“Who’s that you said war dead, Isaac?” inquired his mother, who had partially overheard the conversation.

“Harry Millbanks, mother.”

“Harry Millbanks!” repeated the dame in astonishment.  “What, young Harry?—­our Harry?—­Goodness gracious, marcy on me! what orful mean wretches them Injens is, to kill sech as him.  Dear me! then the hull family is gone; for I hearn from Rosetta, that her father and mother and all war killed afore her eyes; and now she’s bin taken on to be killed too, the darling.”

“Ha! yes,” said Boone, as if struck with a new thought; “I remember seeing the foot-prints of a child—­war they made by this unfortunate young man’s sister?”

“I reckon as how they war,” answered Mrs. Younker; “for the poor thing war a prisoner along with us, crying whensomever she dared to, like all nater.”

“Well,” rejoined the old hunter, musingly, “we’ve done all we could—­I’m sorry it didn’t turn out better—­but we must now leave their fates in the hands o’ Providence, and return to our homes.  We must bury our dead first; and I don’t know o’ any better way than to sink thar bodies in the Ohio.”

Accordingly, after some further conversation, four of the party proceeded for the body of Millbanks—­with which they soon returned—­while Boone conducted the ladies away from the scene of horror, and down to where Ella informed him the canoes were hidden, leaving his younger companions to rifle and scalp the savages if they chose.  In a few minutes from his arrival at the point in question, he was joined by the others, who came slowly, in silence, bearing the mortal remains of Millbanks and Beecher.  Placing the canoes in the water, the whole party entered them, in the same silent and solemn manner, and pulled slowly down the Miami, into the middle of the Ohio; then leaving the vessels to float with the current, they uncovered their heads, and mournfully consigned the bodies of the deceased to the watery element.

It was a sad and impressive scene—­there, on the turbid Ohio, near the midnight hour—­to give to the rolling waters the last remains of those who had been their friends and companions, and as full of life and activity as themselves but an hour before;—­it was a sad, impressive, and affecting scene—­one that was looked upon with weeping eyes—­and one which, by those who witnessed it, was never to be forgotten.  There were no loud bursts of grief—­there were no frantic exclamations of woe—­but the place, the hour, and withal the various events which had transpired to call them so soon from a scene of festivity to one of mourning—­together with the thoughts of other friends departed, or in terrible captivity—­served to render it a most painfully solemn one—­and one, as we said before, that was destined never to be forgotten.

For a short space after the river engulphed the bodies, all gazed upon the waters in silence; when Boone said, in a voice slightly trembling.