“And I,” said Glenn.

“And I,” said Roughgrove.

“I vote for killing him,” said Sneak.

“Hanged if I don’t, too,” said Joe, who had been listening from the door.

“Spare him,” said Mary, who came out, and saw what was passing.

“We have the majority, Mary,” said Glenn; “and when innocence pleads, the generous hand is stayed.”

Roughgrove motioned the savage to follow, and he led him to the gate.  The prisoner did not understand what was to be done.  He evidently supposed that his captors were about to slay him, and he looked up, as he thought, the last time, at the moon and the stars, and his lips moved in deep and silent adoration.

Roughgrove opened the gate, and the savage followed him out, composedly awaiting his fate.  But seeing no indication of violence, and calling to mind the many wild joys of his roving youth, and the horrors of a sudden death, he spoke not, yet his brilliant eyes were dimmed for a moment with tears.  His deep gaze seemed to implore mercy at the hands of his captors.  He would not utter a petition that his life might be spared, yet his breast heaved to rove free again over the flowery prairies, to bathe in the clear waters of running streams, to inhale the balmy air of midsummer morning, to chase the panting deer upon the dizzy peak, and to hail once more the bright smiles of his timid bride in the forest-shadowed glen.

“Go! thou art free!” said Roughgrove.

The Indian stared in doubt, and looked reproachfully at the guns in the hands of his captors, as if he thought they were only mocking him with hopes of freedom, when it was their intention to shoot him down the moment he should think his life was truly spared.

“Go! we will not harm thee!” repeated Roughgrove.

“And take this,” said Mary, placing some food in his yielding hand.

The Indian gazed upon the maiden’s face.  His features, by a magical transition, now beamed with confidence and hope.  Mary was in tears—­not tears of pity for his impending death, but a gush of generous emotion that his life was spared.  The savage read her heart—­he knew that the white woman never intercedes in vain, and that no victim falls when sanctified by her tears.  He clasped her hand and pressed it to his lips; and then turning away in silence, set off in a stately and deliberate pace towards the west.  He looked not back to see if a treacherous gun was pointed at him.  He knew that the maiden had not trifled with him.  He knew that she would not mock a dying man with bread.  He neither looked back nor quickened his step.  And so he vanished from view in the valley.

“Dod! he’s gone!  We ought to’ve had his sculp!” said Sneak, betraying serious mortification.

“We must give it up, though—­we were in the minority,” said Joe, satisfied with the decision.

“In the what?” asked Sneak.

“In the minority,” said Joe.