of the white nation" to be his
bride. When he had finished, a young warrior, whose light and graceful
limbs might well have been a sculptor's model, stood forward to speak.
He was dressed in the richest Indian costume, and his scalping knife and
beaded moccasins glittered in the sunshine. His features bore an
expression very different from the others. Neither malice nor cunning
lurked in his full dark eye, but a calm and majestic melancholy reposed
on his high and smooth brow, and was diffused over his whole mein; and,
in the clear tones of his voice, "Brothers," said he to the warriors,
"we have buried the hatchet with the white nation--it is very deep
beneath the earth--shall we dig it because Metea scorns the women of his
tribe, because he has stolen 'the flower of the white nation?' Let her
be restored to her people, lest her chiefs come to claim her, and Metea
lives to disgrace the brave warriors of the woods?" He sat down, and the
circle rising, said, "Our brother speaks well, but Metea is very
_brave_." It was decided that Alice should remain.

Towards evening Metea entered the hut, and approaching Alice, caught
hold of her hand,--the wildest passion gleamed in his glittering eyes,
and Alice, shrieking, ran towards the door. Metea caught her in his arms
and pressed her to his bosom. Again she shrieked, and a descending blow
cleft Metea's skull in sunder, and his blood fell on her neck. It was
the young Indian who advised her liberation in the morning who dealt
Metea's death-blow. Taking Alice in his arms, he stepped lightly from
the hut. It was a still and starless night, and the sleeping Indians saw
them not. Unloosing a canoe, he placed Alice in it, and pushed softly
from the shore.

Before the next sunset Alice was in sight of her home. Her father and
friends knew nothing of what had transpired. They fancied her at her
friend's house, and terror at her peril and joy at her return followed
in the same breath. Mary threw a timid, yet kind glance on the Indian
warrior who had saved her darling Alice, and Kenneth pressed the hand of
him who restored his child. In a few minutes William Douglas joined the
happy group, and she repeated her escape on his bosom. That night
Kenneth Gordon's prayer was longer and more fervent than usual. The
father's thanks arose to the throne of grace for the safety of his
child; he prayed for her deliverer, and for pardon for the hatred he had
nurtured against the murderers of his chi