We do not stay to examine these objects. The fumes of the charcoal almost suffocate us. We run in every direction, overturning the idols and dragging down the sacred skins. There are huge serpents gliding over the floor, and hissing around our feet. They have been disturbed and frightened by the unwonted intrusion. We, too, are frightened, for we hear the dreaded rattle of the crotalus! The men leap from the ground, and strike at them with the butts of their rifles. They crush many of them on the stone pavement. There are shouts and confusion. We suffer from the exhalations of the charcoal. We shall be stifled. Where is Seguin? Where has he gone? Hark! There are screams! It is a female voice! There are voices of men, too! We rush towards the spot where they are heard. We dash aside the walls of pendant skins. We see the chief. He has a female in his arms--a girl, a beautiful girl, robed in gold and bright plumes. She is screaming as we enter, and struggling to escape him. He holds her firmly, and has torn open the fawn-skin sleeve of her tunic. He is gazing on her left arm, which is bared to the bosom! "It is she! it is she!" he cries, in a voice trembling with emotion. "Oh, God! it is she! Adele! Adele! do you not know me? Me--your father?" Her screams continue. She pushes him off, stretching out her arms to the Indian, and calling upon him to protect her! The father entreats her in wild and pathetic words. She heeds him not. She turns her face from him, and crouches down, hugging the knees of the priest! "She knows me not! Oh, God! my child! my child!" Again Seguin speaks in the Indian tongue, and with imploring accents-- "Adele! Adele! I am your father!" "You! Who are you? The white men; our foes! Touch me not! Away, white men! away!" "Dear, dearest Adele! do not repel me--me, your father! You remember--" "My father! My father was a great chief. He is dead. This is my father now. The Sun is my father. I am a daughter of Montezuma! I am a queen of the Navajoes!" As she utters these words, a change seems to come over her spirit. She crouches no longer. She rises to her feet. Her screaming has ended, and she stands in an attitude of pride and indignation. "Oh, Adele!" continues Seguin, more earnest than ever, "look at me! look! Do you not remember? Look in my face! Oh, Heaven! Here, see! Here is your mother, Adele! See! this is her picture: your angel mother. Look at it! Look, oh, Adele!" Seguin, while he is speaking, draws a miniature from his bosom, and holds it before the eyes of the girl. It arrests her attention. She looks upon it, but without any signs of recognition. It is to her only a curious object.