Here Beulah’s words were stopped by her fainting.

“You see, Smash,” said Maud, pointing to her sister with a strange resolution, “she must have air, and a little water—­and she has salts about her, I know.  Come, Nick; we have no more time to waste—­you must be my guide.”

The Tuscarora had been a silent observer of this scene, and if it did not awaken remorse in his bosom, it roused feelings that had never before been its inmates.  The sight of two such beings suffering under a blow that his own hand had struck, was novel to him, and he knew not which to encourage most, a sentiment allied to regret, or a fierce resentment, that any should dare thus to reproach, though it were only by yielding to the grief natural to their situation.  But Maud had obtained a command over him, that he knew not how to resist, and he followed her from the room, keeping his eyes riveted the while on the pallid face of Beulah.  The last was recalled from her insensibility, however, in the course of a few minutes, through the practised attentions of the negresses.

Maud waited for nothing.  Motioning impatiently for the Tuscarora to lead the way, she glided after him with a rapidity that equalled his own loping movement.  She made no difficulties in passing the stockade, though Nick kept his eyes on the labourers, and felt assured their exeunt was not noticed.  Once by the path that led along the rivulet, Maud refused all precautions, but passed swiftly over it, partially concealed by its bushes.  Her dress was dark, and left little liability to exposure.  As for Nick, his forest attire, like the hunting shirt of the whites, was expressly regulated by the wish to go to and fro unseen.

In less than three minutes after the Indian and Maud had passed the gate, they were drawing near to the melancholy group that had halted in the forest.  Our heroine was recognised as she approached, and when she came rushing up to the spot, all made way, allowing her to fall upon her knees by the side of the lifeless body, bathing the placid face of the dead with her tears, and covering it with kisses.

“Is there no hope—­oh!  Joyce,” she cried, “can it be possible that my father is actually dead?”

“I fear, Miss Maud, that his honour has made his last march.  He has received orders to go hence, and, like a gallant soldier as he was, he has obeyed, without a murmur;” answered the serjeant, endeavouring to appear firm and soldier-like, himself.  “We have lost a noble and humane commander, and you a most excellent and tender father.”

“No fader,”—­growled Nick, at the serjeant’s elbow, twitching his sleeve, at the same time, to attract attention.  ’Serjeant know her fader.  He by; I by, when Iroquois shoot him.”

“I do not understand you, Tuscarora, nor do I think you altogether understand us; the less you say, therefore, the better for all parties.  It is our duty, Miss Maud, to say ‘God’s will be done,’ and the soldier who dies in the discharge of his duty is never to be pitied.  I sincerely wish that the Rev. Mr. Woods was here; he would tell you all this in a manner that would admit of no dispute; as for myself, I am a plain man, Miss Maud, and my tongue cannot utter one-half that my heart feels at this instant.”