There was but little current where she stood, for the position of the rocks prevented this, though quite near them the impetuous stream hurried on like one tired of existence, eager only to reach and be lost in the great ocean of forgetfulness. There was evidently some great difficulty in her position, for her colour flushed and left her, and she pressed her hands across her bosom, without quelling its tumult: yet it was equally evident her object was self-preservation. Life was dear to the young and active blood that animated her veins. There was too much brightness in the depths of those dark eyes to be quenched by death. She looked all around her; and well might she have asked if the red man's heaven boasted a more beautiful picture than the one now before her. The sound of voices has recalled her from her meditations. Loud, stern voices, speaking in tones of anger and disappointment. They were not yet very near, but she knew them well. The language was her own, but the lips that spoke it were threatening death to her. She recognised his voice--her husband's--he was the pursuer. And she smiled a bitter smile as she listened to the harsh sounds. Notwithstanding the perils that surrounded her, she was as calm as when she sat by her mother's door, in the far-off home of the Indians, who live by "Le Lac qui Parle." All her terror, all her restlessness was forgotten. She raised her arm to its greatest height, and elevating her lithe frame too, she threw her bundle as far as her strength enabled her; listening till the voices sounded nearer, and the steps could be distinguished in the dead leaves that lay in their path, she swayed her form to and fro, and sprung, laughing as she did so, from the rocks. Then swimming round them, disappeared, concealed by the overhanging precipices, as well as by the thick foliage that grew close to the water's edge. Hardly was she out of sight when her place was again occupied. A large, fierce-looking Sioux stood where she had been standing. He looked round as if the object of his search might be hid among the rocks and bushes. The waters laughed just as she had, as he complained of fatigue and disappointment. He looked like a fiend who had forced himself where but a moment ago some gentle spirit had been resting. The passions in their prime worked in his haughty face. Stripes of different-coloured paint lay across his cheeks and around his eyes. His broad chest and brawny arms were uncovered--he raised his hand, and moving it in a half circle, as he turned towards his companions, "I have looked for her until I am tired," he said; "perhaps she has killed herself; if she is living, my vengeance shall yet reach her,--I will tear her heart from her breast." Then turning, wearied and angered beyond endurance, he strode back towards his home. His giant figure rose far above his companions. His eye flashed like the lion's deprived of his prey. Well might they call him the Fiery Man. CHAPTER II.