Once the river had flowed through the vale, thus forming two islets out of the Cone, and consequently, from frequent irrigations, but few representatives of the vegetable kingdom flourished there. But near the water’s edge now grew a group of silver maples, and failing to see any living object in the almost denuded hollow, the spy bent his eyes upon this spot. “Effie must have been mistaken,” he murmured, as he was about to seek the girl, convinced that they were the only occupants of the island. “I must haste to her, for she may need my assistance. I do not deem it necessary to reconnoiter yonder hill, for-- Hist! by my soul! a groan.” The sound that fell upon the spy’s ears came from the group of silver maples near the water, and as Morgan turned his eyes thitherward he beheld a momentary glitter among the white leaves. “That groan was not feigned; it came from a person sorely wounded, and that person is a white man, for he said, ‘Oh, my God!’ An Indian never says that; he dies in silence; he never groans.” Satisfied that but one person, and that a wounded man, occupied the maple grove, the scout approached the grove and paused among the outer trees. All was silent. Then he crept forward with drawn knife. On, on, still on, to the center of the maples, yet encountering no one! “Could I have been deceived?” he asked himself, over and over. “I was willing to swear a minute since that I heard a groan in these maples; but now--” “Christ, give me strength!” Mark Morgan came to an abrupt halt. Scarce ten steps from him lay the speaker. His gilt buttons scintillated in the rays of the new moon, and his scarlet uniform looked as pale as the face that the spy saw through the trees. A moment served to bring Morgan to the man’s side. The wounded one looked up, and, with a groan of despair, shrunk from what he supposed an Indian. “Major Runnion!” ejaculated the spy, recognizing the frightened face upturned to him. “Yes, and you?” “Mark Morgan.” “Wayne’s spy?” “Yes; but how came you here? My boat!” as his eyes fell upon the canoe, poorly moored to a maple root. “No, you need not speak. I can read all now. St. Pierre shot not to the death. You fell into the water, accidentally found my boat, and came hither.” “Yes--to die,” groaned the major. “Hark! Oh, God, my foes, and yours too, are hounding us on to the dread end.” A fearful pallor overspread the Briton’s face, as the report of a rifle smote the air. “Courage!” cried Mark Morgan, stooping over the man--his enemy. “Lie perfectly still. I will return directly, and then we’ll leave the island; we’ll baffle them at last.” He sprung erect, and darted from the murderer, toward the spot where he had left Effie St. Pierre. He had recognized the report of his rifle. He found the brave girl driving a ball home with the calmness of a brave man, and she smiled faintly as she looked up into his face.