le tresses, the proofs of the prowess
of a great warrior, who, like the other fighting-men of his race,
accounted the golden ringlets of a girl as noble a trophy of valour as
the grizzled locks of a veteran soldier.

On the floor of the tent, piled against its sides and farthest extremity,
was the raised platform of skins, with rude partitions and curtains of
mats, which formed the sleeping-couch, or, perhaps we might say, the
sleeping-apartments, of the lodge. But these were in a great measure
hidden under heaps of blankets, skins, and other trumpery articles, that
seemed to have been snatched in some sudden hurry from the floor, which
they had previously cumbered. In fact, there was every appearance that
the tent had been for a long time used as a kind of store-room, the
receptacle of a bandit's omnium-gatherum, and had been hastily prepared
for unexpected inmates. But these particulars, which he might have noted
at a glance, Nathan did not pause to survey. There were objects of
greater attractions for his eyes in a group of three female figures: in
one of whom, standing near the fire, and grasping the hands and garments
of a second, as if imploring pity or protection, her hair dishevelled,
her visage bloodless, her eyes wild with grief and terror, he beheld the
object of his perilous enterprise, the lovely and unhappy Edith
Forrester. Struggling in her grasp, as if to escape, yet weeping, and
uttering hurried expressions that were meant to soothe the agitation of
the captive, was the renegade's daughter, Telie, who seemed herself
little less terrified than the prisoner. The third person of the group
was an Indian beldam, old, withered, and witch-like, who sat crouching
over the fire, warming her skinny hands, and only intermitting her
employment occasionally to eye the more youthful pair with looks of
malignant hatred and suspicion.

The gale was still freshening, and the elm-boughs rustled loudly in the
wind; but Nathan could overhear every word of the captive, as, still
grasping Telie by the hand, she besought her, in the language of
desperation, "not to leave her, not to desert her, at such a moment;"
while Telie, shedding tears, which seemed to be equally those of shame
and sorrow, entreated her to fear nothing, and permit her to depart.

"They won't hurt you,--no, my father promised that," she said: "it is the
chief's house, and nobody will come nigh to hurt you. You are safe, lady;
but, oh! my father will kil