Here emotion overcame the strong man, and, for many moments, his face was buried in his great hands. “The Lone Man sighs for his boy,” he said at length. “Often the Lone Man left his wife and little one, and journeyed to the great city of Richmond. He never thought that a snake was creeping into his wigwam. “One night the Lone Man returned to his lodge, and saw two shadows beyond the window. A great storm passed over his heart, his head burned with a strong fire, and he crept forward. From behind a giant oak that spread its branches over his cabin, the Lone Man saw another seated beside his wife, who rocked the cradle where slept his little boy. The strange white man was a hunter, and one arm he had thrown around the neck of Agnes. “Hotter and hotter grew the Lone Man’s head, and when the hunter’s lips--unbearded, for he seemed no more than a beautiful boy--touched the rosy cheeks of Agnes, his rifle flew to his shoulder, and the young hunter fell across the cradle, with a bullet in his brain. “The Lone Man waited not to charge his wife with her unfaithfulness. He darted into the forest with her shriek ringing in his ears, and he swore, until death, to dwell alone in the great wood. He crossed the Kiskepila Sepe, and found the cave near the Scioto, where he has since dwelt alone. Since that dark night the Lone Man’s hand has never drunk the blood of man, and until death it never drinks it. Oonalooska, the Lone Man’s heart bleeds to meet his boy; but he will never cross the eagle river again. Among the woods of the Ohio he will die. But when the young hunter goes back to Virginia, he will hunt for the hermit’s child and wife, and tell him what become of them. “Now, Oonalooska knows why the Lone Man sought the forests of Ohio.” For a long time the Indian was silent. “Oonalooska would know what became of the Lone Man’s squaw and pappoose,” he said, at length. “The Shawnee believes that they are not in the lodge of the Great Spirit.” “I pray that they are not,” said the hermit, fervently. “I curse the impulse that led me to shoot the young hunter without giving him a chance for his life. Perhaps Agnes was not to blame. Oh, to think that a moment of calm inquiry might have prevented my being a murderer,” and a groan of agony burst from the hermit’s heart, as he buried his face in his palms. “Oona, when came Alaska to the lodges of the Shawnees?” asked the cave man when he, at length, raised his head to the chief. “When the snows of four winters rested upon Oonalooska’s head,” was the reply. “How many winters has Oonalooska seen?” The Shawnee designated twenty-five, by counting his fingers. “How singular!” murmured the hermit, lowering his head. “Twenty-one years ago my hands were dyed with human blood, and twenty-one years ago Alaska came to the Shawnees! Oh, the resemblance she bears to Agnes! Heaven, solve the terrible enigma!”