“Water, Tumult, water!” cried Town.; “let us save her, if we can.” “It is no use, Town.; nothing can save me.” It was the woman who spoke, in a feeble, smothered tone, as she nervously clutched at her throbbing brow. “My God, Madge! is this reality, or some horrible vision?” cried Town., dropping on his knees beside her, and raising her head from the hard stone and pillowing it upon his breast. “Yes, Town.--but save her--save Clara! It was she that he threw over the cliff!--save her, for she loves you!” “The chief will save her; rest easy--” “The _chief_!” she interrupted, with almost a shriek. “Yes; Mahaska, the Sioux chief,” replied Town. “Ah!” she sighed, painfully, “that accounts for our defeat.” “Your defeat? what do you mean, dear Madge?” “Oh, Town., I have been such a wicked woman--I have plotted deeply and darkly against you and Clara. I won your affections from her, and yet I was a married woman--the lawful wife of--” The name was lost in a moan of pain, and Town. felt a repulsive flush mount to his face. He would have shrunk away from her as from an adder, had he not remembered that she was dying--dying so young, so beautiful, so wicked, so false-hearted. There was a momentary silence which was broken by the dying woman’s voice: “Town.,” she said, “although I have been your worst enemy, I want to ask one request of you.” “Name it,” said Town., “and it shall be granted.” “Then after I am dead, I want you to convey my body and the body of Dick Sherwood to the cabin of Talbott Taft.” “It shall be done, I promise you,” said Town.; “but, what is Dick Sherwood to you, Madge?” “Town., I am dying fast. I have but few minutes to live. I would tell you all about my life and the deep, dark game of sin and treachery in which I have been engaged, could I live long enough. But when you convey my lifeless body and that of Dick Sherwood to the cabin of the Indian trader, he will tell you--tell you all. Oh, if I only knew that Clara escaped.” At this juncture the quick, heavy tread of moccasined feet was heard approaching, and the next moment Mahaska drew near with the dripping form of Clara Bryant in his arms. “Is she dead, chief?” asked Old Tumult. “No,” responded the chief, “but she is unconscious.” “Thank God!” cried Town.; then bending low to the dying woman, he said: “She lives, Madge.” The woman made no reply, but there was a rattling in her throat--a convulsive stiffening of the limbs and body. Then there was a relaxing of the muscles, that told of the separation of the soul and body--that Madge Taft was dead. Town. laid the lifeless body gently down, and then went and assisted Old Tumult and Mahaska in restoring Clara to life. The fall and the effects of the water together had proven a terrible shock to the maiden, and for awhile her life was despaired of. But, at last, she began to recover.