Many records of Indian maidens' kindness, of love, of heroism for white prisoners brighten the dark pages of frontier history.

These girls walked past the hunter, averting their eyes when within his range of vision, but stealing many a sidelong glance at his impressive face and noble proportions.
One of them, particularly, attracted the hunter's eye.
This was because, as she came by with her companions, while they all turned away, she looked at him with her soft, dark eyes.

She was a young girl, whose delicate beauty bloomed fresh and sweet as that of a wild rose.

Her costume, fringed, beaded, and exquisitely wrought with fanciful design, betrayed her rank, she was Wingenund's daughter.

The hunter had seen her when she was a child, and he recognized her now.