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“Sartain, Judith; though our fri’ndship would have been all the warmer, could you look upon me as I look upon you.”

Judith hesitated, and some powerful emotion was struggling within her. Then, as if determined to look down all weaknesses, and accomplish her purposes at every hazard, she spoke more plainly.

“You will find a captain of the name of Warley, at the nearest post,” she said, pale as death, and even trembling as she spoke; “I think it likely he will wish to head the party; I would greatly prefer it should be another. If Captain Warley can be kept back, ’twould make me very happy.”

“That’s easier said than done, Judith; for these officers do pretty much as they please. The major will order, and captains, and lieutenants, and ensigns must obey. I know the officer you mean; a red-faced, gay, 0-be-joyful sort of a gentleman, who swallows Madeira enough to drown the Mohawk, and yet a pleasant talker. All the gals in the valley admire him; and they say he admires all the gals. I don’t wonder he is your dislike, Judith, for he’s a very gin‘ral lover, if he isn’t a gin’ral officer.”

Judith did not answer, though her frame shook, and her color changed from pale to crimson, and from crimson back again to the hue of death.

“Alas! my poor mother!” she ejaculated mentally, instead of uttering it aloud; “we are over thy grave, but little dost thou know how much thy lessons have been forgotten; thy care neglected; thy love defeated!”

As this goading of the worm that never dies was felt, she arose, and signified to Hurry that she had no more to communicate.

CHAPTER XXII

“That point

In misery, which makes the oppressed man

Regardless of his own life, makes him too

Lord of the oppressor’s.”

Coleridge

ALL THIS TIME HETTY had remained seated in the head of the scow, looking sorrowfully into the water which held the body of her mother, as well as that of the man whom she had been taught to consider her father. Hist stood near her in gentle quiet, but had no consolation to offer in words. The habits of her people taught her reserve in this respect; and the habits of her sex induced her to wait patiently for a moment when she might manifest some soothing sympathy by means of acts rather than of speech. Chingachgook held himself a little aloof, in grave reserve, looking like a warrior, but feeling like a man.

Judith joined her sister with an air of dignity and solemnity it was not her practice to show; and, though the gleamings of anguish were still visible on her beautiful face, when she spoke it was firmly and without tremor. At that instant, Hist and the Delaware withdrew, moving towards Hurry, in the other end of the boat.

“Sister,” said Judith, kindly, “I have much to say to you; we will get into this canoe, and paddle off to a distance from the ark; the secrets of two orphans ought not to be heard by every ear.”

“Certainly, Judith, by the ears of their parents. Let Hurry lift the grapnel, and move away with the ark, and leave us here, near the graves of father and mother, to say what we may have to say.”

“Father!” repeated Judith, slowly, the blood for the first time since her parting with March, mounting to her cheeks; “he was no father of ours, Hetty! That we had from his own mouth, and in his dying moments.”

“Are you glad, Judith, to find you had no father? He took care of us, and fed us, and clothed us, and loved us; a father could have done no more. I don’t understand why he wasn’t a father.”

“Never mind, dear child, but let us do as you have said. It may be well to remain here, and let the ark move a little away. Do you prepare the canoe, and I will tell Hurry and the Indians our wishes.”

This was soon and simply done; the ark moving, with measured strokes of the sweeps, a hundred yards from the spot, leaving the girls floating, seemingly in air, above the place of the dead, so buoyant was the light vessel that held them, and so limpid the element by which it was sustained.

“The death of Thomas Hutter,” Judith commenced, after a short pause