“Aye, your murdered brother,” said Bernard, marking with pleasure the effect he had produced, “and it is in your power to avenge his death. Dare you do it?” “Oh, my brother, my poor lost brother,” she sobbed, the stoical indifference of the savage, pressed out by the crushed heart of the sister, “if by this hand thy death could be avenged.” “By your hand he can be avenged,” said Bernard, seeing her pause. “It has not yet been done. That stupid knave, in a moment of vanity, claimed for himself the praise of having murdered a chieftain, but the brave Manteo fell by more noble hands than his.” “In God's name, who do you mean?” asked Mamalis. “I can only tell you that it is now in your power to surrender his murderer to justice, and to his deserved fate.” Mamalis was silent. She guessed that it was Hansford to whom Bernard had thus vaguely alluded. The struggle seemed to be a desperate one. There in the clear starlight, with none to help, save Him, in whom she had learned to trust, she wrestled with the tempter. But that dark scene of her life, which still threw its shadow on her redeemed heart, again rose up before her memory. The lesson was a blessed one. How often thus does the recollection of a former sin guard the soul from error in the future. Surely, in this, too, God has made the wrath of man to praise him. With the aid thus given from on high, the trusting soul of Mamalis triumphed over temptation. “I know not why you tempt me thus, Mr. Bernard,” she said, more calmly, “nor why you have brought me here to-night. But this I know, that I have learned that vengeance belongs to God. It were a crime for mortal man, frail at best, to usurp the right of God. My brother is already fearfully avenged.” Twice beaten in his attempt to besiege the strong heart of the poor Indian, by stratagem, the wily Bernard determined to pursue a more determined course, and to take the resisting citadel by a coup d'etat. He argued, and argued rightly, that a sudden charge would surprise her into betraying a knowledge of Hansford's movements. No sooner, therefore, had the last words fallen from her lips, than he seized her roughly by the arm, and exclaimed, “So you, then, with all your religious cant, are the murderess of Thomas Hansford!” “The murderess! Of Hansford! Is he then dead,” cried the girl, bewildered by the sudden charge, “How did they find him?” “Find him!” cried Bernard, triumphantly, “It is easy finding what we hide ourselves. We have proven that you alone are aware of his hiding place, and you alone, therefore, are responsible for his safety. It was for this confession that I brought you here to-night.” “So help me Heaven,” said the trembling girl, terrified by the web thus woven around her, “If he be dead, I am innocent of his death.” “The assassin of Berkenhead may well be the murderess of Hansford,” said Bernard. “It is easier to deny than to prove. Come, my mistress, tell me when you saw him.”