“Oh! tell me what she says, Earth?”
“She says, the gal is like a flower, that her hair is like yaller sand, and that she trimbles like you were to squeeze a bird in your hand.”
“She is the same!” cried Rolfe.
Believing that he recognized her even in Earth's unpoetical description, tears of joy gushed from his eyes, and falling upon his knees, he poured out in fervent prayer, a thousand thanks to the God of heaven, for having so conducted his footsteps as to create a full hope of finding her who was the object of his search. Earth and the mother listened to it, as to the voice of inspiration. It was beautiful as an act of devotion, and, regarding the time and circumstances, nothing could be more impressive.
While Rolfe was speaking, Earth several times drew his sleeve across his eyes; but scarcely, however, had the last words of the prayer died away, and silence again resumed her reign, when a voice as if of anguish seemed to rise up from the ground. It was startling, and a feeling of horror thrilled through the frames of the hunters. But it touched a kindred chord in the ear of the Indian mother; and, moving forward, again she cried, “Oloompa!” and a voice answered, “Mother, art thou here?” Then burst forth a woman's shriek, and a shriek so loud, that the feeding beasts fled, galloping away,—owls flapped their wings, and hooted,—and the startling scream seemed to leap from tree to tree, as it entered the depths of the forest.—There was silence, and the Indian mother lay bending over the sinking frame of her son.
“Heard you that scream, Earth?”
“Do you see that Ingen, just behind you, Rolfe?”
“Where?” said Rolfe, starting, and at the same moment throwing up his gun, he looked about him.
“I don't see him now,” said Earth, “but I thought I saw one when that woman screamed.”
“You are mistaken, Earth, it was mere fancy.”