om his belt.

"Yonder is Oneida," sang out the man at the main-top; "she is within a
cable's length."

"Heed her not. When the bell strikes, I have sworn thou shalt die!"

A pause ensued--a few brief moments in the lapse of time, but an age
in the records of thought. Not a breath relieved the horror and
intensity of that silence. The plash of a light oar was heard;--a boat
touched the vessel. The bell struck.

"Once!" shouted the fierce mariner, and he raised his pistol with the
sharp click of preparation.

"Twice!"

The bell boomed again.

"Thrice!"

"Hold!" cried a female, rushing between the executioner and the
condemned: But the warning was too late;--the ball had sped, though
not to its mark. Oneida was the victim. She fell, with a faint scream,
bleeding on the deck. But Harrington was close locked in the arms of
his little Grace. She had flown to him for protection, sobbing with
joy.

The pirate seemed horror-struck at the deed. He raised Oneida,
unloosing his neckcloth to staunch the wound.

"The Great Spirit calls me:" she spoke with great exertion: "the green
woods, the streams, land of my forefathers. Oh! I come!" She raised
herself suddenly with great energy, looking towards Harrington, who
yet knelt, guarded and pinioned--the child still clinging to him.

"White man, I have wronged thee, and I am the sacrifice. Murderer,
behold thy child!" She raised her eyes suddenly towards the pirate,
who shook his head, supposing that her senses grew confused.

"It was for thy rescue!" again she addressed Harrington. "The Great
Spirit appeared to me: he bade me restore what I had taken away, and I
should be with the warriors and the chiefs who have died in battle.
They hunt in forests from which the red-deer flies not, and fish in
rivers that are never dry. But my bones shall not rest with my
fathers!--I come. Lake of the woods, farewell!"

She threw one look of reproach on her destroyer, and the spirit of
Oneida had departed.

The pirate stood speechless and bewildered. He looked on the child--a
ray of recollection seemed to pass over his visage. Its expression was
softened; and this man of outlawry and blood became gentle. The savage
grew tame. The common sympathies of his nature, so long dried up,
burst forth, and the wide deep flood of feeling and affection rolled
on with it like a torrent, gathering strength by its own accumulation.

Years after, in a secluded cottage by the mansion of the Harrin