he
dying woman's arms, and struck it with the same bloody hatchet,--"

"And you!" exclaimed Roland, leaning from his horse and clutching the
speaker by the collar, for he was seized with ungovernable indignation,
or rather fury, at what he esteemed the cold-blooded cowardice of Nathan,
"_You_!" he cried, grasping him as if he would have torn him to pieces,
"You, wretch! stood by and saw the child murdered!"

"Friend!" said Nathan, with some surprise at the unexpected assault, but
still with great submissiveness, "thee is as unjust to me as others. Had
I been as free to shed blood as thee theeself, yet could I not have saved
the babe in that way, seeing that my gun was taken from me, and I was
unarmed. Thee forgets,--or rather I forgot to inform thee,--how, when I
told friend Bruce my story, he took my gun from me, saying that 'as I was
not man enough to use it, I should not be allowed to carry it,' and so
turned me out naked from the fort. Truly, it was an ill thing of him to
take from me that which gave me my meat; and truly too, it was doubly
ill of him, as it concerned the child; for I tell thee, friend, when I
stood in the corn and saw the great brutal Injun raise the hatchet to
strike the little child, had there been a gun in my hand, I should--I
can't tell thee, friend, what I might have done; but, truly, I should not
have permitted the evil creature to do the bloody deed!"

"I thought so, by Heaven!" said Roland, who had relaxed his grasp the
moment Nathan mentioned the seizure of the gun, which story was
corroborated by the account Bruce had himself given of that stretch of
authority,--"I thought so: no human creature, not an Indian, unless the
veriest dastard and dog that ever lived, could have had arms in his hand,
and, on such an occasion, failed to use them! But you had humanity,--you
did something?"

"Friend," said Nathan, meekly, "I did what I could,--but, truly, what
could I? Nevertheless, friend, I did, being set beside myself by the
sight, snatch the little babe out of the man's hands, and fly to the
woods, hoping, though it was sore wounded, that it might yet live. But,
alas, before I had run a mile, it died in my arms, and I was covered from
head to foot with its blood. It was a sore sight for friend Bruce, whom I
found with his people galloping to the ford, to see what there might be
in my story: for, it seems, as he told me himself, that after he had
driven me away, he could not sleep for thinkin