“Ah,” said she, “it was Mordaunt, that dead body; and for him they were mourning. That random shot of yours killed their priest, wicked, miserable Mordaunt. You, Richard, have avenged my wrongs,” continued she, bursting into tears at the remembrance of her insult.
“Yes, that accounts for all—their carrying the body, their howling, and not pursuing us,” said Richard, still dwelling upon the sight and sounds of the afternoon. “But dry up your tears, my sweet Amy; deliverance and happiness have come at last,” and he strained her in ecstasy to his bosom. But the transport of her lover’s embrace soon gave way to grievous apprehensions for the welfare of her favorite and now only brother. “We will go and seek him and our party,” said Richard. “The Indians will scarcely follow us now; the burial of their priest will occupy them too much to think of pursuit.” It was dim twilight when they crept forth from their hiding place. They had gone but a little distance when they heard a whistle, which started Mary, but which Richard understood was from one of his comrades, and soon they saw a moving figure near them. This proved to be the man who had vainly endeavored to warn them of their peril before their attack.
“Alas! my poor young woman,” said the kind, honest man, “I hate to grieve you, if you do not know it, but I saw the dear lad fall by the way.”
“Tell me where he lies,” said the shocked, terrified girl.
“May be I can,” said the man. “I was looking for some one to come with me, when I heard you and whistled.”
He led the way and they followed silently, except the exclamations of grief that ever and anon broke from Amy. They had nearly reached the falls, the sight of which recalled the few delightful moments spent with Winthrop, when their leader, stooping down into a bunch of alder, said—“Poor, brave boy, here he lies.” It was not yet dark; the pale twilight just revealed his pale, dead face, his garments dyed with blood, and the murderous arrow still deep in his breast. Amy kissed his cold, pallid cheeks, and bathed them in tears. “My ransom was too dearly paid,” said she bitterly. “Why was Winthrop, so happy, so noble and so young, the one to fall by savage hands, when death would have been sweet to me, their wretched slave?”