Wingrove stands astonished--half afrighted. Before he can recover himself, or divine her intent, the Indian is once more by his side. She snatches the pouch from his shoulders--the place where her own hands had suspended it--then flinging the silver coin at his feet, and uttering in a loud angry tone the words, "False pale-face!" she turns from the spot, and glides rapidly away. In another moment she has entered the forest-path, and is lost to the sight. The scene has been short--of only a few seconds' duration. Marian has not moved since the moment she uttered that wild, half-suppressed scream. She stands silent and transfixed, as if its utterance had deprived her of speech and motion. Her fine form picturesquely draped with bodice and skirt; the moccasin buskins upon her feet; the coiled coronet of shining hair surmounting her head; the rifle in her hand, resting on its butt, as it had been dashed mechanically down; the huge gaunt dog by her side--all these outlined upon the green background of the forest leaves, impart to the maiden an appearance at once majestic and imposing. Standing thus immobile, she suggests the idea of some rival huntress, whom Diana, from jealousy, has suddenly transformed into stone. But her countenance betrays that she is no statue. The colour of her cheeks--alternately flushing red and pale--and the indignant flash of that fiery eye, tell you that you look upon a living woman--one who breathes and burns under the influence of a terrible emotion. Wingrove is half frantic. He scarce knows what to say, or what to do. In his confusion he advances towards the young girl, calling her by name; but before he has half crossed the glade, her words fall upon his ear, causing him to hesitate and falter in his steps. "Frank Wingrove!" she cries, "come not near me. Your road lies the other way. Go! follow your Indian damsel. You will find her at Swampville, no doubt, selling her cheap kisses to triflers like yourself. Traitor! we meet no more!" Without waiting for a reply, or even to note the effect of her words, Marian Holt steps back into the forest, and disappears. The young hunter is too stupefied to follow. With "false pale-face" ringing in one ear, and "traitor" in the other, he knows not in what direction to turn. At length the log falls under his eye; and striding mechanically towards it, he sits down--to reflect upon the levity of his conduct, and the unpleasant consequences of an unhallowed kiss. CHAPTER FIVE. SQUATTER AND SAINT.