nt his lips were free.

The girl had confidence in her lover's power to find some way of
protecting her, in case no help should come from the city. Her sole
thought now was to show herself brave, and in no way to embarrass his
judgment. Before she could answer, however, the leader of the band
struck Crewe across the mouth with the flat of his hatchet, as a hint
that he should keep silence. Had Crewe been alone, bound as he was, he
would have felled his assailant with a blow of the foot; but for
Margaret's sake he forced himself to endure the indignity tamely, though
his blue eyes flamed with so dangerous a light that the Indian raised
his hatchet again in menace. The girl's heart bled under the stroke and
at sight of the wounded mouth, but she prudently abstained from speech.
Only she spoke one word in a low voice that said all things to her
lover's ear, the one word "Beloved!"

To the chief now spoke one of the band in the Micmac tongue:--

"Why not let the paleface talk to his young squaw? It will be the more
bitter for them at the last!"

"No," said the chief, grinning; "it is as death to the palefaces to keep
silence. But they shall have time to talk at the last."

Throughout the long journey, which was continued till midnight under the
strong light of a moon just at the full, the lovers held no converse
save in the mute language of eye and gesture, and that only during the
rough marches from one lake to another. The greater part of the journey
was by canoe. At night they were lashed to trees some way apart, and
separated by the camp-fire. Crewe dared not address a word to Margaret
lest he should anger his captors into doing him some injury that might
lessen his powers of thought or action, and the girl, seeing that no
immediate gain could be had from speech, dreaded to be smitten on the
mouth in a way that might disfigure her in her lover's eyes. Only at
times, when a wind would blow the smoke and flame aside, she looked
across the camp-fire into the young man's face, and in the look and in
the smile of the steady lips he read not only an unswerving courage, but
also a confidence in his own resourceful protection, which pierced his
heart with anguish. All night he pondered schemes of rescue or escape,
until his brain reeled and his soul grew sick before the unsolvable
problem. He could move neither hand nor foot, and just before dawn he
sank to sleep in his bonds. Then for the waking girl the loneliness
became