The young chief sprang from the earth—­gazed a moment at the maid—­spoke rapidly and loudly in the language of his tribe to his party, who were now at the place of encampment, seated by the fire they had kindled—­and then, seizing his tomahawk, was in the act of hurling it at Mary, when the yells of the war-party and the ringing discharges of fire-arms arrested his steel when brandished in the air.  The white men had arrived!  The young chief seized Mary by her long, flowing hair—­again prepared to strike the fatal blow—­when she turned her face upward, and he again hesitated.  Discharges in quick succession, and nearer than before, still rang in his ears.  Mary strove not to escape.  Nor did the Indian strike.  The whites were heard rushing through the bushes—­the chief seized the trembling girl in his arms—­a bullet whizzed by his head—–­but, unmindful of danger, he vanished among the dark bushes with his burden.

“She’s gone! she’s gone!” exclaimed Roughgrove, looking aghast at the vacated pit under the fallen trunk.

“But we will have her yet,” said Boone, as he heard Glenn discharge a pistol a few paces apart in the bushes.  The report was followed by a yell, not from the chief, but Sneak, and the next moment the rifle of the latter was likewise heard.  Still the Indian was not dispatched, for the instant afterward his tomahawk, which had been hurled without effect, came sailing over the bushes, and penetrated a tree hard by, some fifteen or twenty feet above the earth, where it entered the wood with such a force that it remained firmly fixed.  Now succeeded a struggle—­a violent blow was heard—­the fall of the Indian, and all was still.  A minute afterward Sneak emerged from the thicket, bearing Mary in his arms, and followed by Glenn.

“Is she dead?  Oh, she’s dead!” cried Roughgrove, snatching her from the arms of Sneak.

“She has only fainted!” exclaimed Glenn, examining the body of the girl, and finding no wounds.

“She’s recovering!” said Boone, feeling her pulse.

“God be praised!” exclaimed Roughgrove, when returning animation was manifest.

“Oh, I know you won’t kill me! for pity’s sake, spare me!” said Mary.

“It is your father, my poor child!” said Roughgrove, pressing the girl to his heart.

“It is! it is!” cried the happy girl, clinging rapturously to the old man’s neck, and then, seizing the hands of the rest, she seemed to be half wild with delight.

SHIPWRECK OF THE MEDUSA.

On the 17th of June, 1816, the Medusa, French frigate, commanded by Captain Chaumareys, and accompanied by three smaller vessels, sailed from the island of Aix, for the coast of Africa, in order to take possession of some colonies.  On the 1st of July, they entered the tropics; and there, with a childish disregard to danger, and knowing that she was surrounded by all the unseen perils of the ocean, her crew performed