It was a terribly long, tedious, laborious, foodless day, and when night gathered around she sought and found a large hollow tree, gathered branches, crept within, barricaded it, and, with a fervent prayer to Heaven, was soon lost in the deepest slumber of all her young lifetime.
Yet even blessed rest was denied her. Scarcely an hour had passed before she was awakened by something scratching without, and saw two red eyes peering in at her that flashed angry lightnings, while a deep roar told of some wild beast. Then she intuitively knew all that was to come—knew how much she was at the mercy of some savage monster!
She had taken up her quarters in the home of one of the huge bears of the mountains, and it was returning to its cubs!
Guided far more by impulse than reason, she grasped one of the largest of the branches and struck the hideous beast in the face, and then, as it drew back in astonishment, she sprung forth screaming, to the full extent of her lungs—sprung forth and ran swiftly away, the bear following, and it would very soon have torn her limb from limb had not the plaintive cries of its cubs recalled it, and with nature triumphing over passion it returned to the tree, giving her an opportunity to escape.
What should she do? She dared neither to stand still or go on—had lost all her reckoning—knew not in what direction she was going—was fainting from hunger—was powerless to protect herself. But with constant prayer for him she loved as well as her own safety she continued to wander, momentarily expecting to be confronted by some of the monsters of the forest. And so utterly hopeless became her state that she would have gladly gone back to the wigwams of the Indians, foolishly believing that her condition would excite their pity, had she known the way—have gone like a bleeding lamb into the den of wolves.
Slower became her journeying—fainter was her breath drawn. She could scarcely draw one poor bruised foot after the other, and it was evident even to her reeling senses that her end was very near—that she would soon have to perish in the wilderness—die alone without a single soul to pity, or kindly hand to close her eyes, and that her body would become the sport of wolves' whelps and foul carrion birds.
The idea was too horrible to be calmly endured, and a great cry of misery escaped from her fevered lips. She reeled against a tree, grasped it within her arms, and stood motionless as if turned into stone. The greatest horror of her existence had burst suddenly upon her. She saw by the dim light of the early morning that an Indian was coming toward her—knew that he had heard her screaming—knew that it was her fearful enemy, Muck-a-kee!
In an instant he was by her side and his heavy hand was laid upon her shoulder, and his harsh voice hissed into her trembling ears:
"So the pale-face thought to escape and has nearly perished in the wilderness? But she will wander no more. The wings of the dove shall be clipped so that she can not fly, and the limbs of the doe fettered so that she can not run."
"Merciful God, protect me," was all that she could gasp, as she was hurried along with more than brutal rapidity.