ound her with thongs and left her to die. She prayed, and the Great
Spirit heard her prayer and sent her help. The white man came; his heart
was soft; he unbound her, he gave water to cool her hot lips, he led her
to his lodge. The white squaw (and she pointed to Catharine) was there,
she bound up her wounds, she laid her on her own bed, she gave her meat
and drink, and tended her with love. She taught her to pray to the Good
Spirit, and told her to return good for evil, to be true and just, kind
and merciful. The hard heart of the young girl became soft as clay when
moulded for the pots and she loved her white sister and brothers, and
was happy. The Bald Eagle's people came when my white brothers were at
peace, they found a trembling fawn within the lodge, they led her away,
they left tears and loneliness where joy and peace had been. The Mohawk
squaw could not see the hearth of her white brothers desolate; she took
the canoe, she to the lodge of the great father of his tribe, and she
says to him, 'Give back the white squaw to her home on the Rice Lake,
and take in her instead the rebellious daughter of the Ojebwa's enemy,
to die or be his servant; she fears nothing now the knife or the
tomahawk, the arrow or the spear: her life is in the hand of the great
chief.'" She sank on her knees as she spoke these last words and bowing
down her head on her breast remained motionless as a statue.

There was silence for some minutes, and then the old man rose and
said:--

"Daughter of a brave woman, thou hast spoken long, and thou hast spoken
well; the ears of the Bald Eagle have been open. The white squaw shall
be restored to her brother's lodge--but thou remainest. I have spoken."

Catharine in tears cast her arms around her disinterested friend and
remained weeping--how could she accept this great sacrifice? She in
her turn pleaded for the life and liberty of the Mohawk, but the chief
turned a cold ear to her passionate and incoherent pleading. He was
weary--he was impatient of further excitement--he coldly motioned to
them to withdraw; and the friends in sadness retired to talk over all
that had taken place since that sad day when Catharine was taken from
her home. While her heart was joyful at the prospect of her own release,
it was clouded with fears for the uncertain fate of her beloved friend.

"They will condemn me to a cruel death," said Indiana, "but I can suffer
and die for my white sister."

That night the Indian