tions, was weaving a web around his innocent victim,
cruel and inextricable.

We have said that all save the watchful sentinels were sleeping; but one
there was from whose eyes and from whose heart revenge had driven sleep.
Mamalis--the poor, hapless Mamalis--whose sorrows had been forgotten in
the general excitement which had prevailed--Mamalis knew but one
thought, and that was no dream. Her brother, the pride and refuge of
her maiden heart, lay stiff and murdered by the way-side--his death
unwept, his dirge unsung, his brilliant hopes of fame cut off ere they
had fully budded. And his murderer was near her! Could she hesitate? Had
she not been taught, in her simple faith, that the blood of the victim
requires the blood of his destroyer? The voice of her brother's blood
called to her from the ground. Nor did it call in vain. It is true, he
had been harsh, nay sometimes even cruel to her, but when was woman's
heart, when moved to softness, ever mindful of the wrongs she had
endured? Ask yourself, when standing by the lifeless corse of one whom
you have dearly loved, if then you can remember aught but kindness, and
love, and happiness, in your association with the loved one. One gentle
word, one sweet smile, one generous action, though almost faded from the
memory before, obscures forever all the recollection of wrongs inflicted
and injuries endured.

She was in the room occupied by Virginia Temple. Oh, what a contrast
between the two! Yes, there they were--Revenge and Innocence! The one
lay pure and beautiful in sleep; her round, white arm thrown back upon
the pillow, to form a more snowy resting place for her lovely cheek.
From beneath her cap some tresses had escaped, which, happy in release,
were sporting in the soft air that wooed them through the open window.
Her face, at other times too spiritually pale, was now slightly flushed
by the sultry warmth of the night. A smile of peaceful happiness played
around her lips, as she dreamed, perhaps, of some wild flower ramble
which in happier days she had had with Hansford. Her snowy bosom, which
in her restlessness she had nearly bared, was white and swelling as a
wave which plays in the calm moonlight. Such was the beautiful being who
lay sleeping calmly in the arms of Innocence, while the dark, but not
less striking, form of the Indian girl bent over, to discover if she
slept. She was dressed as we have before described, with the short
deer-skin smock, extending to he