inclined to see this generous savage and make an honourable purchase of a few hundred acres, in exchange for good old English pounds and shillings."

"Tut! tut! not the slightest use. Wyandance refuses to sell another foot of his broad acres; there's a tract I have my mind set upon, but the Sachem is hard as iron, even to me; I think he begins to dread the encroachment of the white man," put in Kingsland.

"And I have a tract in my mind's eye which I intend to force him to disgorge," remarked Major Gordon, with a greedy glitter in his deep-set eyes.

"And you will fail," returned Gardiner. "Had Poggatticut lived, we should not have been able to get his signature, but although Yo-kee put up a good fight, he was less stubborn. Should Wyandance die, then, indeed, young Wyancombone will be more easily handled.'

"I don't propose to wait for the old Sachem to go to the land of spirits. He comes of a tough race; his brother, Poggatticut, lived over a century, if tradition speaks truly; nevertheless, I have a plan in my brain by which that hard-bitted old heathen will become as wax in my hands. No use asking questions, as I perceive you have a mind to do, gentlemen; wait and see," concluded the Major in an oracular

tone.

CHAPTER XIV

WIC-CHI-TAU-BIT

"My resolution's placed, and I have nothing
Of woman in me: Now from head to foot
I am marble-constant."

HERE was something terrible in the fixed look of despair, the hushed storm brooding upon the features of Heather Flower as she stepped from the canoe, which Wyancombone moored without a word, and strode away, taking the path to the cliff above, where, day and night, a stout warrior kept constant watch.

With a delicacy scarcely to be expected, the young savage had left his sister to the silence and solitude she craved.

The scene upon Man-cho-nock had been a fatal revelation, tearing her heart strings in twain. The blood coursed madly through her veins and throbbed in her temples, her limbs seemed benumbed, for she felt naught of the sharp thorns piercing her hands and arms as she tore through the rough brambles in a direct line for her father's lodge, avoiding the cleared way lest she might meet some stroller from the village.

In all the wide world there was but one human being who could comfort her, Wic-chi-tau-bit, her tender, loving mother.

Unheeding when she emerged from the thorny tangle, she came upon the beaten path. On either hand the plumed ferns, clusters of sweet briar, clumps

of honeysuckle and tall mountain laurel lined the way, waving softly above the green carpeting of moss and diffusing a subtle perfume.

With an inarticulate cry, such as an animal might give when suffering intense agony, she cast herself upon a bed of moss, her frame quivering, her hands clenched, her teeth set tightly to suppress the storm of sobs that threatened to rend their way from heart to lip. Face downward, she gave vent to her anguish in low moans and gasps.

The fearful gust of sorrow and anger was over at last, but the moon rode high in the heavens when she rose from her recumbent attitude. How long she had lain there she never knew.

A deep silence brooded, and when the first fierce throes of passion had subsided her thoughts ran in a quieter, but deadlier channel, and she began to consider the future. Her mind had been almost a blank, but now a subtle chain of thought was weaving out a plot through which she might wreak a fearful vengeance upon the man who had wrought her woe.

Tossing back her dishevelled tresses, and smoothing her garments, she approached the lodge with swift, noiseless steps, and peered through the entrance from which the bear-skin robe had been partially drawn aside, and hung banner-like, flapping heavily in the breeze that blew up damply from the ocean.

She drew a long breath of relief. The stern Sachem was absent, but Wic-chi-tau-bit was sitting upon a couch of furs, her elbows resting on her knees, after the patient attitude of an Indian woman. Alone, she was waiting the coming of her children.

With the soft step of a leopardess, the girl crept to her mother's side and sat down, twining her arms with unwonted tenderness about the crouching figure.

Wic-chi-tau-bit raised her head, and without a

word drew her daughter to her breast, noting that the girl's cheek was burning, that the fingers resting against her neck were icy cold, and that the supple form was shivering in every nerve. Still she asked no question, but waited with all the endurance characteristic of her race for her child to speak.

"Mother! oh, my mother! comfort your child, for her heart is breaking!"

The passionate appeal broke from the girl's lips in a wailing cry.

"How can Wic-chi-tau-bit comfort her child when she knows not the sorrow that is in her heart?" asked the mother, softly, wonderingly. "Tell me, my child, that I may know how to bring joy to the life of my heart," returned Wic-chi-tau-bit, in the cooing tones more suggestive of the deep affection of the Indian mother than the mere words.

Heather Flower clung closer to the bosom upon which her head rested, and for several minutes the mournful whispers of the maiden alone broke the stillness.

The gasping breath, the quivering form, attested the fearful tension that upheld the girl as she repeated the story of her ill-starred love and the white man's perfidy. Shame, scorn, anger, hate, love and revenge were expressed by turns in the low, intense tones of the narrator, and when the story was ended she drew a long, tremulous breath, a sigh forced from the depths of a wounded spirit, while Wic-chi-tau-bit drew her in a closer embrace, placing her hand caressingly upon the throbbing heart, as if thus she would heal the wound an envenomed arrow had inflicted, and where it still rankled.

There was silence for a moment, broken at length by the Indian mother, in an impressive tone, singularly sweet with the emotion it expressed.

"My child, since the hour when I first felt your head nestling against my heart, I have loved you with all the strong love an Indian woman gives her offspring; as the mother bird shelters her young, so have I sheltered you. Wic-chi-tau-bit has learned to read her child's face as the white man reads the words traced on the parchment, as the warrior reads the signs in the sky, the cry of the birds, the call of the insects, the growl of beasts, the blue water, and to follow the trail. She has seen her child's face brighten when the sound of the young white chief's moccasins made music to her ear, has seen her eyelids droop and her cheek wear the colour of the ripened peach did he but speak; the sound of his voice was soft as the breath of the south wind when he spoke to Heather Flower. Wic-chi-tau-bit spoke no word, for she knew her child was beautiful-more beautiful than the pale daughter of the English chief. She saw the eye of the young white brave light and his bosom heave, and she believed that in time he might be the son of the great Sachem of the Montauks. Such things have been, the traditions of our fathers tell us, and Wic-chi-tau-bit has watched and waited; she believed his heart was white, that he spoke with a straight tongue; Heather Flower is the daughter of a great king, like Powhattan. Her mother is a princess of the Mohawks. Their daughter is a fitting mate for the white eagle."

"He is a traitor!" exclaimed Heather Flower, "but he shall pay for his treachery with his life; the daughter of Wyandance will not crouch at his feet and weep like a puling white papoose, for she has trampled her heart under her feet, she has no more tears, they are dried; to such insult she has but one answer to give; she can avenge her wrongs. Let the pale-face dog beware! he shall wash away the stain