Old Wiloma scarcely watched her captive. Indeed, the thought of escape never entered the mind of Amy. Where should she fly, when all she loved were in heaven. True, she did not know that two of her brothers were dead. The eldest, Winthrop, was at a distant settlement at school; and little Johnny, the pet, was sweetly sleeping in the chamber when they were attacked, so it seemed certain that he was slain. But the chance of life vanished when Richard fell.
“Alas! the love of woman; it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of hers upon that die is thrown,
And if ’tis lost, life has no more to bring
To her, but mockeries of the past alone.”
Amy was one day sitting in the wigwam-door when she saw Mordaunt coming toward her, and rose to retire. “In the name of Jesus, tarry,” said he, in a manner so earnest and imperative, that she stopped involuntarily. “I have prayed for thee to the Holy Virgin and the Saints,” continued he, crossing himself. It was the first intelligible sentence in her own language that Amy had heard since she parted with her companions in misery. Some of the Indians spoke a broken English that she understood, but she had never heard Mordaunt utter a word before.
“I need not thy prayers to thy saints,” said Amy, after recovering from her astonishment, and recollecting the teachings of her infancy.
“Speak not lightly of prayers, child, thy soul hath need of them,” said Mordaunt.
“I know it, but those now sleeping in death, taught me that there is but One that heareth prayer,” said she, her eyes filling with tears, “and He is our Father in Heaven.”