“I wouldn’t coax her to eat, my good, dear frow,” said Hans.  “Let de little Dutchmen eat it; dey’re hungry enough.”

In answer to a shrill call, Quanonshet and Madokawandock came tumbling in, and fell upon the food like a couple of wolves.  After two or three mouthfuls they stopped and smacked their lips as if there was something peculiar in the taste of their fish, and Hans’ heart thumped as he saw the mother do the same.  To forestall any inquiries, he remarked that he had caught the fish in another portion of the stream, and perhaps they might taste bitter, but he guessed “dey was all right.”  This satisfied them, and in a few minutes more there was nothing left but a few bones.  Thus far all went well.

As the sun descended in the western sky, and the magnificent American twilight gathered upon the forest and river, the excited Hans Vanderbum could scarcely conceal his impatience and anxiety.  Never before, since his marriage, had he been in such a predicament, and never again, he hoped, would he feel the misery that was now torturing him.  Time always passes wearily to the watcher.  It seemed an age to him ere the sun slipped down behind the wilderness out of sight.  At length, however, the dusk of early evening enveloped the lodge, and shortly after Quanonshet and Madokawandock came in, and dropping down fell almost immediately asleep.

To expedite matters, Hans Vanderbum feigned slumber, but he kept one eye upon the movements of his wife.  He marked her listless, absent air, and he could scarcely conceal his joy when she stretched herself in front of the door, without speaking or ordering him to lie beside her, as was her usual custom.  Five minutes later, she was as unconscious as though she were never to wake again.  To make “assurance doubly sure,” he waited full half an hour without moving.  Then he raised his head, and called in a whisper to Miss Prescott: 

“I say dere.”

“Well! what is it?” she responded, rising.

“You ishn’t ashleep bees you?”

“No, I am ready.”

“Well, I guesses it bees purty near times.”

“Are they all sound asleep—­your Lily and children?”

“Yaw, dey’s won’t wake if you pound ’em.”

“Would it not be best to take a look outside and see whether there is any danger of our being discovered?”

“Yaw—­I finks so.”

In passing out, Hans trod upon the outstretched arm of his wife, but her sleep was so sound that she did not awaken.  The situation of the lodge was such that all the Shawnees visible were upon one side of it, so that the chances of discovery were comparatively slight, if the least precaution was used.  Appearing at the entrance of the wigwam, without entering, he motioned for the captive to come out.  She arose, stepping cautiously and carefully, and when she found herself in the open air once more, with the cool night-wind blowing upon her fevered cheek, she almost fainted from excessive emotion.