tion. Her face and arms
were painted white and red in broad bands of coarse pigments; an old
embroidered robe fastened over one shoulder, with a close-fitting
skirt of buckskin, formed her whole attire. She had put feathers in
her hair, and with flaming eyes shook her favorite talisman, the
medicine-stick. At one bound she had returned to her ancient state of
savagery.

Finding Manmat'ha regarding her with interest, I did not oppose the
further proceedings. It struck me that it was not displeasing to my
invisible love to receive divine honors even in this wild rite, so I
held my peace. She seemed to receive them as her due.

The moon had risen, and gave light to the room through window and open
door; flooded by its rays, Rachel moved slowly across the room,
uttering in guttural tones a broken chant whose meaning I might have
once interpreted, but could not now. On a different occasion I might
not have been an entirely unsympathetic observer of the singular
sight, but here passion had overcome curiosity. I was an impatient
lover. With my arm about Manmat'ha, and filled with earnest emotions,
I could not help a feeling of disgust at the monotonous discord and
frantic gestures of the last of a superstitious race.

"This must end, Manmat'ha," I groaned. "I can wait no longer."

As I spoke, the Indian woman grew ungovernable in wild excitement.

"They are on you! They are here!" she screamed.

I felt Manmat'ha stiffen in my arms with deadly terror. Resistless
hands dragged us apart and held me absolutely motionless in spite of
the deadly agony which filled me, while Manmat'ha's stifled shriek
arose from midway across the room.

"Rachel!" I cried. "For God's sake, Rachel, bar the door!"

My cry roused the woman from a stupor; she sprang to the door. I heard
the noise of many light feet, the sound of a blow, a heavy fall; then
a deep silence came.

Bounding from the spot to which unseen hands up to that moment had
pressed me, I sprang from the room and followed into the night. The
earth reeled past me in my swift flight, until I suddenly stopped
myself to ask where I was going. Where indeed? As well follow the
wind. Wild as was the hope that moved me to return, I hurried back
again to the house. Rachel alone, clad in her poor Indian finery, the
medicine-stick broken by her side, lay stretched out dead in the
moonlight.

A DARING FICTION.

BY H. H. BOYESEN.

_N. Y. Commercial Advertiser, November, 1884._