Dove Eye marked her fear, and informed her, in broken English, that the Penobscot tribe had joined with them, and they were going towards the rising sun, to hunt moose and deer, and make mats and baskets, to carry to Boston.

“But,” added she, “Sousup drink fire-water and git much drunk; me feel bad, but Dove Eye no help it.”

She told her they were going to have a pow-wow, and wished to go into a little cleared spot, in the edge of the forest, near her dwelling.  Mrs. Fuller dared not refuse, and so she tremblingly consented.

She told her tribe the result of their confab, and they came forward, to a man, and laid down their rifles, tomahawks and scalping knives at her feet, saying,

“Me no hurt white squaw.”

They collected a large pile of brush, kindled their fire, lit their pipes, and prepared their evening meal, after which they commenced their savage revelry.

They daubed their faces with red paint, while their greasy black hair hung in dishevelled masses down their backs, and waved to and fro as they jumped or ran, and performed the various evolutions of their mazy dance.

Mrs. Fuller lit no candle during that fearful night.  She watched their dusky forms, as they flitted by, dimly seen through the trees, by the glaring blaze of the fire, that crackled up, throwing a flickering light upon the majestic forest trees that waved in solemn grandeur above their heads, and sighed mournfully as the night winds floated among their branches.  The Indians formed a circle round the fire, by joining hands, and their frantic gestures were teriffic to behold, and their wild shrieks rent the air.  Twice, and twice only, the fearful war-whoop resounded, filling the heart of that lonely watcher with indescribable fear.

It was past midnight; the moon had passed her zenith in the sky, and the swarthy band seemed frantic with their wild orgies and intoxication.

Many had fallen, beastly drunk, while others swayed like the forest trees, rocked by the wintry whirlwind.

Dove Eye sat on a mossy rock looking upon the scene with a melancholy expression of countenance.  Near her lay stretched upon the bare ground, Eagle Eye, the wife of the swarthy chief, who had joined their tribe in their hunting excursions.

Suddenly a furious din arose, and it was evident that anger was added to the other debasing passions that were holding control over their benighted souls.  Furious was the strife of words, and fearful menaces and threats fell from brutal, savage lips.

Suddenly the stranger chief seized a burning torch, and accompanied by a fierce looking companion, strode hastily toward the house.  Dove Eye saw their movements and sprang hurriedly to their side, endeavoring to stop their progress; but they pushed her aside and proceeded.  Mrs. Fuller, too, saw them through the small pane of glass that was placed in her board window, and hope almost forsook her.  They passed