I had now heard and seen enough; and there was no time to be lost if I wished to save _her_ from—from what? Confusion on the thought! My head reeled, and I came near falling down amongst them. But I soon rallied, and made all possible haste to reach the camp before Tamaque. Suddenly, as I emerged from a clump of trees yonder on the bank of the creek, I saw her whom I sought close before me, kneeling on a mound of earth,—doubtless her mother’s grave. I stood entranced, and listened, in spite of myself, to the broken sentences which she uttered aloud. “And save, oh, merciful Father,” she murmured, “save his white hairs from the dangers which surround us.” Her filial words here became inaudible. The next sentence that reached my ears related to a different person. “May thy powerful arm protect us from the cruel rage, and the still more cruel love of that dreadful man!” My jealous ears drank in these words with ecstasy. They were a balm to my wounded spirit; a compensation for all my sufferings. Again she spoke aloud: “And him, the stranger, who wanders, unprotected, through the wilderness; oh! guard his steps from harm, and grant, in thine own good time, that—” her voice now died away into a gentle whisper. When it rose again she was saying, “And for me, in mercy, give thy unhappy child, here, in this hallowed spot, a peaceful grave.” I began to feel that my listening, however inadvertent, was little less than sacrilege; and, therefore, quietly stole away out of hearing. As soon as I discovered that she had risen to her feet, I again drew near. Great was her surprise and consternation at seeing me. “Oh! why do you linger here,” she cried. “You should, ere this, be far on your way toward home. Fly instantly, and look not behind you; for, if you should be taken by these cruel savages no human power can save you from a dreadful doom.” “I know that well,” I replied; “but can you think me so careful of my own life as to run away and leave you to their tender mercies?” “Fear nothing for me,” she said; “they do not rank me among their enemies, and will not harm me.” “But although you may be safe from their hatred, have you nothing to fear from their friendship?” said I. The tide of confusion mounted to her brow at these words, and she trembled in every limb. But, quickly recovering herself, she said: “Come what may, I share the fate of my father.” “But go,” said I, “bring your father quickly, and we will all escape together.” “No,” said she, sadly, “he is old and feeble; his absence would soon be noticed; they would certainly pursue us, and easily overtake us.” I could make no reply to this, for I knew that we could not take her father with us, and I felt sure that she would not go without him. With the dogged resolution of despair, therefore, I said: