were parched with thirst; the gnawing pangs of hunger racked
their wasted frames; they scarcely dared to look upon each other, so
fiercely burned the fire in their sunken eyes. He had ceased to hope;
with his feeble limbs stretched out, and his head rested on a branch,
he waited helplessly for death.

The Indian girl dragged herself slowly to his side, put a small phial
to his parched lips, and poured a few drops of brandy down his throat.
He immediately revived, and the failing pulse resumed its play. "You
shall still live," she said; "a few hours' journey more, and we shall
reach the river; by this time the white man will be selling the pine
trees on its banks. I have kept this fire-water hidden till there was
no other hope, and now it must save me too, that I may guide you." She
tasted the invigorating cordial sparingly, and now, animated with new
strength, they set out bravely once again. Slowly and painfully they
press on, often falling through exhaustion, but the strong hope and
the stronger will urges them still on. The character of the country
begins to change, the trees become thicker and of a larger growth, the
ground varied with rise and hollow; and at length, to their great joy,
a well-known hill appears in sight, beyond which they know the
wished-for river runs. They drain the last drop from the phial, and
again refreshed press on,--on, through the thick woods and falling
shades of night.

Then the moon arose in unclouded splendour; her silver rays, piercing
through the tall pine-trees, lighted them on their way, and in a
little time showed them a column of smoke rising from the far side of
the hill beyond the river into the still air. Hope was now almost a
certainty: they reached the high bank over the stream, but stumbling
and falling at nearly every step. In the vale beyond, they saw two or
three woodcutters' huts, lighted up by blazing watch-fires.

Meynell rushed impatiently on, his eyes fixed upon the hope-inspiring
lights. "Hold! hold!" cried Atawa, vainly trying to restrain him, "one
step more, and you are lost!" But she spoke too late: ere the echoes
of her cry had ceased, Meynell's soul had gone to its last account. He
had approached too near the edge of the precipice: the snow gave way
beneath his feet; a moment more, and he lay a bleeding corpse upon the
ice-bound rocks below. Atawa's despairing shrieks brought out the
inmates of the huts. They were obliged to use force, to separate her
from