ion now expressed by Captain Wentworth, that the fact of the
schooner having fallen into the hands of the savages by no means
implied the capture of the fort whence she came; since it was not at
all unlikely she had been chased during a calm by the numerous canoes
into the Sinclair, where, owing to the extreme narrowness of the river,
she had fallen an easy prey.

"Moreover," observed Captain Blessington, "it is highly improbable the
ferocious warrior could have succeeded in capturing any others than the
unfortunate crew of the schooner; for had this been the case, he would
not have lost the opportunity of crowning his triumph by exhibiting his
victims to our view in some conspicuous part of the vessel."

"This, I grant you," rejoined the governor, "to be one solitary
circumstance in our favour; but may it not, after all, merely prove
that our worst apprehensions are already realised?"

"He is not one, methinks, since vengeance seems his aim, to exercise it
in so summary, and therefore merciful, a manner. Depend upon it,
colonel, had any of those in whom we are more immediately interested,
fallen into his hands, he would not have failed to insult and agonize
us by an exhibition of his prisoners."

"You are right, Blessington," exclaimed Charles de Haldimar, in a voice
that his choking feelings rendered almost sepulchral; "he is not one to
exercise his vengeance in a summary, and merciful manner. The deed is
yet unaccomplished, for even now the curse of Ellen Halloway rings
again in my ear, and tells me the atoning blood must be spilt on the
grave of her husband."

The peculiar tone in which these words were uttered, caused every one
present to turn and regard the speaker, for they recalled the prophetic
language of the unhappy woman. There was now a wildness of expression
in his handsome features, marking the mind utterly dead to hope, yet
struggling to work itself up to passive endurance of the worst. Colonel
de Haldimar sighed painfully, as he bent his eye half reproachfully on
the dull and attenuated features of his son; and although he spoke not,
his look betrayed the anguish that allusion had called up to his heart.

"Forgive me, my father," exclaimed the youth, grasping a hand that was
reluctantly extended. "I meant it not in unkindness; but indeed I have
ever had the conviction strongly impressed on my spirit. I know I
appear weak, childish, unsoldierlike; yet can it be wondered at, when I
have been so ofte