ved his
companion in his arms, as she bowed her head on his bosom, half
fainting.

"Is this resentment, dearest, or is it consent?" he asked, bewildered
by all that passed.

"Oh! Bob--Father--father--father!"

"My father!--what of him, Maud? Why has the allusion to him brought you
to this state?"

"They have killed him, dearest, dearest Bob; and you must now be
father, husband, brother, son, all in one. We have no one left but
you!"

A long pause succeeded. The shock was terrible to Robert Willoughby,
but he bore up against it, like a man. Maud's incoherent and unnatural
manner was now explained, and while unutterable tenderness of manner--a
tenderness that was increased by what had just passed--was exhibited by
each to the other, no more was said of love. A common grief appeared to
bind their hearts closer together, but it was unnecessary to dwell on
their mutual affection in words. Robert Willoughby's sorrow mingled
with that of Maud, and, as he folded her to his heart, their faces were
literally bathed in each other's tears.

It was some time before Willoughby could ask, or Maud give, an
explanation. Then the latter briefly recounted all she knew, her
companion listening with the closest attention. The son thought the
occurrence as extraordinary as it was afflicting, but there was not
leisure for inquiry.

It was, perhaps, fortunate for our lovers that Nick's employment kept
him away. For nearly ten minutes longer did he continue absent; then he
returned, slowly, thoughtful, and possibly a little disturbed. At the
sound of his footstep, Willoughby released Maud from his arms, and both
assumed an air of as much tranquillity as the state of their feelings
would allow.

"Better march"--said Nick, in his sententious manner--"Mohawk very
mad."

"Do you see the signs of this?" asked the major, scarce knowing what he
said.

"Alway make Injin mad; lose scalp. Prisoner run away, carry scalp with
him."

"I rather think, Nick, you do my captors injustice; so far from
desiring anything so cruel, they treated me well enough, considering
the circumstances, and that we are in the woods."

"Yes; spare scalp, 'cause t'ink rope ready. Nebber trust Mohawk--all
bad Injin."

To own the truth, one of the great failings of the savages of the
American forests, was to think of the neighbouring tribes, as the
Englishman is known to think of the Frenchman, and vice versa; as the
German thinks of both, and all think of the