“Ah!  Joyce, what a friend—­what a parent has it pleased God to call to himself!”

“Yes, Miss Maud, that may be said with great justice—­if his honour has left us in obedience to general orders, it is to meet promotion in a service that will never weary, and never end.”

“So kind; so true; so gentle; so just; so affectionate!” said Maud, wringing her hands.

“And so brave, young lady.  His honour, captain Willoughby, wasn’t one of them that is always talking, and writing, and boasting about fighting; but when anything was to be done, the Colonel always knew whom to send on the duty.  The army couldn’t have lost a braver gentleman, had he remained in it.”

“Oh! my father—­my father,”—­cried Maud, in bitterness of sorrow, throwing herself on the body and embracing it, as had been her wont in childhood—­“would that I could have died for you!”

“Why you let go on so,” grumbled Nick, again. “No her fader—­you know dat, serjeant.”

Joyce was not in a state to answer.  His own feelings had been kept in subjection only by military pride, but they now had become so nearly uncontrollable, that he found himself obliged to step a little aside in order to conceal his weakness.  As it was, large tears trickled down his rugged face, like water flowing from the fissures of the riven oak Jamie Allen’s constitutional prudence, however, now became active, admonishing the party of the necessity of their getting within the protection of the Hut.

“Death is at a’ times awfu’,” said the mason, “but it must befall young and auld alike.  And the affleection it brings cometh fra’ the heart, and is a submission to the la’ o’ nature.  Nevertheless we a’ hae our duties, so lang as we remain in the flesh, and it is time to be thinking o’ carryin’ the body into some place o’ safety, while we hae a prudent regard to our ain conditions also.”

Maud had risen, and, hearing this appeal, she drew back meekly, assumed a manner of forced composure, and signed to the men to proceed.  On this intimation, the body was raised, and the melancholy procession resumed its march.

For the purpose of concealment, Joyce led the way into the bed of the stream, leaving Maud waiting their movements, a little deeper within the forest.  As soon as he and his fellow-bearers were in the water, Joyce turned and desired Nick to escort the young lady in, again, on dry land, or by the path along which she had come out.  This said, the serjeant and his companions proceeded.  Maud stood gazing on the sad spectacle like one entranced, until she felt a sleeve pulled, and perceived the Tuscarora at her side.

“No go to Hut,” said Nick, earnestly; “go wid Wyandotte.”

“Not follow my dear father’s remains—­not go to my beloved mother in her anguish.  You know not what you ask, Indian—­move, and let me proceed.”

“No go home—­no use—­no good.  Cap’in dead—­what do widout commander.  Come wid Wyandotte—­find major—­den do some good.”