"But thar's worse, capt'n." "Worse!--what is it, Wingrove?" I put the question with a feeling of renewed anxiety. "Holt's gone wi' the Mormons." "That too I had expected. It does not surprise me in the least." "Ah! capt'n," continued the backwoodsman with a sigh, while an expression of profound sadness pervaded his features, "thar's uglier news still." "Ha!" I involuntarily exclaimed, as an evil suspicion crossed my mind. "News of _her_? Quick! tell me! has aught happened to _her_?" "The worst that kud happen, I reck'n--_she's dead_." I started as if a shot had passed through my heart. Its convulsive throbbing stifled my speech. I could not get breath to utter a word; but stood gazing at my companion in silent agony. "Arter all," continued he, in a tone of grave resignation, "I don't know if it _air_ the worst. I sayed afore, an' I say so still, thet I'd ruther she war dead that in the arms o' thet ere stinkin' Mormon. Poor Marian! she's hed but a short life, o' 't, an' not a very merry one eyether." "What! Marian? Is it of her you are speaking?" "Why, sartin, capt'n. Who else shed it be?" "Marian dead?" "Yes--poor girl, she never lived to see that Salt Lake city--whar the cussed varmint war takin' her. She died on the way out, an' war berryed som'rs on the paraireys. I wish I knew whar--I'd go to see her grave." "Ha! ha! ha! Whose story is this?" My companion looked at me in amazement. The laugh, at such a time, must have sounded strange to his ears. "The Injun heerd it from Lil," replied Wingrove, still puzzled at my behaviour. "Stebbins had told it to Holt, an' to her likeways. Poor young creetur! I reck'n he'll be a wantin' her too--now thet he's lost the other. Poor little Lil!" "Cheer, comrade, cheer! Either Su-wa-nee or Stebbins has lied--belike both of them, since both had a purpose to serve: the Mormon to deceive the girl's father--the Indian to do the same with you. The story is false, Marian Holt is _not_ dead." "Marian ain't dead?" "No, she lives--she has been true to you. Listen." I could no longer keep from him the sweet secret. The reaction-- consequent on the bitter pang I had just experienced, while under the momentary belief that it was Lilian who was dead--had stirred my spirit, filling it with a wild joy. I longed to impart the same emotions to my suffering companion; and, in rapid detail, I ran over the events that had occurred since our parting. To the revelations which the Mexican had made, Wingrove listened with frantic delight--only interrupting me with frenzied exclamations that bespoke his soul-felt joy. When I had finished, he cried out: "She war _forced_ to go! I thort so! I knew it! Whar is she, capt'n! Oh, take me to her! I'll fall on my knees. I'll axe her a thousand times to pardon me. 'Twar the Injun's fault. I'll swar it war the Chicasaw. She's been the cuss o' us both. Oh! whar is Marian? I love her more than iver! Whar is she?"