The above sentence infused strength into Rolfe; for it brought hope, and excitement, and but little time elapsed before he announced to his friend, that he was ready; and, moving forward, they began at once to reconnoitre the ground. “There may be danger here,” said Rolfe, “we must be cautious, or we shall be offered as a sacrifice to the spirits of those who have been lately murdered.” Then crouching down, they remained for some time silent, gazing at the light. “It is borne by a woman,” said Earth; “an Ingen woman.” “It is,” said Rolfe, “and she is alone.” “I think so, for as yet I can see no one with her.” “There may be,” said Earth, “but what can they have come for,—what can they be arter? Rolfe, I tell you what, I feel right ticklish.” “Hush, Earth, the torch is approaching; let us conceal ourselves, that we may examine more closely.” “Agreed.” “See, she stoops, and searches;—what can it be for?” “I know not. Let us approach, and obtain her history.” And leaving their cover, they soon stood before an Indian woman, who, at the moment of their approach, was stooping down, and examining an indentation, apparently made by a human foot. Having scrutinized it for a time, she shook her head, gathered up her torch, and moved on. “Come, speak to her, Earth,” said Rolfe, “and find out what she is after.” Whereupon, addressing her in the language common among the Indians residing near the frontiers, and which was a compound of the languages of several tribes, Earth said: “Our mother seeks for something lost,—does she mark the steps of the pale face, to find out the path to his wigwam, or does she seek for a red man, whose blood is crying from the ground.” At this speech she turned whence the voice came, and gazed on the hunters, without discovering the least emotion or even surprise, and seeing the mark of another foot-print, she approached, caused the light to fall on it, closely examined its proportions, and again moved on. “The white man's heart is sorry,” said Earth, “he will help our mother.—Will she tell him for what she searches?” Raising herself, and gazing for a moment on the speaker, she said, with a faultering voice, “I call, and he comes not; the vine has lost the tree which supported it.” There was something so touching in her manner that even Earthquake was affected, and turning to Rolfe, he interpreted her words. “Earth, she is the mother of that Indian whom that fellow killed.” “Yes,” said Earth, “I'll lay any thing she is;” and the only feeling of sorrow which ever crossed his breast for the death of an Indian, then passed over it. The hunters remained for some moments silent, not knowing what to do, while the old woman continued her sad yet holy purpose.