prompt:
Chapter: "Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
    And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
    But nothing he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on,
    In the grave where a Briton has laid him."

    Charles Wolfe, "The Burial of Sir John Moore," vi.

The reader must imagine the horror that daughters would experience, at
unexpectedly beholding the shocking spectacle that was placed before the
eyes of Judith and Esther, as related in the close of the last chapter.
We shall pass over the first emotions, the first acts of filial piety,
and proceed with the narrative by imagining rather than relating most of
the revolting features of the scene. The mutilated and ragged head was
bound up, the unseemly blood was wiped from the face of the sufferer,
the other appliances required by appearances and care were resorted to,
and there was time to enquire into the more serious circumstances of the
case. The facts were never known until years later in all their details,
simple as they were, but they may as well be related here, as it can be
done in a few words. In the struggle with the Hurons, Hutter had been
stabbed by the knife of the old warrior, who had used the discretion
to remove the arms of every one but himself. Being hard pushed by his
sturdy foe, his knife had settled the matter. This occurred just as
the door was opened, and Hurry burst out upon the platform, as has
been previously related. This was the secret of neither party's having
appeared in the subsequent struggle; Hutter having been literally
disabled, and his conqueror being ashamed to be seen with the traces of
blood about him, after having used so many injunctions to convince his
young warriors of the necessity of taking their prisoners alive. When
the three Hurons returned from the chase, and it was determined to
abandon the castle and join the party on the land, Hutter was simply
scalped to secure the usual trophy, and was left to die by inches, as
has been done in a thousand similar instances by the ruthless warriors
of this part of the American continent. Had the injury of Hutter been
confined to his head, he might have recovered, however, for it was
the blow of the knife that proved mortal. There are moments of vivid
consciousness, when the stern justice of God stands forth in colours so
prominent as to defy any attempts to veil them from the sight, however
unpleasant they may appear, or however anxious we may be to avoid
recognising it. Such was now the fact with Judith and Hetty, who both
perceived the decrees of a retributive Providence, in the manner of
their father's suffering, as a punishment for his own recent attempts
on the Iroquois. This was seen and felt by Judith with the keenness of
perception and sensibility that were suited to her character, while
the impression made on the simpler mind of her sister was perhaps less
lively, though it might well have proved more lasting.

"Oh! Judith," exclaimed the weak minded girl, as soon as their first
care had been bestowed on sufferer. "Father went for scalps, himself,
and now where is his own? The Bible might have foretold this dreadful
punishment!"

"Hush, Hetty--hush, poor sister--He opens his eyes; he may hear and
understand you. 'Tis as you say and think, but 'tis too dreadful to
speak."

"Water," ejaculated Hutter, as it might be by a desperate effort, that
rendered his voice frightfully deep and strong for one as near death as
he evidently was--"Water--foolish girls--will you let me die of thirst?"

Water was brought and administered to the sufferer; the first he
had tasted in hours of physical anguish. It had the double effect of
clearing his throat and of momentarily reviving his sinking system. His
eyes opened with that anxious, distended gaze which is apt to accompany
the passage of a soul surprised by death, and he seemed disposed to
speak.

"Father," said Judith, inexpressibly pained by his deplorable situation,
and this so much the more from her ignorance of what remedies ought
to be applied--"Father, can we do any thing for you? Can Hetty and I
relieve your pain?"

"Father!" slowly repeated the old man. "No, Judith; no, Hetty--I'm no
father. She was your mother, but I'm no father. Look in the chest--'Tis
all there--give me more water."

The girls complied, and Judith, whose early recollections extended
farther back than her sister's, and who on every account had more
distinct impressions of the past, felt an uncontrollable impulse of joy
as she heard these words. There had never been much sympathy between her
reputed father and herself, and suspicions of this very truth had often
glanced across her mind, in consequence of dialogues she had overheard
between Hutter and her mother. It might be going too far to say she had
never loved him, but it is not so to add that she rejoiced it was no
longer a duty. With Hetty the feeling was different. Incapable of
making all the distinctions of her sister, her very nature was full
of affection, and she had loved her reputed parent, though far less
tenderly than the real parent, and it grieved her now to hear him
declare he was not naturally entitled to that love. She felt a double
grief, as if his death and his words together were twice depriving her
of parents. Yielding to her feelings, the poor girl went aside and wept.

The very opposite emotions of the two girls kept both silent for a long
time. Judith gave water to the sufferer frequently, but she forbore to
urge him with questions, in some measure out of consideration for his
condition, but, if truth must be said, quite as much lest something he
should add in the way of explanation might disturb her pleasing belief
that she was not Thomas Hutter's child. At length Hetty dried her tears,
and came and seated herself on a stool by the side of the dying man, who
had been placed at his length on the floor, with his head supported by
some coarse vestments that had been left in the house.

"Father," she said "you will let me call you father, though you say you
are not one--Father, shall I read the Bible to you--mother always said
the Bible was good for people in trouble. She was often in trouble
herself, and then she made me read the Bible to her--for Judith wasn't
as fond of the Bible as I am--and it always did her good. Many is the
time I've known mother begin to listen with the tears streaming from her
eyes, and end with smiles and gladness. Oh! father, you don't know how
much good the Bible can do, for you've never tried it. Now, I'll read a
chapter and it will soften your heart as it softened the hearts of the
Hurons."

While poor Hetty had so much reverence for, and faith in, the virtues
of the Bible, her intellect was too shallow to enable her fully to
appreciate its beauties, or to fathom its profound and sometimes
mysterious wisdom. That instinctive sense of right which appeared to
shield her from the commission of wrong, and even cast a mantle of
moral loveliness and truth around her character, could not penetrate
abstrusities, or trace the nice affinities between cause and effect,
beyond their more obvious and indisputable connection, though she
seldom failed to see all the latter, and to defer to all their just
consequences. In a word, she was one of those who feel and act correctly
without being able to give a logical reason for it, even admitting
revelation as her authority. Her selections from the Bible, therefore,
were commonly distinguished by the simplicity of her own mind, and were
oftener marked for containing images of known and palpable things than
for any of the higher cast of moral truths with which the pages of that
wonderful book abound--wonderful, and unequalled, even without referring
to its divine origin, as a work replete with the profoundest philosophy,
expressed in the noblest language. Her mother, with a connection that
will probably strike the reader, had been fond of the book of Job, and
Hetty had, in a great measure, learned to read by the frequent lessons
she had received from the different chapters of this venerable and
sublime poem--now believed to be the oldest book in the world. On this
occasion the poor girl was submissive to her training, and she turned to
that well known part of the sacred volume, with the readiness with which
the practised counsel would cite his authorities from the stores of
legal wisdom. In selecting the particular chapter, she was influenced by
the caption, and she chose that which stands in our English version
as "Job excuseth his desire of death." This she read steadily, from
beginning to end, in a sweet, low and plaintive voice; hoping devoutly
that the allegorical and abstruse sentences might convey to the heart of
the sufferer the consolation he needed. It is another peculiarity of the
comprehensive wisdom of the Bible that scarce a chapter, unless it
be strictly narration, can be turned to, that does not contain some
searching truth that is applicable to the condition of every human
heart, as well as to the temporal state of its owner, either through
the workings of that heart, or even in a still more direct form. In this
instance, the very opening sentence--"Is there not an appointed time to
man on earth?" was startling, and as Hetty proceeded, Hutter applied, or
fancied he could apply many aphorisms and figures to his own worldly
and mental condition. As life is ebbing fast, the mind clings eagerly to
hope when it is not absolutely crushed by despair. The solemn words "I
have sinned; what shall I do unto thee, O thou preserver of men? Why
hast thou set me as a mark against thee, so that I am a burden to
myself," struck Hutter more perceptibly than the others, and, though too
obscure for one of his blunted feelings and obtuse mind either to feel
or to comprehend in their fullest extent, they had a directness of
application to his own state that caused him to wince under them.

"Don't you feel better now, father?" asked Hetty, closing the volume.
"Mother was always better when she had read the Bible."

"Water," returned Hutter--"give me water, Judith. I wonder if my tongue
will always be so hot! Hetty, isn't there something in the Bible about
cooling the tongue of a man who was burning in Hell fire?"

Judith turned away shocked, but Hetty eagerly sought the passage, which
she read aloud to the conscience stricken victim of his own avaricious
longings.

"That's it, poor Hetty; yes, that's it. My tongue wants cooling,
now--what will it be hereafter?"

This appeal silenced even the confiding Hetty, for she had no answer
ready for a confession so fraught with despair. Water, so long as it
could relieve the sufferer, it was in the power of the sisters to give,
and from time to time it was offered to the lips of the sufferer as he
asked for it. Even Judith prayed. As for Hetty, as soon as she found
that her efforts to make her father listen to her texts were no longer
rewarded with success, she knelt at his side and devoutly repeated
the words which the Saviour has left behind him as a model for human
petitions. This she continued to do, at intervals, as long as it seemed
to her that the act could benefit the dying man. Hutter, however,
lingered longer than the girls had believed possible when they first
found him. At times he spoke intelligibly, though his lips oftener moved
in utterance of sounds that carried no distinct impressions
to the mind. Judith listened intently, and she heard the
words--"husband"--"death"-"pirate"--"law"--"scalps"--and several others
of similar import, though there was no sentence to tell the precise
connection in which they were used. Still they were sufficiently
expressive to be understood by one whose ears had not escaped all the
rumours that had been circulated to her reputed father's discredit, and
whose comprehension was as quick as her faculties were attentive.

During the whole of the painful hour that succeeded, neither of the
sisters bethought her sufficiently of the Hurons to dread their return.
It seemed as if their desolation and grief placed them above the danger
of such an interruption, and when the sound of oars was at length heard,
even Judith, who alone had any reason to apprehend the enemy, did not
start, but at once understood that the Ark was near. She went upon the
platform fearlessly, for should it turn out that Hurry was not
there, and that the Hurons were masters of the scow also, escape was
impossible. Then she had the sort of confidence that is inspired by
extreme misery. But there was no cause for any new alarm, Chingachgook,
Hist, and Hurry all standing in the open part of the scow, cautiously
examining the building to make certain of the absence of the enemy.
They, too, had seen the departure of the Hurons, as well as the approach
of the canoe of the girls to the castle, and presuming on the latter
fact, March had swept the scow up to the platform. A word sufficed to
explain that there was nothing to be apprehended, and the Ark was soon
moored in her old berth.

Judith said not a word concerning the condition of her father, but Hurry
knew her too well not to understand that something was more than usually
wrong. He led the way, though with less of his confident bold manner
than usual, into the house, and penetrating to the inner room, found
Hutter lying on his back with Hetty sitting at his side, fanning him
with pious care. The events of the morning had sensibly changed the
manner of Hurry. Notwithstanding his skill as a swimmer, and the
readiness with which he had adopted the only expedient that could
possibly save him, the helplessness of being in the water, bound hand
and foot, had produced some such effect on him, as the near approach
of punishment is known to produce on most criminals, leaving a vivid
impression of the horrors of death upon his mind, and this too in
connection with a picture of bodily helplessness; the daring of this man
being far more the offspring of vast physical powers, than of the energy
of the will, or even of natural spirit. Such heroes invariably lose a
large portion of their courage with the failure of their strength, and
though Hurry was now unfettered and as vigorous as ever, events were too
recent to permit the recollection of his late deplorable condition to
be at all weakened. Had he lived a century, the occurrences of the few
momentous minutes during which he was in the lake would have produced a
chastening effect on his character, if not always on his manner.

Hurry was not only shocked when he found his late associate in this
desperate situation, but he was greatly surprised. During the struggle
in the building, he had been far too much occupied himself to learn what
had befallen his comrade, and, as no deadly weapon had been used in his
particular case, but every effort had been made to capture him without
injury, he naturally believed that Hutter had been overcome, while he
owed his own escape to his great bodily strength, and to a fortunate
concurrence of extraordinary circumstances. Death, in the silence and
solemnity of a chamber, was a novelty to him. Though accustomed to
scenes of violence, he had been unused to sit by the bedside and watch
the slow beating of the pulse, as it gradually grew weaker and weaker.
Notwithstanding the change in his feelings, the manners of a life could
not be altogether cast aside in a moment, and the unexpected scene
extorted a characteristic speech from the borderer.

"How now! old Tom," he said, "have the vagabonds got you at an
advantage, where you're not only down, but are likely to be kept down!
I thought you a captyve it's true, but never supposed you so hard run as
this!"

Hutter opened his glassy eyes, and stared wildly at the speaker. A flood
of confused recollections rushed on his wavering mind at the sight of
his late comrade. It was evident that he struggled with his own images,
and knew not the real from the unreal.

"Who are you?" he asked in a husky whisper, his failing strength
refusing to aid him in a louder effort of his voice.

"Who are you?--You look like the mate of 'The Snow'--he was a giant,
too, and near overcoming us."

"I'm your mate, Floating Tom, and your comrade, but have nothing to do
with any snow. It's summer now, and Harry March always quits the hills
as soon after the frosts set in, as is convenient."

"I know you--Hurry Skurry--I'll sell you a scalp!--a sound one, and of a
full grown man--What'll you give?"

"Poor Tom! That scalp business hasn't turned out at all profitable, and
I've pretty much concluded to give it up; and to follow a less bloody
calling."

"Have you got any scalp? Mine's gone--How does it feel to have a scalp?
I know how it feels to lose one--fire and flames about the brain--and
a wrenching at the heart--no--no--kill first, Hurry, and scalp
afterwards."

"What does the old fellow mean, Judith? He talks like one that is
getting tired of the business as well as myself. Why have you bound up
his head? or, have the savages tomahawked him about the brains?"

"They have done that for him which you and he, Harry March, would have
so gladly done for them. His skin and hair have been torn from his head
to gain money from the governor of Canada, as you would have torn theirs
from the heads of the Hurons, to gain money from the Governor of York."

Judith spoke with a strong effort to appear composed, but it was neither
in her nature, nor in the feeling of the moment to speak altogether
without bitterness. The strength of her emphasis, indeed, as well as her
manner, caused Hetty to look up reproachfully.

"These are high words to come from Thomas Hutter's darter, as Thomas
Hutter lies dying before her eyes," retorted Hurry.

"God be praised for that!--whatever reproach it may bring on my poor
mother, I am not Thomas Hutter's daughter."

"Not Thomas Hutter's darter!--Don't disown the old fellow in his last
moments, Judith, for that's a sin the Lord will never overlook. If
you're not Thomas Hutter's darter, whose darter be you?"

This question rebuked the rebellious spirit of Judith, for, in getting
rid of a parent whom she felt it was a relief to find she might own
she had never loved, she overlooked the important circumstance that no
substitute was ready to supply his place.

"I cannot tell you, Harry, who my father was," she answered more mildly;
"I hope he was an honest man, at least."

"Which is more than you think was the case with old Hutter? Well,
Judith, I'll not deny that hard stories were in circulation consarning
Floating Tom, but who is there that doesn't get a scratch, when an inimy
holds the rake? There's them that say hard things of me, and even you,
beauty as you be, don't always escape."

This was said with a view to set up a species of community of character
between the parties, and as the politicians are wont to express it, with
ulterior intentions. What might have been the consequences with one of
Judith's known spirit, as well as her assured antipathy to the speaker,
it is not easy to say, for, just then, Hutter gave unequivocal signs
that his last moment was nigh. Judith and Hetty had stood by the dying
bed of their mother, and neither needed a monitor to warn them of the
crisis, and every sign of resentment vanished from the face of the
first. Hutter opened his eyes, and even tried to feel about him with his
hands, a sign that sight was failing. A minute later, his breathing
grew ghastly; a pause totally without respiration followed; and, then,
succeeded the last, long drawn sigh, on which the spirit is supposed
to quit the body. This sudden termination of the life of one who had
hitherto filled so important a place in the narrow scene on which he had
been an actor, put an end to all discussion.

The day passed by without further interruption, the Hurons, though
possessed of a canoe, appearing so far satisfied with their success as
to have relinquished all immediate designs on the castle. It would not
have been a safe undertaking, indeed, to approach it under the rifles of
those it was now known to contain, and it is probable that the truce was
more owing to this circumstance than to any other. In the mean while the
preparations were made for the interment of Hutter. To bury him on the
land was impracticable, and it was Hetty's wish that his body should lie
by the side of that of her mother, in the lake. She had it in her power
to quote one of his speeches, in which he himself had called the lake
the "family burying ground," and luckily this was done without the
knowledge of her sister, who would have opposed the plan, had she known
it, with unconquerable disgust. But Judith had not meddled with the
arrangement, and every necessary disposition was made without her
privity or advice.

The hour chosen for the rude ceremony was just as the sun was setting,
and a moment and a scene more suited to paying the last offices to one
of calm and pure spirit could not have been chosen. There are a mystery
and a solemn dignity in death, that dispose the living to regard the
remains of even a malefactor with a certain degree of reverence. All
worldly distinctions have ceased; it is thought that the veil has been
removed, and that the character and destiny of the departed are now as
much beyond human opinions, as they are beyond human ken. In nothing
is death more truly a leveller than in this, since, while it may be
impossible absolutely to confound the great with the low, the worthy
with the unworthy, the mind feels it to be arrogant to assume a right to
judge of those who are believed to be standing at the judgment seat
of God. When Judith was told that all was ready, she went upon the
platform, passive to the request of her sister, and then she first took
heed of the arrangement. The body was in the scow, enveloped in a sheet,
and quite a hundred weight of stones, that had been taken from the fire
place, were enclosed with it, in order that it might sink. No other
preparation seemed to be thought necessary, though Hetty carried her
Bible beneath her arm.

When all were on board the Ark, the singular habitation of the man whose
body it now bore to its final abode, was set in motion. Hurry was at the
oars. In his powerful hands, indeed, they seemed little more than a pair
of sculls, which were wielded without effort, and, as he was expert in
their use, the Delaware remained a passive spectator of the proceedings.
The progress of the Ark had something of the stately solemnity of a
funeral procession, the dip of the oars being measured, and the movement
slow and steady. The wash of the water, as the blades rose and fell,
kept time with the efforts of Hurry, and might have been likened to the
measured tread of mourners. Then the tranquil scene was in beautiful
accordance with a rite that ever associates with itself the idea of God.
At that instant, the lake had not even a single ripple on its glassy
surface, and the broad panorama of woods seemed to look down on the holy
tranquillity of the hour and ceremony in melancholy stillness. Judith
was affected to tears, and even Hurry, though he hardly knew why, was
troubled. Hetty preserved the outward signs of tranquillity, but
her inward grief greatly surpassed that of her sister, since her
affectionate heart loved more from habit and long association, than
from the usual connections of sentiment and taste. She was sustained by
religious hope, however, which in her simple mind usually occupied the
space that worldly feelings filled in that of Judith, and she was not
without an expectation of witnessing some open manifestation of divine
power, on an occasion so solemn. Still she was neither mystical nor
exaggerated; her mental imbecility denying both. Nevertheless her
thoughts had generally so much of the purity of a better world about
them that it was easy for her to forget earth altogether, and to think
only of heaven. Hist was serious, attentive and interested, for she
had often seen the interments of the pale-faces, though never one that
promised to be as peculiar as this; while the Delaware, though grave,
and also observant, in his demeanor was stoical and calm.

Hetty acted as pilot, directing Hurry how to proceed, to find that spot
in the lake which she was in the habit of terming "mother's grave." The
reader will remember that the castle stood near the southern extremity
of a shoal that extended near half a mile northerly, and it was at the
farthest end of this shallow water that Floating Tom had seen fit to
deposit the remains of his wife and child. His own were now in the
course of being placed at their side. Hetty had marks on the land
by which she usually found the spot, although the position of the
buildings, the general direction of the shoal, and the beautiful
transparency of the water all aided her, the latter even allowing the
bottom to be seen. By these means the girl was enabled to note their
progress, and at the proper time she approached March, whispering, "Now,
Hurry you can stop rowing. We have passed the stone on the bottom, and
mother's grave is near."

March ceased his efforts, immediately dropping the kedge and taking the
warp in his hand in order to check the scow. The Ark turned slowly round
under this restraint, and when it was quite stationary, Hetty was seen
at its stern, pointing into the water, the tears streaming from her
eyes, in ungovernable natural feeling. Judith had been present at the
interment of her mother, but she had never visited the spot since. The
neglect proceeded from no indifference to the memory of the deceased;
for she had loved her mother, and bitterly had she found occasion to
mourn her loss; but she was averse to the contemplation of death; and
there had been passages in her own life since the day of that interment
which increased this feeling, and rendered her, if possible, still more
reluctant to approach the spot that contained the remains of one whose
severe lessons of female morality and propriety had been deepened and
rendered doubly impressive by remorse for her own failings. With Hetty,
the case had been very different. To her simple and innocent mind, the
remembrance of her mother brought no other feeling than one of gentle
sorrow; a grief that is so often termed luxurious even, because it
associates with itself the images of excellence and the purity of a
better state of existence. For an entire summer, she had been in
the habit of repairing to the place after night-fall; and carefully
anchoring her canoe so as not to disturb the body, she would sit and
hold fancied conversations with the deceased, sing sweet hymns to the
evening air, and repeat the orisons that the being who now slumbered
below had taught her in infancy. Hetty had passed her happiest hours in
this indirect communion with the spirit of her mother; the wildness
of Indian traditions and Indian opinions, unconsciously to herself,
mingling with the Christian lore received in childhood. Once she had
even been so far influenced by the former as to have bethought her of
performing some of those physical rites at her mother's grave which the
redmen are known to observe; but the passing feeling had been obscured
by the steady, though mild light of Christianity, which never ceased
to burn in her gentle bosom. Now her emotions were merely the natural
outpourings of a daughter that wept for a mother whose love was
indelibly impressed on the heart, and whose lessons had been too
earnestly taught to be easily forgotten by one who had so little
temptation to err.

There was no other priest than nature at that wild and singular funeral
rite. March cast his eyes below, and through the transparent medium of
the clear water, which was almost as pure as air, he saw what Hetty was
accustomed to call "mother's grave." It was a low, straggling mound of
earth, fashioned by no spade, out of a corner of which gleamed a bit of
the white cloth that formed the shroud of the dead. The body had been
lowered to the bottom, and Hutter brought earth from the shore and let
it fall upon it, until all was concealed. In this state the place had
remained until the movement of the waters revealed the solitary sign of
the uses of the spot that has just been mentioned.

Even the most rude and brawling are chastened by the ceremonies of a
funeral. March felt no desire to indulge his voice in any of its coarse
outbreakings, and was disposed to complete the office he had undertaken
in decent sobriety. Perhaps he reflected on the retribution that
had alighted on his late comrade, and bethought him of the frightful
jeopardy in which his own life had so lately been placed. He signified
to Judith that all was ready, received her directions to proceed, and,
with no other assistant than his own vast strength, raised the body and
bore it to the end of the scow. Two parts of a rope were passed beneath
the legs and shoulders, as they are placed beneath coffins, and then the
corpse was slowly lowered beneath the surface of the lake.

"Not there--Harry March--no, not there," said Judith, shuddering
involuntarily; "do not lower it quite so near the spot where mother
lies!"

"Why not, Judith?" asked Hetty, earnestly. "They lived together in life,
and should lie together in death."

"No--no--Harry March, further off--further off. Poor Hetty, you know not
what you say. Leave me to order this."

"I know I am weak-minded, Judith, and that you are clever--but, surely
a husband should be placed near a wife. Mother always said that this was
the way they bury in Christian churchyards."

This little controversy was conducted earnestly, but in smothered
voices, as if the speakers feared that the dead might overhear them.
Judith could not contend with her sister at such a moment, but a
significant gesture induced March to lower the body at a little distance
from that of his wife; when he withdrew the cords, and the act was
performed.

"There's an end of Floating Tom!" exclaimed Hurry, bending over
the scow, and gazing through the water at the body. "He was a brave
companion on a scout, and a notable hand with traps. Don't weep, Judith,
don't be overcome, Hetty, for the righteousest of us all must die; and
when the time comes, lamentations and tears can't bring the dead to
life. Your father will be a loss to you, no doubt; most fathers are a
loss, especially to onmarried darters; but there's a way to cure that
evil, and you're both too young and handsome to live long without
finding it out. When it's agreeable to hear what an honest and
onpretending man has to say, Judith, I should like to talk a little with
you, apart."

Judith had scarce attended to this rude attempt of Hurry's at
consolation, although she necessarily understood its general drift, and
had a tolerably accurate notion of its manner. She was weeping at the
recollection of her mother's early tenderness, and painful images of
long forgotten lessons and neglected precepts were crowding her mind.
The words of Hurry, however, recalled her to the present time, and
abrupt and unseasonable as was their import, they did not produce
those signs of distaste that one might have expected from the girl's
character. On the contrary, she appeared to be struck with some sudden
idea, gazed intently for a moment at the young man, dried her eyes, and
led the way to the other end of the scow, signifying her wish for him to
follow. Here she took a seat and motioned for March to place himself at
her side. The decision and earnestness with which all this was done a
little intimidated her companion, and Judith found it necessary to open
the subject herself.

"You wish to speak to me of marriage, Harry March," she said, "and
I have come here, over the grave of my parents, as it might
be--no--no--over the grave of my poor, dear, dear, mother, to hear what
you have to say."

"This is oncommon, and you have a skearful way with you this evening,
Judith," answered Hurry, more disturbed than he would have cared to own,
"but truth is truth, and it shall come out, let what will follow. You
well know, gal, that I've long thought you the comeliest young woman my
eyes ever beheld, and that I've made no secret of that fact, either here
on the lake, out among the hunters and trappers, or in the settlements."

"Yes--yes, I've heard this before, and I suppose it to be true,"
answered Judith with a sort of feverish impatience.

"When a young man holds such language of any particular young woman,
it's reasonable to calculate he sets store by her."

"True--true, Hurry--all this you've told me, again and again."

"Well, if it's agreeable, I should think a woman coul'n't hear it too
often. They all tell me this is the way with your sex, that nothing
pleases them more than to repeat over and over, for the hundredth time,
how much you like 'em, unless it be to talk to 'em of their good looks!"

"No doubt--we like both, on most occasions, but this is an uncommon
moment, Hurry, and vain words should not be too freely used. I would
rather hear you speak plainly."

"You shall have your own way, Judith, and I some suspect you always
will. I've often told you that I not only like you better than any other
young woman going, or, for that matter, better than all the young women
going, but you must have obsarved, Judith, that I've never asked you, in
up and down tarms, to marry me."

"I have observed both," returned the girl, a smile struggling about
her beautiful mouth, in spite of the singular and engrossing intentness
which caused her cheeks to flush and lighted her eyes with a brilliancy
that was almost dazzling--"I have observed both, and have thought the
last remarkable for a man of Harry March's decision and fearlessness."

"There's been a reason, gal, and it's one that troubles me even now--nay,
don't flush up so, and look fiery like, for there are thoughts which
will stick long in any man's mind, as there be words that will stick in
his throat--but, then ag'in, there's feelin's that will get the better
of 'em all, and to these feelin's I find I must submit. You've no longer
a father, or a mother, Judith, and it's morally unpossible that you and
Hetty could live here, alone, allowing it was peace and the Iroquois was
quiet; but, as matters stand, not only would you starve, but you'd both
be prisoners, or scalped, afore a week was out. It's time to think of a
change and a husband, and, if you'll accept of me, all that's past shall
be forgotten, and there's an end on't."

Judith had difficulty in repressing her impatience until this rude
declaration and offer were made, which she evidently wished to hear,
and which she now listened to with a willingness that might well have
excited hope. She hardly allowed the young man to conclude, so eager was
she to bring him to the point, and so ready to answer.

"There--Hurry--that's enough," she said, raising a hand as if to stop
him--"I understand you as well as if you were to talk a month. You
prefer me to other girls, and you wish me to become your wife."

"You put it in better words than I can do, Judith, and I wish you to
fancy them said just as you most like to hear 'em."

"They're plain enough, Harry, and 'tis fitting they should be so. This
is no place to trifle or deceive in. Now, listen to my answer, which
shall be, in every tittle, as sincere as your offer. There is a reason,
March, why I should never--

"I suppose I understand you, Judith, but if I'm willing to overlook that
reason, it's no one's consarn but mine--Now, don't brighten up like the
sky at sundown, for no offence is meant, and none should be taken."

"I do not brighten up, and will not take offence," said Judith,
struggling to repress her indignation, in a way she had never found it
necessary to exert before. "There is a reason why I should not, cannot,
ever be your wife, Hurry, that you seem to overlook, and which it is
my duty now to tell you, as plainly as you have asked me to consent to
become so. I do not, and I am certain that I never shall, love you well
enough to marry you. No man can wish for a wife who does not prefer
him to all other men, and when I tell you this frankly, I suppose you
yourself will thank me for my sincerity."

"Ah! Judith, them flaunting, gay, scarlet-coated officers of the
garrisons have done all this mischief!"

"Hush, March; do not calumniate a daughter over her mother's grave! Do
not, when I only wish to treat you fairly, give me reason to call for
evil on your head in bitterness of heart! Do not forget that I am a
woman, and that you are a man; and that I have neither father, nor
brother, to revenge your words!"

"Well, there is something in the last, and I'll say no more. Take time,
Judith, and think better on this."

"I want no time--my mind has long been made up, and I have only waited
for you to speak plainly, to answer plainly. We now understand each
other, and there is no use in saying any more."

The impetuous earnestness of the girl awed the young man, for never
before had he seen her so serious and determined. In most, of their
previous interviews she had met his advances with evasion or sarcasm,
but these Hurry had mistaken for female coquetry, and had supposed might
easily be converted into consent. The struggle had been with himself,
about offering, nor had he ever seriously believed it possible that
Judith would refuse to become the wife of the handsomest man on all that
frontier. Now that the refusal came, and that in terms so decided as to
put all cavilling out of the question; if not absolutely dumbfounded,
he was so much mortified and surprised as to feel no wish to attempt to
change her resolution.

"The Glimmerglass has now no great call for me," he exclaimed after
a minute's silence. "Old Tom is gone, the Hurons are as plenty on the
shore as pigeons in the woods, and altogether it is getting to be an
onsuitable place."

"Then leave it. You see it is surrounded by dangers, and there is no
reason why you should risk your life for others. Nor do I know that
you can be of any service to us. Go, to-night; we'll never accuse you of
having done any thing forgetful, or unmanly."

"If I do go, 'twill be with a heavy heart on your account, Judith; I
would rather take you with me."

"That is not to be spoken of any longer, March; but, I will land you in
one of the canoes, as soon as it is dark and you can strike a trail for
the nearest garrison. When you reach the fort, if you send a party--"

Judith smothered the words, for she felt that it was humiliating to be
thus exposing herself to the comments and reflections of one who was not
disposed to view her conduct in connection with all in those garrisons,
with an eye of favor. Hurry, however, caught the idea, and without
perverting it, as the girl dreaded, he answered to the purpose.

"I understand what you would say, and why you don't say it." he replied.
"If I get safe to the fort, a party shall start on the trail of these
vagabonds, and I'll come with it, myself, for I should like to see you
and Hetty in a place of safety, before we part forever."

"Ah, Harry March, had you always spoken thus, felt thus, my feelings
towards you might have been different!"

"Is it too late, now, Judith? I'm rough and a woodsman, but we all
change under different treatment from what we have been used to."

"It is too late, March. I can never feel towards you, or any other man
but one, as you would wish to have me. There, I've said enough, surely,
and you will question me no further. As soon as it is dark, I or the
Delaware will put you on the shore. You will make the best of your way
to the Mohawk, and the nearest garrison, and send all you can to our
assistance. And, Hurry, we are now friends, and I may trust in you, may
I not?"

"Sartain, Judith; though our fri'ndship would have been all the warmer,
could you look upon me as I look upon you."

Judith hesitated, and some powerful emotion was struggling within her.
Then, as if determined to look down all weaknesses, and accomplish her
purposes at every hazard, she spoke more plainly.

"You will find a captain of the name of Warley at the nearest post," she
said, pale as death, and even trembling as she spoke; "I think it likely
he will wish to head the party, but I would greatly prefer it should
be another. If Captain Warley can be kept back, 't would make me very
happy!"

"That's easier said than done, Judith, for these officers do pretty much
as they please. The Major will order, and captains, and lieutenants, and
ensigns must obey. I know the officer you mean, a red faced, gay, oh!
be joyful sort of a gentleman, who swallows madeira enough to drown the
Mohawk, and yet a pleasant talker. All the gals in the valley admire
him, and they say he admires all the gals. I don't wonder he is your
dislike, Judith, for he's a very gin'ral lover, if he isn't a gin'ral
officer."

Judith did not answer, though her frame shook, and her colour changed
from pale to crimson, and from crimson back again to the hue of death.

"Alas! my poor mother!" she ejaculated mentally instead of uttering it
aloud, "We are over thy grave, but little dost thou know how much thy
lessons have been forgotten; thy care neglected; thy love defeated!"

As this goading of the worm that never dies was felt, she arose and
signified to Hurry, that she had no more to communicate.

    "That point in misery, which makes the oppressed man regardless
     of his own life, makes him too Lord of the oppressor's."

    Coleridge, Remorse, V.i.201-04.

All this time Hetty had remained seated in the head of the scow, looking
sorrowfully into the water which held the body of her mother, as well
as that of the man whom she had been taught to consider her father.
Hist stood near her in gentle quiet, but had no consolation to offer in
words. The habits of her people taught her reserve in this respect, and
the habits of her sex induced her to wait patiently for a moment when
she might manifest some soothing sympathy by means of acts, rather than
of speech. Chingachgook held himself a little aloof, in grave reserve,
looking like a warrior, but feeling like a man.

Judith joined her sister with an air of dignity and solemnity it was not
her practice to show, and, though the gleamings of anguish were still
visible on her beautiful face, when she spoke it was firmly and without
tremor. At that instant Hist and the Delaware withdrew, moving towards
Hurry, in the other end of the boat.

"Sister," said Judith kindly, "I have much to say to you; we will get
into this canoe, and paddle off to a distance from the Ark--The secrets
of two orphans ought not to be heard by every ear."

"Certainly, Judith, by the ears of their parents? Let Hurry lift the
grapnel and move away with the Ark, and leave us here, near the graves
of father and mother, to say what we may have to say."

"Father!" repeated Judith slowly, the blood for the first time since her
parting with March mounting to her cheeks--"He was no father of ours,
Hetty! That we had from his own mouth, and in his dying moments."

"Are you glad, Judith, to find you had no father! He took care of us,
and fed us, and clothed us, and loved us; a father could have done no
more. I don't understand why he wasn't a father."

"Never mind, dear child, but let us do as you have said. It may be well
to remain here, and let the Ark move a little away. Do you prepare the
canoe, and I will tell Hurry and the Indians our wishes."

This was soon and simply done, the Ark moving with measured strokes of
the sweeps a hundred yards from the spot, leaving the girls floating,
seemingly in air, above the place of the dead; so buoyant was the
light vessel that held them, and so limpid the element by which it was
sustained.

"The death of Thomas Hutter," Judith commenced, after a short pause had
prepared her sister to receive her communications, "has altered all our
prospects, Hetty. If he was not our father, we are sisters, and must
feel alike and live together."

"How do I know, Judith, that you wouldn't be as glad to find I am not
your sister, as you are in finding that Thomas Hutter, as you call him,
was not your father. I am only half witted, and few people like to
have half witted relations; and then I'm not handsome--at least, not as
handsome as you--and you may wish a handsomer sister."

"No, no Hetty. You and you only are my sister--my heart, and my love for
you tell me that--and mother was my mother--of that too am I glad, and
proud; for she was a mother to be proud of--but father was not father!"

"Hush, Judith! His spirit may be near; it would grieve it to hear his
children talking so, and that, too, over his very grave. Children should
never grieve parents, mother often told me, and especially when they are
dead!"

"Poor Hetty! They are happily removed beyond all cares on our account.
Nothing that I can do or say will cause mother any sorrow now--there is
some consolation in that, at least! And nothing you can say or do will
make her smile, as she used to smile on your good conduct when living."

"You don't know that, Judith. Spirits can see, and mother may see as
well as any spirit. She always told us that God saw all we did, and that
we should do nothing to offend him; and now she has left us, I strive to
do nothing that can displease her. Think how her spirit would mourn and
feel sorrow, Judith, did it see either of us doing what is not right;
and spirits may see, after all; especially the spirits of parents that
feel anxious about their children."

"Hetty--Hetty--you know not what you say!" murmured Judith, almost livid
with emotion--"The dead cannot see, and know nothing of what passes
here! But, we will not talk of this any longer. The bodies of Mother
and Thomas Hutter lie together in the lake, and we will hope that the
spirits of both are with God. That we, the children of one of them,
remain on earth is certain; it is now proper to know what we are to do
in future."

"If we are not Thomas Hutter's children, Judith, no one will dispute our
right to his property. We have the castle and the Ark, and the canoes,
and the woods, and the lakes, the same as when he was living, and what
can prevent us from staying here, and passing our lives just as we ever
have done?"

"No, no poor sister--this can no longer be. Two girls would not be safe
here, even should these Hurons fail in getting us into their power.
Even father had as much as he could sometimes do, to keep peace upon the
lake, and we should fail altogether. We must quit this spot, Hetty, and
remove into the settlements."

"I am sorry you think so, Judith," returned Hetty, dropping her head on
her bosom, and looking thoughtfully down at the spot where the funeral
pile of her mother could just be seen. "I am very sorry to hear it. I
would rather stay here, where, if I wasn't born, I've passed my life.
I don't like the settlements--they are full of wickedness and heart
burnings, while God dwells unoffended in these hills! I love the trees,
and the mountains, and the lake, and the springs; all that his bounty
has given us, and it would grieve me sorely, Judith, to be forced to
quit them. You are handsome, and not at all half-witted, and one day you
will marry, and then you will have a husband, and I a brother to take
care of us, if women can't really take care of themselves in such a
place as this."

"Ah! if this could be so, Hetty, then, indeed, I could now be a thousand
times happier in these woods, than in the settlements. Once I did not
feel thus, but now I do. Yet where is the man to turn this beautiful
place into such a garden of Eden for us?"

"Harry March loves you, sister," returned poor Hetty, unconsciously
picking the bark off the canoe as she spoke. "He would be glad to be
your husband, I'm sure, and a stouter and a braver youth is not to be
met with the whole country round."

"Harry March and I understand each other, and no more need be said about
him. There is one--but no matter. It is all in the hands of providence,
and we must shortly come to some conclusion about our future manner of
living. Remain here--that is, remain here, alone, we cannot--and perhaps
no occasion will ever offer for remaining in the manner you think of. It
is time, too, Hetty, we should learn all we can concerning our relations
and family. It is not probable we are altogether without relations, and
they may be glad to see us. The old chest is now our property, and we
have a right to look into it, and learn all we can by what it holds.
Mother was so very different from Thomas Hutter, that, now I know we are
not his children, I burn with a desire to know whose children we can be.
There are papers in that chest, I am certain, and those papers may tell
us all about our parents and natural friends."

"Well, Judith, you know best, for you are cleverer than common, mother
always said, and I am only half-witted. Now father and mother are dead,
I don't much care for any relation but you, and don't think I could love
them I never saw, as well as I ought. If you don't like to marry Hurry,
I don't see who you can choose for a husband, and then I fear we shall
have to quit the lake, after all."

"What do you think of Deerslayer, Hetty?" asked Judith, bending
forward like her unsophisticated sister, and endeavoring to conceal her
embarrassment in a similar manner. "Would he not make a brother-in-law
to your liking?"

"Deerslayer!" repeated the other, looking up in unfeigned surprise.
"Why, Judith, Deerslayer isn't in the least comely, and is altogether
unfit for one like you!"

"He is not ill-looking, Hetty, and beauty in a man is not of much
matter."

"Do you think so, Judith? I know that beauty is of no great matter, in
man or woman, in the eyes of God, for mother has often told me so, when
she thought I might have been sorry I was not as handsome as you, though
she needn't have been uneasy on that account, for I never coveted any
thing that is yours, sister--but, tell me so she did--still, beauty is
very pleasant to the eye, in both! I think, if I were a man, I should
pine more for good looks than I do as a girl. A handsome man is a more
pleasing sight than a handsome woman."

"Poor child! You scarce know what you say, or what you mean! Beauty in
our sex is something, but in men, it passes for little. To be sure,
a man ought to be tall, but others are tall, as well as Hurry; and
active--and I think I know those that are more active--and strong; well,
he hasn't all the strength in the world--and brave--I am certain I can
name a youth who is braver!"

"This is strange, Judith!--I didn't think the earth held a handsomer, or
a stronger, or a more active or a braver man than Hurry Harry! I'm sure
I never met his equal in either of these things."

"Well, well, Hetty--say no more of this. I dislike to hear you talking
in this manner. 'Tis not suitable to your innocence, and truth, and
warm-hearted sincerity. Let Harry March go. He quits us to-night, and no
regret of mine will follow him, unless it be that he has staid so long,
and to so little purpose."

"Ah! Judith; that is what I've long feared--and I did so hope he might
be my brother-in-law!"

"Never mind it now. Let us talk of our poor mother--and of Thomas
Hutter."

"Speak kindly then, sister, for you can't be quite certain that spirits
don't both hear and see. If father wasn't father, he was good to us,
and gave us food and shelter. We can't put any stones over their graves,
here in the water, to tell people all this, and so we ought to say it
with our tongues."

"They will care little for that, girl. 'Tis a great consolation to know,
Hetty, that if mother ever did commit any heavy fault when young, she
lived sincerely to repent of it; no doubt her sins were forgiven her."

"Tisn't right, Judith, for children to talk of their parents' sins. We
had better talk of our own."

"Talk of your sins, Hetty!--If there ever was a creature on earth
without sin, it is you! I wish I could say, or think the same of myself;
but we shall see. No one knows what changes affection for a good husband
can make in a woman's heart. I don't think, child, I have even now the
same love for finery I once had."

"It would be a pity, Judith, if you did think of clothes, over your
parents' graves! We will never quit this spot, if you say so, and will
let Hurry go where he pleases."

"I am willing enough to consent to the last, but cannot answer for the
first, Hetty. We must live, in future, as becomes respectable young
women, and cannot remain here, to be the talk and jest of all the rude
and foul tongu'd trappers and hunters that may come upon the lake. Let
Hurry go by himself, and then I'll find the means to see Deerslayer,
when the future shall be soon settled. Come, girl, the sun has set,
and the Ark is drifting away from us; let us paddle up to the scow, and
consult with our friends. This night I shall look into the chest, and
to-morrow shall determine what we are to do. As for the Hurons, now we
can use our stores without fear of Thomas Hutter, they will be easily
bought off. Let me get Deerslayer once out of their hands, and a single
hour shall bring things to an understanding."

Judith spoke with decision, and she spoke with authority, a habit she
had long practised towards her feeble-minded sister. But, while thus
accustomed to have her way, by the aid of manner and a readier command
of words, Hetty occasionally checked her impetuous feelings and hasty
acts by the aid of those simple moral truths that were so deeply
engrafted in all her own thoughts and feelings; shining through both
with a mild and beautiful lustre that threw a sort of holy halo around
so much of what she both said and did. On the present occasion, this
healthful ascendancy of the girl of weak intellect, over her of a
capacity that, in other situations, might have become brilliant and
admired, was exhibited in the usual simple and earnest manner.

"You forget, Judith, what has brought us here," she said reproachfully.
"This is mother's grave, and we have just laid the body of father by her
side. We have done wrong to talk so much of ourselves at such a spot,
and ought now to pray God to forgive us, and ask him to teach us where
we are to go, and what we are to do."

Judith involuntarily laid aside her paddle, while Hetty dropped on her
knees, and was soon lost in her devout but simple petitions. Her sister
did not pray. This she had long ceased to do directly, though anguish of
spirit frequently wrung from her mental and hasty appeals to the great
source of benevolence, for support, if not for a change of spirit.
Still she never beheld Hetty on her knees, that a feeling of tender
recollection, as well as of profound regret at the deadness of her own
heart, did not come over her. Thus had she herself done in childhood,
and even down to the hour of her ill fated visits to the garrisons, and
she would willingly have given worlds, at such moments, to be able to
exchange her present sensations for the confiding faith, those pure
aspirations, and the gentle hope that shone through every lineament
and movement of her otherwise, less favored sister. All she could do,
however, was to drop her head to her bosom, and assume in her attitude
some of that devotion in which her stubborn spirit refused to unite.
When Hetty rose from her knees, her countenance had a glow and serenity
that rendered a face that was always agreeable, positively handsome.
Her mind was at peace, and her conscience acquitted her of a neglect of
duty.

"Now, you may go if you want to, Judith," she said, "for God has been
kind to me, and lifted a burden off my heart. Mother had many such
burdens, she used to tell me, and she always took them off in this
way. 'Tis the only way, sister, such things can be done. You may raise
a stone, or a log, with your hands; but the heart must be lightened by
prayer. I don't think you pray as often as you used to do, when younger,
Judith!"

"Never mind--never mind, child," answered the other huskily, "'tis no
matter, now. Mother is gone, and Thomas Hutter is gone, and the time has
come when we must think and act for ourselves."

As the canoe moved slowly away from the place, under the gentle
impulsion of the elder sister's paddle, the younger sat musing, as was
her wont whenever her mind was perplexed by any idea more abstract and
difficult of comprehension than common.

"I don't know what you mean by 'future', Judith," she at length,
suddenly observed. "Mother used to call Heaven the future, but you seem
to think it means next week, or to-morrow!"

"It means both, dear sister--every thing that is yet to come, whether in
this world or another. It is a solemn word, Hetty, and most so, I fear,
to them that think the least about it. Mother's future is eternity; ours
may yet mean what will happen while we live in this world--Is not that a
canoe just passing behind the castle--here, more in the direction of
the point, I mean; it is hid, now; but certainly I saw a canoe stealing
behind the logs!"

"I've seen it some time," Hetty quietly answered, for the Indians had
few terrors for her, "but I didn't think it right to talk about such
things over mother's grave! The canoe came from the camp, Judith,
and was paddled by a single man. He seemed to be Deerslayer, and no
Iroquois."

"Deerslayer!" returned the other, with much of her native
impetuosity--"That cannot be! Deerslayer is a prisoner, and I have
been thinking of the means of setting him free. Why did you fancy it
Deerslayer, child?"

"You can look for yourself, sister, for there comes the canoe in sight,
again, on this side of the hut."

Sure enough, the light boat had passed the building, and was now
steadily advancing towards the Ark; the persons on board of which were
already collecting in the head of the scow to receive their visitor. A
single glance sufficed to assure Judith that her sister was right, and
that Deerslayer was alone in the canoe. His approach was so calm and
leisurely, however, as to fill her with wonder, since a man who had
effected his escape from enemies by either artifice or violence, would
not be apt to move with the steadiness and deliberation with which his
paddle swept the water. By this time the day was fairly departing, and
objects were already seen dimly under the shores. In the broad lake,
however, the light still lingered, and around the immediate scene of the
present incidents, which was less shaded than most of the sheet, being
in its broadest part, it cast a glow that bore some faint resemblance to
the warm tints of an Italian or Grecian sunset. The logs of the hut and
Ark had a sort of purple hue, blended with the growing obscurity, and
the bark of the hunter's boat was losing its distinctness in colours
richer, but more mellowed, than those it showed under a bright sun.
As the two canoes approached each other--for Judith and her sister had
plied their paddles so as to intercept the unexpected visiter ere
he reached the Ark--even Deerslayer's sun-burned countenance wore a
brighter aspect than common, under the pleasing tints that seemed to
dance in the atmosphere. Judith fancied that delight at meeting her had
some share in this unusual and agreeable expression. She was not aware
that her own beauty appeared to more advantage than common, from the
same natural cause, nor did she understand what it would have given her
so much pleasure to know, that the young man actually thought her, as
she drew nearer, the loveliest creature of her sex his eyes had ever
dwelt on.

"Welcome--welcome, Deerslayer!" exclaimed the girl, as the canoes
floated at each other's side; "we have had a melancholy--a frightful
day--but your return is, at least, one misfortune the less! Have the
Hurons become more human, and let you go; or have you escaped from the
wretches, by your own courage and skill?"

"Neither, Judith--neither one nor t'other. The Mingos are Mingos still,
and will live and die Mingos; it is not likely their natur's will ever
undergo much improvement. Well! They've their gifts, and we've our'n,
Judith, and it doesn't much become either to speak ill of what the Lord
has created; though, if the truth must be said, I find it a sore trial
to think kindly or to talk kindly of them vagabonds. As for outwitting
them, that might have been done, and it was done, too, atween the
Sarpent, yonder, and me, when we were on the trail of Hist--" here the
hunter stopped to laugh in his own silent fashion--"but it's no easy
matter to sarcumvent the sarcumvented. Even the fa'ans get to know the
tricks of the hunters afore a single season is over, and an Indian whose
eyes have once been opened by a sarcumvention never shuts them ag'in
in precisely the same spot. I've known whites to do that, but never a
red-skin. What they l'arn comes by practice, and not by books, and
of all schoolmasters exper'ence gives lessons that are the longest
remembered."

"All this is true, Deerslayer, but if you have not escaped from the
savages, how came you here?"

"That's a nat'ral question, and charmingly put. You are wonderful
handsome this evening, Judith, or Wild Rose, as the Sarpent calls you,
and I may as well say it, since I honestly think it! You may well call
them Mingos, savages too, for savage enough do they feel, and savage
enough will they act, if you once give them an opportunity. They feel
their loss here, in the late skrimmage, to their hearts' cores, and are
ready to revenge it on any creatur' of English blood that may fall in
their way. Nor, for that matter do I much think they would stand at
taking their satisfaction out of a Dutch man."

"They have killed father; that ought to satisfy their wicked cravings
for blood," observed Hetty reproachfully.

"I know it, gal--I know the whole story--partly from what I've seen
from the shore, since they brought me up from the point, and partly from
their threats ag'in myself, and their other discourse. Well, life is
unsartain at the best, and we all depend on the breath of our nostrils
for it, from day to day. If you've lost a staunch fri'nd, as I make
no doubt you have, Providence will raise up new ones in his stead, and
since our acquaintance has begun in this oncommon manner, I shall take
it as a hint that it will be a part of my duty in futur', should the
occasion offer, to see you don't suffer for want of food in the wigwam.
I can't bring the dead to life, but as to feeding the living, there's
few on all this frontier can outdo me, though I say it in the way
of pity and consolation, like, and in no particular, in the way of
boasting."

"We understand you, Deerslayer," returned Judith, hastily, "and take all
that falls from your lips, as it is meant, in kindness and friendship.
Would to Heaven all men had tongues as true, and hearts as honest!"

"In that respect men do differ, of a sartainty, Judith. I've known them
that wasn't to be trusted any farther than you can see them; and others
ag'in whose messages, sent with a small piece of wampum, perhaps, might
just as much be depended on, as if the whole business was finished afore
your face. Yes, Judith, you never said truer word, than when you said
some men might be depended on, and other some might not."

"You are an unaccountable being, Deerslayer," returned the girl, not a
little puzzled with the childish simplicity of character that the hunter
so often betrayed--a simplicity so striking that it frequently appeared
to place him nearly on a level with the fatuity of poor Hetty, though
always relieved by the beautiful moral truth that shone through all that
this unfortunate girl both said and did--"You are a most unaccountable
man, and I often do not know how to understand you. But never mind, just
now; you have forgotten to tell us by what means you are here."

"I!--Oh! That's not very onaccountable, if I am myself, Judith. I'm out
on furlough."

"Furlough!--That word has a meaning among the soldiers that I
understand; but I cannot tell what it signifies when used by a
prisoner."

"It means just the same. You're right enough; the soldiers do use it,
and just in the same way as I use it. A furlough is when a man has leave
to quit a camp or a garrison for a sartain specified time; at the end
of which he is to come back and shoulder his musket, or submit to his
torments, just as he may happen to be a soldier, or a captyve. Being the
last, I must take the chances of a prisoner."

"Have the Hurons suffered you to quit them in this manner, without watch
or guard."

"Sartain--I woul'n't have come in any other manner, unless indeed it had
been by a bold rising, or a sarcumvention."

"What pledge have they that you will ever return?"

"My word," answered the hunter simply. "Yes, I own I gave 'em that, and
big fools would they have been to let me come without it! Why in
that case, I shouldn't have been obliged to go back and ondergo any
deviltries their fury may invent, but might have shouldered my rifle,
and made the best of my way to the Delaware villages. But, Lord! Judith,
they know'd this, just as well as you and I do, and would no more let me
come away, without a promise to go back, than they would let the wolves
dig up the bones of their fathers!"

"Is it possible you mean to do this act of extraordinary
self-destruction and recklessness?"

"Anan!"

"I ask if it can be possible that you expect to be able to put yourself
again in the power of such ruthless enemies, by keeping your word."

Deerslayer looked at his fair questioner for a moment with stern
displeasure. Then the expression of his honest and guileless face
suddenly changed, lighting as by a quick illumination of thought, after
which he laughed in his ordinary manner.

"I didn't understand you, at first, Judith; no, I didn't! You believe
that Chingachgook and Hurry Harry won't suffer it; but you don't know
mankind thoroughly yet, I see. The Delaware would be the last man on
'arth to offer any objections to what he knows is a duty, and, as for
March, he doesn't care enough about any creatur' but himself to
spend many words on such a subject. If he did, 'twould make no great
difference howsever; but not he, for he thinks more of his gains than
of even his own word. As for my promises, or your'n, Judith, or any
body else's, they give him no consarn. Don't be under any oneasiness,
therefore, gal; I shall be allowed to go back according to the furlough;
and if difficulties was made, I've not been brought up, and edicated as
one may say, in the woods, without knowing how to look 'em down."

Judith made no answer for some little time. All her feelings as a woman,
and as a woman who, for the first time in her life was beginning to
submit to that sentiment which has so much influence on the happiness
or misery of her sex, revolted at the cruel fate that she fancied
Deerslayer was drawing down upon himself, while the sense of right,
which God has implanted in every human breast, told her to admire an
integrity as indomitable and as unpretending as that which the other so
unconsciously displayed. Argument, she felt, would be useless, nor was
she at that moment disposed to lessen the dignity and high principle
that were so striking in the intentions of the hunter, by any attempt to
turn him from his purpose. That something might yet occur to supersede
the necessity for this self immolation she tried to hope, and then she
proceeded to ascertain the facts in order that her own conduct might be
regulated by her knowledge of circumstances.

"When is your furlough out, Deerslayer," she asked, after both canoes
were heading towards the Ark, and moving, with scarcely a perceptible
effort of the paddles, through the water.

"To-morrow noon; not a minute afore; and you may depend on it, Judith,
I shan't quit what I call Christian company, to go and give myself up
to them vagabonds, an instant sooner than is downright necessary. They
begin to fear a visit from the garrisons, and wouldn't lengthen the time
a moment, and it's pretty well understood atween us that, should I fail
in my ar'n'd, the torments are to take place when the sun begins to
fall, that they may strike upon their home trail as soon as it is dark."

This was said solemnly, as if the thought of what was believed to be
in reserve duly weighed on the prisoner's mind, and yet so simply, and
without a parade of suffering, as rather to repel than to invite any
open manifestations of sympathy.

"Are they bent on revenging their losses?" Judith asked faintly, her own
high spirit yielding to the influence of the other's quiet but dignified
integrity of purpose.

"Downright, if I can judge of Indian inclinations by the symptoms. They
think howsever I don't suspect their designs, I do believe, but one that
has lived so long among men of red-skin gifts, is no more likely to be
misled in Injin feelin's, than a true hunter is like to lose his trail,
or a stanch hound his scent. My own judgment is greatly ag'in my own
escape, for I see the women are a good deal enraged on behalf of Hist,
though I say it, perhaps, that shouldn't say it, seein' that I had a
considerable hand myself in getting the gal off. Then there was a cruel
murder in their camp last night, and that shot might just as well have
been fired into my breast. Howsever, come what will, the Sarpent and his
wife will be safe, and that is some happiness in any case."

"Oh! Deerslayer, they will think better of this, since they have given
you until to-morrow noon to make up your mind!"

"I judge not, Judith; yes, I judge not. An Injin is an Injin, gal, and
it's pretty much hopeless to think of swarving him, when he's got the
scent and follows it with his nose in the air. The Delawares, now, are a
half Christianized tribe--not that I think such sort of Christians much
better than your whole blooded onbelievers--but, nevertheless, what good
half Christianizing can do to a man, some among 'em have got, and yet
revenge clings to their hearts like the wild creepers here to the tree!
Then, I slew one of the best and boldest of their warriors, they say,
and it is too much to expect that they should captivate the man who did
this deed, in the very same scouting on which it was performed, and
they take no account of the matter. Had a month, or so, gone by, their
feelin's would have been softened down, and we might have met in a more
friendly way, but it is as it is. Judith, this is talking of nothing but
myself, and my own consarns, when you have had trouble enough, and may
want to consult a fri'nd a little about your own matters. Is the old man
laid in the water, where I should think his body would like to rest?"

"It is, Deerslayer," answered Judith, almost inaudibly. "That duty has
just been performed. You are right in thinking that I wish to consult a
friend; and that friend is yourself. Hurry Harry is about to leave us;
when he is gone, and we have got a little over the feelings of this
solemn office, I hope you will give me an hour alone. Hetty and I are at
a loss what to do."

"That's quite nat'ral, coming as things have, suddenly and fearfully.
But here's the Ark, and we'll say more of this when there is a better
opportunity."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Tom Hutter, close to death, confesses to the two sisters that he is not their real father. This confession pleases Judith who has always resented Tom Hutter's conduct, but Hetty is saddened by the tragic end of the man who protected her for so many years. Tom Hutter tells Judith and Hetty that they will find proof in the chest of what he says. Hurry Harry, moved by the death of his accomplice in crime, is deeply disturbed by the consequences of their misbehavior. He is also aware of his own close brush with death because of his impetuosity. After Tom Hutter's death, preparations are made for his burial in the lake close to the grave of the girls' mother. The simple, impressive ceremony is held at sunset. Later, Hurry Harry asks Judith to marry him, but she refuses because she can never love him. Judith, however, now considers Hurry Harry as a friend rather than an enemy. Angered but determined, he makes plans to land and head for the garrison to bring help to the besieged ark. The only request by Judith is that the rescue party should not be under the command of an officer named Warley whom she evidently loved in the past. Judith takes Hetty to the canoe where they paddle a short distance from the others in order to talk privately. Judith insists that their present circumstances are perilous, that they must open the chest to see what they can discover about the past life of Tom Hutter, and that they must salvage what they can for themselves. Although Judith remains bitter about Tom Hutter and refuses to call or consider him a father, Hetty defends the memory of the man who took care of them and loved them. Hetty, confident of her eventual conversion of the Mingos, prefers to remain at the lake, and wants to enjoy the solitude and beauty of Glimmerglass. Hetty is not as eager as Judith for an attempt to struggle toward a new life in the settlements and towns. Hetty wishes Judith could have married Harry; and Judith comes closest to admitting her love for Deerslayer. Deerslayer suddenly appears in a canoe, and he mysteriously explains that the Mingos have granted him a "furlough" until tomorrow noon. For the present, he is reluctant to give further details of his mission. He returns with the two sisters to the ark.