unless reasonably certain of carrying the citadel altogether; inasmuch as it might serve as a prison to place him in the hands of the garrison.  To recross it under a fire from the loops, would be an exploit so hazardous that few Indians would think of undertaking it.  All this Maud knew from her father’s conversations, and she saw how much had been obtained in raising the gates.  Then the stockade, once properly closed, afforded great security to those moving about within it; the timbers would be apt to stop a bullet, and were a perfect defence against a rush; leaving time to the women and children to get into the court, even allowing that the assailants succeeded in scaling the palisades.

Maud thought rapidly and well, in the strait in which she was placed.  She understood most of the movements, on both sides, and she also saw the importance of her remaining where she could note all that passed, if she intended to make an attempt at reaching the Hut, after dark.  This necessity determined her to continue at the rock, so long as light remained.  She wondered she was not missed, but rightly attributed the circumstance to the suddenness of the alarm, and the crowd of other thoughts which would naturally press upon the minds of her friends, at such a fearful moment.  “I will stay where I am,” thought Maud, a little proudly, “and prove, if I am not really the daughter of Hugh Willoughby, that I am not altogether unworthy of his love and care!  I can even pass the night in the forest, at this warm season, without suffering.”

Just as these thoughts crossed her mind, in a sort of mental soliloquy, a stone rolled from a path above her, and fell over the rock on which the seat was placed.  A footstep was then heard, and the girl’s heart beat quick with apprehension.  Still she conceived it safest to remain perfectly quiet.  She scarce breathed in her anxiety to be motionless.  Then it occurred to her, that some one beside herself might be out from the Hut, and that a friend was near.  Mike had been in the woods that very afternoon, she knew; for she had seen him; and the true-hearted fellow would indeed be a treasure to her, at that awful moment.  This idea, which rose almost to certainty as soon as it occurred, induced her to spring forward, when the appearance of a man, whom she did not recognise, dressed in a hunting-shirt, and otherwise attired for the woods, carrying a short rifle in the hollow of his arm, caused her to stop, in motionless terror.  At first, her presence was not observed; but, no sooner did the stranger catch a glimpse of her person, than he stopped, raised his hands in surprise, laid his rifle against a tree, and sprang forward; the girl closing her eyes, and sinking on the seat, with bowed head, expecting the blow of the deadly tomahawk.

“Maud—­dearest, dearest Maud—­do you not know me!” exclaimed one, leaning over the pallid girl, while he passed an arm round her slender waist, with an affection so delicate and reserved, that, at another time, it might have attracted attention.  “Look up, dear girl, and show that at least you fear not me!”