It was the close of a beautiful summer day when Anacaona left her lodge, and with stealthy steps took her way through the tangled wood; now and then she paused in a listening altitude, as if she expected to hear some other sound than the humming of the insects or the singing of the birds. At last a slight sound reached her ear—it was as if a withered branch broke beneath the tread of a foot. Her own loved Wyamoke had been absent three days—he was to return that night. Anacaona was sure it was her lover’s step, and with a wild silvery laugh that rung through the forest, and which the echoes caught up and repeated, she bounded forth to meet him. It was indeed a step she heard, and soon, alas! too soon, she was clasped, not in the arms of Wyamoke, but in those of the wily Canabo. Instantly he placed one hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, and raised her lightly in his arms, and picking his way carefully, stepping only on things that revealed no foot-print, till he gained the bank of the river, he removed the blanket from the now insensible girl, and threw it into the stream, and then stepping into the water himself, commenced walking rapidly but cautiously up the river. The next morning Anacaona’s blanket was found, but there were no traces of her, and her lover and tribe mourned her as dead. Canabo reached his own camp late at night—no one saw him come in—no one knew aught about the girl he had brought with him save his brother, whom he had trusted with his secret. He placed Anacaona in his lodge, and though he would not force her to be his wife, he kept her alone day after day, in hopes she would weary of her solitude and consent. At length the autumn hunting season came on, and Canabo, as chief of his tribe, was obliged to accompany them to the hunt; and after giving his brother strict charge to guard the young girl with his life, he departed.