“But,” said he, “you are pining in this captivity—love me, and I will rescue you. I will fly with you. We will make our home amid the vine-clad hills of France; I will be thy deliverer and protector, and happiness shall crown thy days.” “I am pining,” said Amy, “but it is not captivity that makes me sigh; I grieve for that which thou canst never restore; happiness has fled from my sad heart. The world is desolate. This wilderness is lonely, but even here nature has left witnesses of her loveliness,” said she, pointing to the flowers at her feet. “But be my bride,” continued the impassioned lover, “and forget thy troubles.” “Never! never! I _cannot_ forget, I _would not_ be thy bride.” Mordaunt saw in her firm, determined manner, the death-blow to his bliss; but in her refusal there was something so pensive, so mournfully beautiful, that it set his soul on fire; he could not be refused—he begged on, as wretches do for life, for one assurance of her affection, but in vain. Flatteries, promises and entreaties were alike to her—she spurned them all. Mordaunt really loved Amy as purely as he was capable of doing, and could he have gained her by persuasion, the base passions of his soul might not have been roused from their lethargy; but the object was too precious to be abandoned until every expedient was exhausted. Desire prompted him—there was one art untried; principle deterred him not—he had no honor to forbid. He knew Amy’s shrinking nature; he had observed her tremble when the Indians approached her, as if she dreaded contamination. “Proud girl,” said Mordaunt, “thou must marry me or an Indian.” “Terrible alternative, but rather the savage than thou, and rather death than either.”