as often let the butt slide gently to the ground, pausing a little while each time between, and never taking his eyes off the victim.  This conduct might be mistaken for irresolution.  Far from it.  The fell purpose of the savage never burnt more intensely; his hatred was never more bitter; and he was debating with himself whether to shoot the Solitary as he stood, nor allow him to know his destroyer, or to rouse him to his peril, to play with his agonies, and thus give him a foretaste of death.  Holden was at a distance of not more than fifty feet; before him were the precipice and the Falls, behind him was the Indian; there was no retreat.  The fiendish desire agitating Ohquamehud was the same as that which the savages feel when they torture a prisoner at the stake, and delay the fatal stroke that is a mercy.  He felt sure of his prey, and after a short period of hesitation, determined to gratify the diabolical passion.

He stepped softly from behind the oak, and glided onwards, until the distance betwixt himself and Holden was reduced to thirty feet.  The back of the latter was still towards the Indian, and he seemed absorbed in contemplations that shut his senses to the admission of outward objects.  Again Ohquamehud paused, but it was only for a moment, and then uttered in a distinct tone the word, “Onontio.”

The sound caught the ears of Holden, who instantly turned, and beheld the threatening looks and attitude of the savage.  He comprehended, at once, the hostile purpose of Ohquamehud, and the imminence of his own danger, but betrayed not the slightest fear.  His cheek blanched not.  His eye lost none of its usual daring as he surveyed the assassin; nor did his voice falter, as, disguising his suspicions, he exclaimed—­

“Ohquamehud! he is welcome.  He hath come to listen to the voice of the Great Spirit, who speaks in the Yaupaae.”

“Onontio is mistaken,” said the Indian.  “The eyes of Ohquamehud are sharp.  They have seen the blood of his kindred on the hands of Onontio, and he will wash it off.”

“Indian, thou hast discovered—­I know not how—­that I once bore the name you have mentioned.  It was given to me in the days of madness and folly by the western tribes.  But, my hands are unstained by any blood, save what was shed in fair and open warfare.”

“Ha!  Onontio hath forgotten the fight in the night of storms, on the banks of the Yellow Wabash, when the sister of Ohquamehud was slain and his brother pierced by the knife of the accursed pale face, with the curling-hair.”

“Indian!  I sought to save the maiden’s life.  I can show the scar I received in her defence.  As for thy brother, I know naught of him.  If he fell by me, it was in the manner in which one brave warrior meets another.”

“It is a lie!  The heart of the pale-face is fainting.  He is a weasel, that tries to creep through a small hole.”

“If I were armed thou wouldst not dare to speak thus,” said Holden, some of the spirit of his youthful years flashing up.  “But, go; thou art a coward to come armed against a defenceless man.”