“The bright visions of Wiccónsat were soon dispelled, for, with the next vessel from England, arrived a young relative of Rosalie’s family, who brought news of their having succeeded to an estate in their native country, to take possession of which they now made preparations to leave America. The charms of the maiden made an immediate impression on the heart of the young and accomplished Briton. His amiable qualities soon won her love, and, with the approval of her parents, it was arranged that their marriage should take place on their arrival in England.
“The sad intelligence soon reached Wiccónsat, to whom the grateful family had shown many marks of attachment, little suspecting the sorrows they were preparing for the youthful chief. They knew not the secret homage of his heart, for its trembling hopes had never been breathed to the beautiful object of his love. In the innocence of grateful friendship, she presented him with an embroidered belt worked by her own hands, and assured him that she would never forget her generous preserver.—But when the day of their departure had arrived, and sorrowful friends crowded the vessel’s deck to take their last farewell, Wiccónsat was not there. Rosalie and her parents shed tears of regret, as the sails were spreading to waft them from their happy American home, and as their eyes sought its peaceful roof, they discovered near it, on a point of the river’s shore, the solitary figure of the young chief. It was at this spot he had rescued the maiden from a watery grave. She eagerly waved her white handkerchief in token of farewell, and the next moment saw the belt she had given him, floating on the air in a returning adieu. In a few minutes the vessel parted from the shore.
“Many years after this, an interesting youth, accompanied by his tutor, arrived at St. Mary’s, from England. I know not in what state they found the town, but the youth’s first inquiries were for an Indian chief, called Wiccónsat, who had in early years saved the life of his mother. He was shown a lonely wigwam, on a point near the river. James Egerton, for it was my great grandfather, took an early opportunity of visiting it, but first inquired into the present character of its inmate. ‘He is mild and peaceful,’ said his informant, ‘and is sometimes called the Indian Hermit, for he seldom appears abroad except when hunting or fishing. He has lived thus for many years, is always melancholy, and dislikes the visits of the curious: ’Tis thought some misfortune in his youth has led him to prefer solitude.’—Thus informed, the young James proceeded to the river’s side. From description, he knew where had stood the home of his mother’s children, but sighed to perceive it in ruins, and leaning on a fragment of the broken wall, plucked a leaf from the vine that still clung to it, then, with lingering footsteps, sought the point. Seated on a rustic bench at the door of the cabin was a figure which he knew must be the chief, for he raised his tall, majestic form, and advanced to meet him, but paused suddenly, and gazed earnestly and inquiringly on his face.