“Your own fidelity teaches me my duty. I shall remain in these woods to watch over your safety. Seek not to change my purpose. Better endure all the torments these fiends can inflict than the shame and remorse I should suffer if I left you.” I spoke in a tone that could leave no doubt of my sincerity or firmness. She evidently felt it so, and stood for some minutes with her eyes fixed on the ground in silent meditation. Then, at length, raising her head, she abruptly asked: “Can you paddle a canoe?” I replied that I could with considerable skill. “Then go down immediately to the mouth of the creek,” she continued; “I will bring my father there, and it is possible that we may yet escape across the river. It is worth the trial, at least, and is our only hope.” I hastened to the place designated, where I found two canoes moored to the shore. In a few minutes Mary appeared, almost dragging her father along. When the old man understood our purpose he refused to get into the boat. “No,” said he, “I cannot leave these poor children, whom I have so long taught and prayed for. Deserted by their pastor, they would soon return to their old habits, and the labor of long years would lose all its fruits.” “But, sir,” I replied, “they have already withdrawn themselves from your authority. You cannot safely remain amongst them, for they now regard all white men as their enemies.” “I will stay,” he answered, “and bring them back to the fold from which they are wandering, or else lay down my life among them.” “But your daughter,” I continued; “surely this is now no place for her. Come! let us place her in safety, and then, if you choose, you can return.” I saw that he hesitated; and so, taking him by the arm, I led him, with gentle violence, into the canoe. “Are these the only canoes at the station?” I asked. Being answered in the affirmative, I directed Luten to hold fast to the empty one, and then pushed off from the shore. My intention was to cut off pursuit by carrying the empty canoe some distance into the stream and then setting her adrift. The river was then about at its present height, and dashed over these rapids with the same violence as now. It was certain that no boat could drift through them without being swamped or broken to pieces. Accordingly, when we had attained what I thought a sufficient distance from the shore, I directed Luten to let go his hold. Scarcely had he done so when a shriek from Mary, whose face was turned toward the shore, was immediately followed by a plunge, and then another, into the water. “It is Tamaque and another Indian,” she exclaimed, “and they are swimming for the empty canoe.” I cast a hasty glance behind me, and saw all the peril of our position; but I had no time for making observations. My business was to ply the paddle.