“Well,” responded the Jesuit, seeming to be satisfied; “thy fair form will pander to the appetite of Manuki. He will exultingly gloat over his pale-faced bride. _Thine is a good taste._ Mordaunt or the savage.” The last sentence fell from his lips livid with anger; but Amy noticed it not. Had a thunderbolt flashed out from the clear sky above, she would not have been more terrified than at this disclosure. She had been more kindly treated than the other captives—but was it for this? Was it that Manuki, he who had torn her from her home, and murdered her lover, should press her to his bosom? Once, indeed, the appalling idea, that she might be forced to become her captor’s wife had crossed her mind, but it was only a momentary suspicion. Manuki had been gone for weeks on a hunting excursion, and the thought had never returned until now—but now all was clear; Mordaunt had confirmed her worst fears; it must be so—he had all the Indian’s secrets. The announcement was awful. A ghastly paleness overspread her face, and cold sweat stood upon her brow. She was a picture of misery and despair. She uttered not a sigh, but a crushing heart-sickness came over her, and she resigned herself to her fate. The keen eye of the priest marked the change. He thought the victim was within his grasp, and slowly advancing with an air of fiendish triumph, he took her gently by the hand, “Poor girl,” said he, “while Mordaunt lives thou art safe. Love me, I will save you from that you so much dread.” “No,” she returned, “the Indian’s embrace would be less terrible than thine, thou hollow-hearted seducer.” This was too much for Mordaunt. The two passions, love and anger, drove him to desperation. Firmly grasping her arm, he said through his clenched teeth, “Heretic! thou canst not escape me!” At this Amy seemed transformed; her eyes rolled wildly in their orbits, and she quivered with anger. In an instant Manuki and every thing connected with her captivity was forgotten. One only thought took possession of her soul, and that was of the priest before her. Hitherto she had feared and hated, now she despised him. She shook him from her, as if he had been a viper, saying, as she drew herself up to her full height, “Back, vile wretch, back! call upon thy saints, count thy beads, and pray poor souls out of purgatory, but touch me not—I know thee.” This was said in a tone so imperious and commanding, that Mordaunt, accustomed as he was implicitly to obey superiors, shrunk involuntarily back, and Amy, turning slowly around, walked away. But there was so much of the heroic in her despair, so much loftiness of spirit in her defiance, that he dared not follow. He knew not why, but there was something in that poor girl that awed him.