A shriek burst from the lips of the unhappy girl, as, apparently roused from her abstraction, she suffered the blanket to fall from her head, and staring wildly at her questioner, faintly demanded,—­

“Who, in the name of mercy, are you, who address me in this horrid place in my own tongue?  Speak; who are you?  Surely I should know that voice for that of Ellen, the wife of Frank Halloway!”

A maniac laugh was uttered by the wretched woman.  This continued offensively for a moment; and she observed, in an infuriated tone and with a searching eye,—­“No, I am not the wife of Halloway.  It is false.  I am the wife of Wacousta.  This is my husband!” and as she spoke she sprang nimbly to her feet, and was in the next instant lying prostrate on the form of the warrior; her arms thrown wildly around him, and her lips imprinting kisses on his cheek.

But Wacousta was in no mood to suffer her endearments.  He for the first time seemed alive to the presence of her who lay beyond, and, to whose whole appearance a character of animation had been imparted by the temporary excitement of her feelings.  He gazed at her a moment, with the air of one endeavouring to recall the memory of days long gone by; and as he continued to do so, his eye dilated, his chest heaved, and his countenance alternately flushed and paled.  At length he threw the form that reposed upon his own, violently, and even savagely, from him; sprang eagerly to his feet; and clearing the space that divided him from the object of his attention at a single step, bore her from the earth in his arms with as much ease as if she had been an infant, and then returning to his own rude couch, placed his horror-stricken victim at his side.

“Nay, nay,” he urged sarcastically, as she vainly struggled to free herself; “let the De Haldimar portion of your blood rise up in anger if it will; but that of Clara Beverley, at least—.”

“Gracious Providence! where am I, that I hear the name of my sainted mother thus familiarly pronounced?” interrupted the startled girl; “and who are you,”—­turning her eyes wildly on the swarthy countenance of the warrior, —­“who are you, I ask, who, with the mien and in the garb of a savage of these forests, appear thus acquainted with her name?”

The warrior passed his hand across his brow for a moment, as if some painful and intolerable reflection had been called up by the question; but he speedily recovered his self-possession, and, with an expression of feature that almost petrified his auditor, vehemently observed,—­

“You ask who I am!  One who knew your mother long before the accursed name of De Haldimar had even been whispered in her ear; and whom love for the one and hatred for the other has rendered the savage you now behold!  But,” he continued, while a fierce and hideous smile lighted up every feature, “I overlook my past sufferings in my present happiness.  The image of Clara Beverley, even such as my soul loved her in its youth, is once more before me in her child; that child shall be my wife!”