“Let me alone, Rolfe,” said Earth, “I'm doing all I can; don't be in sich a swivet; if the gal is there, we'll git her;” then turning to the mother, he said, “Remains the maiden thou didst mention in thy wigwam still? If she does, mother! wilt thou tell us her condition?” “Hast thou seen a deer,” said the mother, “when after a long chase it escapes the dogs? It is fatigued,—it pants,—it lies down and sleeps,—so does the maiden.” “Rolfe,” said Earth, “the old woman says the gal is there, and that she is tired and asleep.” “Then, oh! Earth, ask her if she is very beautiful, if her hair is light, and if she is very timid,—come, quick!” Earth put the questions desired, and the mother replied: “Hast thou gathered the loveliest flower which blossoms on the prairies,—cast it away, and a short time after seen it again? It is still beautiful, but withered,—the maiden reminds me of that. Knowest thou the golden colour of the sands on the Wabash? The same is the colour of the hair of the pale face. Hast thou caught a bird, and felt it tremble, and its little heart beat, when thy fingers pressed it? It is timid,—even so is the maiden.” “Rolfe,” said Earth, “I have asked the old woman.” “Oh! tell me what she says, Earth?” “She says, the gal is like a flower, that her hair is like yaller sand, and that she trimbles like you were to squeeze a bird in your hand.” “She is the same!” cried Rolfe. Believing that he recognized her even in Earth's unpoetical description, tears of joy gushed from his eyes, and falling upon his knees, he poured out in fervent prayer, a thousand thanks to the God of heaven, for having so conducted his footsteps as to create a full hope of finding her who was the object of his search. Earth and the mother listened to it, as to the voice of inspiration. It was beautiful as an act of devotion, and, regarding the time and circumstances, nothing could be more impressive. While Rolfe was speaking, Earth several times drew his sleeve across his eyes; but scarcely, however, had the last words of the prayer died away, and silence again resumed her reign, when a voice as if of anguish seemed to rise up from the ground. It was startling, and a feeling of horror thrilled through the frames of the hunters. But it touched a kindred chord in the ear of the Indian mother; and, moving forward, again she cried, “Oloompa!” and a voice answered, “Mother, art thou here?” Then burst forth a woman's shriek, and a shriek so loud, that the feeding beasts fled, galloping away,—owls flapped their wings, and hooted,—and the startling scream seemed to leap from tree to tree, as it entered the depths of the forest.—There was silence, and the Indian mother lay bending over the sinking frame of her son. “Heard you that scream, Earth?” “Do you see that Ingen, just behind you, Rolfe?” “Where?” said Rolfe, starting, and at the same moment throwing up his gun, he looked about him.