conclusion that there was no other way of
attaining her end, than by deceiving her tried companion and
protector. It was revolting to one as sincere and natural,
as pure of heart and as much disposed to ingenuousness as
Mabel Dunham, to practise deception on a friend like June; but
her own father's life was at stake, her companion would receive
no positive injury, and she had feelings and interests directly
touching herself, that would have removed greater scruples.

As soon as it was dark, Mabel's heart began to beat
with violence; and she adopted and changed her plan of
proceedings, at least a dozen times in the course of a
single hour. June was always the source of her greatest
embarrassment; for she did not well see, firstly, how she
was to ascertain when Cingachgook was at the door, where
she doubted not he would soon appear; and, secondly, how
she was to admit him, without giving the alarm to her watchful
companion. Time pressed, however; for the Mohican
might come and go away again, unless she was ready to receive
him. It would be too hazardous to the Delaware to
remain long on the island; and it became absolutely necessary
to determine on some course, even at the risk of choosing
one that was indiscreet. After running over various projects
in her mind, therefore, Mabel came to her companion,
and said, with as much calmness as she could assume—

“Are you not afraid, June, now your people believe Pathfinder
is in the block-house, that they will come, and try to
set it on fire?”

“No t'ink such t'ing. No burn block-house. Block-house
good: got no scalp.”

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“June, we cannot know. They hid, because they believed
what I told them of Pathfinder's being with us.”

“Believe fear. Fear come quick, go quick. Fear make
run away; wit make come back. Fear make warrior fool,
as well as young girl.”

Here June laughed, as her sex is apt to laugh, when anything
particularly ludicrous crosses their youthful fancies.

“I feel uneasy, June; and wish you yourself would go
up again to the roof, and look out upon the island, to make
certain that nothing is plotting against us; you know the
signs of what your people intend to do better than I.”

“June go, Lily wish; but very well know that Indian
sleep: wait for 'e fader. Warrior eat, drink, sleep, all time,
when don't fight, and go on war-trail. Den never sleep, eat,
drink—never feel. Warrior sleep, now.”

“God send it may be so: but go up, dear June, and look
well about you. Danger may come when we least expect
it.”

June arose, and prepared to ascend to the roof; but she
paused, with her foot on the first round of the ladder. Mabel's
heart beat so violently, that she was fearful its throbs
would be heard; and she fancied that some gleamings of her
real intentions had crossed the mind of her friend. She was
right, in part; the Indian woman having actually stopped to
consider whether there was any indiscretion in what she was
about to do. At first, the suspicion that Mabel intended to escape
flashed across her mind; then she rejected it, on the ground
that the pale-face had no means of getting off the island, and
that the block-house was much the most secure place she
could find. The next thought was, that Mabel had detected
some sign of the near approach of her father. This idea,
too, lasted but an instant; for June entertained some such
opinion of her companion's ability to understand symptoms
of this sort—symptoms that had escaped her own sagacity—
as a woman of high fashion entertains of the accomplishments
of her maid. Nothing else in the same way offering,
she began slowly to mount the ladder.

Just as she reached the upper floor, a lucky thought suggested
itself to our heroine; and, by expressing it in a hurried,
but natural manner, she gained a great advantage in executing
her projected scheme.

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“I will go down,” she said, “and listen by the door, June;
while you are on the roof; and we will thus be on our guard,
at the same time, above and below.”

Though June thought this savoured of unnecessary caution,
well knowing no one could enter the building, unless
aided from within, nor any serious danger menace them from
the exterior, without giving sufficient warning, she attributed
the proposition to Mabel's ignorance and alarm; and, as it
was made apparently with frankness, it was received without
distrust. By these means, our heroine was enabled to descend
to the door, as her friend ascended to the roof; and
June felt no unusual inducement to watch her. The distance
between the two was now too great to admit of conversation;
and, for three or four minutes, one was occupied in
looking about her, as well as the darkness would allow, and
the other, in listening at the door, with as much intentness,
as if all her senses were absorbed in the single faculty of
hearing.

June discovered nothing from her elevated stand; the
obscurity, indeed, almost forbade the hope of such a result,
but it would not be easy to describe the sensation with which
Mabel thought she perceived a slight and guarded push
against the door. Fearful that all might not be as she wished,
and anxious to let Chingachgook know that she was near,
she began, though in tremulous and low notes, to sing. So
profound was the stillness at the moment, that the sound of
the unsteady warbling ascended to the roof, and in a minute
June began to descend. A slight tap at the door was heard
immediately after. Mabel was bewildered, for there was no
time to lose. Hope proved stronger than fear, and with unsteady
hands, she commenced unbarring the door. The moccasin
of June was heard on the floor above her, when only
a single bar was turned. The second was released as her
form reached half-way down the lower ladder.

“What you do!” exclaimed June, angrily.—“Run away—
mad—leave block-house? Block-house good.”—The hands
of both were on the last bar, and it would have been cleared
from the fastenings, but for a vigorous shove from without,
which jammed the wood. A short struggle ensued, though both
were disinclined to violence. June would probably have
prevailed, had not another and a more vigorous push from

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without forced the bar past the trifling impediment that held
it, when the door opened. The form of a man was seen to
enter, and both the females rushed up the ladder, as if equally
afraid of the consequences. The stranger secured the door,
and, first examining the lower room with great care, he cautiously
ascended the ladder. June, as soon as it became
dark, had closed the loops of the principal floor, and lighted
a candle. By means of this dim taper, then, the two females
stood in expectation, waiting to ascertain the person of their
visiter, whose wary ascent of the ladder was distinctly audible,
though sufficiently deliberate. It would not be easy to
say which was the most astonished on finding, when the
stranger had got through the trap, that Pathfinder stood
before them?

“God be praised!” Mabel exclaimed, for the idea that the
block-house would be impregnable with such a garrison, at
once crossed her mind. “Oh! Pathfinder, what has become
of my father?”

“The sarjeant is safe, as yet, and victorious, though it is
not in the gift of man to say what will be the ind of it. Is
not that the wife of Arrowhead, skulking in the corner,
there?”

“Speak not of her reproachfully, Pathfinder; I owe her
my life—my present security;—tell me what has happened to
my father's party, why you are here, and I will relate all the
horrible events that have passed upon this island.”

“Few words will do the last, Mabel; for one used to Indian
deviltries needs but little explanations on such a subject.
Every thing turned out as we had hoped with the expedition,
for the Sarpent was on the look-out, and he met us with all
the information heart could desire. We ambushed three
boats, druv' the Frenchers out of them, got possession and
sunk them, according to orders, in the deepest part of the
channel; and the savages of Upper Canada will fare badly
for Indian goods this winter. Both powder and ball, too,
will be scarcer among them, than keen hunters and actyve
warriors may relish. We did not lose a man, or have even
a skin barked; nor do I think the inemy suffered to speak of.
In short, Mabel, it has been just such an expedition as Lundie
likes; much harm to the foe, and little harm to ourselves.”

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“Ah! Pathfinder, I fear when Major Duncan comes to
hear the whole of the sad tale, he will find reason to regret
he ever undertook the affair!”

“I know what you mean—I know what you mean; but,
by telling my story straight, you will understand it better.
As soon as the sarjeant found himself successful, he sent me
and the Sarpent off in canoes, to tell you how matters had
turned out, and he is following with the two boats; which
being so much heavier, cannot arrive before morning. I
parted from Chingachgook this forenoon, it being agreed
that he should come up one set of channels, and I another,
to see that the path was clear. I 've not seen the chief
since.”

Mabel now explained the manner in which she had discovered
the Mohican, and her expectation that he would yet
come to the block-house.

“Not he—not he!—A regular scout will never get behind
walls, or logs, so long as he can keep the open air and find
useful employment. I should not have come myself, Mabel,
but I promised the sarjeant to comfort you, and to look after
your safety. Ah's me! I reconnoitred the island with a
heavy heart this forenoon; and there was a bitter hour when
I fancied you might be among the slain.”

“By what lucky accident were you prevented from paddling
up boldly to the island, and from falling into the hands of the
enemy?”

“By such an accident, Mabel, as Providence employs to
tell the hound where to find the deer, and the deer how to
throw off the hound. No—no—these artifices and deviltries
with dead bodies, may deceive the soldiers of the 55th, and
the king's officers; but they are all lost upon men who have
passed their days in the forest. I came down the channel in
face of the pretended fisherman, and, though the riptyles
have set up the poor wretch with art, it was not ingenious
enough to take in a practysed eye. The rod was held too high,
for the 55th have learned to fish at Oswego, if they never knew
how before; and then the man was too quiet for one who got
neither prey nor bite. But we never come in upon a post
blindly; and I have lain outside a garrison a whole night,
because they had changed their sentries and their mode of
standing guard. Neither the Sarpent nor myself would be

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likely to be taken in by these clumsy contrivances, which
were most probably intended for the Scotch, who are cunning
enough in some particulars, though any thing but witches
when Indian sarcumventions are in the wind.”

“Do you think my father and his men may yet be deceived?”
said Mabel, quickly.

“Not if I can prevent it, Mabel. You say the Sarpent is
on the look-out, too; so there is a double chance of our succeeding
in letting him know his danger; though it is by no
means sartain by which channel the party may come.”

“Pathfinder,” said our heroine solemnly, for the frightful
scenes she had witnessed had clothed death with unusual
horrors—“Pathfinder, you have professed love for me—a
wish to make me your wife?”

“I did ventur' to speak on that subject, Mabel, and the
sarjeant has even lately said that you are kindly disposed;
but I am not a man to persecute the thing I love.”

“Hear me, Pathfinder—I respect you—honour you—revere
you—save my father from this dreadful death, and I
can worship you. Here is my hand, as a solemn pledge for
my faith, when you come to claim it.”

“Bless you—bless you, Mabel; this is more than I desarve—
more, I fear, than I shall know how to profit by, as I
ought. It was not wanting, however, to make me sarve the
sarjeant. We are old comrades, and owe each other a life—
though I fear me, Mabel, being a father's comrade is not
always the best recommendation with the daughter!”

“You want no other recommendation than your own acts—
your courage—your fidelity—all that you do and say,
Pathfinder, my reason approves, and the heart will, nay, it
shall follow.”

“This is a happiness I little expected this night; but we
are in God's hands, and he will protect us in his own way.
These are sweet words, Mabel, but they were not wanting to
make me do all that man can do, in the present circumstances;
they will not lessen my endeavours, neither.”

“Now we understand each other, Pathfinder—” Mabel
added, hoarsely, “let us not lose one of the precious moments,
which may be of incalculable value. Can we not get
into your canoe, and go and meet my father?”

“That is not the course I advise. I don't know by which

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channel the sarjeant will come, and there are twenty; rely
on it, the Sarpent will be winding his way through them all.
No—no—my advice is to remain here. The logs of this
block-house are still green, and it will not be easy to set them
on fire; and I can make good the place, bating a burning,
ag'in a tribe. The Iroquois nation cannot dislodge me from
this fortress, so long as we can keep the flames off it.
The sarjeant is now 'camped on some island, and will not
come in until morning. If we hold the block, we can give
him timely warning, by firing rifles for instance; and should
he determine to attack the savages, as a man of his temper
will be very likely to do, the possession of this building will
be of great account in the affair. No—no—my judgment
says remain, if the object be to sarve the sarjeant; though
escape for our two selves will be no very difficult matter.”

“Stay,” murmured Mabel—“stay, for God's sake, Pathfinder.
Any thing—every thing, to save my father!”

“Yes, that is natur'. I am glad to hear you say this,
Mabel, for I own a wish to see the sarjeant fairly supported.
As the matter now stands, he has gained himself credit; and
could he once drive off these miscreants, and make an honourable
retreat, laying the huts and block in ashes, no doubt,
no doubt, Lundie would remember it and sarve him accordingly.
Yes, yes, Mabel, we must not only save the sarjeant's
life, but we must save his reputation.”

“No blame can rest on my father, on account of the surprise
of this island!”

“There's no telling—there's no telling; military glory is
a most unsartain thing. I 've seen the Delawares routed, when
they desarved more credit, than, at other times, when they've
carried the day. A man is wrong to set his head on success
of any sort, and worst of all, on success in war. I know
little of the settlements, or of the notions that men hold in
them; but, up hereaway, even the Indians rate a warrior's
character according to his luck. The principal thing with
a soldier, is never to be whipt; nor do I think mankind stops
long to consider how the day was won, or lost. For my
part, Mabel, I make it a rule when facing the inimy, to give
him as good as I can send, and to try to be moderate as I
can, when we get the better; as for feeling moderate, after a
defeat, little need be said on that score, as a flogging is one

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of the most humbling things in natur'. The parsons preach
about humility, in the garrisons; but if humility would make
Christians, the king's troops ought to be saints, for they've
done little, as yet, this war, but take lessons from the French,
beginning at Fort du Quesne, and ending at Ty!”

“My father could not have suspected that the position of
the island was known to the enemy,” resumed Mabel, whose
thoughts were running on the probable effect of the recent
events, on the serjeant.

“That is true; nor do I well see how the Frenchers found
it out. The spot is well chosen, and it is not an easy matter,
even for one who has travelled the road to and from it, to
find it again. There has been treachery, I fear; yes, yes,
there must have been treachery!”

“Oh! Pathfinder, can this be!”

“Nothing is easier, Mabel, for treachery comes as nat'ral
to some men, as eating. Now, when I find a man, all fair
words, I look close to his deeds; for when the heart is right,
and really intends to do good, it is generally satisfied to let
the conduct speak, instead of the tongue.”

“Jasper Western is not one of these,” said Mabel, impetuously.
“No youth can be more sincere in his manner, or
less apt to make the tongue act for the head.”

“Jasper Western!—tongue and heart are both right with
that lad, depend on it, Mabel; and the notion taken up by
Lundie, and the Quarter-Master, and the sarjeant, and your
uncle, too, is as wrong, as it would be to think that the sun
shone by night, and the stars shone by day. No—no—I 'll
answer for Eau-douce's honesty with my own scalp, or, at
need, with my own rifle.”

“Bless you—bless you, Pathfinder!” exclaimed Mabel,
extending her own hand, and pressing the iron fingers of her
companion, under a state of feeling that far surpassed her
own consciousness of its strength. “You are all that is
generous—all that is noble; God will reward you for it.”

“Ah! Mabel, I fear me, if this be true, I should not covet
such a wife as yourself, but would leave you to be sued for,
by some gentleman of the garrison, as your desarts require!”

“We will not talk of this any more to night,” Mabel answered
in a voice so smothered, as to seem nearly choked.
“We must think less of ourselves, just now, Pathfinder, and

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more of our friends. But I rejoice from my soul, that you
believe Jasper innocent. Now let us talk of other things—
ought we not to release June?”

“I 've been thinking about the woman, for it will not be
safe to shut our eyes and leave hers open, on this side of the
block-house door. If we put her in the upper room and
take away the ladder, she 'll be a prisoner at least.”

“I cannot treat one thus who has saved my life. It would
be better to let her depart, for I think she is too much my
friend to do any thing to harm me.”

“You do not know the race, Mabel; you do not know the
race. It 's true she is not a full-blooded Mingo, but she consorts
with the vagabonds, and must have larned some of their
tricks. What is that?”

“It sounds like oars—some boat is passing through the
channel!”

Pathfinder closed the trap that led to the lower room, to
prevent June from escaping, extinguished the candle, and
went hastily to a loop; Mabel looking over his shoulder in
breathless curiosity. These several movements consumed a
minute or two; and by the time the eye of the scout had got
a dim view of things without, two boats had swept past, and
shot up to the shore, at a spot some fifty yards beyond the
block, where there was a regular landing. The obscurity
prevented more from being seen; and Pathfinder whispered
to Mabel, that the new comers were as likely to be foes as
friends, for he did not think her father could possibly have
arrived so soon. A number of men were now seen to quit
the boats, and then followed three hearty English cheers,
leaving no further doubts of the character of the party.
Pathfinder sprang to the trap, raised it, glided down the ladder,
and began to unbar the door, with an earnestness that
proved how critical he deemed the moment. Mabel had followed,
but she rather impeded than aided his exertions, and
but a single bar was turned when a heavy discharge of rifles
was heard. They were still standing in breathless suspense,
as the war-whoop rang in all the surrounding thickets.
The door now opened, and both Pathfinder and Mabel rushed
into the open air. All human sounds had ceased. After
listening half a minute, however, Pathfinder thought he heard
a few stifled groans near the boats; but the wind blew so

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fresh, and the rustling of the leaves mingled so much with
the murmurs of the passing air, that he was far from certain.
But Mabel was borne away by her feelings, and she rushed
by him, taking the way towards the boats.

“This will not do, Mabel—” said the scout, in an earnest
but low voice, seizing her by an arm,—“this will never do.
Sartain death would follow, and that without sarving any
one. We must return to the block.”

“Father!—my poor, dear, murdered father!” said the
girl wildly, though habitual caution, even at that trying moment,
induced her to speak low. “Pathfinder, if you love
me, let me go to my dear father!”

“This will not do, Mabel.—It is singular that no one
speaks; no one returns the fire from the boats—and I have
left Killdeer in the block!—But of what use would a rifle be
when no one is to be seen!”

At that moment, the quick eye of Pathfinder, which, while
he held Mabel firmly in his grasp, had never ceased to roam
over the dim scene, caught an indistinct view of five or six
dark, crouching forms, endeavouring to steal past him, doubtless
with the intention of intercepting their retreat to the
block-house. Catching up Mabel and putting her under an
arm, as if she were an infant, the sinewy frame of the
woodsman was exerted to the utmost, and he succeeded in
entering the building. The tramp of his pursuers seemed
immediately at his heels. Dropping his burthen, he turned,
closed the door, and had fastened one bar, as a rush against
the solid mass threatened to force it from the hinges. To
secure the other bars was the work of an instant.

Mabel now ascended to the first floor, while Pathfinder
remained as a sentinel below. Our heroine was in that state
in which the body exerts itself, apparently without the control
of the mind. She re-lighted the candle mechanically, as her
companion had desired, and returned with it below, where he
was waiting her re-appearance. No sooner was Pathfinder
in possession of the light than he examined the place carefully,
to make certain no one was concealed in the fortress,
ascending to each floor in succession, after assuring himself
that he left no enemy in his rear. The result was the conviction
that the block-house now contained no one but Mabel
and himself, June having escaped. When perfectly

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convinced on this material point, Pathfinder rejoined our heroine
in the principal apartment, setting down the light and examining
the priming of Killdeer before he seated himself.

“Our worst fears are realized!” said Mabel, to whom the
hurry and excitement of the last five minutes appeared to
contain the emotions of a life. “My beloved father, and all
his party, are slain or captured!”

“We don't know that—morning will tell us all. I do not
think the affair as settled as that, or we should hear the
vagabond Mingos yelling out their triumph around the block-house.
Of one thing, we may be sartain; if the inimy has
really got the better, he will not be long in calling upon us
to surrender. The squaw will let him into the secret of our
situation, and, as they well know the place cannot be fired
by day-light, so long as Killdeer continues to desarve his
reputation, you may depend on it, that they will not be backward
in making their attempt, while darkness helps them.”

“Surely, I hear a groan!”

“'T is fancy, Mabel,—when the mind gets to be skeary,
especially a woman's mind, she often concaits things that
have no reality. I 've known them that imagined there was
truth in dreams—”

“Nay, I am not deceived—there is surely one below, and
in pain!”

Pathfinder was compelled to own that the quick senses of
Mabel had not deceived her. He cautioned her, however, to
repress her feelings; and reminded her that the savages
were in the practice of resorting to every artifice, to attain
their ends, and that nothing was more likely than that the
groans were feigned with a view to lure them from the block-house,
or, at least, to induce them to open the door.

“No—no—no”—said Mabel, hurriedly,—“there is no
artifice in those sounds, and they come from anguish of body,
if not of spirit. They are fearfully natural.”

“Well, we shall soon know whether a friend is there, or
not. Hide the light again, Mabel, and I will speak the person
from a loop.”

Not a little precaution was necessary, according to Pathfinder's
judgment and experience, in performing even this
simple act, for he had known the careless slain by their want
of proper attention to, what might have seemed to the

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ignorant, supererogatory means of safety. He did not place his
mouth to the loop itself, but so near it that he could be heard
without raising his voice, and the same precaution was observed
as regards his ear.

“Who is below?” Pathfinder demanded, when his arrangements
were made to his mind. “Is any one in suffering?
If a friend, speak boldly, and depend on our aid.”

“Pathfinder!” answered a voice that both Mabel and the
person addressed at once knew to be the serjeant's—“Pathfinder,
in the name of God, tell me what has become of my
daughter?”

“Father, I am here!—unhurt—safe—and oh! that I could
think the same of you!”

The ejaculation of thanksgiving that followed was distinctly
audible to the two, but it was clearly mingled with a
groan of pain.

“My worst forebodings are realized!” said Mabel, with a sort
of desperate calmness. “Pathfinder, my father must be brought
within the block, though we hazard every thing to do it.”

“This is natur', and it is the law of God. But, Mabel,
be calm, and endivour to be cool. All that can be effected
for the sarjeant by human invention, shall be done. I only
ask you to be cool.”

“I am—I am—Pathfinder. Never in my life was I more
calm, more collected, than at this moment. But remember
how perilous may be every instant; for Heaven's sake, what
we do, let us do without delay.”

Pathfinder was struck with the firmness of Mabel's tones,
and perhaps he was a little deceived by the forced tranquillity
and self-possession she had assumed. At all events, he did
not deem any farther explanations necessary, but descended
forthwith, and began to unbar the door. This delicate process
was conducted with the usual caution, but as he warily
permitted the mass of timber to swing back on the hinges, he
felt a pressure against it, that had nearly induced him to close
it again. But catching a glimpse of the cause through the
crack, the door was permitted to swing back, when the body
of Serjeant Dunham, which was propped against it, fell partly
within the block. To draw in the legs and secure the fastenings,
occupied the Pathfinder but a moment. Then there
existed no obstacle to their giving their undivided care to the
wounded man.

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Mabel, in this trying scene, conducted herself with the
sort of unnatural energy that her sex, when aroused, is apt
to manifest. She got the light, administered water to the
parched lips of her father, and assisted Pathfinder in forming
a bed of straw for his body, and a pillow of clothes for his
head. All this was done earnestly, and almost without speaking;
nor did Mabel shed a tear, until she heard the blessings
of her father murmured on her head, for this tenderness and
care. All this time, Mabel had merely conjectured the condition
of her parent. Pathfinder, however, had shown
greater attention to the physical danger of the serjeant. He
had ascertained that a rifle-ball had passed through the body
of the wounded man; and he was sufficiently familiar with
injuries of this nature, to be certain that the chances of his
surviving the hurt were very trifling, if any.

CHAPTER IX.

“Then—drink my tears, while yet they fall—
Would that my bosom's blood were balm;
And—well thou knowest—I 'd shed it all,
To give thy brow one minute's calm.”
Moore.

The eyes of Serjeant Dunham had not ceased to follow
the form of his beautiful daughter, from the moment that the
light appeared. He next examined the door of the block, to
ascertain its security; for he was left on the ground below,
there being no available means of raising him to the upper
floor. Then he sought the face of Mabel; for as life wanes
fast, the affections resume their force, and we begin to value
that most which we feel we are about to lose forever.

“God be praised, my child, you, at least, have escaped
their murderous rifles!” he said; for he spoke with strength,
and seemingly, with no additional pain. “Give me the history
of this sad business, Pathfinder.”

“Ah 's me! sarjeant; it has been sad, as you say. That
there has been treachery, and the position of the island has

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been betrayed, is now as sartain, in my judgment, as that we
still hold the block. But—”

“Major Duncan was right;” interrupted Dunham, laying
a hand on the other's arm.

“Not in the sense you mean, sarjeant—no, not in that
p'int of view; never. At least, not in my opinion. I know
that natur' is weak—human natur', I mean—and that we
should none of us vaunt of our gifts, whether red or white;
but I do not think a truer-hearted lad lives on the lines, than
Jasper Western.”

“Bless you—bless you for that, Pathfinder!” burst forth
from Mabel's very soul, while a flood of tears gave vent to
emotions that were so varied, while they were so violent:—
“Oh! bless you, Pathfinder, bless you. The brave should
never desert the brave — the honest should sustain the
honest.”

The father's eyes were fastened anxiously on the face of
his daughter, until the latter hid her countenance in her apron,
to conceal her tears; and then they turned with inquiry to
the hard features of the guide. The latter merely wore their
usual expression of frankness, sincerity, and uprightness; and
the serjeant motioned to him to proceed.

“You know the spot where the Sarpent and I left you,
sarjeant,” Pathfinder resumed; “and I need say nothing of
all that happened afore. It is now too late to regret what
is gone and passed; but I do think if I had staid with the
boats, this would not have come to pass! Other men may
be as good guides; I make no doubt they are: but then natur'
bestows its gifts, and some must be better than other
some. I dare say, poor Gilbert, who took my place, has
suffered for his mistake.”

“He fell at my elbow;” the serjeant answered, in a low,
melancholy tone. “We have, indeed, all suffered for our
mistakes!”

“No, no, sarjeant, I meant no condemnation on you; for
men were never better commanded than your'n, in this very
expedition. I never beheld a prettier flanking; and the way
in which you carried your own boat up ag'in their howitzer
might have teached Lundie, himself, a lesson.”

The eyes of the serjeant brightened; and his face even
wore an expression of military triumph, though it was of a

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degree that suited the humble sphere in which he had been
an actor.

“'Twas not badly done, my friend,” he said; “and we
carried their log breast-work by storm!”

“'Twas nobly done, sarjeant: though I fear when all the
truth comes to be known, it will be found that these vagabonds
have got their howitzer back ag'in. Well, well, put
a stout heart upon it, and try to forget all that is disagreeable,
and to remember only the pleasant part of the matter.
That is your truest philosophy; ay, and truest religion, too.
If the inimy has got the howitzer ag'in, they've only got
what belonged to them afore, and what we couldn't help.
They hav'n't got the block-house, yet, nor are they likely to
get it, unless they fire it in the dark. Well, sarjeant, the
Sarpent and I separated about ten miles down the river; for
we thought it wisest not to come upon even a friendly camp
without the usual caution. What has become of Chingachgook,
I cannot say; though Mabel tells me he is not far off:
and I make no question the noble-hearted Delaware is doing
his duty, although he is not now visible to our eyes. Mark
my word, sarjeant; before this matter is over, we shall hear
of him at some critical time, and that in a discreet and creditable
manner. Ah! the Sarpent is, indeed, a wise and virtuous
chief; and any white man might covet his gifts, though
his rifle is not quite as sure as Killdeer, it must be owned.
Well, as I came near the island, I missed the smoke, and
that put me on my guard; for I knew that the men of the
55th were not cunning enough to conceal that sign, notwithstanding
all that has been told them of its danger. This
made me more careful, until I came in sight of this mockfisherman,
as I 've just told Mabel; and then the whole of
their infernal arts was as plain before me, as if I saw it on a
map. I need not tell you, sarjeant, that my first thoughts
were of Mabel; and that, finding she was in the block, I came
here, in order to live or die in her company.”

The father turned a gratified look upon his child, and
Mabel felt a sinking of the heart that, at such a moment, she
could not have thought possible, when she wished to believe
all her concern centred in the situation of her parent. As
the latter held out his hand, she took it in her own, and kissed

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it. Then kneeling at his side, she wept as if her heart would
break.

“Mabel,” he said, steadily, “the will of God must be
done. It is useless to attempt deceiving either you or myself:
my time has come, and it is a consolation to me, to die
like a soldier. Lundie will do me justice, for our good friend
Pathfinder will tell him what has been done, and how all
came to pass. You do not forget our last conversation?”

“Nay, father, my time has probably come, too,” exclaimed
Mabel, who felt just then, as if it would be a relief
to die. “I cannot hope to escape; and Pathfinder would
do well to leave us, and return to the garrison, with the sad
news, while he can.”

“Mabel Dunham,” said Pathfinder, reproachfully, though
he took her hand with kindness, “I have not desarved this;
I know I am wild, and uncouth, and ungainly—”

“Pathfinder!”

“Well—well, we 'll forget it; you did not mean it; you
could not think it. It is useless, now, to talk of escaping,
for the sarjeant cannot be moved; and the block-house must
be defended, cost what it will. May be, Lundie will get the
tidings of our disaster, and send a party to raise the siege.”

“Pathfinder—Mabel!” said the serjeant, who had been
writhing with pain, until the cold sweat stood on his forehead—
“come both to my side. You understand each other, I
hope?”

“Father, say nothing of that—it is all as you wish.”

“Thank God!—Give me your hand, Mabel—here, Pathfinder,
take it. I can do no more than give you the girl in
this way. I know you will make her a kind husband. Do
not wait on account of my death; but there will be a chaplain
in the fort, before the season closes, and let him marry
you at once. My brother, if living, will wish to go back to
his vessel, and then the child will have no protector. Mabel,
your husband will have been my friend, and that will be some
consolation to you, I hope.”

“Trust this matter to me, sarjeant,” put in Pathfinder;
“leave it all in my hands, as your dying request; and depend
on it, all will go as it should.”

“I do—I do put all confidence in you, my trusty friend,
and empower you to act, as I could act, myself, in every

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particular. Mabel, child—hand me the water—you will
never repent this night. Bless you, my daughter—God bless,
and have you in his holy keeping!”

This tenderness was inexpressibly touching to one of
Mabel's feelings; and she felt at that moment, as if her future
union with Pathfinder had received a solemnization that no
ceremony of the church could render more holy. Still, a
weight, as that of a mountain, lay upon her heart, and she
thought it would be happiness to die. Then followed a short
pause, when the serjeant, in broken sentences, briefly related
what had passed, since he parted with Pathfinder and the
Delaware. The wind had come more favourable, and instead
of encamping on an island, agreeably to the original
intention, he had determined to continue, and reach the station,
that night. Their approach would have been unseen,
and a portion of the calamity avoided, he thought, had they
not grounded on the point of a neighbouring island, where,
no doubt, the noise made by the men, in getting off the boat,
gave notice of their approach, and enabled the enemy to be in
readiness to receive them. They had landed without the
slightest suspicion of danger, though surprised at not finding
a sentinel, and had actually left their arms in the boat, with
the intention of first securing their knapsacks and provisions.
The fire had been so close, that notwithstanding the obscurity,
it was very deadly. Every man had fallen, though two or
three subsequently arose, and disappeared. Four or five of
the soldiers had been killed, or so nearly so, as to survive but
a few minutes; though, for some unknown reason, the enemy
did not make the usual rush for the scalps. Serjeant Dunham
fell with the others; and he had heard the voice of
Mabel, as she rushed from the block-house. This frantic appeal
aroused all his parental feelings, and had enabled him to
crawl as far as the door of the building, where he had raised
himself against the logs, in the manner already mentioned.

After this simple explanation was made, the serjeant was
so weak as to need repose, and his companions, while they
ministered to his wants, suffered some time to pass in silence.
Pathfinder took the occasion to reconnoitre from the loops
and the roof, and he examined the condition of the rifles, of
which there were a dozen kept in the building, the soldiers
having used their regimental muskets in the expedition. But

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Mabel never left her father's side for an instant, and when, by
his breathing, she fancied he slept, she bent her knees and
prayed.

The half hour that succeeded was awfully solemn and
still. The moccasin of Pathfinder was barely heard over
head, and occasionally the sound of the breech of a rifle fell
upon the floor, for he was busied in examining the pieces,
with a view to ascertain the state of their charges, and their
primings. Beyond this nothing was so loud as the breathing
of the wounded man. Mabel's heart yearned to be in communication
with the father she was so soon to lose, and yet
she would not disturb his apparent repose. But Dunham
slept not; he was in that state when the world suddenly loses
its attractions, its illusions, and its power; and the unknown
future fills the mind with its conjectures, its revelations and
its immensity. He had been a moral man for one of his
mode of life, but he had thought little of this all-important
moment. Had the din of battle been ringing in his ears, his
martial ardour might have endured to the end; but there, in
the silence of that nearly untenanted block-house, with no
sound to enliven him, no appeal to keep alive factitious sentiment,
no hope of victory to impel, things began to appear
in their true colours, and this state of being to be estimated at
its just value. He would have given treasures for religious
consolation, and yet he knew not where to turn to seek it. He
thought of Pathfinder, but he distrusted his knowledge. He
thought of Mabel, but for the parent to appeal to the child
for such succour, appeared like reversing the order of nature.
Then it was that he felt the full responsibility of the parental
character, and had some clear glimpses of the manner in
which he himself had discharged the trust towards an orphan
child. While thoughts like these were rising in his mind,
Mabel, who watched the slightest change in his breathing,
heard a guarded knock at the door. Supposing it might be
Chingachgook, she rose, undid two of the bars, and held the
third in her hand, as she asked who was there. The answer
was in her uncle's voice, and he implored her to give him
instant admission. Without an instant of hesitation, she
turned the bar, and Cap entered. He had barely passed the
opening, when Mabel closed the door again, and secured it

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as before, for practice had rendered her expert in this portion
of her duties.

The sturdy seaman, when he had made sure of the state
of his brother-in-law, and that Mabel, as well as himself, was
safe, was softened nearly to tears. His own appearance he
explained, by saying that he had been carelessly guarded,
under the impression that he and the Quarter-Master were
sleeping under the fumes of liquor with which they had been
plied with a view to keep them quiet in the expected engagement.
Muir had been left asleep, or seeming to sleep; but
Cap had run into the bushes, on the alarm of the attack, and
having found Pathfinder's canoe, had only succeeded, at that
moment, in getting to the block-house, whither he had come
with the kind intent of escaping with his niece by water. It
is scarcely necessary to say, that he changed his plan, when
he ascertained the state of the serjeant, and the apparent security
of his present quarters.

“If the worst comes to the worst, Master Pathfinder,” he
said, “we must strike, and that will entitle us to receive
quarter. We owe it to our manhood to hold out a reasonable
time, and to ourselves to haul down the ensign in season
to make saving conditions. I wished Master Muir to do the
same thing, when we were captured by these chaps you call
vagabonds,—and rightly are they named, for viler vagabonds
do not walk the earth—”

“You 've found out their characters!” interrupted Pathfinder,
who was always as ready to chime in with abuse of
the Mingos, as with the praises of his friends. “Now, had
you fallen into the hands of the Delawares, you would have
learned the difference.”

“Well, to me, they seem much of a muchness; blackguards
fore and aft, always excepting our friend the Serpent,
who is a gentleman, for an Indian. But, when these savages
made the assault on us, killing Corporal McNab and his men,
as if they had been so many rabbits, Lieutenant Muir and myself
took refuge in one of the holes of this here island, of which
there are so many among the rocks—regular geological underground
burrows made by the water, as the lieutenant says,—and
there we remained stowed away like two leaguers in a ship's
hold, until we gave out for want of grub. A man may say
that grub is the foundation of human nature. I desired the

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Quarter-Master to make terms, for we could have defended
ourselves for an hour or two in the place, bad as it was; but
he declined, on the ground that the knaves wouldn't keep
faith, if any of them were hurt, and so there was no use in
asking them to. I consented to strike, on two principles;
one, that we might be said to have struck already, for running
below is generally thought to be giving up the ship; and the
other that we had an enemy in our stomachs that was more
formidable in his attacks, than the enemy on deck. Hunger
is a d—ble circumstance, as any man who has lived on it
eight-and-forty hours will acknowledge.”

“Uncle!” said Mabel, in a mournful voice and with an expostulatory
manner, “my poor father is sadly, sadly hurt!”

“True, Magnet, true—I will sit by him, and do my best
at consolation. Are the bars well fastened, girl? for, on such
an occasion, the mind should be tranquil and undisturbed.”

“We are safe, I believe, from all but this heavy blow of
Providence.”

“Well, then, Magnet, do you go up to the floor above, and
try to compose yourself, while Pathfinder runs aloft and
takes a look-out from the cross-trees. Your father may
wish to say something to me, in private, and it may be well
to leave us alone. These are solemn scenes, and inexperienced
people, like myself, do not always wish what they
say to be overheard.”

Although the idea of her uncle's affording religious consolation
by the side of a death-bed, certainly never obtruded
itself on the imagination of Mabel, she thought there might be
a propriety in the request, with which she was unacquainted;
and she complied accordingly. Pathfinder had already
ascended to the roof to make his survey, and the brothers-in-law
were left alone. Cap took a seat by the side of the serjeant,
and bethought him, seriously, of the grave duty he
had before him. A silence of several minutes succeeded,
during which brief space, the mariner was digesting the
substance of his intended discourse.

“I must say, Serjeant Dunham,” Cap at length commenced,
in his peculiar manner, “that there has been mismanagement
somewhere in this unhappy expedition, and,
the present being an occasion when truth ought to be spoken,
and nothing but the truth, I feel it my duty to say as much,

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in plain language. In short, serjeant, on this point there
cannot well be two opinions, for, seaman as I am, and no
soldier, I can see several errors myself, that it needs no great
education to detect.”

“What would you have, brother Cap?” returned the other,
in a feeble voice—“what is done, is done; and it is now too
late to remedy it.”

“Very true, brother Dunham, but not to repent of it; the
good book tells us, it is never too late to repent; and I 've
always heard that this is the precious moment. If you 've
any thing on your mind, serjeant, hoist it out freely, for, you
know, you trust it to a friend. You were my own sister's
husband, and poor little Magnet is my own sister's daughter;
and, living or dead, I shall always look upon you as a brother.
It's a thousand pities that you did n't lie off and on,
with the boats, and send a canoe ahead, to reconnoitre; in
which case your command would have been saved, and this
disaster would not have befallen us all. Well, serjeant, we
are all mortal; that is some consolation, I make no doubt;
and if you go before, a little, why, we must fellow. Yes,
that must give him consolation.”

“I know all this, brother Cap; and hope I 'm prepared to
meet a soldier's fate—there is poor Mabel—”

“Ay, ay—that's a heavy drag, I know; but you would n't
take her with you, if you could, serjeant; and so the better
way is to make as light of the separation as you can. Mabel
is a good girl, and so was her mother, before her; she was my
sister, and it shall be my care to see that her daughter gets a
good husband, if our lives and scalps are spared; for I suppose
no one would care about entering into a family that has
no scalps.”

“Brother, my child is betrothed—she will become the wife
of Pathfinder.”

“Well, brother Dunham, every man has his opinions, and
his manner of viewing things; and, to my notion, this match
will be any thing but agreeable to Mabel. I have no objection
to the age of the man; I 'm not one of them that thinks
it necessary to be a boy, to make a girl happy; but on the
whole, I prefer a man of about fifty, for a husband; still,
there ought not to be any circumstance between the parties
to make them unhappy. Circumstances play the devil with

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matrimony; and I set it down as one, that Pathfinder don't
know as much as my niece. You've seen but little of the
girl, serjeant, and have not got the run of her knowledge;
but, let her pay it out freely, as she will do, when she gets
to be thoroughly acquainted, and you 'll fall in with but few
schoolmasters that can keep their luffs in her company.”

“She's a good child—a dear good child,” muttered the
serjeant, his eyes filling with tears—“and it is my misfortune,
that I have seen so little of her.”

“She is, indeed, a good girl, and knows altogether too
much for poor Pathfinder, who is a reasonable man, and an
experienced man, in his own way; but who has no more idea
of the main chance, than you have of spherical trigonometry,
serjeant.”

“Ah! brother Cap, had Pathfinder been with us, in the
boats, this sad affair might not have happened!”

“That is quite likely; for his worst enemy will allow that
the man is a good guide; but, then, serjeant, if the truth
must be spoken, you have managed this expedition in a loose
way, altogether: you should have hove-to off your haven,
and sent in a boat to reconnoitre, as I told you before. That
is a matter to be repented of; and I tell it to you, because
truth, in such a case, ought to be spoken.”

“My errors are dearly paid for, brother; and poor Mabel,
I fear, will be the sufferer. I think, however, that the calamity
would not have happened, had there not been treason.
I fear me, brother, that Jasper Eau-douce has played us
false!”

“That is just my notion; for this fresh-water life must,
sooner or later, undermine any man's morals. Lieutenant
Muir and myself talked this matter over, while we lay in a bit
of a hole, out here, on this island; and we both came to the
conclusion, that nothing short of Jasper's treachery could
have brought us all into this infernal scrape. Well, serjeant,
you had better compose your mind, and think of other matters;
for, when a vessel is about to enter a strange port, it is
more prudent to think of the anchorage inside, than to be under-running
all the events that have turned up, during the
v'yage—there's the log-book, expressly to note all these matters
in; and what stands there, must form the column of
figures that's to be posted up, for or against us. How now,

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Pathfinder! is there any thing in the wind, that you come
down the ladder, like an Indian in the wake of a scalp?”

The guide raised a finger for silence, and then beckoned
to Cap to ascend the first ladder, and to allow Mabel to take
his place at the side of the serjeant.

“We must be prudent, and we must be bold, too,” he
said, in a low voice. “The riptyles are in earnest in their
intention to fire the block, for they know there is now nothing
to be gained by letting it stand. I hear the voice of that
vagabond Arrowhead, among them, and he is urging them
to set about their deviltry this very night. We must be
stirring, Salt-water, and doing too. Luckily, there are four
or five barrels of water in the block, and these are something
towards a siege. My reckoning is wrong, too, or we shall
yet reap some advantage from that honest fellow's, the Sarpent,
being at liberty.”

Cap did not wait for a second invitation, but stealing away,
he was soon in the upper room, with Pathfinder, while Mabel
took his post at the side of her father's humble bed. Pathfinder
had opened a loop, having so far concealed the light
that it would not expose him to a treacherous shot, and, expecting
a summons, he stood with his face near the hole,
ready to answer. The stillness that succeeded, was at length
broken by the voice of Muir.

“Master Pathfinder,” called out the Scotchman, “a friend
summons you to a parley. Come freely to one of the loops,
for you 've nothing to fear, so long as you are in converse
with an officer of the 55th.”

“What is your will, Quarter-Master—what is your will?
I know the 55th, and believe it to be a brave regiment, though
I rather incline to the 60th, as my favourite, and to the Delawares
more than to either. But what would you have, Quarter-Master?
It must be a pressing errand that brings you under
the loops of a block-house, at this hour of the night, with
the sartainty of Killdeer's being inside of it.”

“Oh! you 'll no harm a friend, Pathfinder, I'm certain,
and that 's my security. You 're a man of judgment, and
have gained too great a name on this frontier for bravery, to
feel the necessity of fool-hardiness to obtain a character.
You 'll very well understand, my good friend, there is as
much credit to be gained by submitting gracefully, when

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resistance becomes impossible, as by obstinately holding out
contrary to the rules of war. The enemy is too strong for
us, my brave comrade, and I come to counsel you to give up
the block, on condition of being treated as a prisoner of war.”

“I thank you for this advice, Quarter-Master, which is the
more acceptable, as it costs nothing. But, I do not think it
belongs to my gifts to yield a place like this, while food and
water last.”

“Well, I 'd be the last, Pathfinder, to recommend any
thing against so brave a resolution, did I see the means of
maintaining it. But ye 'll remember that Master Cap has
fallen—”

“Not he — not he,” roared the individual in question
through another loop—“so far from that, Lieutenant, he has
risen to the height of this here fortification, and has no mind
to put his head of hair into the hands of such barbers, again,
so long as he can help it. I look upon this block-house as
a circumstance, and have no mind to throw it away.”

“If that is a living voice,” returned Muir, “I am glad to
hear it, for we all thought the man had fallen in the late
fearful confusion! But, master Pathfinder, although ye 're
enjoying the society of your friend Cap, and a great pleasure
do I know it to be, by the experience of two days and a night
passed in a hole in the earth, we 've lost that of Serjeant
Dunham, who has fallen, with all the brave men he led in
the late expedition. Lundie would have it so, though it would
have been more discreet and becoming to send a commissioned
officer in command. Dunham was a brave man,
notwithstanding, and shall have justice done his memory. In
short, we have all acted for the best, and that is as much as
could be said in favour of Prince Eugene, the Duke of Marlborough,
or the great Earl of Stair himself.”

“You 're wrong ag'in, Quarter-Master, you 're wrong
ag'in,” answered Pathfinder, resorting to a ruse to magnify
his force. “The sarjeant is safe in the block too, where one
might say, the whole family is collected.”

“Well, I rejoice to hear it, for we had certainly counted
the serjeant among the slain. If pretty Mabel is in the block
still, let her not delay an instant, for Heaven's sake, in quitting
it, for the enemy is about to put it to the trial by fire.
Ye know the potency of that dread element, and will be

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acting more like the discreet and experienced warrior ye 're universally
allowed to be, in yielding a place you canna' defend,
than in drawing down ruin on yourself and companions.”

“I know the potency of fire, as you call it, Quarter-Master,
and am not to be told, at this late hour, that it can be
used for something else besides cooking a dinner. But, I make
no doubt, you 've heard of the potency of Killdeer, and the
man who attempts to lay a pile of brush against these logs
will get a taste of his power. As for arrows, it is not in
their gift to set this building on fire, for we 've no shingles on
our roof, but good solid logs and green bark, and plenty of
water besides. The roof is so flat, too, as you know yourself,
Quarter-Master, that we can walk on it, and so no danger
on that score while water lasts. I 'm peaceable enough
if let alone, but he who endivours to burn this block over my
head will find the fire squinched in his own blood.”

“This is idle and romantic talk, Pathfinder, and ye 'll no
maintain it yourself when ye come to meditate on the realities.
I hope ye 'll no gainsay the loyalty or the courage of
the 55th, and I feel convinced that a council of war would
decide on the propriety of a surrender forthwith. Na'—na'—
Pathfinder, foolhardiness is na' mair like the bravery o'
Wallace or Bruce, than Albany on the Hudson is like the
old town of Edinbro'.”

“As each of us seems to have made up his mind, Quarter-Master,
more words are useless. If the riptyles near you
are disposed to set about their hellish job, let them begin at
once. They can burn wood and I 'll burn powder. If I
were an Indian at the stake, I suppose I could brag as well
as the rest of them, but my gifts and natur' being both white,
my turn is rather for doing than talking. You 've said quite
enough, considering you carry the king's commission; and
should we all be consumed, none of us will bear you any
malice.”

“Pathfinder, ye 'll no be exposing Mabel, pretty Mabel
Dunham, to sic' a calamity!”

“Mabel Dunham is by the side of her wounded father,
and God will care for the safety of a pious child. Not a
hair of her head shall fall, while my arm and sight remain
true; and though you may trust the Mingos, Master Muir, I
put no faith in them. You 've a knavish Tuscarora in your

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company there, who has art and malice enough to spoil the
character of any tribe with which he consorts, though he
found the Mingos ready ruined to his hands, I fear. But,
enough said; now let each party go to the use of his means
and his gifts.”

Throughout this dialogue Pathfinder had kept his body
covered, lest a treacherous shot should be aimed at the loop;
and he now directed Cap to ascend to the roof in order to be
in readiness to meet the first assault. Although the latter
used sufficient diligence, he found no less than ten blazing
arrows sticking to the bark, while the air was filled with the
yells and whoops of the enemy. A rapid discharge of rifles
followed, and the bullets came pattering against the logs, in
a way to show that the struggle had indeed seriously commenced.

These were sounds, however, that appalled neither Pathfinder
nor Cap, while Mabel was too much absorbed in her
affliction to feel alarm. She had good sense enough, too, to
understand the nature of the defences, and fully to appreciate
their importance. As for her father, the familiar noises
revived him, and it pained his child, at such a moment, to
see that his glassy eye began to kindle, and that the blood
returned to a cheek it had deserted, as he listened to the uproar.
It was now Mabel first perceived that his reason began
slightly to wander.

“Order up the light companies,” he muttered, “and let the
grenadiers charge! Do they dare to attack us in our fort?
Why does not the artillery open on them?”

At that instant, the heavy report of a gun burst on the
night; and the crashing of rending wood was heard, as a
heavy shot tore the logs in the room above, and the whole
block shook with the force of a shell that lodged in the work.
The Pathfinder narrowly escaped the passage of this formidable
missile, as it entered; but when it exploded, Mabel
could not suppress a shriek; for she supposed all over her
head, whether animate or inanimate, destroyed. To increase
her horror, her father shouted, in a frantic voice, to
“charge!”

“Mabel,” said Pathfinder, with his head at the trap, “this
is true Mingo work—more noise than injury. The vagabonds
have got the howitzer we took from the French, and

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have discharged it ag'in the block; but, fortunately, they
have fired off the only shell we had, and there is an ind of
its use, for the present. There is some confusion among the
stores up in this loft, but no one is hurt. Your uncle is still
on the roof; and as for myself, I 've run the gauntlet of too
many rifles to be skeary about such a thing as a howitzer,
and that in Indian hands.”

Mabel murmured her thanks, and tried to give all her attention
to her father; whose efforts to rise were only counteracted
by his debility. During the fearful minutes that
succeeded, she was so much occupied with the care of the
invalid, that she scarce heeded the clamour that reigned
around her. Indeed, the uproar was so great, that, had
not her thoughts been otherwise employed, confusion of faculties,
rather than alarm, would probably have been the
consequence.

Cap preserved his coolness admirably. He had a profound
and increasing respect for the power of the savages,
and even for the majesty of fresh-water, it is true; but his
apprehensions of the former proceeded more from his dread
of being scalped and tortured, than from any unmanly fear
of death: and, as he was now on the deck of a house, if not
on the deck of a ship, and knew that there was little danger of
boarders, he moved about with a fearlessness, and a rash exposure
of his person, that Pathfinder, had he been aware of
the fact, would have been the first to condemn. Instead of
keeping his body covered, agreeably to the usages of Indian
warfare, he was seen on every part of the roof, dashing the
water right and left, with the apparent steadiness and unconcern
he would have manifested had he been a sail-trimmer,
exercising his art, in a battle afloat His appearance was
one of the causes of the extraordinary clamour among the
assailants; who, unused to see their enemies so reckless,
opened upon him with their tongues, like the pack that has
the fox in view. Still he appeared to possess a charmed
life; for, though the bullets whistled around him on every
side, and his clothes were several times torn, nothing cut his
skin. When the shell passed through the logs below, the
old sailor dropped his bucket, waved his hat, and gave three
cheers; in which heroic act he was employed, as the dangerous
missile exploded. This characteristic feat probably

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saved his life; for, from that instant, the Indians ceased to
fire at him, and even to shoot their flaming arrows at the
block—having taken up the notion simultaneously, and by
common consent, that the “Salt-water” was mad; and it was
a singular effect of their magnanimity, never to lift a hand
against those whom they imagined devoid of reason.

The conduct of Pathfinder was very different. Everything
he did was regulated by the most exact calculation—
the result of long experience, and habitual thoughtfulness.
His person was kept carefully out of a line with the loops,
and the spot that he selected for his look-out was one that
was quite removed from danger. This celebrated guide
had often been known to lead forlorn hopes; he had once
stood at the stake, suffering under the cruelties and taunts
of savage ingenuity, and savage ferocity, without quailing:
and legends of his exploits, coolness, and daring, were to be
heard all along that extensive frontier, or wherever men
dwelt, and men contended. But, on this occasion, one who
did not know his history and character, might have thought
his exceeding care, and studied attention to self-preservation,
proceeded from an unworthy motive. But such a judge
would not have understood his subject. The Pathfinder bethought
him of Mabel, and of what might possibly be the
consequences to that poor girl, should any casualty befal
himself. But the recollection rather quickened his intellect,
than changed his customary prudence. He was, in fact,
one of those who was so unaccustomed to fear, that he
never bethought him of the constructions others might put
upon his conduct. But, while, in moments of danger, he
acted with the wisdom of the serpent, it was also with the
simplicity of a child.

For the first ten minutes of the assault, Pathfinder never
raised the breech of his rifle from the floor, except when he
changed his own position, for he well knew that the bullets
of the enemy were thrown away upon the massive logs of
the work; and, as he had been at the capture of the howitzer,
he felt certain that the savages had no other shell than
the one found in it when the piece was taken. There existed
no reason, therefore, to dread the fire of the assailants, except
as a casual bullet might find a passage through a loop-hole.
One or two of these accidents did occur, but the balls entered

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at an angle that deprived them of all chance of doing any
injury, so long as the Indians kept near the block; and, if
discharged from a distance, there was scarcely the possibility
of one in a hundred's striking the apertures. But, when
Pathfinder heard the sound of moccasined feet, and the rustling
of brush at the foot of the building, he knew that the
attempt to build a fire against the logs was about to be renewed.
He now summoned Cap from the roof, where indeed
all the danger had ceased, and directed him to stand in readiness
with his water, at a hole immediately over the spot
assailed.

One less trained than our hero, would have been in a hurry
to repel this dangerous attempt also, and might have resorted
to his means prematurely; not so with Pathfinder. His aim
was not only to extinguish the fire, about which he felt little
apprehension, but to give the enemy a lesson that would render
him wary during the remainder of the night. In order
to effect the latter purpose, it became necessary to wait until
the light of the intended conflagration should direct his aim,
when he well knew that a very slight effort of his skill would
suffice. The Iroquois were permitted to collect their heap
of dried bush, to pile it against the block, to light it, and to
return to their covers, without molestation. All that Pathfinder
would suffer Cap to do was to roll a barrel filled with
water to the hole immediately over the spot, in readiness to
be used at the proper instant. That moment, however, did
not arrive, in his judgment, until the blaze illuminated the
surrounding bushes, and there had been time for his quick
and practised eye to detect the forms of three or four lurking
savages, who were watching the progress of the flames, with
the cool indifference of men accustomed to look on human
misery with apathy. Then indeed he spoke.

“Are you ready, friend Cap?” he asked. “The heat begins
to strike through the crevices, and, although these green
logs are not of the fiery natur' of an ill-tempered man,
they may be kindled into a blaze if one provokes them too
much. Are you ready with the barrel?—See that it has the
right cut, and that none of the water is wasted.”

“All ready—” answered Cap, in the manner in which a
seaman replies to such a demand.

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“Then wait for the word. Never be over-impatient in a
critical time, nor fool-risky in a battle. Wait for the word.”

While the Pathfinder was giving these directions, he was
also making his own preparations, for he saw it was time to
act. Killdeer was deliberately raised, pointed, and discharged.
The whole process occupied about half a minute, and, as
the rifle was drawn in, the eye of the marksman was applied
to the hole.

“There is one riptyle the less—” Pathfinder muttered to
himself—“I 've seen that vagabond afore, and know him to
be a marciless devil. Well, well; the man acted according
to his gifts, and he has been rewarded according to his gifts.
One more of the knaves, and that will sarve the turn for to-night.
When day-light appears, we may have hotter work.”

All this time, another rifle was getting ready; and as Pathfinder
ceased, a second savage fell. This, indeed, sufficed;
for, indisposed to wait for a third visitation from the same
hand, the whole band, which had been crouching in the
bushes around the block, ignorant of who was, and who was
not exposed to view, leaped from their covers, and fled to different
places for safety.

“Now, pour away, Master Cap,” said Pathfinder—“I 've
made my mark on the blackguards; and we shall have no
no more fires lighted to-night.”

“Scaldings!” cried Cap, upsetting the barrel, with a care,
that at once, and completely extinguished the flames.

This ended the singular conflict; and the remainder of the
night passed in peace. Pathfinder and Cap watched alternately,
though neither can be said to have slept. Sleep, indeed,
scarcely seemed necessary to them, for both were
accustomed to protracted watchings; and there were seasons
and times, when the former appeared to be literally
insensible to the demands of hunger and thirst, and callous
to the effects of fatigue.

Mabel watched by her father's pallet, and began to feel
how much our happiness, in this world, depends even on
things that are imaginary. Hitherto, she had virtually lived
without a father, the connexion with her remaining parent
being ideal, rather than positive; but, now that she was about
to lose him, she thought, for the moment, that the world
would be a void after his death, and that she could never be
acquainted with happiness again.

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CHAPTER X.

“There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily, and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods.”
Wordsworth.

[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]

As the light returned, Pathfinder and Cap ascended again
to the roof, with a view to reconnoitre the state of things once
more, on the island. This part of the block-house had a low
battlement around it, which afforded a considerable protection
to those who stood in its centre; the intention having been to
enable marksmen to lie behind it, and to fire over its top.
By making proper use, therefore, of these slight defences—
slight, as to height, though abundantly ample as far as they
went—the two look-outs commanded a pretty good view of
the island, its covers excepted; and of most of the channels
that led to the spot.

The gale was still blowing very fresh at south; and there
were places in the river where its surface looked green and
angry, though the wind had hardly sweep enough to raise
the water into foam. The shape of the little island was
generally oval, and its greatest length was from east to west.
By keeping in the channels that washed it, in consequence
of their several courses, and of the direction of the gale, it
would have been possible for a vessel to range past the island,
on either of its principal sides, and always to keep the wind
very nearly abeam. These were the facts first noticed by
Cap, and explained to his companion; for the hopes of both
now rested on the chances of relief sent from Oswego. At
this instant, while they stood gazing anxiously about them,
Cap cried out in his lusty, hearty, manner—

“Sail, ho!”

Pathfinder turned quickly in the direction of his companion's
face, and there, sure enough, was just visible the object
of the old sailor's exclamation. The elevation enabled
the two to overlook the low land of several of the adjacent
islands; and the canvass of a vessel was seen through the
bushes that fringed the shore of one that lay to the southward

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and westward. The stranger was under what seamen call
low sail; but so great was the power of the wind, that her
white outlines were seen flying past the openings of the verdure,
with the velocity of a fast-travelling horse; resembling
a cloud driving in the heavens.

“That cannot be Jasper!” said Pathfinder, in disappointment;
for he did not recognise the cutter of his friend, in
the swift-passing object. “No—no—the lad is behind the
hour; and that is some craft that the Frenchers have sent
to aid their friends, the accursed Mingos.”

“This time you are out in your reckoning, friend Pathfinder,
if you never were before,” returned Cap, in a manner
that had lost none of its dogmatism by the critical circumstances
in which they were placed. “Fresh-water or salt,
that is the head of the Scud's mainsail, for it is cut with a
smaller goar than common; and then you can see that the
gaff has been fished—quite neatly done, I admit, but fished.”

“I can see none of this, I confess,” answered Pathfinder,
to whom even the terms of his companion were Greek.

“No!—Well, I own that surprises me; for I thought your
eyes could see any thing! Now, to me, nothing is plainer
than that goar and that fish; and I must say, my honest
friend, that, in your place, I should apprehend that my sight
was beginning to fail.”

“If Jasper is truly coming, I shall apprehend but little.
We can make good the block against the whole Mingo nation,
for the next eight or ten hours; and, with Eau-douce to
cover the retreat, I shall despair of nothing. God send that
the lad may not run alongside of the bank, and fall into an
ambushment, as befel the sarjeant!”

“Ay; there's the danger. There ought to have been signals
concerted, and an anchorage-ground buoyed out, and
even a quarantine station, or a Lazaretto, would have been
useful could we have made these Minks-ho respect the laws.
If the lad fetches up, as you say, anywhere in the neighbourhood
of this island, we may look upon the cutter as lost.
And, after all, Master Pathfinder, ought we not to set down
this same Jasper as a secret ally of the French, rather than
as a friend of our own?—I know the serjeant views the
matter in that light, and I must say this whole affair looks
like treason!”

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“We shall soon know, we shall soon know, Master Cap;
for there indeed comes the cutter, clear of the other island,
and five minutes must settle the matter. It would be no
more than fair, however, if we could give the boy some sign
in the way of warning. It is not right that he should fall
into the trap, without a notice that it has been laid.”

Anxiety and suspense, notwithstanding, prevented either
from attempting to make any signal. It was not easy, truly,
to see how it could be done; for the Scud came foaming
through the channel, on the weather side of the island, at a
rate that scarce admitted of the necessary time. Nor was
any one visible on her deck to make signs to; even her helm
seemed deserted, though her course was as steady as her progress
was rapid.

Cap stood in silent admiration of a spectacle so unusual.
But, as the Scud drew nearer, his practised eye detected the
helm in play, by means of tiller-ropes, though the person
who steered was concealed. As the cutter had weather-boards
of some little height, the mystery was explained; no
doubt remaining that her people lay behind the latter, in
order to be protected from the rifles of the enemy. As this
fact showed that no force, beyond that of the small crew,
could be on board, Pathfinder received his companion's explanation
with an ominous shake of the head.

“This proves that the Sarpent has not reached Oswego,”
he said, “and that we are not to expect succour from the
garrison. I hope Lundie has not taken it into his head to
displace the lad, for Jasper Western would be a host of himself,
in such a strait. We three, Master Cap, ought to
make a manful warfare—you, as a seaman, to keep up the
intercourse with the cutter; Jasper, as a laker, who knows all
that is necessary to be done on the water; and I, with gifts
that are as good as any among the Mingos, let me be what I
may in other particulars. I say, we ought to make a manful
fight in Mabel's behalf.”

“That we ought—and that we will,” answered Cap,
heartily, for he began to have more confidence in the security
of his scalp, now that he saw the sun again; “I set
down the arrival of the Scud as one circumstance, and the
chances of Eau-douce's honesty as another. This Jasper is
a young man of prudence, you find, for he keeps a good

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offing, and seems determined to know how matters stand on the
island, before he ventures to bring up.”

“I have it—I have it,”—exclaimed Pathfinder with exultation,—
“there lies the canoe of the Sarpent, on the cutter's
deck, and the chief has got on board, and no doubt has given
a true account of our condition; for, unlike a Mingo, a Delaware
is sartain to get a story right, or to hold his tongue.”

Pathfinder's disposition to think well of the Delawares, and
to think ill of the Mingos, must, by this time, be very apparent
to the reader. Of the veracity of the former he entertained
the highest respect, while of the latter he thought, as
the more observant and intelligent classes of this country are
getting pretty generally to think of certain scribblers among
ourselves, who are known to have been so long in the habits
of mendacity, that it is thought they can no longer tell the
truth, even when they seriously make the effort.

“That canoe may not belong to the cutter,” said the captious
seaman—“Oh! Deuce had one on board, when we
sailed.”

“Very true, friend Cap; but, if you know your sails and
masts, by your goars and fishes, I know my canoes and my
paths, by frontier knowledge. If you can see new cloth in
a sail, I can see new bark in a canoe. That is the boat of
the Sarpent, and the noble fellow has struck off for the garrison,
as soon as he found the block besieged, has fallen in
with the Scud, and, after telling his story, has brought the
cutter down here to see what can be done. The Lord grant
that Jasper Western be still on board her!”

“Yes—yes—it might not be amiss; for, traitor or loyal, the
lad has a handy way with him, in a gale, it must be owned.”

“And in coming over water-falls!” said Pathfinder, nudging
the ribs of his companion with an elbow, and laughing in
his silent but hearty manner. “We will give the boy his
due, though he scalps us all with his own hand!”

The Scud was now so near, that Cap made no reply. The
scene, just at that instant, was so peculiar that it merits a
particular description; which may also aid the reader in
forming a more accurate nature of the picture we wish to
draw.

The gale was still blowing violently: many of the smaller
trees bowed their tops, as if ready to descend to the earth

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while the rushing of the wind through the branches of the
groves, resembled the roar of distant chariots.

The air was filled with leaves, which, at that late season,
were readily driven from their stems, and flew from island to
island, like flights of birds. With this exception, the spot
seemed silent as the grave. That the savages still remained,
was to be inferred from the fact that their canoes, together
with the boats of the 55th, lay in a group, in the little cove,
that had been selected as a harbour. Otherwise, not a sign
of their presence was to be detected. Though taken entirely
by surprise by the cutter, the sudden return of which was
altogether unlooked for, so uniform and inbred were their
habits of caution while on the war-path, that, the instant an
alarm was given, every man had taken to his cover, with the
instinct and cunning of a fox seeking his hole. The same
stillness reigned in the block-house, for though Pathfinder
and Cap could command a view of the channel, they took
the precaution necessary to lie concealed. The unusual
absence of any thing like animal life on board the Scud,
too, was still more remarkable. As the Indians witnessed
her apparently undirected movements, a feeling of awe gained
a footing among them, and some of the boldest of their
party began to distrust the issue of an expedition that had
commenced so prosperously. Even Arrowhead, accustomed
as he was to intercourse with the whites on both sides of the
lakes, fancied there was something ominous in the appearance
of this unmanned vessel, and he would gladly, at that
moment, have been landed again on the main.

In the mean time, the progress of the cutter was steady
and rapid. She held her way mid-channel, now inclining
to the gusts, and now rising again, like the philosopher that
bends to the calamities of life to resume his erect attitude as
they pass away, but always piling the water beneath her
bows, in foam. Although she was under so very short canvass,
her velocity was great, and there could not have elapsed
ten minutes between the time when her sails were first seen
glancing past the trees and bushes in the distance, and the
moment when she was abreast of the block-house. Cap and
Pathfinder leaned forward, as the cutter came beneath their
eyrie, eager to get a better view of her deck, when to the
delight of both, Jasper Eau-douce sprang upon his feet, and

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gave three hearty cheers. Regardless of all risk, Cap leaped
upon the rampart of logs, and returned the greeting, cheer
for cheer. Happily, the policy of the enemy saved the
latter, for they still lay quiet, not a rifle being discharged.
On the other hand, Pathfinder kept in view the useful, utterly
disregarding the mere dramatic part of warfare. The moment
he beheld his friend Jasper, he called out to him with
stentorian lungs—

“Stand by us, lad, and the day's our own! Give 'em a
grist in yonder bushes, and you 'll put 'em up like partridges.”

Part of this reached Jasper's ears, but most was borne off
to leeward, on the wings of the wind. By the time this was
said the Scud had driven past, and in the next moment she
was hid from view, by the grove in which the block-house
was partially concealed.

Two anxious minutes succeeded, but, at the expiration of
that brief space, the sails were again gleaming through the
trees, Jasper having wore, jibed, and hauled up under the
lee of the island, on the other tack. The wind was free
enough, as has been already explained, to admit of this manoeuvre,
and the cutter catching the current under her lee
bow, was breasted up to her course in a way that showed
she would come out to windward of the island again, without
any difficulty. This whole evolution was made with the
greatest facility, not a sheet being touched, the sails trimming
themselves, the rudder alone controlling the admirable machine.
The object appeared to be a reconnoissance. When,
however, the Scud had made the circuit of the entire island,
and had again got her weatherly position, in the channel by
which she had first approached, her helm was put down, and
she tacked. The noise of the mainsail flapping when it filled,
close reefed as it was, sounded like the report of a gun, and
Cap trembled lest the seams should open.

“His Majesty gives good canvass, it must be owned,” muttered
the old seaman; “and it must be owned, too, that boy
handles his boat as if he were thoroughly bred! D—e,
Master Pathfinder, if I believe, after all that has been reported
in the matter, that this Mister Oh! Deuce got his trade
on this bit of fresh-water.”

“He did; yes he did. He never saw the ocean, and has
come by his calling altogether up here on Ontario. I have

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often thought he has a nat'ral gift, in the way of schooners
and sloops, and have respected him accordingly. As for
treason, and lying, and black-hearted vices, friend Cap, Jasper
Western is as free as the most virtuousest of the Delaware
warriors; and if you crave to see a truly honest man,
you must go among that tribe to discover him.”

“There he comes round!” exclaimed the delighted Cap,
the Scud at this moment filling on her original tack, “and
now we shall see what the boy would be at; he cannot
mean to keep running up and down these passages, like a
girl footing it through a country-dance!”

The Scud now kept so much away that, for a moment, the
two observers on the block-house feared Jasper meant to
come-to; and the savages, in their lairs, gleamed out upon
her with the sort of exultation that the crouching tiger may
be supposed to feel, as he sees his unconscious victim approach
his bed. But Jasper had no such intention. Familiar
with the shore, and acquainted with the depth of water
on every part of the island, he well knew that the Scud
might be run against the bank with impunity, and he ventured
fearlessly so near, that as he passed through the little
cove, he swept the two boats of the soldiers from their fastenings,
and forced them out into the channel, towing them
with the cutter. As all the canoes were fastened to the two
Durham boats, by this bold and successful attempt, the savages
were at once deprived of the means of quitting the
island, unless by swimming, and they appeared to be instantly
aware of the very important fact. Rising in a body, they
filled the air with yells, and poured in a harmless fire.
While up in this unguarded manner two rifles were discharged
by their adversaries. One came from the summit
of the block, and an Iroquois fell dead in his tracks, shot
through the brain. The other came from the Scud. The
last was the piece of the Delaware, but, less true than that
of his friend, it only maimed an enemy for life. The people
of the Scud shouted, and the savages sunk again, to a man,
as if it might be into the earth.

“That was the Sarpent's voice,” said Pathfinder, as soon
as the second piece was discharged. “I know the crack of
his rifle as well as I do that of Killdeer. 'Tis a good barrel,
though not sartain death. Well—well—with

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Chingachgook and Jasper on the water, and you and I in the block,
friend Cap, it will be hard if we don't teach these Mingo
scamps the rationality of a fight!”

All this time, the Scud was in motion. As soon as she
had reached the end of the island, Jasper sent his prizes
adrift; and they went down before the wind, until they
stranded on a point half a mile to leeward. He then wore,
and came stemming the current again, through the other passage.
Those on the summit of the block could now perceive
that something was in agitation on the deck of the Scud;
and, to their great delight, just as the cutter came abreast of
the principal cove, on the spot where most of the enemy lay,
the howitzer, which composed her sole armament, was unmasked,
and a shower of case-shot was sent hissing into the
bushes. A bevy of quail would not have risen quicker
than this unexpected discharge of iron hail put up the Iroquois;
when a second savage fell by a messenger sent from
Killdeer, and another went limping away, by a visit from the
rifle of Chigachgook. New covers were immediately found,
however; and each party seemed to prepare for the renewal
of the strife in another form. But the appearance of June,
bearing a white flag, and accompanied by the French officer
and Muir, stayed the hands of all, and was the forerunner of
another parley.

The negotiation that followed was held beneath the block-house;
and so near it, as at once to put those who were uncovered
completely at the mercy of Pathfinder's unerring
aim. Jasper anchored directly abeam; and the howitzer,
too, was kept trained upon the negotiators: so that the besieged
and their friends, with the exception of the man who
held the match, had no hesitation about exposing their persons.
Chingachgook alone lay in ambush; more, however,
from habit than distrust.

“You 've triumphed, Pathfinder;” called out the Quarter-Master,
“and Captain Sanglier has come himself to offer
terms. You 'll no be denying a brave enemy an honourable
retreat, when he has fought ye fairly, and done all the credit
he could to king and country. Ye are too loyal a subject,
yourself, to visit loyalty and fidelity with a heavy judgment.
I am authorized to offer, on the part of the enemy, an evacuation
of the island, a mutual exchange of prisoners, and a

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restoration of scalps. In the absence of baggage and artillery,
little more can be done.”

As the conversation was necessarily carried on in a high
key, both on account of the wind, and on account of the distance,
all that was said was heard equally by those in the
block, and those in the cutter.

“What do you say to that, Jasper?” called out Pathfinder.
“You hear the proposal: shall we let the vagabonds go; or
shall we mark them, as they mark their sheep in the settlements,
that we may know them again?”

“What has befallen Mabel Dunham?” demanded the
young man, with a frown on his handsome face, that was
visible even to those in the block. “If a hair of her head
has been touched, it will go hard with the whole Iroquois
tribe!”

“Nay, nay, she is safe below, nursing a dying parent, as
becomes her sex. We owe no grudge on account of the serjeant's
hurt, which comes of lawful warfare; and as for Mabel—”

“She is here,” exclaimed the girl, herself, who had mounted
to the roof the moment she found the direction things
were taking. “She is here; and, in the name of our holy
religion, and of that God whom we profess to worship in
common, let there be no more bloodshed! Enough has been
spilt already; and if these men will go away, Pathfinder—
if they will depart peaceably, Jasper—oh! do not detain one
of them. My poor father is approaching his end, and it
were better that he should draw his last breath in peace with
the world. Go, go, Frenchmen and Indians; we are no
longer your enemies, and will harm none of you.”

“Tut, tut, Magnet,” put in Cap, “this sounds religious,
perhaps, or like a book of poetry; but it does not sound like
common sense. The enemy is just ready to strike; Jasper
is anchored with his broadside to bear, and, no doubt, with
springs on his cables; Pathfinder's eye and hand are as true
as the needle; and we shall get prize-money, head-money,
and honour in the bargain, if you will not interfere for the
next half-hour.”

“Well,” said Pathfinder, “I incline to Mabel's way of
thinking. There has been enough blood shed to answer our
purpose, and to sarve the king; and as for honour, in that

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meaning, it will do better for young ensigns and recruits, than
for cool-headed, obsarvant, Christian men. There is honour
in doing what's right, and unhonour in doing what's wrong;
and I think it wrong to take the life, even of a Mingo, without
a useful end in view, I do; and right to hear reason at
all times. So, Lieutenant Muir, let us know what your
friends, the Frenchers and Indians have to say for themselves.”

“My friends!” said Muir, starting. “You 'll no be calling
the king's enemies my friends, Pathfinder, because the fortune
of war has thrown me into their hands? Some of the
greatest warriors, both of ancient and modern times, have
been prisoners of war; and yon is Master Cap, who can testify
whether we did not do all that men could devise to escape
the calamity.”

“Ay—ay,” drily answered Cap,—“escape is the proper
word. We ran below and hid ourselves, and so discreetly,
that we might have remained in the hole to this hour, had it
not been for the necessity of re-stowing the bread lockers.
You burrowed on that occasion, Quarter-Master, as handily
as a fox; and how the d—l you knew so well where to find
the spot, is a matter of wonder to me. A regular skulk on
board ship, does not trail aft more readily, when the jib is to
be stowed, than you went into that same hole!”

“And did ye no follow? There are moments in a man's
life when reason ascends to instinct—”

“And men descend into holes,” interrupted Cap, laughing
in his boisterous way, while Pathfinder chimed in, in his
peculiar manner. Even Jasper, though still filled with concern
for Mabel, was obliged to smile. “They say the d—l
wouldn't make a sailor if he didn't look aloft, and now it
seems he 'll not make a soldier if he doesn't look below!”

This burst of merriment, though it was any thing but
agreeable to Muir, contributed largely towards keeping the
peace. Cap fancied he had said a thing much better than
common, and that disposed him to yield his own opinion on
the main point, so long as he got the good opinion of his
companions on his novel claim to be a wit. After a short
discussion, all the savages on the island were collected in a
body, without arms, at the distance of a hundred yards from
the block, and under the gun of the Scud, while Pathfinder
descended to the door of the block-house, and settled the

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terms on which the island was to be finally evacuated by the
enemy. Considering all the circumstances, the conditions
were not very discreditable to either party. The Indians
were compelled to give up all their arms, even to their knives
and tomahawks, as a measure of precaution, their force being
still quadruple that of their foes. The French officer, Monsieur
Sanglier, as he was usually styled, and chose to call
himself, remonstrated against this act, as one likely to reflect
more discredit on his command than any other part of the
affair; but Pathfinder, who had witnessed one or two Indian
massacres, and knew how valueless pledges became when put
in opposition to interest, where a savage was concerned, was
obdurate. The second stipulation was of nearly the same
importance. It compelled Captain Sanglier to give up all his
prisoners, who had been kept well guarded, in the very hole,
or cave, in which Cap and Muir had taken refuge. When
these men were produced, four of them were found to be unhurt;
they had fallen merely to save their lives, a common
artifice in that species of warfare, and of the remainder, two
were so slightly injured as not to be unfit for service. As
they brought their muskets with them, this addition to his force
immediately put Pathfinder at his ease, for having collected
all the arms of the enemy in the block-house, he directed
these men to take possession of the building, stationing a
regular sentinel at the door. The remainder of the soldiers
were dead, the badly wounded having been instantly dispatched
in order to obtain the much-coveted scalps.

As soon as Jasper was made acquainted with the terms,
and the preliminaries had been so far observed as to render it
safe for him to be absent, he got the Scud under way, and
running down to the point where the boats had stranded, he
took them in tow again, and, making a few stretches, brought
them into the leeward passage. Here all the savages instantly
embarked, when Jasper took the boats in tow a third time,
and running off before the wind, he soon set them adrift,
quite a mile to leeward of the island. The Indians were
furnished with but a single oar in each boat to steer with, the
young sailor well knowing that, by keeping before the wind,
they would land on the shores of Canada in the course of
the morning.

Captain Sanglier, Arrowhead, and June, alone remained,

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when this disposition had been made of the rest of the party;
the former having certain papers to draw up and sign with
Lieutenant Muir, who, in his eyes, possessed the virtues which
are attached to a commission, and the latter preferring, for
reasons of his own, not to depart in company with his late
friends, the Iroquois. Canoes were retained, for the departure
of these three, when the proper moment should arrive.

In the mean time, or while the Scud was running down
with the boats in tow, Pathfinder and Cap, aided by proper
assistants, busied themselves with preparing a breakfast;
most of the party not having eaten for four-and-twenty hours.
The brief space that passed in this manner, before the Scud
came-to again, was little interrupted by discourse, though
Pathfinder found leisure to pay a visit to the serjeant, to say
a few friendly words to Mabel, and to give such directions as
he thought might smooth the passage of the dying man. As
for Mabel, herself, he insisted on her taking some light refreshment,
and there no longer existing any motive for keeping
it there, he had the guard removed from the block, in
order that the daughter might have no impediment to her
attentions to her father. These little arrangements completed,
our hero returned to the fire, around which he found all the
remainder of the party assembled, including Jasper.

CHAPTER XI.

“You saw but sorrow in its waning form,
A working sea remaining from a storm
Where now the weary waves roll o'er the deep,
And faintly murmur ere they fall asleep.”
Dryden.

Men accustomed to a warfare like that we have been describing,
are not apt to be much under the influence of the
tender feelings, while still in the field. Notwithstanding their
habits, however, more than one heart was with Mabel in the
block, while the incidents we are about to relate were in the
course of occurrence, and even the indispensable meal was

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less relished by the hardiest of the soldiers, than it might
have been had not the serjeant been so near his end.

As Pathfinder returned from the block, he was met by
Muir, who led him aside in order to hold a private discourse.
The manner of the Quarter-Master had that air of supererogatory
courtesy about it, which almost invariably denotes
artifice; for, while physiognomy and phrenology are but lame
sciences at the best, and perhaps lead to as many false as
right conclusions, we hold that there is no more infallible evidence
of insincerity of purpose, short of overt acts, than a
face that smiles when there is no occasion, and the tongue
that is out of measure smooth. Muir had much of this
manner in common, mingled with an apparent frankness,
that his Scottish intonation of voice, Scottish accent, and
Scottish modes of expression, were singularly adapted to sustain.
He owed his preferment, indeed, to a long-exercised
deference to Lundie and his family; for, while the Major himself
was much too acute to be the dupe of one so much his
inferior in real talents and attainments, most persons are
accustomed to make liberal concessions to the flatterer, even
while they distrust his truth, and are perfectly aware of his
motives. On the present occasion, the contest in skill was
between two men as completely the opposites of each other,
in all the leading essentials of character, as very well could
be. Pathfinder was as simple, as the Quarter-Master was
practised; he was as sincere as the other was false, and as
direct as the last was tortuous. Both were cool and calculating,
and both were brave, though in different modes and
degrees; Muir never exposing his person except for effect,
while the guide included fear among the rational passions, or
as a sensation to be deferred to only when good might come
of it.

“My dearest friend,” Muir commenced, “for ye 'll be
dearer to us all, by seventy and seven-fold, after your late
conduct, than ever ye were, ye 've just established yourself,
in this late transaction! It 's true, that they 'll not be making
ye a commissioned officer, for that species of prefairment is
not much in your line, nor much in your wishes, I 'm thinking;
but as a guide, and a counsellor, and a loyal subject,
and an expert marksman, yer' renown may be said to be
full. I doubt if the commander-in-chief will carry away

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with him from America, as much credit as will fall to yer'
share, and ye ought just to sit down in content, and enjoy
yourself for the remainder of yer' days. Get married, man,
without delay, and look to your precious happiness, for ye 've
no occasion to look any longer to your glory. Take Mabel
Dunham, for Heaven's sake, to your bosom, and ye 'll have
both a bonny bride, and a bonny reputation.”

“Why, Quarter-Master, this is a new piece of advice to
come from your mouth!—They 've told me I had a rival in
you!”

“And ye had, man; and a formidable one, too, I can tell
ye! One that has never yet courted in vain, and yet one that
has courted five times. Lundie twits me with four, and I
deny the charge; but he little thinks the truth would outdo
even his arithmetic! Yes, yes; ye had a rival, Pathfinder,
but ye 've one no longer in me. Ye 've my hearty wishes
for yer' sucess with Mabel, and were the honest serjeant
likely to survive, ye might rely on my good word with him,
too, for a certainty.”

“I feel your friendship, Quarter-Master, I feel your friendship,
though I have no great need of any favour with Serjeant
Dunham, who has long been my friend. I believe we may
look upon the matter to be as sartain as most things in wartime;
for Mabel and her father consenting, the whole 55th
couldn't very well put a stop to it. Ah's me! the poor
father will scarcely live to see what his heart has so long
been set upon!”

“But he 'll have the consolation of knowing it will come to
pass, in dying. Oh! it 's a great relief, Pathfinder, for the
parting spirit to feel certain that the beloved ones left behind,
will be well provided for, after its departure. All the Mistress
Muirs have duly expressed that sentiment, with their
dying breaths.”

“All your wives, Quarter-Master, have been likely to feel
this consolation!”

“Out upon ye, man,—I 'd no thought ye such a wag!
Well, well; pleasant words make no heart-burnings between
auld fri'nds. If I cannot espouse Mabel, ye 'll no object to
my esteeming her, and speaking well of her, and of yoursal',
too, on all suitable occasions, and in all companies. But,
Pathfinder, ye 'll easily understan' that a poor deevil, who

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loses such a bride, will probably stand in need of some consolation?”

“Quite likely—quite likely, Quarter-Master,” returned the
simple-minded guide; “I know the loss of Mabel would be
found heavy to be borne by myself. It may bear hard on
your feelings to see us married, but the death of the sarjeant
will be likely to put it off, and you 'll have time to think more
manfully of it, you will.”

“I 'll bear up against it — yes, I 'll bear up against it,
though my heart-strings crack; and ye might help me, man,
by giving me something to do. Ye 'll understand that this
expedition has been of a very peculiar nature, for here am I,
bearing the king's commission, just a volunteer, as it might
be; while a mere orderly has had the command. I 've submitted
for various reasons, though my blood has boiled to be
in authority, while ye war' battling for the honour of the
country, and his Majesty's rights—”

“Quarter-Master,” interrupted the guide, “you fell so
early into the enemy's hands, that your conscience ought to
be easily satisfied on that score; so take my advice, and say
nothing about it.”

“That 's just my opinion, Pathfinder; we 'll all say nothing
about it. Serjeant Dunham is hors-de-combat—”

“Anan!” said the guide.

“Why the serjeant can command no longer, and it will
hardly do to leave a corporal at the head of a victorious
party, like this; for flowers that will bloom in a garden will
die on a heath; and I was just thinking I would claim the
authority that belongs to one who holds a lieutenant's commission.
As for the men, they 'll no dare to raise any objaction,
and as for yoursal', my dear friend, now that ye 've
so much honour, and Mabel, and the consciousness of having
done yer' duty, which is more precious than all, I expect
to find an ally rather than one to oppose the plan.”

“As for commanding the soldiers of the 55th, lieutenant,
it is your right, I suppose, and no one here will be likely to
gainsay it; though you 've been a prisoner of war, and there
are men who might stand out ag'in giving up their authority
to a prisoner released by their own deeds. Still no one here
will be likely to say any thing hostile to your wishes.”

“That 's just it, Pathfinder; and when I come to draw up

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the report of our success against the boats, and the defence
of the block, together with the general operations, including
the capitulation, ye 'll no find any omission of your claims
and merits.”

“Tut, for my claims and merits, Quarter-Master! Lundie
knows what I am in the forest, and what I am in the fort;
and the general knows better than he. No fear of me; tell
your own story, only taking care to do justice by Mabel's
father, who, in one sense, is the commanding officer at this
very moment.”

Muir expressed his entire satisfaction with this arrangement,
as well as his determination to do justice by all, when
the two went to the group that was assembled round the fire.
Here the Quarter-Master began, for the first time since leaving
Oswego, to assume some of the authority that might properly
be supposed to belong to his rank. Taking the remaining
corporal aside, he distinctly told that functionary
that he must in future be regarded as one holding the king's
commission, and directed him to acquaint his subordinates
with the new state of things. This change in the dynasty
was effected without any of the usual symptoms of a revolution;
for as all well understood the lieutenant's legal claims
to command, no one felt disposed to dispute his orders. For
reasons best known to themselves, Lundie and the Quarter-Master
had, originally, made a different disposition, and now,
for reasons of his own, the latter had seen fit to change it.
This was reasoning enough for soldiers, though the hurt
received by Serjeant Dunham would have sufficiently explained
the circumstance, had an explanation been required.

All this time Captain Sanglier was looking after his own
breakfast, with the resignation of a philosopher, the coolness
of a veteran, the ingenuity and science of a Frenchman, and
the voracity of an ostrich. This person had now been in the
colony some thirty years, having left France in some such
situation in his own army, as Muir filled in the 55th.
An iron constitution, perfect obduracy of feeling, a certain
address well suited to manage savages, and an indomitable
courage, had early pointed him out to the commander-in-chief,
as a suitable agent to be employed in directing the
military operations of his Indian allies. In this capacity,
then, he had risen to the titular rank of captain, and, with

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his promotion, had acquired a portion of the habits and
opinions of his associates, with a facility and an adaptation
of self, that are thought, in this part of the world, to be peculiar
to his countrymen. He had often led parties of the
Iroquois in their predatory expeditions; and his conduct on
such occasions exhibited the contradictory results of both
alleviating the misery produced by this species of warfare,
and of augmenting it, by the broader views and greater resources
of civilization. In other words, he planned enterprises
that, in their importance and consequences, much exceeded
the usual policy of the Indians, and then stepped in
to lessen some of the evils of his own creating. In short,
he was an adventurer whom circumstances had thrown into
a situation, where the callous qualities of men of his class
might readily show themselves, for good or for evil; and he
was not of a character to baffle fortune by any ill-timed
squeamishness on the score of early impressions, or to trifle
with her liberality, by unnecessarily provoking her frowns
through wanton cruelty. Still, as his name was unavoidably
connected with many of the excesses committed by his parties,
he was generally considered, in the American Provinces, a
wretch who delighted in bloodshed, and who found his greatest
happiness in tormenting the helpless and the innocent;
and the name of Sanglier, which was a soubriquet of his
own adopting, or of Flint Heart, as he was usually termed
on the borders, had got to be as terrible to the women and
children of that part of the country, as those of Butler and
Brandt became at a later day.

The meeting between Pathfinder and Sanglier bore some
resemblance to that celebrated interview between Wellington
and Blucher, which has been so often and graphically told.
It took place at the fire; and the parties stood earnestly
regarding each other for more than a minute without speaking.
Each felt that in the other, he saw a formidable foe;
and each felt, while he ought to treat the other with the
manly liberality due to a warrior, that there was little in
common between them, in the way of character, as well as
of interests. One served for money and preferment; the
other, because his life had been cast in the wilderness, and
the land of his birth needed his arm and experience. The
desire of rising above his present situation, never disturbed

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the tranquillity of Pathfinder; nor had he ever known an ambitious
thought, as ambition usually betrays itself, until he
became acquainted with Mabel. Since then, indeed, distrust
of himself, reverence for her, and the wish to place her in a
situation above that which he then filled, had caused him some
uneasy moments; but the directness and simplicity of his
character had early afforded the required relief; and he soon
came to feel, that the woman who would not hesitate to accept
him for her husband, would not scruple to share his fortunes,
however humble. He respected Sanglier as a brave
warrior; and he had far too much of that liberality which is
the result of practical knowledge, to believe half of what he
had heard to his prejudice; for the most bigoted and illiberal
on every subject, are usually those who know nothing about
it; but he could not approve of his selfishness, cold-blooded
calculations, and, least of all, of the manner in which he forgot
his “white gifts,” to adopt those that were purely “red.”
On the other hand, Pathfinder was a riddle to Captain Sanglier.
The latter could not comprehend the other's motives;
he had often heard of his disinterestedness, justice, and truth;
and, in several instances, they had led him into grave errors,
on that principle by which a frank and open-mouthed diplomatist
is said to keep his secrets better than one that is close-mouthed
and wily.

Ater the two heroes had gazed at each other, in the manner
mentioned, Monsieur Sanglier touched his cap; for the
rudeness of a border life had not entirely destroyed the courtesy
of manner he had acquired in youth, nor extinguished
that appearance of bonhommie which seems inbred in a
Frenchman.

“Monsieur le Pathfinder,” he said with a very decided accent,
though with a friendly smile, “un militaire honour
le courage, et la loyauté. You speak Iroquois?”

“Ay, I understand the language of the riptyles, and can
get along with it, if there's occasion,” returned the literal
and truth-telling guide; “but it's neither a tongue nor a tribe
to my taste. Wherever you find the Mingo blood, in my
opinion, Master Flinty-heart, you find a knave. Well, I 've
seen you often, though it was in battle; and I must say, it
was always in the van. You must know most of our bullets
by sight?”

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“Nevvair, sair, your own; une balle from your honourable
hand, be sairtaine deat'. You kill my best warrior on
some island.”

“That may be—that may be—though I dare say, if the
truth was known, they would turn out to be great rascals.
No offence to you, Master Flinty-heart, but you keep desperate
evil company.”

“Yes, sair,” returned the Frenchman, who, bent on saying
that which was courteous, himself, and comprehending with
difficulty, was disposed to think he received a compliment—
“you too good. But, un brave always comme çà. What that
mean—ha!—what that jeune homme do?”

The hand and eye of Captain Sanglier directed the look
of Pathfinder to the opposite side of the fire, where Jasper,
just at that moment, had been rudely seized by two of the
soldiers, who were binding his arms, under the direction of
Muir.

“What does that mean, indeed?” cried the guide, steping
forward, and shoving the two subordinates away with a
power of muscle that would not be denied. “Who has the
heart to do this to Jasper Eau-douce; and who has the boldness
to do it before my eyes?”

“It is by my orders, Pathfinder,” answered the Quarter-Master;
“and I command it on my own responsibility.
Ye 'll no tak' on yourself to dispute the legality of orders
given by one who bears the king's commission to the king's
soldiers?”

“I 'd dispute the king's words, if they came from the
king's own mouth, did he say that Jasper desarves this.
Has not the lad just saved all our scalps?—taken us from
defeat, and given us victory? No, no, Lieutenant; if this
is the first use that you make of your authority, I, for one,
will not respect it.”

“This savours a little of insubordination,” answered Muir;
“but we can bear much from Pathfinder. It is true this
Jasper has seemed to serve us in this affair; but we ought
not to overlook past transactions. Did not Major Duncan
himself denounce him to Serjeant Dunham, before we left
the post? Have we not seen sufficient with our own eyes,
to make sure of having been betrayed? And is it not natural,
and almost necessary, to believe that this young man

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has been the traitor? Ah! Pathfinder, ye 'll no be making
yourself a great statesman, or a great captain, if you put too
much faith in appearances. Lord bless me!—Lord bless
me! if I do not believe, could the truth be come at, as
you often say yourself, Pathfinder, that hypocrisy is a more
common vice than even envy; and that 's the bane o' human
nature.”

Captain Sanglier shrugged his shoulders; then he looked
earnestly from Jasper towards the Quarter-Master, and from
the Quarter-Master towards Jasper.

“I care not for your envy, or your hypocrisy, or even for
your human natur',” returned Pathfinder. “Jasper Eau-douce
is my friend; Jasper Eau-douce is a brave lad, and
an honest lad, and a loyal lad; and no man of the 55th
shall lay hands on him, short of Lundie's own orders, while
I 'm in the way to prevent it. You may have authority
over your soldiers, but you have none over Jasper, or me,
Master Muir.”

Bon,” ejaculated Sanglier; the sound partaking equally
of the energies of the throat, and of the nose.

“Will ye no hearken to reason, Pathfinder? Ye 'll no be
forgetting our suspicions and judgments; and here is another
circumstance to augment and aggravate them all. Ye can
see this little bit of bunting; well, where should it be found,
but by Mabel Dunham, on the branch of a tree, on this very
island, just an hour or so before the attack of the enemy;
and if ye 'll be at the trouble to look at the fly of the Scud's
ensign, ye 'll just say that the cloth has been cut from out it.
Circumstantial evidence was never stronger.”

Ma foi, c'est un peu fort, ceci;” growled Sanglier, between
his teeth.

“Talk to me of no ensigns, and signals, when I know the
heart;” continued the Pathfinder. “Jasper has the gift of
honesty; and it is too rare a gift to be trifled with, like a
Mingo's conscience. No, no; off hands, or we shall see
which can make the stoutest battle—you, and your men of
the 55th, or the Sarpent, here, and Killdeer, with Jasper and
his crew. You overrate your force, Lieutenant Muir, as
much as you underrate Eau-douce's truth.”

Très bon!

“Well, if I must speak plainly, Pathfinder, I e'en must.

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Captain Sanglier, here, and Arrowhead, this brave Tuscarora,
have both informed me that this unfortunate boy is the
traitor. After such testimony, you can no longer oppose my
right to correct him, as well as the necessity of the act.”

Scélérat,” muttered the Frenchman.

“Captain Sanglier is a brave soldier, and will not gainsay
the conduct of an honest sailor,” put in Jasper. “Is there
any traitor here, Captain Flinty-heart?”

“Ay,” added Muir, “let him speak out then, since ye
wish it, unhappy youth; that the truth may be known. I
only hope that ye may escape the last punishment when a
court will be sitting on your misdeeds. How is it, Captain;
do ye, or do ye not see a traitor amang us?”

Oui—yes, sair—bien sûr.

“Too much lie”—said Arrowhead, in a voice of thunder,
striking the breast of Muir, with the back of his own hand,
in a sort of ungovernable gesture. “Where my warriors?—
where Yengeese scalp?—Too much lie.”

Muir wanted not for personal courage, nor for a certain
sense of personal honour. The violence which had been
intended only for a gesture, he mistook for a blow; for conscience
was suddenly aroused within him; and he stepped
back a pace, extending a hand towards a gun. His face was
livid with rage; and his countenance expressed the fell intention
of his heart. But Arrowhead was too quick for him.
With a wild glance of the eye, the Tuscarora looked about
him; then thrust a hand beneath his own girdle, drew forth
a concealed knife, and, in the twinkling of an eye, buried it
in the body of the Quarter-Master to the handle. As the latter
fell at his feet, gazing into his face with the vacant stare
of one surprised by death, Sanglier took a pinch of snuff,
and said, in a calm voice:—

Voilà l'affaire finie—mais”—shrugging his shoulders,
ce n'est qu'un scélérat de moins.

The act was too sudden to be prevented, and when Arrowhead,
uttering a yell, bounded into the bushes, the white men
were too confounded to follow. Chingachgook, however,
was more collected; and the bushes had scarcely closed on
the passing body of the Tuscarora, than they were again
opened by that of the Delaware in full pursuit.

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Jasper Western spoke French fluently, and the words and
manner of Sanglier struck him.

“Speak, Monsieur,” he said, in English, “am I the
traitor?”

Le voilá”—answered the cool Frenchman,—“dat is our
espion—our agent—our friend—ma foi—c'etait un grand
scélérat—voici.

While speaking, Sanglier bent over the dead body, and
thrust a hand into a pocket of the Quarter-Master, out of
which he drew a purse. Emptying the contents on the ground,
several double-Louis rolled towards the soldiers, who were
not slow in picking them up. Casting the purse from him,
in contempt, the soldier of fortune turned towards the soup
he had been preparing with so much care, and finding it to
his liking, he began to break his fast, with an air of indifference
that the most stoical Indian warrior might have envied.

CHAPTER XII.

“The only amaranthine flower on earth
Is virtue; th' only lasting treasure, truth.”
Cowper.

The reader must imagine some of the occurrences,
that followed the sudden death of Muir. While his body
was in the hands of his soldiers, who laid it decently aside,
and covered it with a great-coat, Chingachgook silently resumed
his place at the fire, and both Sanglier and Pathfinder
remarked that he carried a fresh and bleeding scalp at his
girdle. No one asked any questions, and the former, although
perfectly satisfied that Arrowhead had fallen, manifested
neither curiosity nor feeling. He continued calmly
eating his soup, as if the meal had been tranquil as usual.
There was something of pride, and of an assumed indifference
to fate, imitated from the Indians, in all this; but there
was more that really resulted from practice, habitual self-command,
and constitutional hardihood. With Pathfinder,

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the case was a little different in feeling, though much the
same in appearance. He disliked Muir, whose smooth-tongued
courtesy was little in accordance with his own frank
and ingenuous nature; but he had been shocked at his unexpected
and violent death, though accustomed to similar scenes,
and he had been surprised at the exposure of his treachery.
With a view to ascertain the extent of the latter, as soon as
the body was removed, he began to question the captain on
the subject. The latter having no particular motive for secresy,
now that his agent was dead, in the course of the
breakfast revealed the following circumstances, which will
serve to clear up some of the minor incidents of our tale.

Soon after the 55th appeared on the frontiers, Muir had
volunteered his services to the enemy. In making his offers,
he boasted of his intimacy with Lundie, and of the means
it afforded of furnishing more accurate and important information
than usual. His terms had been accepted, and Monsieur
Sanglier had several interviews with him, in the vicinity
of the fort at Oswego, and had actually passed one entire
night secreted in the garrison. Arrowhead, however, was
the usual channel of communication, and the anonymous
letter to Major Duncan, had been originally written by Muir,
transmitted to Frontenac, copied, and sent back by the Tuscarora,
who was returning from that errand when captured by
the Scud. It is scarcely necessary to add, that Jasper was to be
sacrificed, in order to conceal the Quarter-Master's treason,
and that the position of the island had been betrayed to
the enemy by the latter. An extraordinary compensation,
that which was found in his purse, had induced him to accompany
the party under Serjeant Dunham, in order to give
the signals that were to bring on the attack. The disposition
of Muir towards the sex, was a natural weakness, and he
would have married Mabel, or any one else, who would accept
his hand; but his admiration of her was in a great degree
feigned, in order that he might have an excuse for accompanying
the party, without sharing in the responsibility of its
defeat, or incurring the risk of having no other strong and
seemingly sufficient motive. Much of this was known to
Captain Sanglier, particularly the part in connexion with
Mabel, and he did not fail to let his auditors into the whole
secret, frequently laughing in a sarcastic manner, as he

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revealed the different expedients of the luckless Quarter-Master.

Touchez-la,” said the cold-blooded partisan, holding out
his sinewy hand to Pathfinder, when he ended his explanations—
“you be honnête, and dat is beaucoup. We tak' de
spy, as we tak' la médicine, for de good; mais, je les deteste!
Touchez-la.

“I 'll shake your hand, captain, I will, for you 're a lawful
and nat'ral inimy,” returned Pathfinder, “and a manful
one; but the body of the Quarter-Master shall never disgrace
English ground. I did intend to carry it back to Lundie,
that he might play his bagpipes over it; but now it shall
lie here, on the spot where he acted his villany, and have
his own treason for a head-stone. Captain Flinty-Heart, I
suppose this consorting with traitors is a part of a soldier's
regular business; but, I tell you honestly, it is not to my
liking, and I 'd rather it should be you than I who had this
affair on his conscience. What an awful sinner!—To plot,
right and left, ag'in country, friends and the Lord!—Jasper,
boy, a word with you, aside, for a single minute.”

Pathfinder now led the young man apart, and squeezing
his hand, with the tears in his own eyes, he continued—

“You know me, Eau-douce, and I know you,” he said,
“and this news has not changed my opinion of you, in any
manner. I never believed their tales, though it looked solemn
at one minute, I will own; yes, it did look solemn; and it
made me feel solemn, too. I never suspected you for a
minute, for I know your gifts don't lie that-a-way; but, I
must own, I didn't suspect the Quarter-Master neither.”

“And he holding His Majesty's commission, Pathfinder!”

“It is n't so much that, Jasper Western; it is n't so much
that. He held a commission from God to act right, and to
deal fairly with his fellow-creatur's, and he has failed awfully
in his duty!”

“To think of his pretending love for one like Mabel, too,
when he felt none!”

“That was bad, sartainly; the fellow must have had
Mingo blood in his veins. The man that deals unfairly by a
woman can be but a mongrel, lad; for the Lord has made
them helpless on purpose that we may gain their love by
kindness and sarvices. Here is the sarjeant, poor man, on

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his dying bed; he has given me his daughter for a wife, and
Mabel, dear girl, she has consented to it; and it makes me
feel that I have two welfares to look after, two natur's to care
for, and two hearts to gladden. Ah's me! Jasper; I sometimes
feel that I 'm not good enough for that sweet child!”

Eau-douce had nearly gasped for breath when he first
heard this intelligence; and, though he succeeded in suppressing
any other outward signs of agitation, his cheek was
blanched nearly to the paleness of death. Still he found
means to answer, not only with firmness, but with energy—

“Say not so, Pathfinder; you are good enough for a
Queen.”

“Ay, ay, boy, according to your idees of my goodness;
that is to say—I can kill a deer, or even a Mingo at need,
with any man on the lines; or I can follow a forest path with
as true an eye, or read the stars, when others do not understand
them. No doubt, no doubt, Mabel will have venison
enough, and fish enough, and pigeons enough; but will she
have knowledge enough, and will she have idees enough,
and pleasant conversation enough, when life comes to drag a
little, and each of us begins to pass for our true value?”

“If you pass for your value, Pathfinder, the greatest lady
in the land would be happy with you. On that head, you
have no reason to feel afraid.”

“Now, Jasper, I dare to say you think so—nay, I know
you do; for it is nat'ral and according to friendship, for people
to look over-favourably at them they love. Yes, yes; if
I had to marry you, boy, I should give myself no consarn
about my being well looked upon, for you have always shown
a disposition to see me and all I do with friendly eyes. But
a young gal, after all, must wish to marry a man that is
nearer to her own age and fancies, than to have one old
enough to be her father, and rude enough to frighten her.
I wonder, Jasper, that Mabel never took a fancy to you, now,
rather than setting her mind on me!”

“Take a fancy to me, Pathfinder!” returned the young
man, endeavouring to clear his voice without betraying himself—
“What is there about me, to please such a girl as
Mabel Dunham? I have all that you find fault with in yourself,
with none of that excellence that makes even the generals
respect you.”

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“Well—well—it 's all chance, say what we will about it.
Here have I journeyed and guided through the woods, female
after female, and consorted with them in the garrisons, and
never have I even felt an inclination for any, until I saw
Mabel Dunham. It 's true the poor sarjeant first set me to
thinking about his daughter, but after we got a little acquainted
like, I 'd no need of being spoken to, to think of her night
and day. I 'm tough, Jasper; yes, I 'm very tough; and
I 'm risolute enough, as you all know; and yet I do think it
would quite break me down, now, to lose Mabel Dunham!”

“We will talk no more of it, Pathfinder,” said Jasper,
returning his friend's squeeze of the hand, and moving back
towards the fire, though slowly and in the manner of one
who cared little where he went; “we will talk no more of
it. You are worthy of Mabel, and Mabel is worthy of you—
you like Mabel, and Mabel likes you—her father has
chosen you for her husband, and no one has a right to interfere.
As for the Quarter-Master, his feigning love for Mabel,
is worse even than his treason to the king!”

By this time, they were so near the fire, that it was necessary
to change the conversation. Luckily, at that instant,
Cap, who had been in the block in company with his dying
brother-in-law, and who knew nothing of what had passed
since the capitulation, now appeared, walking with a meditative
and melancholy air towards the group. Much of that
hearty dogmatism, that imparted even to his ordinary air and
demeanour an appearance of something like contempt for
all around him, had disappeared, and he seemed thoughtful,
if not meek.

“This death, gentlemen,” he said, when he had got sufficiently
near, “is a melancholy business, make the best of
it. Now, here is Serjeant Dunham, a very good soldier, I
make no question, about to slip his cable, and yet he holds
on to the better end of it, as if he was determined it should
never run out of the hawse-hole; and all because he loves his
daughter, it seems to me. For my part, when a friend is
really under the necessity of making a long journey, I always
wish him well and happily off.”

“You wouldn't kill the sarjeant before his time?” Pathfinder
reproachfully answered. “Life is sweet, even to the
aged, and, for that matter, I 've known some that seemed to
set much store by it, when it got to be of the least value.”

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Nothing had been farther from Cap's real thoughts, than the
wish to hasten his brother-in-law's end. He had found himself
embarrassed with the duties of smoothing a death-bed,
and all he had meant was to express a sincere desire that the
serjeant were happily rid of doubt and suffering. A little
shocked, therefore, at the interpretation that had been put on
his words, he rejoined with some of the asperity of the man,
though rebuked by a consciousness of not having done his
own wishes justice—

“You are too old and too sensible a person, Pathfinder,”
he said, “to fetch a man up with a surge, when he is paying
out his ideas in distress, as it might be. Serjeant Dunham is
both my brother-in-law and my friend,—that is to say, as
intimate a friend as a soldier well can be with a seafaring
man, and I respect and honour him accordingly. I make no
doubt, moreover, that he has lived such a life as becomes a
man, and there can be no great harm, after all, in wishing
any one well berthed in heaven. Well! we are mortal the
best of us, that you 'll not deny; and it ought to be a lesson
not to feel pride in our strength and beauty. Where is the
Quarter-Master, Pathfinder?—It is proper he should come
and have a parting word with the poor serjeant, who is only
going a little before us.”

“You have spoken more truth, Master Cap, than you 've
been knowing to, all this time; in which there is no great
wonder, howsoever; mankind as often telling biting truths
when they least mean it, as at any other time. You might
have gone farther, notwithstanding, and said that we are
mortal, the worst of us, which is quite as true, and a good
deal more wholesome than saying that we are mortal, the
best of us. As for the Quarter-Master's coming to speak a
parting word to the sarjeant, it is quite out of the question,
seeing that he has gone ahead, and that too with little parting
notice to himself, or to any one else.”

“You are not quite as clear as common, in your language,
Pathfinder. I know that we ought all to have solemn thoughts
on these occasions, but I see no use in speaking in parables.”

“If my words are not plain, the idee is. In short, Master
Cap, while Sarjeant Dunham has been preparing himself for
a long journey, like a conscientious and honest man as he is,

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deliberately and slowly, the Quarter-Master has started, in
a hurry, before him; and, although it is a matter on which
it does not become me to be very positive, I give it as my
opinion that they travel such different roads, that they will
never meet.”

“Explain yourself, my friend,” said the bewildered seaman,
looking around him in search of Muir, whose absence began
to excite his distrust. “I see nothing of the Quarter-Master,
but I think him too much of a man to run away, now that
the victory is gained. If the fight were ahead, instead of in
our wake, the case would be altered.”

“There lies all that is left of him, beneath that great-coat,”
returned the guide, who then briefly related the manner of
the Lieutenant's death. “The Tuscarora was as venomous
in his blow, as a rattler, though he failed to give the warning,”
continued Pathfinder. “I 've seen many a desperate
fight, and several of these sudden outbreaks of savage temper;
but never, before, did I see a human soul quit the body
more unexpectedly, or at a worse moment for the hopes of
the dying man. His breath was stopped with the lie on his
lips, and the spirit might be said to have passed away in the
very ardour of wickedness.”

Cap listened with a gaping mouth, and he gave two or
three violent hems, as the other concluded, like one who distrusted
his own respiration.

“This is an uncertain and uncomfortable life of yours,
master Pathfinder, what between the fresh-water and the
savages,” he said, “and the sooner I get quit of it, the higher
will be my opinion of myself. Now you mention it, I
will say that the man ran for that berth in the rocks, when
the enemy first bore down upon us, with a sort of instinct
that I thought surprising in an officer; but I was in too great
a hurry to follow, to log the whole matter accurately. God
bless me—God bless me! a traitor do you say, and ready to
sell his country, and to a bloody Frenchman too?”

“To sell any thing—country, soul, body, Mabel and all
our scalps; and no ways particular, I 'll engage, as to the
purchaser. The countrymen of Captain Flinty-heart, here,
were the paymasters this time.”

“Just like 'em; ever ready to buy, when they can't thrash,
and to run when they can do neither.”

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Mons. Sanglier lifted his cap with ironical gravity, and
acknowledged the compliment with an expression of polite
contempt that was altogether lost on its insensible subject.
But Pathfinder had too much native courtesy, and was far
too just-minded, to allow the attack to go unnoticed.

“Well—well,” he interposed—“to my mind there is no
great difference atween an Englishman and a Frenchman,
after all. They talk different tongues, and live under different
kings, I will allow; but both are human, and feel like
human beings, when there is occasion for it. If a Frenchman
is sometimes skeary, so is an Englishman; and as for
running away, why a man will now and then do it, as well
as a horse, let him come of what people he may.”

Captain Flinty-heart, as Pathfinder called him, made
another obeisance; but this time the smile was friendly, and
not ironical, for he felt that the intention was good, whatever
might have been the mode of expressing it. Too philosophical,
however, to heed what a man like Cap might say, or
think, he finished his breakfast without allowing his attention
to be again diverted from that important pursuit.

“My business here was principally with the Quarter-Master,”
Cap continued, as soon as he had done regarding the
prisoner's pantomime. “The serjeant must be near his end;
and I have thought he might wish to say something to his
successor in authority, before he finally departed. It is too
late, it would seem; and, as you say, Pathfinder, the lieutenant
has truly gone before.”

“That he has, though on a different path. As for authority,
I suppose the corporal has now a right to command
what's left of the 55th, though a small and worried, not to
say frightened, party it is. But, if any thing needs to be
done, the chances are greatly in favour of my being called on
to do it. I suppose, however, we have only to bury our dead,
set fire to the block and the huts, for they stand in the inimy's
territory, by position, if not by law, and must not be left for
their convenience. Our using them again, is out of the question;
for now the Frenchers know where the island is to be
found, it would be like thrusting the hand into a wolf-trap,
with our eyes wide open. This part of the work, the Sarpent
and I will see to; for we are as practysed in retreats as
in advances.”

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“All that is very well, my good friend; and now for my
poor brother-in-law: though he is a soldier, we cannot let
him slip without a word of consolation, and a leave-taking,
in my judgment. This has been an unlucky affair, on every
tack; though I suppose it is what one had a right to expect,
considering the state of the times, and the nature of the navigation.
We must make the best of it, and try to help the
worthy man to unmoor, without straining his messengers.
Death is a circumstance, after all, Master Pathfinder, and
one of a very general character, too, seeing that we must all
submit to it, sooner or later.”

“You say truth, you say truth; and for that reason I hold
it to be wise to be always ready. I 've often thought, Salt-water,
that he is happiest who has the least to leave behind
him when the summons comes. Now, here am I, a hunter
and a scout, and a guide, although I do not own a foot of
land on 'arth, yet do I enjoy and possess more than the great
Albany Patroon. With the heavens over my head to keep
me in mind of the last great hunt, and the dried leaves beneath
my feet, I tramp over the ground as freely as if I was
its lord and owner; and what more need heart desire? I do
not say that I love nothing that belongs to 'arth; for I do,
though not much, unless it might be Mabel Dunham, that I
can't carry with me. I have some pups at the higher fort,
that I valy considerable, though they are too noisy for warfare,
and so we are compelled to live separate for a while;
and then, I think, it would grieve me to part with Killdeer;
but I see no reason why we should not be buried in the same
grave, for we are, as near as can be, of the same length—
six feet, to a hair's breadth; but, bating these, and a pipe
that the Sarpent gave me, and a few tokens, received from
travellers, all of which might be put in a pouch, and laid under
my head, when the order comes to march, I shall be ready
at a minute's warning; and, let me tell you, Master Cap,
that's what I call a circumstance, too!”

“'Tis just so with me,” answered the sailor, as the two
walked towards the block, too much occupied with their respective
morality, to remember, at the moment, the melancholy
errand they were on—“that's just my way of feeling
and reasoning. How often have I felt, when near shipwreck,
the relief of not owning the craft! `If she goes,' I have said

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to myself, `why my life goes with her, but not my property,
and there's great comfort in that.' I 've discovered, in the
course of boxing about the world, from the Horn to Cape
North, not to speak of this run on a bit of fresh-water, that
if a man has a few dollars, and puts them in a chest, under
lock and key, he is pretty certain to fasten up his heart in
the same till; and so I carry pretty much all I own, in a
belt round my body, in order, as I say, to keep the vitals in
the right place. D—e, Pathfinder, if I think a man without
a heart, any better than a fish with a hole in his air-bag.”

“I don't know how that may be, Master Cap, but a man
without a conscience is but a poor creatur', take my word for
it, as any one will discover who has to do with a Mingo. I
trouble myself but little with dollars or half-joes, for these
are the favoryte coin in this part of the world; but I can
easily believe, by what I 've seen of mankind, that if a man
has a chest filled with either, he may be said to lock up his
heart in the same box. I once hunted for two summers, during
the last peace, and I collected so much peltry that I found
my right feelings giving way to a craving after property; and
if I have consarn in marrying Mabel, it is that I may get to
love such things too well, in order to make her comfortable.”

“You 're a philosopher, that 's clear, Pathfinder; and I
don't know but you 're a Christian!”

“I should be out of humour with the man that gainsayed
the last, Master Cap. I have not been christianized by the
Moravians, like so many of the Delawares, it is true; but I
hold to Christianity and white gifts. With me, it is as oncreditable
for a white man not to be a Christian, as it is for
a red-skin not to believe in his happy hunting-grounds; indeed,
after allowing for difference in traditions, and in some
variations about the manner in which the spirit will be occupied
after death, I hold that a good Delaware is a good Christian,
though he never saw a Moravian; and a good Christian
a good Delaware, so far as natur' is consarned. The Sarpent
and I talk these matters over often, for he has a hankerin'
after Christianity—”

“The d—l he has!” interrupted Cap. “And what does
he intend to do in a church, with all the scalps he takes?”

“Don't run away with a false idee, friend Cap; don't run
away with a false idee. These things are only skin-deep,

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and all depend on edication and nat'ral gifts. Look around
you, at mankind, and tell me why you see a red warrior
here, a black one there, and white armies in another place?
All this, and a great deal more of the same kind that I could
point out, has been ordered for some 'special purpose; and it
is not for us to fly in the face of facts, and deny their truth.
No—no—each colour has its gifts, and its laws, and its traditions;
and one is not to condemn another because he does
not exactly comprehend it.”

“You must have read a great deal, Pathfinder, to see
things as clear as this,” returned Cap, who was not a little
mystified by his companion's simple creed—“It 's all as plain
as day to me now, though I must say I never fell in with
these opinions before. What denomination do you belong
to, my friend?”

“Anan?”

“What sect do you hold out for?—What particular church
do you fetch up in?”

“Look about you and judge for yourself. I 'm in church
now; I eat in church, drink in church, sleep in church.
The 'arth is the temple of the Lord, and I wait on him
hourly, daily, without ceasing, I humbly hope. No—no—
I 'll not deny my blood and colour, but am Christian born,
and shall die in the same faith. The Moravians tried me
hard; and one of the king's chaplains has had his say, too,
though that's a class no ways strenuous on such matters;
and a missionary sent from Rome talked much with me, as
I guided him through the forest, during the last peace; but
I 've had one answer for them all—I 'm a Christian already,
and want to be neither Moravian, nor Churchman, nor Papist.
No—no—I 'll not deny my birth and blood.”

“I think a word from you might lighten the serjeant over
the shoals of death, Master Pathfinder. He has no one with
him but poor Mabel, and she, you know, besides being his
daughter, is but a girl and a child after all.”

“Mabel is feeble in body, friend Cap, but in matters of
this natur', I doubt if she may not be stronger than most
men. But Sarjeant Dunham is my friend, and he is your
brother-in-law; so, now the press of fighting and maintaining
our rights is over, it is fitting we should both go and witness
his departure. I 've stood by many a dying man,

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Master Cap,” continued Pathfinder, who had a besetting propensity
to enlarge on his experience, stopping and holding his companion
by a button—“I 've stood by many a dying man's
side, and seen his last gasp, and heard his last breath; for
when the hurry and tumult of the battle is over, it is good to
bethink us of the misfortunate, and it is remarkable to witness
how differently human natur' feels at such solemn moments.
Some go their way as stupid and ignorant as if God
had never given them reason, and an accountable state;
while others quit us rejoicing, like men who leave heavy burthens
behind them. I think that the mind sees clearly at
such moments, my friend, and that past deeds stand thick
before the recollection.”

“I 'll engage they do, Pathfinder. I have witnessed something
of this myself, and hope I 'm the better man for it. I
remember once that I thought my own time had come, and
the log was overhauled with a diligence I did not think myself
capable of until that moment. I 've not been a very
great sinner, friend Pathfinder; that is to say, never on a
large scale; though, I dare say, if the truth were spoken, a
considerable amount of small matters might be raked up
against me, as well as against another man; but then I 've
never committed piracy, nor high-treason, nor arson, nor
any of them sort of things. As to smuggling, and the like
of that, why I 'm a seafaring man, and I suppose all callings
have their weak spots. I dare say, your trade is not altogether
without blemish, honourable and useful as it seems to
be?”

“Many of the scouts and guides are desperate knaves;
and, like the Quarter-Master here, some of them take pay
of both sides. I hope I 'm not one of them, though all occupations
lead to temptations. Thrice have I been sorely tried
in my life, and once I yielded a little, though I hope it was
not in a matter to disturb a man's conscience in his last moments.
The first time was when I found in the woods a
pack of skins that I knowed belonged to a Frencher, who
was hunting on our side of the lines, where he had no business
to be; twenty-six as handsome beavers as ever gladdened
human eyes! Well, that was a sore temptation, for
I thought the law would have been almost with me, although
it was in peace-times. But then I remembered that such laws

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was n't made for us hunters, and bethought me that the poor
man might have built great expectations for the next winter,
on the sale of his skins; and I left them where they lay.
Most of our people said I did wrong; but the manner in
which I slept that night convinced me that I had done right.
The next trial was when I found the rifle, that is sartainly
the only one in this part of the world that can be calculated
on as surely as Killdeer, and knowed that by taking it, or
even hiding it, I might at once rise to be the first shot in all
these parts. I was then young, and by no means as expart
as I have since got to be, and youth is ambitious and striving;
but, God be praised! I mastered that feeling; and,
friend Cap, what is almost as good, I mastered my rival in
as fair a shooting-match as was ever witnessed in a garrison;
he with his piece, and I with Killdeer, and before the
general in person, too!” Here Pathfinder stopped to laugh,
his triumph still glittering in his eyes, and glowing on his
sunburnt and browned cheek.—“Well, the next conflict with
the devil was the hardest of them all, and that was when I
came suddenly upon a camp of six Mingos, asleep in the
woods, with their guns and horns piled in a way that enabled
me to get possession of them without waking a miscreant
of them all. What an opportunity that would have been for
the Sarpent, who would have despatched them, one after another,
with his knife, and had their six scalps at his girdle,
in about the time it takes me to tell you the story. Oh! he 's
a valiant warrior, that Chingachgook, and as honest as he 's
brave, and as good as he 's honest!”

“And what may you have done in this matter, Master
Pathfinder,” demanded Cap, who began to be interested in
the result—“it seems to me, you had made either a very
lucky, or a very unlucky landfall.”

“'Twas lucky, and 'twas unlucky, if you can understand
that. 'Twas unlucky, for it proved a desperate trial; and
yet 'twas lucky, all things considered, in the ind. I did not
touch a hair of their heads, for a white man has no nat'ral
gifts to take scalps; nor did I even make sure of one of their
rifles. I distrusted myself, knowing that a Mingo is no favourite,
in my own eyes.”

“As for the scalps, I think you were right enough, my
worthy friend; but as for the armament and the stores, they

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would have been condemned by any prize-court in Christendom!”

“That they would—that they would; but then the Mingos
would have gone clear, seeing that a white man can no more
attack an unarmed, than a sleeping inimy. No—no—I did
myself, and my colour, and my religion, too, greater justice.
I waited till their nap was over, and they well on their war-path
again; and by ambushing them here, and flanking them
there, I peppered the blackguards intrinsically, like,” Pathfinder
occasionally caught a fine word from his associates,
and used it a little vaguely—“that only one ever got back to
his village; and he came into his wigwam, limping. Luckily,
as it turned out, the great Delaware had only halted to
jerk some venison, and was following on my trail; and when
he got up, he had five of the scoundrel's scalps hanging where
they ought to be; so, you see, nothing was lost by doing
right, either in the way of honour or in that of profit.”

Cap grunted an assent, though the distinctions in his companion's
morality, it must be owned, were not exactly clear
to his understanding. The two had occasionally moved towards
the block, as they conversed, and then stopped again,
as some matter of more interest than common, brought them
to a halt. They were now so near the building, however, that
neither thought of pursuing the subject any further; but each
prepared himself for the final scene with Serjeant Dunham.

CHAPTER XIII.

“Thou barraine ground, whom winter's wrath hath wasted,
Art made a mirror to behold my plight:
Whil'ome thy fresh spring flower'd; and after hasted
Thy summer proude, with daffodillies dight;
And now is come thy winter's stormy state,
Thy mantle mar'd wherein thou maskedst late.”
Spenser.

Although the soldier may regard danger, and even death,
with indifference, in the tumult of battle, when the passage

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of the soul is delayed to moments of tranquillity and reflection,
the change commonly brings with it the usual train of
solemn reflections; of regrets for the past; and of doubts and
anticipations for the future. Many a man has died with an
heroic expression on his lips, but with heaviness and distrust
at his heart; for, whatever may be the varieties of our religious
creeds,—let us depend on the mediation of Christ, the
dogmas of Mahomet, or the elaborated allegories of the East,
there is a conviction, common to all men, that death is but
the stepping-stone between this and a more elevated state of
being. Serjeant Dunham was a brave man; but he was departing
for a country in which resolution could avail him
nothing; and as he felt himself gradually loosened from the
grasp of the world, his thoughts and feelings took the natural
direction; for, if it be true that death is the great leveller, in
nothing is it more true, than that it reduces all to the same
views of the vanity of life.

Pathfinder, though a man of quaint and peculiar habits and
opinions, was always thoughtful, and disposed to view the
things around him, with a shade of philosophy, as well as
with seriousness. In him, therefore, the scene in the block-house
awakened no very novel feelings; but the case was
different with Cap. Rude, opinionated, dogmatical, and
boisterous, the old sailor was little accustomed to view even
death, with any approach to the gravity that its importance
demands; and, notwithstanding all that had passed, and
his real regard for his brother-in-law, he now entered the
room of the dying man, with much of that callous unconcern
which was the fruit of long training in a school, that,
while it gives so many lessons in the sublimest truths, generally
wastes its admonitions on scholars who are little disposed
to profit by them.

The first proof that Cap gave of his not entering as fully
as those around him, into the solemnity of the moment, was
by commencing a narration of the events which had just led
to the deaths of Muir and Arrowhead. “Both tripped their
anchors in a hurry, brother Dunham,” he concluded; “and
you have the consolation of knowing that others have gone
before you, in the great journey, and they, too, men whom
you 've no particular reason to love; which to me, were I
placed in your situation, would be a source of very great

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satisfaction. My mother always said, Master Pathfinder,
that dying people's spirits should not be damped, but that
they ought to be encouraged by all proper and prudent
means; and this news will give the poor fellow a great lift,
if he feels towards them savages any way as I feel myself.”

June arose, at this intelligence, and stole from the block-house
with a noiseless step. Dunham listened with a vacant
stare, for life had already lost so many of its ties that he had
really forgotten Arrowhead, and cared nothing for Muir; but
he inquired, in a feeble voice, for Eau-douce. The young
man was immediately summoned, and soon made his appearance.
The serjeant gazed at him kindly, and the expression
of his eyes was that of regret for the injury he had done
him, in thought. The party in the block-house now consisted
of Pathfinder, Cap, Mabel, Jasper, and the dying man.
With the exception of the daughter, all stood around the serjeant's
pallet, in attendance on his last moments. Mabel
kneeled at his side, now pressing a clammy hand to her
head, now applying moisture to the parched lips of her
father.

“Your case will shortly be ourn, sarjeant,” said Pathfinder,
who could hardly be said to be awe-struck by the
scene, for he had witnessed the approach and victories of
death too often for that; but who felt the full difference between
his triumphs in the excitement of battle, and in the
quiet of the domestic circle; “and I make no question we
shall meet ag'in, hereafter. Arrowhead has gone his way,
'tis true; but it can never be the way of a just Indian.
You 've seen the last of him; for his path cannot be the
path of the just. Reason is ag'in the thought, in his case,
as it is also, in my judgment, ag'in it, too, in the case of
Lieutenant Muir. You have done your duty in life, and
when a man does that, he may start on the longest journey,
with a light heart, and an actyve foot.”

“I hope so, my friend—I 've tried to do my duty.”

“Ay—ay—” put in Cap; “intention is half the battle;
and though you would have done better had you hove-to in
the offing, and sent a craft in to feel how the land lay; things
might have turned out differently; no one, here, doubts that
you meant all for the best, and no one anywhere else, I

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should think, from what I 've seen of this world, and read of
t' other.”

“I did—yes—I meant all for the best.”

“Father!—Oh! my beloved father!”

“Magnet is taken aback by this blow, Master Pathfinder,
and can say, or do, but little to carry her father over the
shoals; so we must try all the harder to serve him a friendly
turn, ourselves.”

“Did you speak, Mabel?” Dunham asked, turning his eyes
in the direction of his daughter, for he was already too feeble
to turn his body.

“Yes, father; rely on nothing you have done yourself,
for mercy and salvation; trust altogether in the blessed mediation
of the Son of God!”

“The chaplain has told us something like this, brother—
the dear child may be right.”

“Ay—ay—that 's doctrine, out of question. He will be
our judge, and keeps the log-book of our acts, and will foot
them all up, at the last day, and then say who has done
well, and who has done ill. I do believe Mabel is right, but
then you need not be concerned, as no doubt the account has
been fairly kept.”

“Uncle!—dearest father!—This is a vain illusion—Oh!
place all your trust in the mediation of our holy redeemer!
Have you not often felt your own insufficiency to effect your
own wishes in the commonest things, and how can you
imagine yourself, by your own acts, equal to raise up a frail
and sinful nature sufficiently to be received into the presence
of perfect purity? There is no hope for any, but in the
mediation of Christ!”

“This is what the Moravians used to tell us,” said Pathfinder
to Cap, in a low voice; “rely on it, Mabel is right.”

“Right enough, friend Pathfinder, in the distances, but
wrong in the course. I 'm afraid the child will get the serjeant
adrift, at the very moment when we had him in the
best of the water, and in the plainest part of the channel.”

“Leave it to Mabel—leave it to Mabel—she knows better
than any of us, and can do no harm.”

“I have heard this before”—Dunham at length replied—
“Ah! Mabel; it is strange for the parent to lean on the
child, at a moment like this!”

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“Put your trust in God, father—lean on his holy and
compassionate son. Pray, dearest, dearest father—pray for
his omnipotent support.”

“I am not used to prayer—brother—Pathfinder—Jasper—
can you help me to words?”

Cap scarce knew what prayer meant, and he had no
answer to give. Pathfinder prayed often, daily if not hourly—
but it was mentally, in his own simple modes of thinking,
and without the aid of words at all. In this strait, therefore,
he was as useless as the mariner, and had no reply to make.
As for Jasper Eau-douce, though he would gladly have
endeavoured to move a mountain, to relieve Mabel, this was
asking assistance, it exceeded his power to give, and he
shrunk back with the shame, that is only too apt to overcome
the young and vigorous, when called on to perform an act
that tacitly confesses their real weakness and dependence on
a superior power.

“Father”—said Mabel, wiping her eyes, and endeavouring
to compose features that were pallid, and actually quivering
with emotion—“I will pray with you—for you—for
myself, for us all. The petition of the feeblest and humblest
is never unheeded.”

There was something sublime, as well as much that was
supremely touching in this act of filial piety. The quiet,
but earnest manner in which this young creature prepared
herself to perform the duty; the self-abandonment with which
she forgot her sex's timidity and sex's shame, in order to
sustain her parent at that trying moment; the loftiness of
purpose with which she directed all her powers to the immense
object before her, with a woman's devotion, and a
woman's superiority to trifles, when her affections make the
appeal; and the holy calm into which her grief was compressed,
rendered her, for the moment, an object of something
very like awe and veneration to her companions.

Mabel had been religiously and reasonably educated;
equally without exaggeration and without self-sufficiency.
Her reliance on God was cheerful and full of hope, while
it was of the humblest and most dependent nature. She had
been accustomed from childhood, to address herself to the
Deity, in prayer;—taking example from the divine mandate
of Christ himself, who commanded his followers to abstain

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from vain repetitions, and who has left behind him a petition
that is unequalled for sublimity and sententiousness, as if
expressly to rebuke the disposition of man to set up his own
loose and random thoughts as the most acceptable sacrifice.
The sect in which she had been reared, has furnished to its
followers some of the most beautiful compositions of the language,
as a suitable vehicle for its devotion and solicitations.
Accustomed to this mode of public and even private prayer,
the mind of our heroine had naturally fallen into its train
of lofty thought; her task had become improved by its study,
and her language elevated and enriched by its phrases. In
short, Mabel, in this respect, was an instance of the influence
of familiarity with propriety of thought, fitness of language,
and decorum of manner, on the habits and expressions of
even those who might be supposed not to be always so susceptible
of receiving high impressions of this nature. When
she kneeled at the bed-side of her father, the very reverence
of her attitude and manner, prepared the spectators for
what was to come; and as her affectionate heart prompted
her tongue, and memory came in aid of both, the petition
and praises that she offered up, were of a character that
might have worthily led the spirits of angels. Although the
words were not slavishly borrowed, the expressions partook
of the simple dignity of the liturgy to which she had been
accustomed, and was probably as worthy of the being to
whom they were addressed as they could well be made by
human powers. They produced their full impression on the
hearers; for it is worthy of remark, that, notwithstanding the
pernicious effects of a false taste when long submitted to,
real sublimity and beauty are so closely allied to nature, that
they generally find an echo in every heart.

But when our heroine came to touch upon the situation
of the dying man, she became the most truly persuasive,
for then she was the most truly zealous and natural.
The beauty of the language was preserved, but it was sustained
by the simple power of love; and her words were
warmed by a holy zeal, that approached to the grandeur of
true eloquence. We might record some of her expressions,
but doubt the propriety of subjecting such sacred themes to
a too familiar analysis, and refrain.

The effect of this singular but solemn scene, was different

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on the different individuals present. Dunham himself was
soon lost in the subject of the prayer; and he felt some such
relief, as one who finds himself staggering on the edge of a
precipice under a burthen difficult to be borne, might be supposed
to experience, when he unexpectedly feels the weight
removed, in order to be placed on the shoulders of another
better able to sustain it. Cap was surprised, as well as
awed; though the effects on his mind were not very deep or
very lasting. He wondered a little at his own sensations,
and had his doubts whether they were as manly and heroic
as they ought to be; but he was far too sensible of the influence
of truth, humility, religious submission and human dependency,
to think of interposing with any of his crude objections.
Jasper knelt opposite to Mabel, covered his face,
and followed her words, with an earnest wish to aid her
prayers with his own; though it may be questioned if his
thoughts did not dwell quite as much on the soft, gentle
accents of the petitioner, as on the subject of her petition.

The effect on Pathfinder was striking and visible; visible,
because he stood erect, also opposite to Mabel; and the workings
of his countenance, as usual, betrayed the workings of
the spirit within. He leaned on his rifle, and, at moments,
the sinewy fingers grasped the barrel with a force that seemed
to compress the weapon; while, once or twice, as Mabel's
language rose in intimate association with her thoughts, he
lifted his eyes to the floor above him, as if he expected to
find some visible evidence of the presence of the dread being
to whom the words were addressed. Then again his feelings
reverted to the fair creature who was thus pouring out
her spirit, in fervent but calm petitions, in behalf of a dying
parent; for Mabel's cheek was no longer pallid, but was flushed
with a holy enthusiasm, while her blue eyes were upturned
in the light, in a way to resemble a picture by Guido. At
these moments all the honest and manly attachment of Pathfinder
glowed in his ingenuous features, and his gaze at our
heroine was such as the fondest parent might fasten on the
child of his love.

Serjeant Dunham laid his hand feebly on the head of Mabel,
as she ceased praying, and buried her face in his blanket.

“Bless you—my beloved child—bless you—” he rather

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whispered than uttered aloud—“this is truly consolation—
would that I too could pray!”

“Father, you know the Lord's prayer—you taught it to
me yourself, while I was yet an infant.”

The serjeant's face gleamed with a smile; for he did
remember to have discharged that portion, at least, of the
paternal duty; and the consciousness of it gave him inconceivable
gratification at that solemn moment. He was then
silent for several minutes, and all present believed that he
was communing with God.

“Mabel—my child—” he at length uttered, in a voice that
seemed to be reviving—“Mabel—I 'm quitting you.”—The
spirit, at its great and final passage, appears ever to consider
the body as nothing—“I 'm quitting you, my child—where is
your hand?”

“Here, dearest father—here are both—oh! take both.”

“Pathfinder—” added the serjeant, feeling on the opposite
side of the bed, where Jasper still knelt, and getting one of
the hands of the young man, by mistake—“take it—I leave
you as her father—as you and she may please—bless you—
bless you both—”

At that awful instant, no one would rudely apprise the serjeant
of his mistake; and he died a minute or two later,
holding Jasper's and Mabel's hands covered by both his own.
Our heroine was ignorant of the fact, until an exclamation
of Cap's announced the death of her father; when, raising
her face, she saw the eyes of Jasper riveted on her own, and
felt the warm pressure of his hand. But a single feeling
was predominant at that instant; and Mabel withdrew to
weep, scarcely conscious of what had occurred. The Pathfinder
took the arm of Eau-douce, and he left the block.

The two friends walked in silence past the fire, along
the glade, and nearly reached the opposite shore of the island,
in profound silence. Here they stopped, and Pathfinder
spoke.

“'Tis all over, Jasper,” he said; “'tis all over. Ah's
me! Poor Sarjeant Dunham has finished his march, and that
too, by the hand of a venomous Mingo. Well, we never
know what is to happen, and his luck may be your'n or
mine, to-morrow or next day!”

“And Mabel?—What is to become of Mabel, Pathfinder?”

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“You heard the sarjeant's dying words—he has left his
child in my care, Jasper; and it is a most solemn trust, it
is; yes, it is a most solemn trust!”

“It 's a trust, Pathfinder, of which any man would be
glad to relieve you,” returned the youth, with a bitter smile.

“I 've often thought it has fallen into wrong hands. I 'm
not consaited, Jasper; I 'm not consaited, I do think I 'm
not; but if Mabel Dunham is willing to overlook all my imperfections
and ignorances like, I should be wrong to gainsay
it, on account of any sartainty I may have myself about my
own want of merit.”

“No one will blame you, Pathfinder, for marrying Mabel
Dunham, any more than they will blame you for wearing a
precious jewel in your bosom, that a friend had freely given
you.”

“Do you think they 'll blame Mabel, lad?—I 've had my
misgivings about that, too; for all persons may not be as disposed
to look at me with the same eyes as you and the sarjeant's
daughter.” Jasper Eau-douce started, as a man flinches
at sudden bodily pain; but he otherwise maintained his self-command.—
“And mankind is envious and ill-natured, more
particularly in and about the garrisons. I sometimes wish,
Jasper, that Mabel could have taken a fancy to you, I do;
and that you had taken a fancy to her; for it often seems to
me, that one like you, after all, might make her happier than
I ever can.”

“We will not talk about this, Pathfinder,” interrupted Jasper,
hoarsely and impatiently—“you will be Mabel's husband,
and it is not right to speak of any one else in that
character. As for me, I shall take Master Cap's advice, and
try and make a man of myself, by seeing what is to be done
on the salt-water.”

“You, Jasper Western!—you quit the lakes, the forests,
and the lines; and this, too, for the towns and wasty ways
of the settlements, and a little difference in the taste of the
water. Haven't we the salt-licks, if salt is necessary to
you? and oughtn't man to be satisfied with what contents the
other creatur's of God? I counted on you, Jasper—I counted
on you, I did—and thought, now that Mabel and I intend
to dwell in a cabin of our own, that some day you might be
tempted to choose a companion, too, and come and settle in

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our neighbourhood. There is a beautiful spot, about fifty
miles west of the garrison, that I had chosen in my mind,
for my own place of abode; and there is an excellent harbour
about ten leagues this side of it, where you could run
in and out, with the cutter, at any leisure minute; and I 'd
even fancied you, and your wife, in possession of the one
place, and Mabel and I in possession of t'other. We should
be just a healthy hunt apart; and if the Lord ever intends any
of his creatures to be happy on 'arth, none could be happier
than we four.”

“You forget, my friend,” answered Jasper, taking the
guide's hand, and forcing a friendly smile, “that I have no
fourth person to love and cherish; and I much doubt if I
ever shall love any other, as I love you and Mabel.”

“Thank 'ee, boy; I thank you with all my heart—but
what you call love for Mabel, is only friendship, like, and a
very different thing from what I feel. Now, instead of sleeping
as sound as natur' at midnight, as I used to could, I dream
nightly of Mabel Dunham. The young does sport before
me; and when I raise Killdeer, in order to take a little venison,
the animals look back, and it seems as if they all had
Mabel's sweet countenance, laughing in my face, and looking
as if they said, `shoot me if you dare!' Then I hear her
soft voice calling out among the birds as they sing; and no
later than the last nap I took, I bethought me, in fancy, of
going over the Niagara, holding Mabel in my arms, rather
than part from her. The bitterest moments I 've ever known,
were them in which the devil, or some Mingo conjurer, perhaps,
has just put into my head to fancy in dreams that Mabel
is lost to me, by some unaccountable calamity—either by
changefulness, or by violence.”

“Oh! Pathfinder, if you think this so bitter in a dream,
what must it be to one who feels its reality, and knows it all
to be true—true—true. So true, as to leave no hope; to
leave nothing but despair!”

These words burst from Jasper, as a fluid pours from the
vessel that has been suddenly broken. They were uttered
involuntarily, almost unconsciously, but with a truth and feeling,
that carried with them the instant conviction of their
deep sincerity. Pathfinder started, gazed at his friend for
quite a minute, like one bewildered; and then it was, that, in

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despite of all his simplicity, the truth gleamed upon him All
know how corroborating proofs crowd upon the mind, as
soon as it catches a direct clue to any hitherto unsuspected
fact; how rapidly the thoughts flow, and premises tend
to their just conclusions, under such circumstances. Our
hero was so confiding by nature, so just, and so much disposed
to imagine that all his friends wished him the same happiness
as he wished them, that, until this unfortunate moment,
a suspicion of Jasper's attachment for Mabel had never been
awakened in his bosom. He was, however, now too experienced
in the emotions that characterize the passion; and
the burst of feeling in his companion was too violent, and too
natural, to leave any further doubt on the subject. The feeling
that first followed this change of opinion, was one of
deep humility and exquisite pain. He bethought him of
Jasper's youth, his higher claims to personal appearance,
and all the general probabilities that such a suitor would be
more agreeable to Mabel, than he could possibly be, himself.
Then the noble rectitude of mind, for which the man was so
distinguished, asserted its power; it was sustained by his rebuked
manner of thinking of himself, and all that habitual
deference for the rights and feelings of others, which appeared
to be inbred in his very nature. Taking the arm of Jasper,
he led him to a log, where he compelled the young man
to seat himself, by a sort of irresistible exercise of his iron
muscles, and where he placed himself at his side.

The instant his feelings had found vent, Eau-douce was
both alarmed at, and ashamed of, their violence. He would
have given all he possessed on earth, could the last three
minutes be recalled, but he was too frank by disposition, and
too much accustomed to deal ingenuously by his friend, to
think a moment, of attempting further concealment, or of any
evasion of the explanation that he knew was about to be demanded.
Even while he trembled in anticipation of what
was about to follow, he never contemplated equivocation.

“Jasper,” Pathfinder commenced, in a tone so solemn as
to thrill on every never in his listener's body, “this has
surprised me! You have kinder feelings towards Mabel,
than I had thought; and, unless my own mistaken vanity
and consait have cruelly deceived me, I pity you, boy, from
my soul, I do! Yes, I think, I know how to pity any one,

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who has set his heart on a creature like Mabel, unless
he sees a prospect of her regarding him, as he regards her.
This matter must be cleared up, Eau-douce, as the Delawares
say, until there shall not be a cloud atween us.”

“What clearing up can it want, Pathfinder? I love Mabel
Dunham, and Mabel Dunham does not love me—she
prefers you for a husband; and the wisest thing I can do, is
to go off at once, to the salt-water, and try to forget you
both.”

“Forget me, Jasper!—that would be a punishment I don't
desarve. But, how do you know that Mabel prefars me?
how do you know it, lad? to me it seems impossible, like!”

“Is she not to marry you, and would Mabel marry a man
she does not love?”

“She has been hard urged by the sarjeant, she has; and
a dutiful child may have found it difficult to withstand the
wishes of a dying parent. Have you ever told Mabel, that
you prefarred her, Jasper; that you bore her these feelings?”

“Never—Pathfinder—I would not do you that wrong!”

“I believe you, lad, I do believe you; and I think you
would now go off to the salt-water, and let the scent die with
you. But this must not be. Mabel shall hear all, and she
shall have her own way, if my heart breaks in the trial, she
shall. No words have ever passed atween you, then Jasper?”

“Nothing of account—nothing direct. Still, I will own
all my foolishness, Pathfinder, for I ought to own it to a
generous friend like you, and there will be an end of it.
You know how young people understand each other, or think
they understand each other, without always speaking out in
plain speech; and get to know each other's thoughts, or to
think they know them, by means of a hundred little ways?”

“Not I, Jasper, not I,” truly answered the guide; for,
sooth to say, his advances had never been met with any of
that sweet and precious encouragement that silently marks
the course of sympathy united to passion. “Not I, Jasper—
I know nothing of all this. Mabel has always treated me
fairly, and said what she has had to say, in speech as plain
as tongue could tell it.”

“You have had the pleasure of hearing her say that she
loved you, Pathfinder?”

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“Why no, Jasper, not just that, in words. She has told
me that we never could—never ought to be married; that
she was not good enough for me; though she did say that
she honoured me, and respected me. But then the sarjeant
said it was always so with the youthful and timid,—that her
mother did so, and said so, afore her; and that I ought to
be satisfied if she would consent, on any terms, to marry
me: and, therefore, I have concluded that all was right, I
have.”

In spite of all his friendship for the successful wooer—in
spite of all his honest, sincere wishes for his happiness, we
should be unfaithful chroniclers, did we not own that Jasper
felt his heart bound with an uncontrollable feeling of delight,
at this admission. It was not that he saw or felt any hope
connected with the circumstance; but it was grateful to the
jealous covetousness of unlimited love, thus to learn that no
other ears had heard the sweet confessions that were denied
its own.

“Tell me more of this manner of talking without the use
of the tongue,” continued Pathfinder, whose countenance was
getting to be grave, and who now questioned his companion,
like one that seemed to anticipate evil in the reply. “I can
and have conversed with Chingachgook, and with his son
Uncas, too, in that mode, afore the latter fell; but I didn't
know that young girls practysed this art; and, least of all,
Mabel Dunham!”

“'Tis nothing, Pathfinder. I mean only a look, or a
smile, or a glance of the eye, or the trembling of an arm, or
a hand, when the young woman has had occasion to touch
me; and because I have been weak enough to tremble even
at Mabel's breath, or her brushing me with her clothes, my
vain thoughts have misled me. I never spoke plainly to Mabel,
myself; and now there is no use for it, since there is
clearly no hope.”

“Jasper,” returned Pathfinder, simply, but with a dignity
that precluded farther remarks at the moment, “we will talk
of the sarjeant's funeral, and of our own departure from this
island. After these things are disposed of, it will be time
enough to say more of the sarjeant's daughter. This matter
must be looked into; for the father left me the care of his
child.”

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Jasper was glad enough to change the subject; and the
friends separated, each charged with the duty most peculiar
to his own station and habits.

That afternoon all the dead were interred—the grave of
Serjeant Dunham being dug in the centre of the glade, beneath
the shade of a huge elm. Mabel wept bitterly at the
ceremony, and she found relief in thus disburthening her
sorrow. The night passed tranquilly, as did the whole of
the following day; Jasper declaring that the gale was too
severe to venture on the lake. This circumstance detained
Captain Sanglier, also; who did not quit the island until the
morning of the third day after the death of Dunham; when
the weather had moderated, and the wind had become fair.
Then, indeed, he departed, after taking leave of the Pathfinder,
in the manner of one who believed he was in company
of a distinguished character, for the last time. The two
separated like those who respect one another, while each felt
that the other was an enigma to himself.

CHAPTER XIV.

“Playful she turned, that he might see
The passing smile her cheek put on;
But when she marked how mournfully
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone.”
Lalla Rookh.

The occurrences of the last few days had been too exciting,
and had made too many demands on the fortitude of
our heroine, to leave her in the helplessness of grief. She
mourned for her father, and she occasionally shuddered, as
she recalled the sudden death of Jennie, and all the horrible
scenes she had witnessed; but, on the whole, she had aroused
herself, and was no longer in the deep depression that usually
accompanies grief. Perhaps the overwhelming, almost
stupefying sorrow that crushed poor June, and left her for
nearly twenty-four hours in a state of stupor, assisted Mabel
in conquering her own feelings, for she had felt called on to

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administer consolation to the young Indian woman. This
she had done, in the quiet, soothing, insinuating way, in
which her sex usually exerts its influence, on such occasions.

The morning of the third day was set for that on which
the Scud was to sail. Jasper had made all his preparations;
the different effects were embarked, and Mabel had taken
leave of June—a painful and affectionate parting. In a word,
all was ready, and every soul had left the island but the
Indian woman, Pathfinder, Jasper, and our heroine. The
former had gone into a thicket to weep, and the three last
were approaching the spot where three canoes lay; one of
which was the property of June, and the other two were in
waiting to carry the others off to the Scud. Pathfinder led
the way, but, when he drew near the shore, instead of taking
the direction to the boats, he motioned to his companions to
follow, and proceeded to a fallen tree, that lay on the margin
of the glade, and out of view of those in the cutter. Seating
himself on the trunk, he signed to Mabel to take her
place on one side of him, and to Jasper to occupy the other.

“Sit down here, Mabel; sit down there, Eau-douce,” he
commenced, as soon as he had taken his own seat; “I 've
something that lies heavy on my mind, and now is the time
to take it off, if it 's ever to be done. Sit down, Mabel, and
let me lighten my heart, if not my conscience, while I 've
the strength to do it.”

The pause that succeeded, lasted two or three minutes, and
both the young people wondered what was to come next,—
the idea that Pathfinder could have any weight on his conscience,
seeming equally improbable to each.

“Mabel,” our hero at length resumed, “we must talk
plainly to each other, afore we join your uncle in the cutter,
where the Salt-water has slept every night since the last
rally; for he says it 's the only place in which a man can be
sure of keeping the hair on his head, he does—Ah 's me!
what have I to do with these follies and sayings, now? I try
to be pleasant, and to feel light-hearted, but the power of man
can't make water run up stream. Mabel, you know that the
sarjeant, afore he left us, had settled it atween us two, that
we were to become man and wife, and that we were to live
together, and to love one another as long as the Lord was
pleased to keep us both on 'arth; yes, and afterwards, too?”

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Mabel's cheeks had regained a little of their ancient bloom,
in the fresh air of the morning; but at this unlooked-for address
they blanched again, nearly to the pallid hue which
grief had imprinted there. Still she looked kindly, though
seriously, at Pathfinder, and even endeavoured to force a
smile.

“Very true, my excellent friend,”—she answered—“this
was my poor father's wish, and I feel certain that a whole
life devoted to your welfare and comforts, could scarcely repay
you for all you have done for us.”

“I fear me, Mabel, that man and wife needs be bound together
by a stronger tie than such feelings, I do. You have
done nothing for me, or nothing of any account, and yet my
very heart yearns towards you, it does; and therefore it
seems likely that these feelings come from something besides
saving scalps and guiding through woods.”

Mabel's cheek had begun to glow again; and, though she
struggled hard to smile, her voice trembled a little, as she
answered.

“Had we not better postpone this conversation, Pathfinder?”
she said; “we are not alone; and nothing is so
unpleasant to a listener, they say, as family matters in which
he feels no interest.”

“It 's because we are not alone, Mabel, or rather because
Jasper is with us, that I wish to talk of this matter. The
sarjeant believed I might make a suitable companion for
you; and, though I had misgivings about it—yes, I had
many misgivings—he finally persuaded me into the idee, and
things came round atween us, as you know. But, when you
promised your father to marry me, Mabel, and gave me your
hand, so modestly, but so prettily, there was one circumstance,
as your uncle called it, that you didn't know; and
I 've thought it right to tell you what it is, before matters are
finally settled. I 've often taken a poor deer for my dinner,
when good venison was not to be found; but it 's as nat'ral
not to take up with the worst, when the best may be had.”

“You speak in a way, Pathfinder, that is difficult to be
understood. If this conversation is really necessary, I trust
you will be more plain.”

“Well, then, Mabel, I 've been thinking it was quite
likely when you gave in to the sarjeant's wishes, that you

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did not know the natur' of Jasper Western's feelings towards
you?”

“Pathfinder!”—and Mabel's cheek now paled to the livid
hue of death; then it flushed to the tint of crimson; and her
whole frame shuddered. Pathfinder, however, was too intent
on his own object, to notice this agitation; and Eau-douce
had hidden his face in his hands, in time to shut out
its view.

“I 've been talking with the lad; and, on comparing his
dreams with my dreams, his feelings with my feelings, and
his wishes with my wishes, I fear we think too much alike,
concerning you, for both of us to be very happy.”

“Pathfinder—you forget—you should remember that we
are betrothed!” said Mabel, hastily, and in a voice so low,
that it required acute attention in the listeners to catch the
syllables. Indeed, the last word was not quite intelligible to
the guide, and he confessed his ignorance by the usual—

“Anan?”

“You forget that we are to be married; and such allusions
are improper, as well as painful.”

“Every thing is proper that is right, Mabel; and every
thing is right that leads to justice and fair dealing: though
it is painful enough, as you say; as I find on trial, I do.
Now, Mabel, had you known that Eau-douce thinks of you
in this way, maybe you never would have consented to be
married to one as old and as uncomely as I am.”

“Why this cruel trial, Pathfinder? To what can all this
lead? Jasper Western thinks no such thing: he says nothing—
he feels nothing.”

“Mabel!” burst from out of the young man's lips, in a way
to betray the uncontrollable nature of his emotions, though he
uttered not another syllable.

Mabel buried her face in both her hands; and the two sat
like a pair of guilty beings, suddenly detected in the commission
of some crime that involved the happiness of a common
patron. At that instant, perhaps, Jasper himself was inclined
to deny his passion, through an extreme unwillingness to
grieve his friend; while Mabel, on whom this positive announcement
of a fact that she had rather unconsciously
hoped than believed, came so unexpectedly, felt her mind
momentarily bewildered; and she scarce knew whether to

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weep or to rejoice. Still she was the first to speak; since
Eau-douce could utter naught that would be disingenuous, or
that would pain his friend.

“Pathfinder,” she said, “you talk wildly. Why mention
this at all?”

“Well, Mabel, if I talk wildly, I am half wild, you know;
by natur', I fear, as well as by habit.” As he said this, he
endeavoured to laugh in his usual noiseless way, but the effect
produced a strange and discordant sound; and it appeared
nearly to choke him. “Yes, I must be wild; I 'll not
attempt to deny it.”

“Dearest Pathfinder!—my best, almost my only friend!
you cannot, do not think I intended to say that!” interrupted
Mabel, almost breathless in her haste to relieve his mortification—
“If courage, truth, nobleness of soul and conduct,
unyielding principles and a hundred other excellent qualities
can render any man respectable, esteemed, or beloved, your
claims are inferior to those of no other human being.”

“What tender and bewitching voices they have, Jasper!”
resumed the guide, now laughing freely and naturally —
“Yes, natur' seems to have made them on purpose to sing
in our ears, when the music of the woods is silent! But we
must come to a right understanding, we must. I ask you
again, Mabel, if you had known that Jasper Western loves
you as well as I do, or better perhaps—though that is scarce
possible,—that in his dreams he sees your face in the water
of the lake; that he talks to you, and of you, in his sleep;
fancies all that is beautiful like Mabel Dunham, and all that
is good and virtuous; believes he never knowed happiness
until he knowed you; could kiss the ground on which you
have trod, and forgets all the joys of his calling, to think of
you and of the delight of gazing at your beauty, and in listening
to your voice, would you then have consented to marry me?”

Mabel could not have answered this question, if she
would, but, though her face was buried in her hands, the tint
of the rushing blood was visible between the openings, and
the suffusion seemed to impart itself to her very fingers.
Still nature asserted her power, for there was a single instant
when the astonished, almost terrified girl stole a glance at
Jasper, as if distrusting Pathfinder's history of his feelings,
read the truth of all he said in that furtive look, and instantly

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concealed her face again, as if she would hide it from observation
for ever.

“Take time to think, Mabel,” the guide continued, “for it
is a solemn thing to accept one man for a husband, while the
thoughts and wishes lead to another. Jasper and I have
talked this matter over, freely and like old friends, and though
I always knowed that we viewed most things pretty much
alike, I couldn't have thought that we regarded any particular
object with the very same eyes, as it might be, until we
opened our minds to each other about you. Now, Jasper
owns that the very first time he beheld you, he thought you
the sweetest and winningestest creatur' he had ever met; that
your voice sounded like murmuring water in his ears; that
he fancied his sails were your garments, fluttering in the
wind; that your laugh haunted him in his sleep; and that,
ag'in and ag'in, has he started up affrighted, because he has
fancied some one wanted to force you out of the Scud, where
he imagined you had taken up your abode. Nay, the lad has
even acknowledged that he often weeps, at the thought that
you are likely to spend your days with another, and not with
him.”

“Jasper!”

“It 's solemn truth, Mabel, and it 's right you should know
it. Now stand up, and choose atween us. I do believe Eau-douce
loves you as well as I do myself; he has tried to persuade
me that he loves you better, but that I will not allow,
for I do not think it possible; but I will own the boy loves
you, heart and soul, and he has a good right to be heard.
The sarjeant left me your protector, and not your tyrant. I
told him that I would be a father to you, as well as a husband,
and it seems to me no feeling father would deny his
child this small privilege. Stand up, Mabel, therefore, and
speak your thoughts as freely as if I were the sarjeant himself,
seeking your good, and nothing else.”

Mabel dropped her hands, arose, and stood face to face
with her two suitors, though the flush that was on her cheeks
was feverish, the evidence of excitement, rather than of
shame.

“What would you have, Pathfinder?” she asked: “Have
I not already promised my poor father to do all you desire?”

“Then I desire this. Here I stand, a man of the forest,

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and of little larning, though I fear with an ambition beyond
my desarts, and I 'll do my endivours to do justice to both
sides. In the first place, it is allowed that so far as feelings
in your behalf are consarned, we love you just the same;
Jasper thinks his feelings must be the strongest, but this I
cannot say, in honesty, for it doesn't seem to me that it can
be true; else I would frankly and freely confess it, I would.
So in this particular, Mabel, we are here before you, on equal
tarms. As for myself, being the oldest, I 'll first say what
little can be produced in my favour, as well as ag'in it. As
a hunter, I do think there is no man near the lines that can
outdo me. If venison, or bear's meat, or even birds and fish,
should ever be scarce in our cabin, it would be more likely
to be owing to natur' and Providence, than to any fault of
mine. In short, it does seem to me, that the woman who depended
on me, would never be likely to want for food. But,
I 'm fearful ignorant! It 's true, I speak several tongues,
such as they be, while I 'm very far from being expart at my
own. Then, my years are greater than your own, Mabel;
and the circumstance that I was so long the sarjeant's comrade,
can be no great merit in your eyes. I wish, too, I was
more comely, I do; but we are all as natur' made us, and
the last thing that a man ought to lament, except on very
special occasions, is his looks. When all is remembered,
age, looks, larning and habits, Mabel, conscience tells me I
ought to confess that I 'm altogether unfit for you, if not
downright unworthy; and I would give up the hope, this
minute, I would, if I didn't feel something pulling at my
heart strings which seems hard to undo.”

“Pathfinder! — noble, generous Pathfinder!”—cried our
heroine, seizing his hand, and kissing it with a species of
holy reverence; “you do yourself injustice—you forget my
poor father and your promise—you do not know me!

“Now, here 's Jasper,” continued the guide, without allowing
the girl's caresses to win him from his purpose; “with
him, the case is different. In the way of providing, as in
that of loving, there 's not much to choose atween us, for
the lad is frugal, industrious and careful. Then he is quite
a scholar—knows the tongue of the Frenchers—reads many
books, and some, I know, that you like to read yourself—

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can understand you at all times, which, perhaps, is more
than I can say for myself.”

“What of all this” — interrupted Mabel, impatiently —
“why speak of it now—why speak of it, at all?”

“Then the lad has a manner of letting his thoughts be
known, that I fear I can never equal. If there 's any thing
on 'arth that would make my tongue bold and persuading,
Mabel, I do think it 's yourself; and yet, in our late conversations,
Jasper has outdone me, even on this point, in a
way to make me ashamed of myself. He has told me how
simple you were, and how true-hearted, and kind-hearted;
and how you looked down upon vanities, for though you
might be the wife of more than one officer, as he thinks, that
you cling to feeling, and would rather be true to yourself,
and natur', than a colonel's lady. He fairly made my
blood warm, he did, when he spoke of your having beauty
without seeming ever to have looked upon it, and the manner
in which you moved about like a young fa'an, so nat'ral and
graceful like, without knowing it; and the truth and justice
of your idees, and the warmth and generosity of your
heart—”

“Jasper!” interrupted Mabel, giving way to feelings that
had gathered an ungovernable force by being so long pent,
and falling into the young man's willing arms, weeping like
a child, and almost as helpless. “Jasper!—Jasper!—why
have you kept this from me?”

The answer of Eau-douce was not very intelligible, nor
was the murmured dialogue that followed, remarkable for coherency.
But the language of affection is easily understood.
The hour that succeeded, passed like a very few minutes of
ordinary life, so far as a computation of time was concerned;
and when Mabel recollected herself, and bethought
her of the existence of others, her uncle was pacing the cutter's
deck in great impatience, and wondering why Jasper
should be losing so much of a favourable wind. Her first
thought was of him, who was so likely to feel the recent betrayal
of her real emotions.

“Oh! Jasper!” she exclaimed, like one suddenly self-convicted—
“the Pathfinder!”

Eau-douce fairly trembled, not with unmanly apprehension,
but with the painful conviction of the pang he had given

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his friend; and he looked in all directions, in the expectation
of seeing his person. But Pathfinder had withdrawn,
with a tact and a delicacy, that might have done credit to
the sensibility and breeding of a courtier. For several
minutes the two lovers sate, silently waiting his return, uncertain
what propriety required of them, under circumstances
so marked, and so peculiar. At length they beheld their
friend advancing slowly towards them, with a thoughtful and
even pensive air.

“I now understand what you meant, Jasper, by speaking
without a tongue, and hearing without an ear,” he said, when
close enough to the tree to be heard. “Yes, I understand it,
now, I do, and a very pleasant sort of discourse it is, when
one can hold it with Mabel Dunham. Ah's me!—I told the
sarjeant I wasn't fit for her; that I was too old, too ignorant,
and too wild, like—but he would have it otherwise.”

Jasper and Mabel sate, resembling Milton's picture of our
first parents, when the consciousness of sin first laid its leaden
weight on their souls. Neither spoke, neither even moved;
though both, at that moment, fancied they could part with
their new-found happiness, in order to restore their friend to
his peace of mind. Jasper was pale as death; but, in Mabel,
maiden modesty had caused the blood to mantle on her cheeks,
until their bloom was heightened to a richness that was scarce
equalled in her hours of light-hearted buoyancy and joy.
As the feeling, which, in her sex, always accompanies the
security of love returned, threw its softness and tenderness
over her countenance, she was singularly beautiful. Pathfinder
gazed at her, with an intentness he did not endeavour
to conceal, and then he fairly laughed in his own way, and
with a sort of wild exultation, as men that are untutored are
wont to express their delight. This momentary indulgence,
however, was expiated by the pang that followed the sudden
consciousness that this glorious young creature was lost to
him for ever. It required a full minute for this simple-minded
being to recover from the shock of this conviction; and
then he recovered his dignity of manner, speaking with
gravity—almost with solemnity.

“I have always known, Mabel Dunham, that men have
their gifts,” he said; “but I 'd forgotten that it did not
belong to mine, to please the young, and beautiful, and

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l'arned. I hope the mistake has been no very heavy sin;
and if it was, I 've been heavily punished for it, I have. Nay,
Mabel, I know what you'd say, but it's unnecessary; I feel
it all, and that is as good as if I heard it all. I 've had a
bitter hour, Mabel—I 've had a very bitter hour, lad—”

“Hour!” echoed Mabel, as the other first used the word;
the tell-tale blood, which had begun to ebb towards her heart,
rushing again tumultuously to her very temples. “Surely
not an hour, Pathfinder!”

“Hour!” exclaimed Jasper, at the same instant—“no—
no—my worthy friend, it is not ten minutes since you left
us!”

“Well, it may be so; though to me it has seemed to be
a day. I begin to think, however, that the happy count time
by minutes, and the miserable count it by months. But we
will talk no more of this; it is all over now, and many words
about it, will make you no happier, while they will only tell
me what I 've lost; and quite likely how much I desarved to
lose her. No—no—Mabel, 'tis useless to interrupt me; I
admit it all, and your gainsaying it, though it be so well
meant, cannot change my mind. Well, Jasper, she is yours;
and though it's hard to think it, I do believe you 'll make her
happier than I could, for your gifts are better suited to do so,
though I would have strived hard to do as much, if I know
myself, I would. I ought to have known better than to believe
the sarjeant; and I ought to have put faith in what Mabel
told me at the head of the lake, for reason and judgment
might have shown me its truth; but it is so pleasant to think
what we wish, and mankind so easily over-persuade us, when
we over-persuade ourselves. But what's the use in talking
of it, as I said afore? It's true, Mabel seemed to be consenting,
though it all came from a wish to please her father, and
from being skeary about the savages—”

“Pathfinder!”

“I understand you, Mabel, and have no hard feelings, I
hav'n't. I sometimes think I should like to live in your neighbourhood,
that I might look at your happiness; but on the
whole, it's better I should quit the 55th altogether, and go
back to the 60th, which is my natyve rijement, as it might
be. It would have been better, perhaps, had I never left it,
though my sarvices were much wanted in this quarter, and

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I 'd been with some of the 55th, years agone—Sarjeant Dunham,
for instance, when he was in another corps. Still,
Jasper, I do not regret that I 've known you—”

“And me, Pathfinder!” impetuously interrupted Mabel—
“do you regret having known me?—could I think so, I should
never be at peace with myself!”

“You, Mabel!” returned the guide, taking the hand of our
heroine, and looking up into her countenance with guileless
simplicity, but earnest affection—“how could I be sorry that
a ray of the sun came across the gloom of a cheerless day?
that light has broken in upon darkness, though it remained
so short a time! I do not flatter myself with being able
to march quite as light-hearted, as I once used to could, or
to sleep as sound, for some time to come; but I shall always
remember how near I was to being undesarvedly happy, I
shall. So far from blaming you, Mabel, I only blame myself
for being so vain as to think it possible I could please
such a creatur'; for, sartainly, you told me how it was, when
we talked it over, on the mountain, and I ought to have believed
you, then; for I do suppose it's nat'ral that young
women should know their own minds better than their fathers.
Ah's me! It's settled now, and nothing remains but for me
to take leave of you, that you may depart; I feel that Master
Cap must be impatient, and there is danger of his coming
on shore to look for us all.”

“To take leave!” exclaimed Mabel.

“Leave!” echoed Jasper: “you do not mean to quit us,
my friend?”

“'Tis best, Mabel—'tis altogether best, Eau-douce; and
it 's wisest. I could live and die in your company, if I only
followed feeling; but, if I follow reason, I shall quit you
here. You will go back to Oswego, and become man and
wife as soon as you arrive; for all that is determined with
Master Cap, who hankers after the sea again, and who
knows what is to happen: while I shall return to the wilderness
and my Maker. Come, Mabel,” continued Pathfinder,
rising, and drawing nearer to our heroine, with grave
decorum, “kiss me. Jasper will not grudge me one kiss:
then we'll part.”

“Oh! Pathfinder,” exclaimed Mabel, falling into the arms
of the guide, and kissing his cheeks again and again, with a

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freedom and warmth she had been far from manifesting
while held to the bosom of Jasper—“God bless you, dearest
Pathfinder! You will come to us hereafter. We shall see
you again. When old, you will come to our dwelling, and
let me be a daughter to you?”

“Yes—that 's it”—returned the guide, almost gasping for
breath: “I 'll try to think of it in that way. You 're
more befitting to be my daughter, than to be my wife; you
are. Farewell, Jasper. Now we 'll go to the canoe; it 's
time you were on board.”

The manner in which Pathfinder led the way to the shore,
was solemn and calm. As soon as he reached the canoe,
he again took Mabel by the hands, held her at the length of
his own arms, and gazed wistfully into her face, until the
unbidden tears rolled out of the fountains of feeling, and
trickled down his rugged cheeks in streams.

“Bless me, Pathfinder;” said Mabel, kneeling reverently
at his feet. “Oh! at least bless me, before we part.”

That untutored, but noble-minded being, did as she desired;
and, aiding her to enter the canoe, seemed to tear himself
away as one snaps a strong and obstinate cord. Before
he retired, however, he took Jasper by the arm, and led him
a little aside, when he spoke as follows:—

“You 're kind of heart, and gentle by natur', Jasper; but
we are both rough and wild, in comparison with that dear
creatur'. Be careful of her, and never show the roughness
of man's natur' to her soft disposition. You 'll get to understand
her, in time; and the Lord who governs the lake and
the forest alike—who looks upon virtue with a smile, and
upon vice with a frown—keep you happy, and worthy to
be so!”

Pathfinder made a sign for his friend to depart; and he
stood leaning on his rifle, until the canoe had reached the
side of the Scud. Mabel wept as if her heart would break;
nor did her eyes once turn from the open spot in the glade,
where the form of the Pathfinder was to be seen, until the
cutter had passed a point that completely shut out the island.
When last in view, the sinewy frame of this extraordinary
man was as motionless as if it were a statue set up in that
solitary place, to commemorate the scenes of which it had so
lately been the witness.

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CHAPTER XV.

“Oh! let me only breathe the air,
The blessed air that 's breathed by thee;
And, whether on its wings it bear
Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!”
Moore.

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Pathfinder was accustomed to solitude; but, when the
Scud had actually disappeared, he was almost overcome
with a sense of his loneliness. Never before had he been
conscious of his isolated condition in the world; for his feelings
had gradually been accustoming themselves to the blandishments
and wants of social life; particularly as the last
were connected with the domestic affections. Now, all had
vanished, as it might be, in one moment; and he was left
equally without companions, and without hope. Even Chingachgook
had left him, though it was but temporarily; still
his presence was missed at the precise instant which might be
termed the most critical in our hero's life.

Pathfinder stood leaning on his rifle, in the attitude described
in the last chapter, a long time after the Scud had
disappeared. The rigidity of his limbs seemed permanent;
and none but a man accustomed to put his muscles to the
severest proof, could have maintained that posture, with its
marble-like inflexibility, for so great a length of time. At
length, he moved away from the spot; the motion of the
body being preceded by a sigh that seemed to heave up from
the very depths of his bosom.

It was a peculiarity of this extraordinary being, that his
senses and his limbs, for all practical purposes, were never
at fault, let the mind be pre-occupied with other interests, as
much as it might. On the present occasion, neither of these
great auxiliaries failed him; but, though his thoughts were
exclusively occupied with Mabel, her beauty, her preference
of Jasper, her tears and her departure, he moved in a direct
line to the spot where June still remained, which was the
grave of her husband. The conversation that followed passed
in the language of the Tuscaroras, which Pathfinder spoke
fluently; but, as that tongue is understood only by the

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extremely learned, we shall translate it freely into the English;
preserving, as far as possible, the tone of thought of each
interlocutor, as well as the peculiarities of manner.

June had suffered her hair to fall about her face, had taken
a seat on a stone that had been dug from the excavation
made by the grave, and was hanging over the spot that contained
the body of Arrowhead, unconscious of the presence
of any other. She believed, indeed, that all had left the
island but herself, and the tread of the guide's moccasined
foot was too noiseless, rudely to undeceive her.

Pathfinder stood gazing at the woman, for several minutes,
in mute attention. The contemplation of her grief, the recollection
of her irreparable loss, and the view of her desolation,
produced a healthful influence on his own feelings;
his reason telling him how much deeper lay the sources of
grief, in a young wife, who was suddenly and violently deprived
of her husband, than in himself.

“Dew of June,” he said, solemnly, but with an earnestness
that denoted the strength of his sympathy—“you are
not alone in your sorrow. Turn, and let your eyes look upon
a friend.”

“June has no longer any friend!” the woman answered:
“Arrowhead has gone to the happy hunting-grounds, and
there is no one left to care for June. The Tuscaroras would
chase her from their wigwams; the Iroquois are hateful in
her eyes, and she could not look at them. No!—leave June
to starve over the grave of her husband.”

“This will never do—this will never do. 'T is ag'in reason
and right. You believe in the Manitou, June?”

“He has hid his face from June, because he is angry. He
has left her alone, to die.”

“Listen to one, who has had a long acquaintance with red
natur', though he has a white birth, and white gifts. When
the Manitou of a pale-face wishes to produce good in a pale-face
heart, he strikes it with grief, for it is in our sorrows,
June, that we look with the truest eyes into ourselves, and
with the farthest-sighted eyes too, as respects right. The
Great Spirit wishes you well, and he has taken away the
chief, lest you should be led astray, by his wily tongue, and
get to be a Mingo in your disposition, as you were already
in your company.”

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“Arrowhead was a great chief!” returned the woman,
proudly.

“He had his merits, he had; and he had his demerits, too.
But, June, you 're not desarted, nor will you be soon. Let
your grief out—let it out, according to natur', and when the
proper time comes, I shall have more to say to you.”

Pathfinder now went to his own canoe, and he left the
island. In the course of the day, June heard the crack of
his rifle, once or twice; and as the sun was setting, he re-appeared,
bringing her birds ready cooked, and of a delicacy
and flavour that might have tempted the appetite of an epicure.
This species of intercourse lasted a month, June obstinately
refusing to abandon the grave of her husband, all
that time, though she still accepted the friendly offerings of
her protector. Occasionally they met and conversed, Pathfinder
sounding the state of the woman's feelings; but the
interviews were short, and far from frequent. June slept in
one of the huts, and she laid down her head in security, for
she was conscious of the protection of a friend, though Pathfinder
invariably retired at night, to an adjacent island, where
he had built himself a hut.

At the end of the month, however, the season was getting
to be too far advanced to render her situation pleasant to
June. The trees had lost their leaves, and the nights were
becoming cold and wintry. It was time to depart.

At this moment, Chingachgook re-appeared. He had a
long and confidential interview on the island, with his friend.
June witnessed their movements, and she saw that her guardian
was distressed. Stealing to his side, she endeavoured
to soothe his sorrow, with a woman's gentleness, and with a
woman's instinct.

“Thank you, June — thank you”—he said—“'t is well
meant, though it 's useless. But it is time to quit this place.
To-morrow, we shall depart. You will go with us, for now
you 've got to feel reason.”

June assented in the meek manner of an Indian woman,
and she withdrew to pass the remainder of her time, near
the grave of Arrowhead. Regardless of the hour and the
season, the young widow did not pillow her head during the
whole of that autumnal night. She sat near the spot that
held the remains of her husband, and prayed, in the

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manner of her people, for his success on the endless path on
which he had so lately gone, and for their reunion in the
land of the just. Humble and degraded as she would have
seemed in the eyes of the sophisticated and unreflecting, the
image of God was on her soul, and it vindicated its divine
origin by aspirations and feelings that would have surprised
those who, feigning more, feel less.

In the morning the three departed; Pathfinder earnest and
intelligent in all he did, the Great Serpent silent and imitative,
and June meek, resigned, but sorrowful. They went in
two canoes, that of the woman being abandoned. Chingachgook
led the way, and Pathfinder followed, the course
being up stream. Two days they paddled westward, and as
many nights they encamped on islands. Fortunately the
weather became mild, and when they reached the lake, it
was found smooth, and glassy as a pond. It was the Indian
summer, and the calms, and almost the blandness of June,
slept in the hazy atmosphere.

On the morning of the third day, they passed the mouth
of the Oswego, where the fort and the sleeping ensign invited
them in vain to enter. Without casting a look aside,
Chingachgook paddled past the dark waters of the river, and
Pathfinder still followed, in silent industry. The ramparts
were crowded with spectators; but Lundie, who knew the
persons of his old friends, refused to allow them to be even
hailed.

It was noon, when Chingachgook entered a little bay,
where the Scud lay at anchor, in a sort of road-stead. A
small, ancient clearing was on the shore, and near the margin
of the lake, was a log dwelling, recently and completely,
though rudely fitted up. There was an air of frontier comfort,
and of frontier abundance around the place, though it
was necessarily wild and solitary. Jasper stood on the shore;
and when Pathfinder landed, he was the first to take him by
the hand. The meeting was simple, but very cordial. No
questions were asked, it being apparent that Chingachgook
had made the necessary explanations. Pathfinder never
squeezed his friend's hand more cordially, than in this interview;
and he even laughed cordially in his face, as he told
him how happy and well he appeared.

“Where is she, Jasper—where is she?” the guide at

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length whispered; for, at first, he had seemed to be afraid to
trust himself with the question.

“She is waiting for us in the house, my dear friend, where
you see that June has already hastened before us.”

“June may use a lighter step to meet Mabel, but she cannot
carry a lighter heart. And so, lad, you found the chaplain
at the garrison, and all was soon settled?”

“We were married within a week after we left you, and
Master Cap departed next day—you have forgotten to inquire
about your friend, Salt-water—”

“Not I—not I. The Sarpent has told me all that; and
then I love to hear so much of Mabel and her happiness, I
do. Did the child smile, or did she weep when the ceremony
was over?”

“She did both, my friend; but—”

“Yes, that's their natur'; tearful and cheerful. Ah's me!
they are very pleasant to us of the woods; and I do believe,
I should think all right, whatever Mabel might do. And do
you think, Jasper, that she thought of me, at all, on that joyful
occasion?”

“I know she did, Pathfinder; and she thinks of you, and
talks of you daily—almost hourly. None love you, as we
do!”

“I know few love me better than yourself, Jasper. Chingachgook
is, perhaps, now the only creatur' of whom I can
say that. Well, there's no use in putting it off any longer;
it must be done, and may as well be done at once; so, Jasper,
lead the way, and I 'll endivour to look upon her sweet
countenance, once more.”

Jasper did lead the way, and they were soon in the presence
of Mabel. The latter met her late suitor, with a bright
blush, and her limbs trembled so, she could hardly stand.
Still, her manner was affectionate and frank. During the
hour of Pathfinder's visit, for it lasted no longer, though he
ate in the dwelling of his friends, one who was expert in
tracing the workings of the human mind, might have seen a
faithful index to the feelings of Mabel, in her manner to Pathfinder
and her husband. With the latter, she still had a little
of the reserve that usually accompanies young wedlock; but
the tones of her voice were kinder, even than common; the
glance of her eye was tender, and she seldom looked at him

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without the glow that tinged her cheeks, betraying the existence
of feelings that habit and time had not yet soothed
into absolute tranquillity. With Pathfinder, all was earnest,
sincere—even anxious; but the tones never trembled, the eye
never fell, and if the cheek flushed, it was with the emotions
that are connected with concern.

At length the moment came, when Pathfinder must go his
way. Chingachgook had already abandoned the canoes, and
was posted on the margin of the woods, where a path led into
the forest. Here he calmly waited to be joined by his friend.
As soon as the latter was aware of this fact, he rose in a
solemn manner, and took his leave.

“I 've sometimes thought that my own fate has been a
little hard,” he said, “but that of this woman, Mabel, has
shamed me into reason—”

“June remains, and lives with me,” eagerly interrupted
our heroine.

“So I comprehend it. If any body can bring her back
from her grief, and make her wish to live, you can do it, Mabel,
though I 've misgivings about even your success. The
poor creatur' is without a tribe, as well as without a husband,
and it 's not easy to reconcile the feelings to both losses.
Ah's me!—what have I to do with other people's miseries,
and marriages, as if I hadn't affliction enough of my own?
Don 't speak to me, Mabel—don 't speak to me,Jasper—let
me go my way, in peace and like a man. I 've seen your
happiness, and that is a great deal, and I shall be able to
bear my own sorrow, all the better for it. No—I 'll never
kiss you ag'in, Mabel; I 'll never kiss you ag'in—Here 's my
hand, Jasper—squeeze it, boy, squeeze it; no fear of its giving
way, for it 's the hand of a man—and, now Mabel do you
take it,—nay, you must not do this—” preventing Mabel
from kissing it, and bathing it in her tears—“you must not
do this—”

“Pathfinder—” asked Mabel; “when shall we see you,
again?”

“I 've thought of that too; yes, I 've thought of that, I
have. If the time should ever come when I can look upon
you altogether as a sister, Mabel, or a child—it might be
better to say a child, since you 're young enough to be my
daughter—depend on it, I 'll come back; for it would lighten

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my very heart to witness your gladness. But if I cannot—
farewell—farewell—the sarjeant was wrong—yes, the sarjeant
was wrong!”

This was the last the Pathfinder ever uttered to the ears of
Jasper Western and Mabel Dunham. He turned away, as if the
words choked him; and was quickly at the side of his friend.
As soon as the latter saw him approach, he shouldered his
own burthen, and glided in among the trees, without waiting
to be spoken to. Mabel, her husband, and June, all watched
the form of the Pathfinder, in the hope of receiving a parting
gesture, or a stolen glance of the eye; but he did not look
back. Once or twice, they thought they saw his head shake,
as one trembles in bitterness of spirit; and a toss of the hand
was given, as if he knew that he was watched; but a tread
whose vigour no sorrow could enfeeble, soon bore him out of
view, and he was lost in the depths of the forest.

Neither Jasper nor his wife ever beheld the Pathfinder
again. They remained for another year on the banks of
Ontario; and then the pressing solicitations of Cap induced
them to join him in New York, where Jasper eventually
became a successful and respected merchant. Thrice Mabel
received valuable presents of furs, at intervals of years; and
her feelings told her whence they came, though no name
accompanied the gift. Later in life, still, when the mother
of several youths, she had occasion to visit the interior; and
found herself on the banks of the Mohawk, accompanied by
her sons, the eldest of whom was capable of being her protector.
On that occasion, she observed a man, in a singular
guise, watching her in the distance, with an intentness
that induced her to inquire into his pursuits and character.
She was told he was the most renowned hunter of that portion
of the State—it was after the Revolution—a being of
great purity of character, and of as marked peculiarities; and
that he was known in that region of country by the name of
the Leather-stocking. Further than this, Mrs. Western could
not ascertain; though the distant glimpse, and singular deportment
of this unknown hunter, gave her a sleepless night,
and cast a shade of melancholy over her still lovely face, that
lasted many a day.

As for June, the double loss of husband and tribe produced
the effect that Pathfinder had foreseen. She died in the

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cottage of Mabel, on the shores of the lake; and Jasper conveyed
her body to the island; where he interred it by the side
of that of Arrowhead.

Lundie lived to marry his ancient love; and retired a
war-worn and battered veteran: but his name has been rendered
illustrious in our own time, by the deeds of a younger
brother, who succeeded to his territorial title, which, however,
was shortly after merged in one earned by his valour on the
ocean.

THE END. Back matter

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Previous section


Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1840], The pathfinder, or, The inland sea. Vol. II (Lea and Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf068v2T].
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