_Helen_. Come hither,--let me lean on _you_. Star of the wilderness!--of this life that is fading now, the sun!--_doth_ mine eye see thee, then, at last? Oh! this is sweet! On its own holy home my head rests now. Everard, in this dark world _Love leans on Faith_. How else, even in God's love and loveliness, could I trust now for that strange future on whose bloody threshold I am lying here; yes, and in spite of prayers and trust, and struggling hopes. And yet--how beautiful it is--that love invisible, invisible no more. Like glorious sunshine it is streaming round me,--lighting all. The infinite of that thy smile hath imaged, as real,--it beams on me now. Have faith, in _him_ I mean; for--if we meet again--we'll need it then no more; and--how dim it grows--nay, let me lean on you,--and--through _this_ life's darkening glass I shall see you no more. Nay, hold me!--quick!--where art thou?--Everard!--He is gone--gone! _Lady A_. Dead!-- _Mor_. She is dead! _Andre_. This was Love. _Lady A_. See how her eyes are fixed on _you_. The light and love of the vanished soul looks through them still. Cruelly hath it been sent thence; and no other gleam of its changeful beauty will e'er dawn in them. Sadly, oh lovely stranger, I close for ever now these dark-fringed lids upon their love and beauty. Yes--_this_ was love! _Andre_. And so there was a need-be in its doom. I'll ne'er believe _that_ genuine, that is blessed. The fate of this life would not suffer it. Ah! if it would, if Heaven should leave a gem like that outside her walls, we should none of us go thither. _Mait_. Dead? How beautiful! Yes--let her lie there--under that lovely canopy. Dead!--it's a curious word--How comes it that we all stand here? Ha, Andre?--is it you? _Andre_. I heard the tale as I crossed just now, from an Indian, who was one in the ambuscade this noon--and in the woods on the other side, I found this lady, with her attendants, abiding the promise she made you last night, to welcome this lovely stranger with her savage guides. _Mait_. Hush, hush. Let it pass. See,--a bride! _Mor_. (_Aside_.) Did he trust her with these murderers? _Mait_. Ay--say yes. _Andre_. Indeed, Maitland, you wrong yourself. It was the treachery of this savage Manida that crossed your plans, working the mission of some Higher power,--as for Alaska, you might as soon have doubted me. The Chief he sent for her was one he had known years--but, unfortunately, he was one in the ambuscade this morning--nay, the leader of it; for the murdered Indian was his son; and meanwhile amid the fight the treacherous Manida, who accompanied him to Maitland's tent last night, and heard the promised reward, found means to steal from its concealment the letter, with which he easily won this trusting lady to accompany him. _Mor_. Ah!--there it lies. _Andre_. It was here in this glen that Alaska, discovering the treachery, lay in wait for them with a band of chosen warriors, and on that cliff above they fought.