ear had heard the dash of oars before it was visible, stood with straining eye fixed upon it as it rapidly approached them. “I’ll declare, the water-spirit you were talking of,” said Fitzgerald, “has taken the form of a fishing boat, and Arrowfoot is going to answer his demand why we presume to come into his presence. But let me speak him as we do a ship at sea, and lo! the charm will dissolve, and the whole affair turn out to be nothing more than a trader going down stream.” In a moment he took out an instrument something like a bugle, but of a peculiar tone, and blew a few notes, which were answered by another of the same kind, and an attempt on the part of the trader to overhaul them. “I told you,” said Julian, “it was no water-witch. See she wishes to give us a friendly salute, and learn where we are bound.” Eva’s looks were directed first to her cousin and then to the Indian, but for whose look of alarm and defiance she would have enjoyed the adventure. The boat came nearer, and yet seemed steered by invisible hands, for no one could be seen beneath the awning which was raised at one end of it. “What lazy hulks,” exclaimed Fitzgerald, “to let their boat float on with the current, while they lie dozing there. I’ll pipe them again, and if they dont answer more gaily I’ll board them straightway.” He raised his bugle just as they were in the act of passing, and sounded a note, which was replied to by two figures masked and muffled in short cloaks, springing on the side of their little bark. “Good God! who are you? what is your purpose?” cried he, in a tone of consternation. “Villains! Murderers!” shouted Arrowfoot, straining the terrified Eldred close to his bosom. The ruffians rushed upon him, and the cry of despair he uttered when he found he could not retain his hold upon the boy, revealed their success. The struggle had been momentary. The Indian was shaken off into the water, by men whose nerve had been strengthened by many a scene of blood and strife; and the child he had so vainly striven to defend was heaved into the boat of the strangers. One wild shriek pierced the silence of the cove and all was still, while the pirates pushed silently down the stream. Eva sunk lifeless on the bosom of Caraola, who seemed stunned by the events which had just occurred, but soon her mournful wail told her utter hopelessness. Julian Fitzgerald stood silent and unmoved. Where was his vaunted courage, which had made no effort to rescue a helpless boy? “Caraola,” he at length said, “I have been thinking what course we had best pursue, to overtake these murderers before they have completed their bloody purpose. I would follow them immediately, but we must first get assistance for this fainting girl.” “Oh go,” cried she, “I can steer the boat—I can revive Eva.” Her voice, as it dwelt on the emphatic word “go,” roused the unconscious sufferer to a sense of her wretchedness. “Go—haste—save him—my brother, my father’s darling,” she shrieked in agony.