of men were heard upon the shore. It
was the Miko and his hunters. His daughter rose, her knees trembling
under her, and looked out of the window. She saw the old squaws
whispering to the men, and pointing to the wigwam in which the
Englishman had dwelt. Presently the Miko entered his hut, followed by
several warriors, and Canondah stepped forward to welcome her father.
With hands folded upon her throbbing bosom, she silently awaited his
commands.

"The men of the Oconees," he began, after a pause, during which he
seemed to read his daughter's soul, "have told their Miko that a
messenger from the chief of the Salt Lake has reached his wigwam. Why do
not my eyes behold him?"

The trembling girl made no reply, but remained with her eyes fixed upon
the ground.

"Has Canondah so forgotten her father's blood as to bring a Yankee into
his wigwam, and to show him the path that leads to the villages of the
pale faces? The Miko thought he had a daughter," said the old man, with
the most cutting scorn; "but Canondah is not the daughter of the Miko of
the Oconees. Go," continued he, in an accent of unspeakable disgust; "a
miserable Seminole deceived her mother, and gave life to a traitress."

On hearing these terrible words, the maiden sank to the ground as if
struck by lightning, and, writhing like a worm, crept to her father's
feet, and laid hold of his garment. He pushed her from him with
loathing.

"Go," said he; "she sang in the ears of the Miko, and implored the Great
Spirit to protect him, whilst she cherished and concealed the foe of his
race. Therefore could not the White Rose sing the night-song, because
the spy was waiting for her in the forest. The Miko has nourished a
snake in his bosom, his beaver-skins have been thrown away, and the
White Rose has brought a spy into his wigwam to betray him to his foes.
In a few suns he and his will be hunted by their enemies like the wild
panther of the forests."

An angry howl escaped the Indians, and two of the most ferocious looking
glided towards the curtain of Rosa's apartment. Canondah was lying
speechless, apparently almost senseless, upon the ground, but hardly had
the red men taken a step, when she suddenly stood before them.

"It is I," she cried; "it is Canondah, who guided the pale face across
the swamp, and showed him the path he should follow. The White Rose
knows it not."

Scarcely had she spoken, when the curtain was lifted and Rosa appeared.
The Indian g