s slaughtered, he himself fought
till he was struck down, bound and overpowered, still hurling defiance
at his enemies and their cause, until his anger and disdain grew to the
terrible height of silence and he said no more. He strides sullenly
along, looking neither to the right nor the left; and the triumphant
captors behind him know nothing of the story that is told in his face.
The eyes fixed and steady in the shadow of the bloody bandage, tell
nothing of the pain of his wound or the tension of the cords which are
binding his crossed wrists. In their intense depth, which really seems
to convey the impression of looking through forty feet of the still but
dangerous waters of Lake George and seeing the glimmering of the golden
sand beneath,--we read of a burned house and an outraged family, and we
see a prophecy written there, that if his mounted guards could read,
they would set spurs and flee away like the wind--a calm, silent, but
irrevocable prophecy: "I can bear all this, for my time is coming! Not a
man of all these will live, not a roof-tree that shelters them but will
be in ashes, when I take my revenge!" Not a gazer but knows, through
those marvellous eyes alone, that the day is coming when he _will_ have
his revenge, and that the subject of pity is the victorious Roundhead
instead of the wounded and captive cavalier!

Not all this, of course, was expressed in the eyes of Bell Crawford as
she stood before her two companions under the circumstances just
detailed; but it scarcely needed a second glance to tell the keen man of
the world that the eyes and the brain beneath them had both been taught
something before unknown. He thought what might possibly have been the
expression of his own eyes, on a night so many times before alluded to,
could he but have seen them as did others; and if he had before held one
lingering doubt of the personality of the woman whose presence she had
just quitted, that doubt would have remained no longer. It _was_ the
"red woman," beyond a question. For just one moment another thought
crossed his mind, founded upon that "union of hands" so lately
consummated. Should he permit _her_ to be subjected to the same
influences? And yet, why not? The good within her could not be injured,
either by sorcery or super-knowledge--either by the assumption or the
possession on the part of the seeress, of information beyond that of
ordinary mortality and altogether out of its pale. He _would_ permit h