“How did you get wet?” she asked, looking at his flapping garments.

“Dem little Dutchmen done it; dey fixed de limb and made it proke and let me down in de water and almost drownded.  Quanonshet and Madokawandock will be de death of deir poor dad.”

The wife vouchsafed no reply, but jerking the fish from his hand, entered the wigwam for the purpose of cooking them, while Hans Vanderbum himself went lounging on through the village, it being his purpose not to seem too anxious and hurried in his effort to gain his news regarding the captive.  He was, despite his stupidity, not devoid of sagacity at times.

He had not long to search.  In the very center of the town, his eyes fell upon a promiscuous crowd collected around a wigwam, gazing at something within.

“Vot you got dere?” he demanded, in a tone of great indignation, as he shoved his way through the bystanders.  Those addressed made no reply, waiting for him to satisfy his curiosity by seeing the object for himself.  In the interior, he descried a young woman, or rather a girl, for she could scarcely have been more than fifteen or sixteen years of age, seated upon the ground, beside a squaw, with whom it was apparent she had been endeavoring to hold a conversation; but, finding it impossible in the ignorance of each other’s language, they had ceased their efforts by common consent and were now sitting motionless.

[Illustration:  A girl, fifteen or sixteen years of age, seated upon the ground, beside a squaw.]

As Hans Vanderbum gazed curiously at her, his big heart filled with pity.  She was attired in the plain, homespun dress common among the settlers at that period, her head totally uncovered, and her long, dark hair falling in luxuriant masses around her shoulders.  Her hands were clasped and her head bowed with a meek, resigned air that reached more than one Shawnee heart.  Her complexion was rather light, her features not dazzlingly beautiful, but prepossessing, the expression which instantly struck the beholder being that of refinement; speaking a nature elevated and holy, as much above that of the beings who surrounded her, as would have been that of an angel had he alighted amid a group of mortals.

The great exertion made by Hans Vanderbum in reaching the wigwam, caused him to breathe so heavily as to attract the attention of the captive.  Catching sight of a white man, she arose quickly, and approaching him, said, eagerly: 

“Oh!  I’m so glad to meet one of my own color and race, for I am sure you must be a friend.”

“Yaw, I’s your friend,” replied Hans Vanderbum, hardly knowing what he said; “and I’s sorry as nobody to see you here.  How did you got here?”

“They brought me, the Shawnee warriors did.  They attacked the house in the night, when I was alone with the servants.  They murdered them all except me.  They have brought myself here to perish in captivity.”