* *

A season had passed away, and another harvest had come. The tribe of
Pomperaug had disappeared, and the rock on which the priest met his
death had been consecrated by many prayers of those who loved him. His
blood was still visible upon the spot, and thither his people often
repaired to kneel, and offer up petitions for the repose of his
spirit. They believed that their hearts were softened, and their
spirits visited with the richest gifts of heavenly grace, when they
came to the spot where he had met his death.

It was a mild and beautiful evening in summer, when the maiden for the
last time went to spend an hour at this holy spot. Long had she knelt,
and most fervently had she prayed to her kind creator. The sun went
down, and, as the veil of evening fell, the full moon climbed over the
ridge of rocks which rose on the east side of the valley, pouring its
white light into the lone and quiet recesses and solitudes around her,
and the good and beauteous maiden was still kneeling, still communing
with that Being whom every nation and tongue, civilized and savage,
red and white, delight to honour and worship--at least with their
lips, though their hearts may be far from him.

At length, a slight noise, like the crushing of a leaf, woke her from
her trance, and, springing quickly on her feet, and filled with sudden
and unusual fears, she set out on her return to the village. Alarmed
at her distance from home at such an hour, and by the sounds from time
to time repeated, she proceeded along with great rapidity. She was
obliged to climb up the rocks with great care, as the darkness
rendered it a critical and dangerous task. At length she reached the
top. Standing upon the verge of the cliff, she then turned a moment
to look back upon the valley. The moon was shining full upon the vale,
and she gazed with a mixture of awe and delight upon the sea of green
leaves, which slept in death-like repose beneath her. She then turned
to pursue her path homeward, but what was her amazement to see before
her, in the full moonlight, the tall form of Pomperaug! She shrieked,
and swift as his own arrow, sprang over the dizzy cliff. The young
chief listened--there was a moment of silence--then a heavy sound like
the falling of a body upon the hard earth--and the dell was still as
the tomb.

The fate of the beautiful maiden was known only to Pomperaug. He
buried her with a lover's care, amid the rocks of the glen. Then,