every savage was paralyzed. Each stood as devoid of animation as a statue. For many moments an intense silence reigned, as if naught existed there but the cheerless forest trees. Slowly, at length, the tomahawk was returned to the belt, and the arrow to the quiver. No longer was a desire to spill blood manifested. The dusky children of the forest attributed to the mysterious sound a supernatural agency. They believed it was a voice from the perennial hunting-grounds. Humbly they bowed their heads, and whispered devotions to the Great Spirit. The young chief alone stood erect. He gazed at the round moon above him, and sighs burst from his breast, and burning tears ran down his stained cheek. Impatiently, by a motion of the hand, he directed the savages to leave him, and when they withdrew he resumed his seat on the fallen trunk, and reclined his brow upon his hand. One of the long feathers that decked his head waved forward, after he had been seated thus a few minutes, and when his eye rested upon it he started up wildly, and tearing it away, trampled it under his feet. At that instant the same “FATHER!” was again heard. The young chief fell upon his knees, and, while he panted convulsively, said, in ENGLISH, “_Father! Mother! I’m your poor William—you loved me much—where are you? Oh tell me—I will come to you—I want to see you!_” He then fell prostrate and groaned piteously. “Father! oh! where are you? Whose voice was that?” said Mary, breaking through the slight incrustation that obscured her, and leaping from her covert. The young chief sprang from the earth—gazed a moment at the maid—spoke rapidly and loudly in the language of his tribe to his party, who were now at the place of encampment, seated by the fire they had kindled—and then, seizing his tomahawk, was in the act of hurling it at Mary, when the yells of the war-party and the ringing discharges of firearms arrested his steel when brandished in the air. The white men had arrived! The young, chief seized Mary by her long flowing hair—again prepared to level the fatal blow—when she turned her face upwards, and he again hesitated. Discharges in quick succession, and nearer than before, still rang in his ears. Mary strove not to escape. Nor did the Indian strike. The whites were heard rushing through the bushes—the chief seized the trembling girl in his arms—a bullet whizzed by his head—but, unmindful of danger, he vanished among the dark bushes with his burden. CHAPTER XII. Joe’s indisposition—His cure—Sneak’s reformation—The pursuit—The captive Indian—Approach to the encampment of the savages—Joe’s illness again—The surprise—The terrific encounter—Rescue of Mary—Capture of the young chief—The return.