soul was filled with love for the beautiful pale-face. His old and
cherished pursuits and pastimes no longer gave him pleasure; the bow
lay unstrung in a corner of his cabin, and his canoe was no longer
seen, impelled by his strong arm, gliding over the river.

As might have been expected from the bitter disappointment of
Pomperaug in not being able to obtain the maiden, and that of the
priest at failing to obtain the coveted lands, difficulties soon grew
up between the Indians and their neighbours, and violent feelings were
shortly excited on both sides. This soon broke out into open quarrels,
and one of the white men was shot by the arrow of an Indian hunter, as
he was returning through the woods to his home. The whites determined
to seek instant revenge, and accordingly, gathering their men
together, they followed the Indians into the broken and rocky regions
which lie east of the valley of Pomperaug, whither, expecting pursuit,
they had retreated.

It was about an hour before sunset, when the Yengeese, consisting of
twenty men well armed after the fashion of the whites, and led by the
aged priest, who, old as he was, still retained the spirit of a
youthful warrior, were marching through a deep ravine, about two miles
east of their village. The rocks on either side were lofty, and so
narrow was the dell, that the shadows of night had already gathered
over it. The pursuers had sought their enemies the whole day in vain,
and, having lost all traces of them, they were now returning to their
homes. Untaught by dear bought experience, they marched along heedless
of the dangers which surrounded them--disregardful of the advantages
offered to their cunning foes by the rocks and thickly wooded
eminences around them. Suddenly the shrill war-whoop burst from the
rocks at their feet, and many armed Indians sprang up before them. An
arrow pierced the breast of the aged priest, and he fell dead in front
of his band. Two Indians met their death at the hands of their foes,
the remainder sought the forest. Several of the Yengeese were wounded,
but none mortally, save the priest.

With mournful silence they bore back the body of their father to the
dwelling his aged feet had left but a few hours before. He was buried
in a lonely and sequestered nook of the valley, and the orphan maiden
turned away with a desolate and breaking heart, to be for the first
time alone in the humble cabin in the wilderness.

* * *