The close of the second day found them approaching the Mohawk village, and the journey had been performed with the greatest ease by Anna—indeed, two pleasanter days she had not passed since the green lawns of England had been exchanged for the western forest. Waldo had been accompanied by eight young warriors, who, according to the fashion of their nation, had constructed a light carriage of green boughs and branches interwoven, which was alternately carried forward by four of their number, without the least inconvenience or fatigue. Borne along thus by her fantastic guides, she felt not the least emotion of fear. By her side was one who watched her with the most unwearied care—who plucked for her every flower in the wild pathway, and brought her water from each cool spring. It was the living form of one whose image had often been with her in dreams, when the spirit’s messengers link again the parted in sweet companionship. They recounted to each other the story of their wanderings, and each felt that time and absence and sorrow had but strengthened the ties of youthful affection; and the dark eye of Francois had not been so lit up with sunshine since the days long gone by, when his simple mountain reed awoke a hundred echoes in the ear of the happy peasant-boy of the Alps! Anna, too, was happy. O, how happy! as she read in the earnest gaze ever fixed upon her that it was her presence that had imparted unwonted color to the pale cheek, and additional lustre to the dark eye—but mournful memories would come flashing over her mind, and the low, confiding tones of Red-Bird would sound again in her ears—“Weetano has looked on the face of her pale brother, and the image of her brave has faded from her heart”—and for the first time she felt in her spirit a rising of selfishness. Poor Anna—there was a bitter struggle, but brief; and her better nature was triumphant! No wonder, she thought, the forest-maiden should love the fair-browed captive who had come to her father’s wigwam and saved her life! No wonder her ardent, grateful heart should treasure up the rich, low tones of her preserver, and turn with sickening disgust from the stranger Huron! And, then she thought of Weetano, sick and wasting away perhaps with an untold sorrow, and she wished in her heart the love of her red friend had been requited, even though the bright spark she had so long nursed in her own breast had gone out in another’s joy. The daughter of the Indian chief was a fit mate for the gifted or noble of any nation—one such had already shone with peerless lustre at a royal court, and Weetano was as rich in beauty and intellect as the far-famed daughter of Powhatten!