As Ronayne approached Elmsley’s house on his return, a remarkably handsome and noble-looking Indian—­quite a youth—­was leaning against the frame of the door, and according to the simple habit of his race, indulging his curiosity by looking at, and admiring all that he beheld within.  Elmsley himself had gone out, but Von Vottenberg, still seated at the breakfast-table, was discussing, with its remains, the now nearly finished claret, while Mrs. Elmsley and Maria Heywood were seated on the sofa opposite to the door, passing their whispered remarks on the Indian, whose softened dark glances occasionally fell with intense admiration on the former, when he fancied the act unseen, but as instantly were withdrawn, when he perceived that it was observed.

Mrs. Elmsley was endeavoring to dissipate the dejection of her friend by rallying her, as the young officer came to the door, on the evidently new conquest she had made.  The Indian turned to look at the intruder upon his pleasant musings, when a “wah!” expressive of deep satisfaction escaped him, and at the same moment, Ronayne grasped, and cordially shook his hand.

“Ha! there is his formidable rival, and seemingly his friend,” whispered Mrs. Elmsley, in the ear of Maria—­ “handsome fellows, both of them, so much so, that were I single, like you, I should have some difficulty in choosing between them.”

As she uttered these words, a sharp and unaccountable pang, sudden and fleeting as electricity, shot through the frame of her friend.  The blood suddenly receded from her cheek, and then rapidly returning, suffused it with a burning heat.

“What is the matter, my love?  Are you ill, you looked so pale just now?” tenderly inquired Mrs. Elmsley.

“I cannot account for what I experienced.  It was a feeling different from any I had ever known before—­a strange, wild, and inexplicable dread of I know not what.  But it has passed away.  Take no notice of it, dear, before Ronayne.”

“Mrs. Elmsley,” said the latter, almost using force to induce the modest-looking young Indian to enter the room, “will you allow me first to introduce my friend Waunangee to you, and then to give him a glass of claret?  Forgive the liberty I take, but I confess a good deal of obligation to him, and would fain do the civil in return.”

“Indeed! what a set speech for a glass of wine.  Give it to him by all means, if it is only for his beautiful eyes—­that is to say, if the doctor has left any—­or stay, I will get another bottle.”

“By no means,” returned the young officer, “this unconscionable man has just left about half a tumbler foil, and I do not intend he shall have more.  Waunangee,” he pursued, after filling and presenting him with the glass, “that is the lady of the house,” pointing to Mrs. Elmsley, “you must drink to her health.”

“And dis you handsome squaw,” remarked the Indian, a moment or two after having tossed off the wine, which quickly circulated through his veins.  “Dis you wife!” he repeated, throwing his expressive eyes upon Miss Heywood, while a rich glow lighted up his dark, but finely formed features.