To the tortures of her older companions in captivity, little Rosetta was not subjected; for Oshasqua—­the fierce warrior to whom Girty had consigned her, in the expectation, probably, that she would long ere this have been knocked on the head and scalped—­had, by one of those strange mysterious phenomena of nature, (so difficult of comprehension, and which have been known to link the rough and bloody with the gentle and innocent,) already begun to feel towards her a sort of affection, and to treat her with great kindness whenever he could do so unobserved by the others.  The apparel of which he had at first divested her, to ornament his own person, had been restored, piece by piece; and this, together with the change in his manner, had at length been observed by the child, with feelings of gratitude.  Poor little thing! to whom could she look for protection now?  Her father and mother were dead—­had been murdered before her own eyes—­her brother was away, and she herself a captive to an almost merciless foe; could she feel other than grateful for an act of kindness, from one at whose hands she looked for nothing but abuse and death?  Nay, more:  So strange and complex is the human heart—­so singular in its developments—­that we see nothing to wonder at, in her feeling for the savage, under the circumstances—­loathsome and offensive as he might have been to her under others—­a sort of affection—­or rather, a yearning toward him as a protector.  Such she did feel; and thus between two human beings, as much antagonistical perhaps, in every particular, as Nature ever presented, was already established a kind of magnetic sympathy—­or, in other words, a gradual blending together of opposites.  The result of all this, as may be imagined, was highly beneficial to Rosetta, who, in consequence, fared as well as circumstances would permit.  At night she slept unbound beside Oshasqua, who secured her from escape by passing his brawny arm under her head, which also in a measure served her for a pillow.  So slept she on the night in question.

With Younker and Reynolds there was little that could be called sleep—­the minds of both being too actively employed with the events which had transpired, and with thoughts of those so dear to them, who had been left behind, for what fate God only knew.  Besides, there was little wherewithal to court the drowsy god, in the manner of their repose—­each limb being strained and corded in a position the most painful—­and if they slept at all, it was that feverish and fitful slumber, which, though it serve in part the design of nature, brings with it nothing refreshing to the individual himself.  To both, therefore, the night proved one of torture to body and mind; and bad as was their condition after the encampment, it was destined to be worse ere the gray dawn of morning, by the arrival of Girty and the only two Indians who had escaped the deadly rifles of the Kentuckians.

“Up, warriors!” cried the renegade, with a blasphemous oath, as he came upon the detachment.  “Up, warriors! and sharpen your wits to invent the most damnable tortures that the mind of man can conceive!” and at the sound of his voice, which was loud and hoarse, each Indian sprung to his feet, with an anxious and troubled face.