his benighted soul; he struck his brow with violence, and groaned aloud. He took the raven tresses from his bosom, sole relic of his once-loved wife, and, sitting down upon a fallen trunk, spake to himself in mournful accents, and in the figurative language of the Indian tribes: "O Nito-me-ma, Dove of the Forest, Beautiful Pride of the Prairie, torn away by cruel fate. Her breath was sweeter than the mountain balm; her eyes were like the wild fawn's eyes; and her tooth, white as the snow-flakes newly fallen. Where wanders my love by the crystal rivers of the Spirit-Land? Omaint-si-ar-nah's heart is gloomy as the cypress-grove at midnight when the moon goes down. His arm has lost its strength, and his feet cease from running. O Gentle Dove, come to me from the land of ghosts!"
"The chief walks alone," said a voice almost at Omaint-si-ar-nah's ear. He turned, and Gray-Eagle stood before him, the commissioner of blood.
"Ha!" said the former, clutching in his hand the lock of hair, "you have executed your errand well, and have shed innocent blood." He restored the lock to his bosom, placed his left hand on the hatchet in his girdle, and raising his right arm to heaven, "By the Great Spirit!" he added, "we shall both die, and that before yon sun goes down."
Gray-Eagle stood erect and smiled a moment without reply. He walked slowly down to the margin of the brook, dipped a shell in water, and poured it over his hands.
"Thou art not exonerated," said Omaint-si-ar-nah.
"I am, Chief," replied the Gray-Eagle. Omaint-si-ar-nah grasped his tomahawk, and made a threatening motion as if to strike him dead.
Gray-Eagle smiled again, and did not move.
"Hear me," he said; "I have disobeyed my chieftain, but these hands have not been stained with blood. The Gentle Dove still lives."
"Lives!" said the other, and he clasped his hands and stood a long time rooted to the soil—"lives!" he exclaimed in ecstasy; "then I live; then the sun shines; then the grass grows. Speak on."
"I never slew her. I brought you but the token of unchanged
