“She must, indeed, be a remarkable person,” said Lucy, humouring her young companion’s fancy; “still, as you have the same father and mother, and the same blood, whatever she learns, you can learn too.” “I have no father or mother,” said Wingenund, sadly, and he added, in a mysterious whisper, drawing near to Lucy, “Prairie–bird never had a father or mother.” “Never had a father or mother!” repeated Lucy, as the painful thought occurred to her, that poor Wingenund was deranged. “Never,” said the boy, in the same tone; “she came from _there_,” pointing, as he spoke, towards the north–west quarter of the heaven. “How melancholy is it,” said Lucy to herself, “to think that this brave, amiable boy should be so afflicted! that so intelligent and quick a mind should be like a lyre with a broken string! Still,” thought she, “I will endeavour to understand his meaning, and to undeceive him.” “Dear Wingenund, you are mistaken—your sister had the same father and mother as yourself; she may have learnt much, and may understand things strange to you, but you might learn them too.” “Wingenund’s father and mother are dead,” said the boy, in a voice of deep and suppressed emotion; “he will not tell you _how_ they died, for it makes his heart throb and his eyes burn; but you are good to him, and shall not see his anger. Prairie–bird never had a father; the Great Spirit gave her to the Lenapé.” While Lucy was musing how she should endeavour to dispel this strange delusion, which seemed to have taken such firm hold of her young companion’s mind, Reginald and Baptiste halted, and the latter said, “You see that party approaching; they may put some troublesome questions, leave me to answer them. Wingenund, you know what I mean?” “Wingenund does not understand English,” said the boy, a slight smile of irony lurking in the corner of his mouth. The approaching party consisted of eight or ten men, all armed with rifles, excepting two, who were mounted, and who carried cutlasses and large horse–pistols; among the pedestrians towered the gigantic form of young Mike Smith, who has already been presented to the reader before the store of David Muir in Marietta; and among the horsemen was the younger Hervey, leading his friends to scour the whole country in search of the slayer of his brother: they were all in a high state of excitement; and despite the cool and unmoved demeanour of the guide, he was not without apprehension that they might desire to wreak their vengeance on Wingenund. “Ha! Baptiste,” said Hervey, grasping the guide’s hand; “you are the very man we are in search of; we have already been to the Colonel’s, and he told us we should find you with his son, and with Miss Brandon, in this quarter. We want your assistance, man, and that speedily too.” “How can I serve you?” said the guide; “what is the matter? you seem bent on a hunt.”