Another leaf—and he was again a wanderer! Another cloud had burst in storm over his head, and a wide ocean spread its stormy waves betwixt him and the land of his birth. He had come a fugitive over its waters, bearing the gospel seed, which he hoped ere long to see springing up in the boundless field of the west; but a twelvemonth had scarcely passed, ere a merciless war-party had numbered him with its victims. Persecution and torture had no power to make his youthful spirit quail, for men of iron purpose had moulded him for a martyr to his creed, and as he sat there that night in his lonely watch, he looked upward to his home above, with a clear unshaken confidence, and forward into the dim, uncertain future without a fear. He had been the happy instrument of saving a number of his fellow-beings from torturing death, and on the morrow they would be restored to home and freedom. He had no home—had left behind him no kindred, and here, perchance, was the vineyard which his Master had given him to plant with the “Living Vine.” Such were the thoughts that rapidly winged their way through the mind of the young captive as he sat listening to the now low, soft breathing of the Indian maiden, and his heart was happy in the consciousness of its right and holy purpose. There was a low murmur—he turned his head and the dark eye of the chief’s daughter was fixed upon him with a look of conscious scrutiny, but in a moment the lids were heavy again with slumber. He went cautiously to Zohah and awoke her, lest the maiden might fear finding herself with a stranger. Old Zohah took the cup, and bending over the couch said— “Is Weetano thirsty? Here is drink.” She opened her eyes again, and said— “Is it you, good Zohah? I dreamed a Pale Face was beside me. Has my father yet returned?” “He sleeps weary with the war-chase. He spoke to Weetano, but she answered not. Will the maiden see her father?” “No, let him rest until morning. The warrior is aged, and comes to his lodge weary.” But the old chief was awake to the first tone of his daughter’s voice, and he bent over her couch caressingly, saying— “Red-Bird is better now; she has a new brother, and he has saved her life! He must slumber now, for the march was long! He shall eat, hereafter, at the board of Oliwibatuc.” The captive came forward again, and gave some directions to Zohah for the remainder of the night, and then gladly lay down as the chief desired, for the danger was past, and he was sorely fatigued. Sweet were his first slumbers in the lodge of the Mohawk chief, and his dreams like the waking vision, were of the Alps; for as the reader has already imagined, the stranger was no other than Francois Waldo—the Vaudois peasant-boy. CHAPTER III.