We were beside the water again, dark and empty. The Indians immediately brought forth three of their light canoes, which they had cunningly concealed among the bushes, and laid them gently on the stream. No one molested me, nor, indeed, paid any special attention to me as I sate and watched them. [Illustration: "And laid them gently on the stream."] The pictures in such works as La Hontain and others I had seen were unreal, and I could not recognise their models in the men about me. They were painted, it is true, but in a manner more grotesque than affrighting; their hair was black and lanky, plastered close to their heads, but with one or two long, plaited braids escaping, ornamented with beads. Their only clothing consisted of leather leggings more or less tattered, and the belts for their weapons, which crossed their naked bodies; each one was shod with soft moccasins neatly ornamented, and I could not but admire the ease and agility of their movements. Strangely enough, I was no longer possessed by my former terrors, my only anxiety being for Lucy; but I could not doubt she was in safety, as the Indians were evidently expecting the arrival of the rest of the band. Before long we heard sounds of their approach, and my poor Lucy appeared. "Oh, my dear, dear mistress!" she cried, "I was afraid I should never see you again!" and the faithful creature clasped me in her arms and kissed me as if I had been a child. Once she was convinced of my safety, she straight recovered her serenity, for it was more than composure. Her absolute faith and trust that we were in the hand of God--of "Our Heavenly Father," as she always said--was so complete that I leaned upon her strength and was comforted. All was now ready for the embarkation, but, to our dismay, we were directed to different canoes. No force was used. Indeed, my captor, who appeared to be the leader, or chief, for he wore somewhat more of their tawdry finery than the others, and his face was decorated by a broad band of white below the eyes, seemed anxious to add to my comfort, directing me how to dispose of myself in the bottom of the canoe. But once separated from Lucy, I lost the courage with which she had inspired me, and I trembled at the rough, guttural voices of the savages, who talked their loudest, filling me with the greater apprehension, as it betokened they held themselves beyond pursuit or discovery. But Lucy, dear courageous soul that she was, divined my fears, and sent back her message of reassurance to me in one of her people's hymns, which I had learned to love on board the ship: "Thou very present Aid In suffering and distress, The mind which still on Thee is stayed Is kept in perfect peace."