“Well, then, will you be my wife?” “Yes.” “Within a year?” “Yes.” “Within six months?” “Yes.” “Within three months?” “No, sir.” “When will you, Irene?” “Next spring.” “In February?” “February is not in the spring; no, sir, not then.” “Do name the time; I suppose it will be the last day of the season.” “No, George. I will become your wife on the first of May—in the month of roses and flowers.” Kingman drew the trembling girl closer to him, and pressed a pure kiss on her burning cheek. They sat and conversed far into the night, their voices just loud enough to reach only the ears for which they were intended. “Should we not return?” at length asked Irene. “I see no need of hurrying. Why do you ask?” “It is somewhat late; and, besides,” she added, in a lower tone, “I believe I have heard something wrong.” “Not frightened, Irene, are you?” “Yes: for I fear we are in danger.” “In danger from whom, I should like to know.” “From Indians and wild animals.” “From Indians! do you suppose there could be found a savage, Irene, who would harm a hair of your head?” Kingman had hardly ceased speaking when he heard a rustling, and started to his feet. He reached forward to his rifle, which he had leaned against a tree not three feet away. It was gone! “By heavens! we are in danger. Keep quiet, dearest,” he whispered. The next instant they heard the deep, suppressed laughter of some one. Both were confounded. Wonder for a moment held them silent, then, as Kingman looked up he saw a form standing in the entrance. “Frighten you any?” asked the well-known voice of Abe Moffat. “Rather,” laughed Kingman. “Have you got my rifle?” “I picked one up that was leaning against a tree here.” “How did you get it without my knowing it?” “Just reached over and hauled it up without saying a word. You needn’t blush so, Irene; I didn’t hear George ask you to be his bonny wife; I didn’t hear you promise him you would; but, George, if you value your little angel, you’d better get out of this as soon as convenient.” “What mean you?” asked both, eagerly. “O nothing! only the devil is to pay among the Shawnees again.” “How did you know we were here?” “I seen you go, and I can tell you, as I just now told you, you must do this courting at home, or in some safer place than this.” Kingman concluded that the advice of the ranger was good, and arose at once. Whether the storm of war would not have reached our settlement or not it is difficult to tell. But the smouldering fire among the frontier was fanned into a raging flame by the perpetration of one of the greatest outrages that ever disgraced the American history. In March, 1782, Colonel Daniel Williamson and his command inhumanly massacred over a hundred of the peaceful Moravian Indians. These had long been such warm friends to the whites that they had incurred the displeasure of their own people thereby, and their murder was therefore entirely unprovoked and without the shadow of excuse.