ell, and in a few seconds more the settlers, whom
the girls had not failed to put on their guard, were hurrying from their
hiding-places, firing into the astonished crowd of savages, who dashed
for the woods again, leaving a dozen of their number on the ground. Aaron
remained quietly standing near his father's house, and he was captured,
as he hoped to be. When he saw how his parents had aged with time and
grief he could not repress a tear, but to his grief was added terror when
his father, after looking him steadily in the eye without recognition,
began to load a pistol. "They killed my boys," said he, "and I am going
to kill him. Bind him to that tree."

In vain the mother pleaded for mercy; in vain the dumb boy's eyes
appealed to his father's. He was not afraid to die, and would do so
gladly to have saved the settlement; but to die by his father's band! He
could not endure it. He was bound to a tree, with the light of a fire
shining into his face.

The old man, with hard determination, raised the weapon and aimed it
slowly at the boy's heart. A surge of feeling shook the frame of the
captive--he threw his whole life into the effort--then the silence of
three years was broken, and he cried, "Father!" A moment later his
parents were sobbing joyfully, and he could speak to them once more.

SIREN OF THE FRENCH BROAD

Among the rocks east of Asheville, North Carolina, lives the Lorelei of
the French Broad River. This stream--the Tselica of the Indians--contains
in its upper reaches many pools where the rapid water whirls and deepens,
and where the traveller likes to pause in the heats of afternoon and
drink and bathe. Here, from the time when the Cherokees occupied the
country, has lived the siren, and if one who is weary and downcast sits
beside the stream or utters a wish to rest in it, he becomes conscious of
a soft and exquisite music blending with the plash of the wave.

Looking down in surprise he sees--at first faintly, then with
distinctness--the form of a beautiful woman, with hair streaming like
moss and dark eyes looking into his, luring him with a power he cannot
resist. His breath grows short, his gaze is fixed, mechanically he rises,
steps to the brink, and lurches forward into the river. The arms that
catch him are slimy and cold as serpents; the face that stares into his
is a grinning skull. A loud, chattering laugh rings through the
wilderness, and all is still again.

THE HUNTER OF CALA