, and now
feeling his throat, on which the marks of his enemy's fingers were still
quite visible. The rest of the warriors consulted together, near at
hand, all those who had been out having returned to report that no signs
of any other prowlers near the camp were to be found. In this state
of things, the old woman, whose name was Shebear, in plain English,
approached Deerslayer, with her fists clenched and her eyes flashing
fire. Hitherto, she had been occupied with screaming, an employment
at which she had played her part with no small degree of success, but
having succeeded in effectually alarming all within reach of a pair of
lungs that had been strengthened by long practice, she next turned her
attention to the injuries her own person had sustained in the struggle.
These were in no manner material, though they were of a nature to arouse
all the fury of a woman who had long ceased to attract by means of the
gentler qualities, and who was much disposed to revenge the hardships
she had so long endured, as the neglected wife and mother of savages, on
all who came within her power. If Deerslayer had not permanently injured
her, he had temporarily caused her to suffer, and she was not a person
to overlook a wrong of this nature, on account of its motive.

"Skunk of the pale-faces," commenced this exasperated and semi-poetic
fury, shaking her fist under the nose of the impassable hunter, "you are
not even a woman. Your friends the Delawares are only women, and you are
their sheep. Your own people will not own you, and no tribe of redmen
would have you in their wigwams; you skulk among petticoated warriors.
You slay our brave friend who has left us?--No--his great soul scorned
to fight you, and left his body rather than have the shame of slaying
you! But the blood that you spilt when the spirit was not looking on,
has not sunk into the ground. It must be buried in your groans. What
music do I hear? Those are not the wailings of a red man!--no red
warrior groans so much like a hog. They come from a pale-face
throat--a Yengeese bosom, and sound as pleasant as girls
singing--Dog--skunk--woodchuck-mink--hedgehog--pig--toad--spider--yengee--"

Here the old woman, having expended her breath and exhausted her
epithets, was fain to pause a moment, though both her fists were shaken
in the prisoner's face, and the whole of her wrinkled countenance was
filled with fierce resentment. Deerslayer looked upon these impotent
attempts to