By this time the other canoe had come up, and six or eight stout Indians were surrounding the wigwam. They immediately drew away the body of their chief; and, as it fell outwards, those within were uncertain whether or not the wound was mortal. A council was now held by the besiegers as to what mode of action should be adopted. Some proposed to fire through the sides of the hut; others to burn it; but both of these plans were rejected, as it would endanger the lives of Shaomet and his daughter, which was far from being their object; for Shaomet had been a bold and renowned chief, and still possessed much influence among the neighboring tribes; while the beauty of the girl obtained for her an influence and celebrity, but little less extensive than her father’s, though of an entirely different kind. At last it was decided to burst into the wigwam, and secure the fugitives, doing no harm to the old man or his daughter, even though they had endeavored to give protection to their enemy. Whilst they were hesitating what course to pursue, William reloaded the rifle, together with an old musket which he found hanging in the tent. As soon as the door opened, and an Indian appeared, he fired. The shot was effectual, but still the odds were fearful. Another and another savage entered, and the foremost had already levelled his rifle at William’s heart. The musket was in Shaomet’s hand; with the quickness of his youth he brought the piece to his shoulder. It missed fire. In another instant William Russell lay a bleeding corpse. They immediately advanced to secure his scalp, but the old man would not permit them. “You have killed my friend,” said he, “in my own wigwam, and now I will protect his body while I live. Shaomet is old now—he will soon be buried with his fathers; you may shoot me if you will, but never shall you take his scalp.” All this time Tahattawa sat upon the bundle of fagots in the corner of the tent. She spoke not—moved not. For the sake of her friend—her _sister_ as she familiarly called her—she had perilled her own life; nay, what was far more, the life of her betrothed. She had seen her “_sister’s_” lover shot down—she had seen her own young chief fall, and of course supposed him dead. Poor girl! A victim to her own benevolence and to the evil passions of others! The savages, casting a glance round the apartment, and perceiving no other inmate besides Shaomet and his daughter, immediately left the wigwam, and, taking their canoes, went silently down the river. On the afternoon following the events above related, the little island of Hockanum looked as bright and as beautiful as ever. It was as lovely as if it had not witnessed the tragic scenes of the preceding night. The bright sun shone gaily upon it; the birds warbled their sweet notes; the soft breeze played among the bright green leaves; and the whole spot looked like a little paradise;—a sad contrast to two hearts that were even then in its bosom.