As the old hunter has ridden out of our sight for ever, let us return to the Indian town, where Alice Rody was so strangely domiciled.
Her people had buried the ill-fated Sansuta near the old fort.
The wild flowers she had loved so well had already blossomed over her grave.
Wacora and Nelatu had both been present—both much affected.
The events of the contest had called them away immediately afterwards. Wacora remained absent, but his cousin had made a stolen visit to the town, as shown by the incidents already related.
The search for the escaped captive was carried on for some time with vigour, but was at length abandoned.
Meanwhile, the other captive’s life passed without incident. The aid she had given the backwoodsman had afforded her the greatest pleasure.
She had been informed of his capture immediately after his condemnation, and was resolved to help him in his escape.
She did not know of Nelatu’s presence near the scene, nor of his well-timed assistance.
The Indian youth had ridden many miles that evening, merely to stand and gaze at her window.