The old chief stood a little apart, gazing with an eagle-eye on every movement, but not a word had escaped his lips since his first orders had been obeyed, and he betrayed no sign of weariness, though he had not been seated since his long march. An hour afterward, the low moaning had died away, and the voice of the captive youth whispered in the ears of Oliwibatuc— “_She sleeps: thy daughter sleeps!_” “Seven suns have set, and this is the maiden’s first quiet sleep,” said old Zohah. “The Pale Face brings witch-water.” “Nay, nay, mother, thy good herbs and gentle nursing have aided the sufferer; but we must still watch, for on this slumber perhaps, depends her life.” The old chief approached his captive, and said in grateful accents— “Thy life is not sufficient; what boon wilt thou ask at the hand of the Mohawk?” “That thou wilt send my fellow-captives back to their country, chief; and I will still be thy prisoner. They have homes there. I have neither country nor home. I will stay and watch the recovery of thy daughter, but let my brethren go without torture.” It was a great request for an Indian to give up his prisoners, and for a moment he seemed wavering—then he added— “It is more than leagues of wampun—but it shall be done. To-morrow, they shall go, and thou shalt stay in the lodge of Oliwibatuc—not my prisoner, but my son, instead of Olo.” All was silence again in that forest wigwam, and the youthful captive held on his watch. Old Zohah was snoring loudly on one hand, and the old chief had at last spread his blanket, and laid down to rest after his weary march. The youth was alone. The deep shadows of the night hung a solitude over the wilderness, and as he sat there in the rude wigwam of the savage, his thoughts took backward wing: he was a child again, climbing the mountain-path with the flocks—gathering wild grapes in the valleys, and returning to a happy cottage-home at evening. Then a soft footstep was in his ear, and a gentle tone—_they were his mother’s_! A little hand was nestled in his, as his sire took the Book of God and read the words of wisdom from its holy pages; then came back to his weary heart those home-voices mingling in the evening psalm, and his face brightened—but memory was soon too faithful to the reality, and a tear rolled down his cheek. A new leaf was turned in his life-book! He was a youth in a foreign land: strange objects were around him—the tones of strangers in his ears. The cottage of the Alps had been exchanged for a home in a kingly palace. Men of learning and science had there been his teachers, and his ardent heart had loved and treasured up the words of wisdom. Gentle forms had floated around him, and the image of _one_ sweet, youthful face, was yet a dew-drop on his spirit.