"I knew that face," he answered tenderly, "when the torches first glared upon it, and the cry of war was around. It was deadly pale, but I knew it was the face of her who had given me bread. Thou sayest, when have I fed thee? So will the righteous ask at the last day. Thou writest the traces of thy charity in the sand, but the famished prisoner graves them in the rock forever. I was with the men of Colonel Buford, on the waters of the Santee River, where out of four hundred, only fifty-three escaped the sword of Tarleton. I saw an hundred hands of brave men raised to implore mercy. They were stricken off by the sabres of the horsemen, who soon trampled upon their bodies. But why tell I thee tales of blood? whose heart is tender as that of an infant. I have said that a few were saved. With them I went into captivity. Some pined away, and died in their sorrows. Seventeen moons have since beamed upon their graves.
"Remember thou an old Indian, who leaned against a tree, near thy tent? He leaned upon it, because he was weak, and his blood wasted by famine? He asked not for food, yet thou gavest it to him. Thou rememberest him not? Well! Thou wilt never forget the youth, who was near, in the door of thy tent. His voice was like the flute of his own country, when he said, Oriana. But how did I see him next? His beautiful forehead was cold, and his noble breast red with its own blood. I saw thee also. Thou wert as one dead. But how could I be mistaken in the hand that had given me bread? I determined to take
