“I hate him! I will have his blood; his scalp shall hang up and dry in the smoke of Wawhillowa’s wigwam. The fair Flower that loves him shall never again see his face except it be in death. She shall never be his wife; she shall be the Red Man’s slave—aye, a captive to the Red Man’s bride. In the mean time, all was consternation at the house of Mr. Webster. No one had seen Eliza when she left the house, and her absence could be accounted for only by the supposition that she had been slain, or carried away captive by the Indians. The alarm spread from house to house. The whole village was ready to pursue the enemy, and to recover the lost one, or to revenge her death. Ah! revenge! as if the lives of ten or of fifty of the foe could bring back one spirit that had gone! A small but ardent band was soon organized, and ready for pursuit, with Young Russell at its head. They struck at once upon the trail of the Indians, and kept it without difficulty till they came to the bank of the river at the foot of Mount Holyoke. Here all traces of their course vanished. They had evidently entered the river; but whether they had crossed it, or only proceeded along its margin and left it again on the same side at a distance below could not be determined. The company here separated, and one party crossed the river to search for the trail on the other side, while the remaining party scoured the eastern shores, but all in vain—no traces of the enemy could be discovered. It was finally conjectured that they had concealed their canoes in the bushes and trees on the side and at the foot of the mountain—and that after their defeat they had hastened thither and embarked on the river, and were by this time at such a distance as to defy pursuit or discovery. Hour after hour did that little band search the country round. Some climbed to the summit of the mountain—some went far down the broad river—here—there—and everywhere the closest search was made—but still without success. William now began to despair of the safety or rescue of his betrothed. His heart grew sick—his cheek paled—and he felt that it would be a boon to sit down and die, if he could but be buried by the side of his lost bride. And then, as he remembered the dispute with Wawhillowa, and the truth flashed upon him, his face flushed with anger, his teeth became firmly set, and his breathing hard and laborious. Again he started on—retraced the steps he had taken, and hurried towards the island on which stood Shaomet’s tent. When he arrived opposite the spot, not seeing a canoe at hand, he threw himself into the river, and soon found himself, breathless and exhausted, at the door of the old man’s wigwam. He entered abruptly—Shaomet sat alone, quietly smoking his pipe. “Your daughter—where is she? Where is Tahattawa?” cried William. “I know not,” answered the old chief; “when I awoke this morning, roused by the firing on the plain, she had already left the wigwam, and I have not seen her since.”