bsent,
and for some time he was alone. After a while the flap that hung over
the entrance was lifted, and some one came in with the noiseless tread
of the Indian. Cecil, lying in a maze of bitter thought, became aware
of the presence of another, and raised his head. The Shoshone renegade
stood beside him. His gaze rested compassionately on Cecil's sad, worn
face.

"What is it?" he asked. "Your words were slow and heavy to-day. There
was a weight on your spirit; what is it? You said that we were
friends, so I came to ask if I could help."

"You are good, and like a brother," replied Cecil, gently, "but I
cannot tell you my trouble. Yet this much I can tell,"--and he sat
upon the couch, his whole frame trembling with excitement. "I have
sinned a grievous sin, therefore the Great Spirit took away the words
from my lips to-day. My heart has become evil, and God has punished
me."

It was a relief to his over-burdened conscience to say those harsh
things of himself, yet the relief was bitter. Over the bronzed face of
the Indian came an expression of deep pity.

"The white man tears himself with his own claws like a wounded beast,
but it does not give him peace. Has he done evil? Then let him
remember what he has so often told the Indians: 'Forsake evil, turn
from sin, and the Great Spirit will forgive.' Let my white brother do
this, and it will be well with him."

He gazed at Cecil an instant longer; then, with a forbearance that
more civilized men do not always show, he left the lodge without
another word.

But what he said had its effect. Through Cecil's veins leaped the
impulse of a sudden resolve,--a resolve that was both triumph and
agony. He fell on his knees beside the couch.

"Thou hast shown me my duty by the lips of the Indian, and I will
perform it. I will tear this forbidden love from my heart. Father,
help me. Once before I resolved to do this and failed. Help me that I
fail not now. Give me strength. Give me the mastery over the flesh, O
God! Help me to put this temptation from me. Help me to fulfil my
mission."

The struggle was long and doubtful, but the victory was won at last.
When Cecil arose from his knees, there was the same set and resolute
look upon his face that was there the morning he entered the
wilderness, leaving friends and home behind him forever,--the look
that some martyr of old might have worn, putting from him the clinging
arms of wife or child, going forth to the dungeon and the