and rushed furiously on, unimpeded by the forests, which in more eastern lands present a formidable barrier to the progress.  The rain began to fall heavily, when a small cavalcade sought the protection of a clump of oaks, by placing the leafy boughs between themselves and the beating, driving torrents.  The party consisted of several ladies and gentlemen, two children, and as many servants; the latter in a wagon, the remainder on horseback.  With all possible speed the gentlemen dismounted, and, tightly buttoning their great-coats about them, proceeded to stretch two tents, by means of poles and pins, carried in the wagon.

Night closed in, and finding a sheltered spot beneath the trees, a large fire was kindled, which threw its ruddy light into the surrounding tents, and illumined the entire grove.  The horses were picketed out, almost within reach from the tents, and the wagon containing their stores drawn so near as, in some degree, to shelter them.  The servants prepared the evening meal—­simple, it is true, yet enjoyed far more than a sumptuous repast of Indian delicacies, and untold ragouts, eaten without the sauce of hunger produced by their long ride.  More than a week had elapsed since leaving San Antonio, and Mary had borne better than they dared to hope the fatigue of the journey.

To-night, however, she lay exhausted on her pallet, the thin cheek bright with fever:  gently she declined all that was proffered, and her hollow cough chased the smile from the lips of her friends.  Dr. Bryant knelt beside her, and taking one hot hand in his own, asked, in a low anxious voice, if she suffered.

Turning away her face, she said—­“Oh no, not much.  There is, however, such a painful throbbing about my heart I can scarcely breathe.  And I not feverish?” she continued.

“Yes;” and he placed his fingers on the pulse, beating violently.  “I am afraid you have taken severe cold—­the day has been so inclement.”  And, with a somewhat unsteady hand, he administered a potion.

“Don’t feel uneasy about me, Doctor, I shall be better when I sleep.”  And she turned away, and wearily closed her eyes.

When the camp-fire burned low, and all slumbered save Mary, who could not calm her feverish excitement, and lay wide awake, she fancied she heard steps around the tent.  All was silent; then again came the sound; and raising herself, she thought she perceived some one standing near the entrance.  The figure disappeared, and then followed a rumbling, stamping, kicking, as though the horses were verily bewitched.  “The Indians!” thought Mary; and quickly rising, she threw a black mantle round her, and creeping to the door of the tent, peeped cautiously out.  The horses still seemed restless, stamping and snorting, and she thought she could softly reach the adjoining tent and rouse the gentlemen, knowing that their arms were in readiness.  She had just stepped out of her own tent, and stood out of doors, when she caught a glimpse of a dark, muffled figure walking toward her.  The rain had ceased, but it was very dark, and only by the aid of the firelight, now grown dim, she perceived it.  A cold shudder crept over her, as, raising her eyes to the blackened sky but an instant, she sprung forward toward the place where she fancied the gentlemen were sleeping.  A hand was laid on her arm, and a deep voice sounded in her ear: