whose dignity of manner had hitherto always commanded his respect.  There he now stood—­a victim to satanic influence!  His tall figure was dilated to its utmost height by excitement and violent muscular effort, as he stood by the side of the sick man.  His eyes were fixed with a fearful and unmeaning glare on the darkest corner of the hut, and seemed to be starting from their sockets; while his hands, stiff and motionless, were extended over the body of Terah, as if to guard him from the assault of some demons visible to the conjuror alone.  In this statue-like posture he remained for some moments, while his breast heaved convulsively, and foam gathered on his parted lips.  Then, suddenly, he uttered a yell—­so loud and so unearthly that Henrich started with surprise and terror:  and Oriana caught his hand, and tried to draw him away from a scene that now filled her soul with shame and sorrow.

But Henrich did not move:  he did not heed the beseeching voice, and the gentle violence of his companion, whose wishes were generally commands to her white brother.

That yell had recalled the patient to partial consciousness, and he rolled his blood-shot eyes around him, as if endeavoring to collect his wandering senses; and then his haggard countenance again resumed the expression of imperturbable composure and firm endurance that an Indian warrior thinks it a disgrace to lose, even in the extremity of suffering.  Then Tisquantum sank on one knee beside him, and burst forth into a passionate address to his deities—­the powers of good and evil—­ whom he regarded as almost equally mighty to decide the fate of the patient.

‘O, Mahneto!’ he exclaimed, in a hoarse and howling voice; ’O, Richtan-Mahneto,[1] who created the first man and woman out of a stone, and placed them in these forests to be the parents of thy red children; is it thy will that Terah shall leave his brethren to mourn his departed goodness and wisdom, and go on that long and toilsome journey that leads to the hunting-grounds of our forefathers?  Surely when his spirit knocks at the door, it will be opened to him, and the warriors of our tribe will welcome him, while his foes will be driven away with the awful sentence, Quachet![2] Yes, Terah, the wise in counsel, and the fearless in war, shall surely dwell in the fields of happiness, and again strike the prey with the renewed strength and skill of his youth.  But not yet, Mahneto!  O, not yet!...I see Hobbamock lurking there in the gloom!  I see his fiery eagle eyes, and I hear the flap of his heavy wing; and I know that he hovers here to suck the blood of Terah, with all his murderous Weettakos around him![3] But Tisquantum’s charms are too strong for him:  he cannot approach the sick man now.  Ha!  Maatche-Mahneto!’ he cried—­and again he fixed his glaring eyes on the dark space in the far corner of the hut, from which the spectators had shrunk trembling away—­’ Ha! spirit of evil!  I behold thee—­and I defy thee!  Terah is not thine; and my power has compelled thee to send the Ashkook,[4] with his healing tongue, to lick my brother’s wounds; and Wobsacuck, with eagle beak, to devour the venom that clogs his veins, and makes his breath come short and thick.  I feel them on my shoulders, as they sit there, and stretch out their necks to do my bidding!  Terah shall live!’