"Must this sweet new-blown rose find such, a winter Before her spring be past ?" BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER The little bark touched the stony point of Long Island.

The Indian lifted his weeping prisoner from the canoe, and motioned to her to move forward along the narrow path that led to the camp, about twenty yards higher up the bank, where there was a little grassy spot enclosed, with shrubby trees--the squaws tarried at the lake-shore to bring up the paddles and secure the canoe.
It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of an enemy, but doubly so, when that enemy is a stranger to the language in which we would plead for mercy--whose God is not our God, nor his laws those by which we ourselves are governed.

Thus felt the poor captive as she stood alone, mute with terror among the half-naked dusky forms with which she now found herself surrounded.

She cast a hurried glance round that strange assembly, if by chance her eye might rest upon some dear familiar face, but she saw not the kind but grave face of Hector, nor met the bright sparkling eye of her cousin Louis, nor the soft, subdued, pensive features of the Indian girl, her adopted sister--she stood alone among those wild gloomy-looking men; some turned away their eyes as if they would not meet her woe-stricken countenance, lest they should be moved to pity her sad condition; no wonder that, overcome by the sense of her utter friendliness, she hid her face with her fettered hands and wept in despair.

But the Indian's sympathy is not moved by tears and sighs; calmness, courage, defiance of danger and contempt of death, are what he venerates and admires even in an enemy.
The Indians beheld her grief unmoved.