Malaeska did not speak or cry aloud, but snatching the sleeping boy close to her heart, lifted her pale face to his, half-defiant, half-terrified. "Take my grandson from the woman and bring him down to the boat," said the old man, addressing those that came with him. "No, no, he is mine!" cried Malaeska fiercely. "Nothing but the Great Spirit shall take him from me again!" The sharp anguish in her voice awoke the boy. He struggled in her arms, and looking around, saw the old man. "Grandfather, oh! grandfather take me home. I do want to go home," he cried stretching out his arms. "Oh!" I have not the power of words to express the bitter anguish of that single exclamation, when it broke from the mother's pale lips. It was the cry of a heart that snapped its strongest fiber there and then. The boy wished to leave her. She had no strength after that, but allowed them to force him from her arms without a struggle. The rattlesnake had not paralyzed her so completely. So they took the boy ruthlessly from her embrace, and carried him away. She followed after without a word of protest, and saw them lift him into the boat and push off, leaving her to the pitiless night. It was a cruel thing--bitterly cruel--but the poor woman was stupefied with the blow, and watched the boat with heavy eyes. All at once she heard the boy calling after her: "Malaeska, come too. Malaeska--Malaeska!" She heard the cry, and her icy heart swelled passionately. With the leap of a panther she sprang to her own boat, and dashed after her tormenters, pulling fiercely through the storm. But with all her desperate energy, she was not able to overtake those four powerful men. They were out of sight directly, and she drifted after them alone--all alone. Malaeska never went back to Mr. Danforth's house again, but she built a lodge on the Weehawken shore and supported herself by selling painted baskets and such embroideries as the Indians excel in. It was a lonely life, but sometimes she met her son in the streets of Manhattan, or sailing on the river, and this kept her alive. After a few months, the lad came to her lodge. His grandmother consented to the visit, for she still had compassion on the lone Indian, and would not let the youth go beyond sea without bidding her farewell. In all the bitter anguish of that parting Malaeska kept her faith, and smothering the great want of her soul, saw her son depart without putting forth the holy claim of her motherhood. One day Malaeska stood upon the shore and saw a white-sailed ship veer from her moorings and pass away with cruel swiftness toward the ocean, the broad, boundless ocean, that seemed to her like eternity. CHAPTER VII. Alone in the forest, alone, When the night is dark and late-- Alone on the waters, alone, She drifts to her woman's fate.