Having disposed of one of his foes, Morgan abandoned the shelter of his tree, and took to flight. The Indian pursued, and the race was continued about sixty yards, when, looking over his shoulder, the old man saw the gun raised, within a few paces of him. He sprang aside, and the ball whizzed harmlessly by. It was now a more equal contest; and Morgan struck at the Indian with his gun, receiving at the same instant a blow from a tomahawk, which severed one of the fingers from his left hand. They closed immediately, and the Indian was thrown; but overturned the old man, with a powerful effort; and, sitting on his breast, uttered his yell of victory, and felt for his knife. A woman’s apron, which he had stolen from the farm-house, and tied around his waist, embarrassed him; and Morgan seized one of his hands between his teeth, and, getting hold, himself, of the handle of the knife, drew it so sharply through the Indian’s fingers, as to wound him severely. In the struggle, they regained their feet, and still retaining his hold on the fingers in his mouth, Morgan gave him a stab, which decided the contest. The savage fell, and, afraid that others of the tribe might be lurking near, the exhausted old man made the best of his way to the fort. A party immediately went out to the spot where the struggle had taken place, but the fallen Indian was not to be seen. They tracked him by his blood to a fallen tree, where he was endeavouring to stanch his wounds with the stolen apron. On their approaching him, he affected to smile, and endeavoured to conciliate them, crying out, in his broken English, “How do, broder? how do, broder?” There was little mercy in store for him, however. To the shame of our white race, it is recorded that “they tomahawked and scalped him: and afterwards flaying both him and his companion, they converted their skins into saddle-seats and pouches!” [Illustration] PULPIT ROCK, WHITE MOUNTAINS. * * * * * The name given to this fine fragment of the White Mountains, indicates very fairly the favourite vein of association in the minds of the first Puritan settlers of New Hampshire; but it looks as much like a pulpit as many other rocks in the bold scenery of New England, of which we know at least a dozen by the same name. Settled by the same class of stern religionists as Massachusetts, New Hampshire has not upon its history the same blot of fanaticism. The tragical era of persecution for witchcraft in Massachusetts had no corresponding abomination in New Hampshire. The two or three cases on record are rather amusing—particularly that inserted in the historical collections, under the title of “The Complaint of Susan Trimmings, of Little Harbour, Piscatagua.” The complaint and evidence were as follows:—