“Maümee!” I mentally echoed. “Strange, sweet name! Can it be she?”
I was thinking of a bright being that had crossed my path—a dream—a heavenly vision—for it seemed too lovely to be of the earth.
While wandering in the woods, amid perfumed groves, had this vision appeared to me in the form of an Indian maiden. In a flowery glade, I saw her—one of those spots in the southern forest which nature adorns so profusely. She appeared to form part of the picture.
One glance had I, and she was gone. I pursued, but to no purpose. Like a spirit she glided through the daedalian aisles of the grove, and I saw her no more. But though gone from my sight, she passed not out of my memory; ever since had I been dreaming of that lovely apparition. “Was it Maümee?”
“Your name?” I inquired, as I saw the youth was about to depart.
“I am called Powell by the whites: my father’s name—he was white—he is dead. My mother still lives; I need not say she is an Indian.”
“I must be gone, sir,” continued he after a pause. “Before I leave you, permit me to put a question. It may appear impertinent, but I have good reason for asking it. Have you among your slaves one who is very bad, one who is hostile to your family?”
“There is such a one. I have reason to believe it.”
“Would you know his tracks?”
“I should.”