he, with several others, was sent South to be tried as traitors.  While on the way, the keeper of this Indian wished to call on his mother, who lived in a little cottage by the roadside, to bid her farewell.  She was an aged woman, and when her son left her to join his companions, she followed him to the door weeping, wringing her hands in great distress, and imploring the widow’s God to protect her only son.  She had had four; all of whom went forth, with an American mother’s blessing, to fight in defence of their country; and this one alone, returned alive from the field of battle.  Now as he took his final departure for the South, she clasped her hands, raised her tearful eyes to heaven, and while large drops rolled over her wrinkled cheeks, she cried, “Oh, God, protect my only one, and return him to me in safety, ere I die.”  This scene, the imprisoned, and as some supposed, heartless Indian, watched with interest; no part of it escaped his attention; but they passed on, and safely reached Detroit.  The prisoners were conducted to a hotel and secured for the night; our Indian hero being consigned to an attic, which they supposed a safe place for him.  There happened to be on that night, a company of showmen stopping at that hotel, and exhibiting wax-work; among the rest, was a figure of General Brock, who fell at Queenston Heights, and a costly cloak of fur, worn by the General previous to his death.  Nothing of this escaped the eagle-eye and quick ear of the Indian.  When all was quiet in the hotel, he commenced operations, for he had made up his mind to leave, which with the red man is paramount to an accomplishment of his design.  He found no great difficulty in removing the window of his lofty apartment, out of which he clambered, and with the agility of a squirrel and the caution of a cat, he sprang for the conductor and on it he slid to the ground.  He was now free to go where he pleased; but he had heard something about the cloak of Gen. Brock; he knew too, that the friends of the General had offered fifty guineas for it, and now he would just convey it to them.

With the sagacity of his race, he surveyed the hotel, and determined the exact location of the show-room.  Stealthily and noiselessly, he entered it; found the cloak—­took it and departed, chuckling at his good fortune.  As he was creeping out of the apartment with his booty, a thought struck him, which not only arrested his footsteps, but nearly paralized his whole being.  Would not his keeper be made to answer, and perhaps to suffer for his escape and theft?  Of course he would.  “Then in the darkness I saw again,” said the old brave, “that old pale-faced mother, weeping for the loss of her only son,” when he immediately returned the cloak to its place, and with far more difficulty than in his descent, he succeeded in reaching his attic prison, where he laid himself down, muttering to himself, “not yet,—­poor old pale-face got but one.”