Nick’s examination of the body was neither hurried nor agitated.  When it was over, he turned calmly to consider the daughters of the deceased.

“Why you cry—­why you ’fear’d,” he said, approaching Beulah, and placing his swarthy hand on the head of her sleeping infant.—­“Good squaw—­good pappoose.  Wyandotte take care ’em in woods.  Bye’m-by go to pale-face town, and sleep quiet.”

This was rudely said, but it was well meant.  Beulah so received it; and she endeavoured to smile her gratitude in the face of the very being from whom, more than from all of earth, she would have turned in horror, could her mental vision have reached the fearful secret that lay buried in his own bosom.  The Indian understood her look; and making a gesture of encouragement, he moved to the side of the woman whom his own hand had made a widow.

The appearance of Wyandotte produced no change in the look or manner of the matron.  The Indian took her hand, and spoke.

“Squaw berry good,” he said, with emphasis.  “Why look so sorry—­ cap’in gone to happy huntin’-ground of his people.  All good dere—­chief time come, must go.”

The widow knew the voice, and by some secret association it recalled the scenes of the past, producing a momentary revival of her faculties.

“Nick, you are my friend,” she said, earnestly.  “Go speak to him, and see if you can wake him up.”

The Indian fairly started, as he heard this strange proposal.  The weakness lasted only for a moment, however, and he became as stoical, in appearance at least, as before.

“No,” he said; “squaw quit cap’in, now.  Warrior go on last path, all alone—­no want companion.—­She look at grave, now and den, and be happy.”

“Happy!” echoed the widow, “what is that, Nick?—­what is happy, my son?  It seems a dream—­I must have known what it was; but I forget it all now.  Oh! it was cruel, cruel, cruel, to stab a husband, and a father—­wasn’t it, Robert?—­What say you, Nick—­shall I give you more medicine?—­You’ll die, Indian, unless you take it—­mind what a Christian woman tells you, and be obedient.—­Here, let me hold the cup—­there; now you’ll live!”

Nick recoiled an entire step, and gazed at the still beautiful victim of his ruthless revenge, in a manner no one had ever before noted in his mien.  His mixed habits left him in ignorance of no shade of the fearful picture before his eyes, and he began better to comprehend the effects of the plow he had so hastily struck—­a blow meditated for years, though given at length under a sudden and vehement impulse.  The widowed mother, however, was past noting these changes.

“No—­no—­no—­Nick,” she added, hurriedly, scarce speaking above a whisper, “do not awake him!  God will do that, when he summons his blessed ones to the foot of his throne.  Let us all lie down, and sleep with him.  Robert, do you lie there, at his side, my noble, noble boy; Beulah, place little Evert and yourself at the other side; Maud, your place is by the head; I will sleep at his feet; while Nick shall watch, and let us know when it will be time to rise and pray”