“Nothing,” replied the youth to this question: “tell him that I have warned him against the forked tongues of my tribe, because he gave me my life, and was good to me, but I must not forget that his hand is red with my father’s blood. The day is very cloudy; the Great Spirit has given a hard task to the son of the fallen chief; his back is marked like the back of a slave; he has lived enough.” The voice of the youth faltered as he pronounced the last words; the thong dropped from his feeble grasp, and as he fell to the ground, the wild horse broke away and galloped across the valley. “He is dying,” said Reginald, bending over him; “see, here below his hunting shirt is the broken shaft of an arrow, which one of his pursuers has shot with too true an aim.” While he spoke the young Crow breathed his last. CHAPTER XV. SHOWING HOW WINGENUND FARED IN THE OSAGE CAMP, AND THE ISSUE OF THE DILEMMA IN WHICH PRAIRIE–BIRD WAS PLACED BY MAHÉGA. We trust that the compassionate reader is now desirous to learn something more of the fate of Prairie–bird and her unfortunate brother Wingenund, whom we left a prisoner in the hands of the merciless chief of the Osages. For a long time after the latter had left her tent, his parting threat rung in her ears, that she must on the morrow give her consent to be his bride, or by her refusal consign Wingenund to a cruel and lingering death. Her busy imagination pourtrayed in vivid colours the scene of torture, and the heroic fortitude with which she knew he would endure it, and as she turned from that picture, the figure of Reginald Brandon rose to her view, as if upbraiding her with the violation of her plighted troth; torn by these contending struggles, the poor girl sobbed convulsively, and the tears forced their way through the fingers with which she in vain endeavoured, either to suppress or conceal them. Lita threw her arms round her mistress’s neck, and strove by her affectionate, yet simple, endearments to soothe her grief: for a long time they proved unsuccessful, but when at last she whispered,— “The Great Spirit is very good; he is stronger than Mahéga; let Prairie–bird speak with him as she often did when the Black Father was with her—“ “True, Lita,” she replied, looking gratefully at the Comanche girl through her tears; “you remind me of what I ought not to have forgotten.” The next moment, saw her prostrate upon her couch—the book of comfort in her hand, and her earnest prayers ascending toward Heaven. She rose from her devotions with a calmed and strengthened spirit; the first result of which was a desire to converse with Wingenund, and to decide with him upon the morrow’s fearful alternative.