alone
can present an excuse. The Dahcotah dreams not that it is wrong to
resent an injury to the death; but the Christian knows that God has
said, Vengeance is mine!

CHAPTER IV.

The Track-maker had added to his fame. He had taken many scalps, and the
Dahcotah maidens welcomed him as a hero--as one who would no longer
refuse to acknowledge the power of their charms. They asked him eagerly
of the fight--whom he had killed first--but they derived but little
satisfaction from his replies. They found he resisted their advances,
and they left him to his gloomy thoughts.

Every scene he looked upon added to his grief. Memory clung to him,
recalling every word and look of Flying Shadow. But, that last look,
could he ever forget it?

He tried to console himself with the thoughts of his triumph. Alas! her
smile was sweeter than the recollection of revenge. He had waded in the
blood of his enemies; he had trampled upon the hearts of the men he
hated; but he had broken the heart of the only woman he had ever loved.

In the silence of the night her death-cry sounded in his ear; and he
would start as if to flee from the sound. In his dreams he saw again
that trustful face, that look of appeal--and then the face of stone,
when she saw that she had appealed in vain.

He followed the chase, but there he could not forget the battle scene.
"Save me! save me!" forever whispered every forest leaf, or every
flowing wave. Often did he hear her calling him, and he would stay his
steps as if he hoped to meet her smile.

The medicine men offered to cure his disease; but he knew that it was
beyond their art, and he cared not how soon death came, nor in
what form.

He met the fate he sought. A war party was formed among the Dahcotahs to
seek more scalps, more revenge. But the Track-maker was weary of glory.

He went with the party, and never returned. Like _her_, he died in
battle; but the death that she sought to avert, was a welcome messenger
to him. He felt that in the grave all would be forgotten.

ETA KEAZAH;

OR,

SULLEN FACE.

* * * * *

Wenona was the light of her father's wigwam--the pride of the band of
Sissetons, whose village is on the shores of beautiful Lake Travers.
However cheerfully the fire might burn in the dwelling of the aged
chief, there was darkness, for him when she was away--and the mother's
heart was always filled with anxiety, for she knew that Wenona had d