“We owe you life, fortune, everything,” he cried, extending his hand; “and be assured neither Edith nor myself will forget it.  But how is this, Nathan?” he added, with a smile, as he perceived the bundle of scalps, which Nathan, in the confusion or absence of his mind, yet dangled in his hands,—­“you were not used so freely to display the proofs of your prowess!”

“Friend,” said Nathan, giving one look, ghastly with sorrow and perturbation, to the shaking ringlets, another to the youth, “thee looks upon locks that was once on the heads of my children!” He thrust the bundle into his bosom, and pointed with a look of inexpressible triumph to that of Wenonga, hanging to his belt.  “And here,” he muttered, “is the scalp of him that slew them!  It is enough, friend:  thee has had my story,—­thee will not censure me.  But, friend,” he added, hastily, as if anxious to revert to another subject; “I have a thing to say to thee, which it concerns thee and the fair maid, thee cousin, to know.  There was a will, friend,—­a true and lawful last will and testament of thee deceased uncle, in which theeself and thee cousin was made the sole heirs of the same.  Truly, friend, I did take it from the breast of the villain that plotted thee ruin; but, truly, it was taken from me again, I know not how.”

“I have it safe,” said Roland, displaying it for a moment, with great satisfaction, to Nathan’s eyes.  “It makes me master of wealth, which you, Nathan, shall be the first to share.  You must leave this wild life of the border, go with me to Virginia,—­”

“I, friend!” exclaimed Nathan, with a melancholy shake of the head; “thee would not have me back in the Settlements, to scandalise them that is of my faith!  No, friend; my lot is cast in the woods, and thee must not ask me again to leave them.  And, friend, thee must not think I have served thee for the lucre of money or gain:  for, truly, these things is now to me as nothing.  The meat that feeds me, the skins that cover, the leaves that make my bed, are all in the forest around me, to be mine when I want them; and what more can I desire?  Yet, friend if thee thinks theeself obliged by whatever I have done for thee, I would ask of thee one favour, that thee can grant.”

“A hundred!” said the Virginian, warmly.

“Nay, friend,” muttered Nathan, with both a warning and beseeching look, “all that I ask is, that thee shall say nothing of me that should scandalise and disparage the faith to which I was born.”

“I understand you,” said Roland, “and will remember your wish.”

“And now, friend,” continued Nathan, “do thee take theeself to the haunts of thee fellows, the habitations of them that is honest and peaceful,—­thee, and the good maiden, thee cousin; for, truly, it is not well, neither for thee nor for her,—­and especially for her, that is feeble and fearful,—­to dwell nigh to where murdering Injuns abound.”

“Yet go with us, good Nathan,” said Edith, adding her voice to the entreaties of her kinsman:  “there shall be none to abuse or find fault with you.”