The noise of the fire drowned the old man's words, for the women were amusing themselves by throwing on small pieces of dry wood and portions of deer-fat, which, crackling as it burned, rapidly consumed the body of the unfortunate man. No suffering had, as yet, forced from him any cry of pain; it was evident that nature would soon relieve him of his agony. His heart had nigh ceased "beating its funeral march." Even he, an untutored savage, felt that "Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul." His fortitude to endure was increased by the thought that soon the brilliant but mysterious future would be opened to him. The Sioux were disappointed at his courage, and longed to have their gratification completed by some acknowledgment of his agony. An old and fierce-looking woman drew her knife from her belt, and springing upon the high roots of the tree, cut a deep gash between the shoulders of the prisoner, then stooping, she raised in her hand a flaming torch, which she applied to the fresh wound she had just made. This agony was unendurable: a deathlike struggle convulsed the heroic countenance of the sufferer; he uttered a sharp and piercing cry; then, as if apologizing for his want of firmness, exclaimed, "Fire is strong!" This sufficed for his enemies, and shouts of joy echoed through the village, while the agonized daughter, unable longer to endure the dreadful sight, sunk insensible on the grass at her brother's feet. It was not long ere another shout announced the relief of the Chippeway. The sweet hours of night had passed away while they watched his noble firmness, and awaited his last breath. During the last hour, long, low, black clouds had been deepening in the far west; now and then a distant murmur was heard, and faint flashes gleamed athwart the water. A slight murmuring of the waves witnessed the rising of the wind, and the Sioux separated to take a rest, which they all needed. Seeing that their other prisoner was securely bound, they left him to face the storm and the hideous spectacle of his father's remains. Chashé raised the lifeless form of the girl and carried her to his sister's wigwam. We-har-ka had taken no interest in the scene that had been enacting; she slept soundly, fatigued with her wanderings on the prairie and the indulgence of her grief. Chashé laid his unconscious burden by the side of his sister. Enemies as they were, the looker-on might observe a strong bond of sympathy between them. Their young faces were shadowed by grief,--that link which should unite, heart to heart, every child of earth. * * * * *