It has been already stated that the Mohawk chief and his party had returned from their last campaign victorious. The hair of many a scalp was braided with serpent-skins around their necks, and twelve young captives had been brought home to suffer in the presence of the whole tribe. As they drew near their principal city, the captors sent up a savage yell, and prolonged it until the hills sent back the sound; but the aged warriors and the braves who remained at home echoed it not. Wherefore came they not forth as was their custom, to greet their triumphant brethren? The silence boded no good, and Oliwibatuc led on his band with a sullen, down-cast eye. He approached his lodge with the prisoners and their guard, and entered it in silence; but within, all was noise and distraction. Hideous outcries, mingled with strange incantations saluted his ears, and there on a low couch lay the prostrate form of the chief’s daughter. The low moaning of the poor maiden was a sad welcome for the old warrior, for Weetano had been the song-bird of his lodge, and the sunlight of her face had once been the sunlight of her mother’s. He stood by her couch with stern composure, and thrice uttered “Weetano,” but the ear of his daughter was dull to the voice of affection, and the haughty warrior uttered a deep groan, and bowed his head, for his pride was low. There was one among the prisoners of Oliwibatuc who looked not unmoved on the mournful spectacle—one, whose faith taught “Love to enemies,” and whose mission on earth was that of his Master—_to do good_. It was a youthful “soldier of the Cross,” that stood a captive in the lodge of the Mohawk chief. Torture and death he was expecting soon to receive from the hands of his merciless captors, but the light of his faith was clear and bright, and his last deed should be one of mercy. He saw that the disease had formed a crisis, and the poor sufferer seemed rapidly sinking with exhaustion; but there was still life, and a shadow of hope, and he approached the stricken chief, and laying his hand gently on his arm, said— “The Great Spirit has given the Pale Face the art of healing; if it be not too late, I will restore thy daughter; but the tumult must first be hushed!” There was gratitude in the old chief’s eye: for a tone of sympathy falls never unheeded, no matter how barren the heart; and with a motion of his hand the savage din was hushed. “Yes, save her, and ye shall live, young Pale Face!” murmured the chief. “She is my only child—the last of the eagle’s nest! Save her, and ye shall be as Olo, the son of Oliwibatuc, who fell by the great Lakes in battle!”