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“Can’t we rejoin Perrigo?” asked Morton.

“No; scouts in woods over there; hide tonight and go back tomorrow.”

The strain of excitement over, Morton stretched himself on the ferns that abounded and quickly fell asleep.

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When Morton opened his eyes he found the dell, or rather gorge, for the sides were almost precipitous though clad with vegetation, was lit up by the moon, and Hemlock by his side, sitting Indian fashion, clasping his knees. Without uttering a word, he rose on perceiving the young officer was awake and lifted his gun to move on. Morton obeyed the mute sign and they began to descend the bed of the stream. It was a task of some difficulty, for it abounded in rocks and often there was no foothold at the sides, the water laving the cliffs that formed the banks. Had it not been that the season was an unusually dry one, leaving the river bed largely bare, Morton could not have kept up with his companion. Chilled by his wet garments, the exercise was rather grateful to him and he exerted himself to overcome the obstacles in his path. As they went on, the banks grew higher and the gorge more narrow, until, turning a bend, Morton perceived the river dashed down a channel cleft out of a rock, which rose a pillared wall on one side and on the other had been rendered concave by the washing down of the debris of ages. High above, shafts of moonlight struggled thru’ the foliage and, falling irregularly on the sides, brought into ghastly relief the nakedness of the walls of the rocky prison. Deeply impressed Morton followed his guide down the gloomy chasm, whence the sound of falling water came, and they passed two small falls. Below the lower one, where the walls drew nearer, as if they grudged the scanty space they had been affording the tumultuous stream for its passage, the cliffs grew loftier. Hemlock halted, and pointing to a water-worn recess in the rocks, that afforded some covering, said, “Sleep there.” Morton lay down, but he was in no humor to sleep again. The magnificence of the rock-hewn chamber in which he lay, with a giant cliff bending over him, had excited his imagination, and his eyes wandered from the foaming falls in front of him to the solemn heights, whose walls were flecked with shrubs and topped by spruce trees. The contrast of the unceasing noise and motion of the river with the eternal silence and imperturbability of the rocks, deeply impressed him. Thus time passed and when he had scanned the scene to his satisfaction, his interest turned to his companion, who had left him and stood beneath a pillar of rock higher than its fellows, where the chasm narrowed into a mere tunnel. Evidently supposing that Morton was sound asleep, he was going through those motions of incantation by which Indian medicine-men profess to evoke the spirits. He writhed until his contortions were horrible, while the working of his features showed he was inwardly striving to induce an exalted and morbid condition of feeling. He smote his breast resounding blows, he flung himself downwards on the rock and shook himself until his body jerked with involuntary twitchings, he shrieked in hollow tones and plucked at his hair, until the sweat rolled down his cheeks. After a fit of hysterical laughter he sank in a swoon, which lasted so long that Morton was debating whether he should not go over to him. All this time the moon had been sailing upward and now stood directly over the chasm, its beams transforming the foaming river into a channel of milky whiteness and, where it broke into curls at the falls, into streams of pearls, while the foliage that tempered the stern outline of the rocks, bedewed by the spray that kept them constantly moist, glistened as if sprinkled with diamond-dust. The moonlight streamed on the prostrate body of the Indian, and as he awoke from his trance and slowly raised himself, Morton read in his face a wonderful change—a look of calmness and of supernatural ecstasy. With great dignity he drew himself up and stepped forward a few paces until he stood directly beneath the pillar of rock. Then he spoke: “Spirit of the wood and stream, who loves this best of all thine abodes, come to me. Hemlock seeks thee to help him. The wounded moose will never breathe again the morning-air, the stricken pine-tree never put forth fresh shoots, and Hemlock is wounded and stricken and growing old. Shall the hand grow feeble before the blow is dealt, the eye grow dim before mine enemy is slain, and my ear grow deaf before it hears his death-groan? The leaves that fall rot and the water that passeth returneth not; therefore, oh Spirit, grant to Hemlock his prayer, that before night comes he may find whom he seeks. Again, this day, has he escaped me, shielded by his medicine. Break the spell, O Spirit; take away the charm that holds my arm when I aim the blow, and pluck away the shield the evil ones hold over him! The eagle has his nest on the hill and the fox his lair in the valley, but Hemlock has no home. The doe fondles its fawn and the tired swallow is helped across the great water on the wings of its sons, but Hemlock has no children. The light of his eyes was taken from him, the joy of his heart was frozen. The Yankee stole his land, slew his brothers, bewitched his only daughter, and drove him away, and now he is a sick-struck man, whom none come near. Spirit, grant the prayer of Hemlock; break the spell that binds me, that I may taste the blood of mine enemy and I shall die happy.”