"I have lived a sort of hermit's life, my dear Bob, since the death of your blessed parents," said the divine, clearing his eyes of tears; "now and then cheered by a precious letter from yourself and Maud--I call you both by the names I gave you both in baptism--and it was, 'I, Maud, take thee, Robert,' when you stood before the altar in that little edifice--you will pardon me if I am too familiar with a general officer and his lady"
"Familiar!" exclaimed both in a breath;--and Maud's soft, white hand was extended towards the chaplain, with reproachful earnestness;--"We, who were made Christians by you, and who have so much reason to remember and love you always!"
"Well, well; I see you are Robert and Maud, still"--dashing streaming tears from his eyes now. "Yes, I did bring you both into God's visible church on earth, and you were baptised by one who received his ordination from the Archbishop of Canterbury himself,"--Maud smiled a little archly--"and who has never forgotten his ordination vows, as he humbly trusts. But you are not the only Christians I have made--I now rank Nicholas among the number"--
"Nick!" interrupted Sir Robert--"Wyandotté!" added his wife, with a more delicate tact.
"I call him Nicholas, now, since he was christened by that name--there is no longer a Wyandotté, or a Saucy Nick. Major Willoughby, I have a secret to communicate--I beg pardon, Sir Robert--but you will excuse old habits --if you will walk this way."
Willoughby was apart with the chaplain a full half-hour, during which time Maud wept over the graves, the rest standing by in respectful silence. As for Nick, a stone could scarcely have been more fixed than his attitude. Nevertheless, his mien was rebuked, his eye downcast; even his bosom was singularly convulsed. He knew that the chaplain was communicating to Willoughby the manner in which he had slain his father. At length, the gentlemen returned slowly towards the graves; the general agitated, frowning, and flushed. As for Mr. Woods, he was placid and full of hope. Willoughby had yielded to his expostulations and arguments a forgiveness, which came reluctantly, and perhaps as much for the want of a suitable object for retaliation, as from a sense of Christian duty.
"Nicholas," said the chaplain, "I have told the general all."
"He know him!" cried the Indian, with startling energy.
"I do, Wyandotté; and sorry have I been to learn it. You have made my heart bitter."
Nick was terribly agitated. His youthful and former opinions maintained a fearful struggle with those which had come late in life; the result being a wild admixture of his sense of Indian justice, and submission to the tenets of his new, and imperfectly-comprehended faith. For a moment, the first prevailed. Advancing, with a firm step, to the general, he put his own bright and keen tomahawk into the other's hands, folded his arms on his bosom, bowed his head a little, and said, firmly--