The farthest extremity of the tent revealed another woman, whose appearance denoted her to be of European extraction. She was blue-eyed, and of surpassing fairness of skin. Her attitude indicated a mind too powerfully absorbed in grief to be heedful of appearances, for she sat with her limbs contracted, and rocking her body to and fro with a motion that seemed to have its origin in no efforts of her own. Her long, golden hair hung negligently over a neck of dazzling whiteness; and a blanket drawn over the top of her head like a veil, and extending partly around her person, disclosed here and there portions of an apparel which was strictly American, though much torn. A bowl similar to that of the Indian female, and filled with the same food, was at her side, but this was untasted. “Why does the pale-face refuse to eat?” asked the warrior of her next to him, as he rolled a volume of smoke from his lips. “Make her eat, for I would speak to her afterward.” “Why does she refuse to eat?” echoed the woman, dropping her spoon as she spoke, and turning to the object of remark, “It is good,” she continued, as she touched the arm of the heedless sufferer. “Daughter of the pale-faces, eat.” A cry of distress burst from the lips of the unhappy girl, as apparently roused from her abstraction, she suffered the blanket to fall from her head, and stared wildly at her questioner. “Is the air of the tent not pleasant to the blossom of the clearings?” asked the warrior, evidently touched by her seeming misery. Seeing that she made no answer, he continued, “What is written is written. The Red-man cannot lie. We must bear thee to the great white father at a distance. But perchance the door may one day be left open, and the bird can escape from its nest.” “Ah! whither can I fly?” exclaimed Grace Bartlett, at length bursting into tears. “My native village is destroyed, my home is burned, and my parents and neighbors have fallen victims to the general ruin.” She wept for some moments bitter tears, which seemed to relieve her overcharged heart--the chief and his squaw looking on her with more of pity than is usual in their race. The next morning their march commenced again through the interminable forest. The Indian traveled on foot, while the two females were mounted on mules. The wretchedness of the unfortunate prisoner seemed to increase throughout the whole route, her companions wearing the stolid indifference of the North American tribes, except when momently touched by her situation: For the most part, during the slow ride, Grace Bartlett was left to her own miserable reflections, receiving only at rare intervals some rude attentions from the female, who accompanied her.