weet water from the mountains--their dearly loved native
mountains--and die!

The moon rose higher still, round and white and large; and at last,
wheeling over the camp of death, seemed to pause in pity and look full
in upon those two dying captives. It seemed to soothe them both.

The little boy saw the moonbeam on the wall, and was pacified. It looked
like the face of an old friend. It brought back the old time; the life,
the woods, the water--above all, the cool sweet waters of the mountains.
He seemed to know where he was. He lay still a long time, and then felt
stronger. He called to John Logan. No answer. Then the feeble, piping
little voice lifted up and called as loud as it could. No answer still.
The boy crawled from off the little pallet and tried to rise. He sank
down on the damp floor, and then tried to crawl to John Logan. He tried
to call again, as he began to slowly crawl towards the other corner. But
the poor little voice was no louder than a whisper. Very weak and very
wild, and almost quite delirious, the boy kept on as best he could. He
at last touched the blankets, the breast, and he drew himself up just as
the moon looked down on the pale upturned face. Then, with a moan, a
wild, pitiful cry, the little fellow fell back on the damp mouldy floor.

John Logan was dead! Despite the chains, the bars at the window, the
double guard at the door, the man had escaped at last!

The pitying moon did not hasten to go. It lingered there, reached down
along the damp, mouldy floor to a little form of skin and bone; and
then, as if this moon-beam were the Savior's mantle spreading out to
cover the white and stainless soul, it covered the pinched and pitiful
little face. For the boy, too, lay dead.

Here was the end of two lives that had known only the long dark shadows,
only the deep solitude and solemnity of the forest. Like tall weeds that
sometimes shoot up in dark and unfrequented places, and that put forth
strange, sweet flowers, these two lives had sprung up there, put forth
after their fashion the best that is in man, and then perished in
darkness, unnamed, unknown.

Who were they? John Logan, it is now whispered, was the son of an
officer made famous in the war annals of the world. The officer had been
stationed here in early manhood, gave his heart as she believed to a
daughter of a brave and powerful chief, whose lands lay near where he
was stationed for a summer, and then? The old, old tale of betr