"It was this," answered the other, and from his deerskin robe he plucked out a little shining trinket, and held it out to me.
I took it with a cry of wonder. It was a little gold locket that I had often seen around Margaret's neck; pressing the spring the face flew open, and there, I beheld a little miniature of her, painted several years ago when she was a merry, laughing girl. I gazed at it long, wrapped in my own thoughts. Ah, my lady! the same light brown hair, the same deep azure eyes and pink cheeks; time had brought little to thee, only the ripening of the lovely fruit, only the bloom of a yet more perfect beauty.
As I toyed with the little bauble, a spring snapped, and the back of the locket flew open. I must have touched a secret spring in some way. There in the recess was a paper. Hardly knowing what I did I took it in my hand, and read the few lines that it contained. So Dunraven had struck his last blow—by the grace of God I would wring his neck for this, though I should follow him across the whole vast country that stretched before me to accomplish it. The blackest perfidy of his dark life lay before me as I read that note, and my very blood boiled in my veins with rage.
"Margaret:—I lie sick and wounded in this place to which I have escaped from the prison. To-morrow I must sail for Virginia, and I may never see thy bright face again. I would make one last request in the name of the love I bear thee; for the love of God, Margaret, have pity upon me as I lie here sick unto death, and longing for one more glimpse of thee. Come, though it be only for a moment—thou art a woman, and wilt pity me in this last hour. If thou wilt come, but accompany this holy priest who bears this note to thee.
"Farewell,
"Thomas Winchester."
I laughed bitterly as I replaced the paper in its hiding place. It had done its work well, and I now knew why Margaret was here. That imp of Satan, Father Francis, had carried this message, and she, in the pity of her woman's heart, had accompanied him to some house where Dunraven awaited her. Then they hurried her aboard his vessel and set sail, thinking to be safe in this wild country. But fate, weary with the smiles which she had bestowed upon him, had at last turned her frown, and I, like a sleuth hound, was on their trail.
"Wilt sell the bauble?" I asked Occom.
"I would that my brother would give me one of the bright steel tomahawks," he answered. "Then shall Occom be rewarded for his story, and the Eagle shall keep the trinket."
"It is well," I replied, and I commanded one of the men to give the Indian his hatchet, promising him another when we reached the ship.
The Indian's face lighted up with pleasure as he took it in his hands.
"Occom thanks the Eagle," he said, "and shall not forget him."