University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

While the congregation was separating, Mr.
Grant approached the place where Elizabeth and
her father were seated, leading the youthful female,
whom we have mentioned in the preceding
chapter, and presented her as his daughter. Her
reception was as cordial and frank as the manners
of the country, and the value of good society,
could render it; the two young women feeling,
instantly, that they were necessary to the comfort
of each other. The Judge, to whom the clergyman's
daughter was also a stranger, was pleased
to find one, who, from habits, sex, and years, could
probably contribute largely to the pleasures of his
own child, during her first privations, on her removal
from the associations of a city to the solitude
of Templeton; while Elizabeth, who had
been forcibly struck with the sweetness and devotion
of the youthful suppliant, removed the slight
embarrassment of the timid stranger, by the ease
and finish of her own manners. They were at
once acquainted, and, during the ten minutes that

the “academy” was clearing, engagements were
made between the young people, not only for their
pursuits during the succeeding day, after the service,
but they would probably have embraced in
their arrangements half of the winter, had not the
divine interrupted them, by saying—

“Gently, gently, my dear Miss Temple, or you
will make my girl too dissipated. You forget that
she is my housekeeper, and that my domestic affairs
must remain unattended to, should Louisa
accept of half the kind offers that you are so good
as to make her.”

“And why should they not be neglected entirely,
sir?” interrupted Elizabeth. “There are but
two of you; and certain I am that my father's
house will not only contain you both. but will
open its doors spontaneously, to receive such
guests. Society is a good, not to be rejected on
account of cold forms, in this wilderness, sir; and
I have often heard my father say, that hospitality
is not a virtue in a new country, the favour being
conferred on the host by the guest.”

“The manner in which Judge Temple exercises
its rites, would confirm this opinion,” said the divine;
“but we must not trespass too freely.—
Doubt not that you will see us often; my child
particularly, during the frequent visits that I
shall be compelled to make to the distant parts
of the country. But to obtain an influence with
such a people,” he continued, glancing his eyes
towards the few, who were still lingering, as curious
observers of the interview, “a clergyman
must not awaken envy or distrust, by dwelling
under so splendid a roof as that of Judge Temple.”

“You like the roof, then, Mr. Grant,” cried
Richard, who had been directing the extinguishment
of the fires, and other little necessary duties,

and who now approached, so as to hear the close
of the divine's speech—“I am glad to find one
man of taste at last. Here's 'duke now, pretends
to call it by every abusive name he can invent;
but though 'duke is a very tolerable Judge, sir, he
is a very poor carpenter, let me tell him. Well,
sir, well, I think we may say, without boasting, that
the service was as well performed this evening as
you often see; I think, quite as well as I ever
knew it to be done in old Trinity—that is, if we
except the organ. But there is the schoolmaster,
leads a psalm with a very good air. I used to
lead myself, but latterly I have sung nothing but
bass. There is a good deal of science to be shown
in the bass, and it affords a fine opportunity to
show off a full, deep voice. Benjamin, too, sings
a good bass, though he is often out in the words.
Did you ever hear Benjamin sing the `Bay of
Biscay, O?' ”

“I believe he gave us part of it this evening,”
said Marmaduke, laughing. “There was, now
and then, a fearful quaver in his voice, and it
seems that Mr. Penguillian, like most others who
do one thing particularly well, he knows nothing
else. He has, certainly, a wonderful partiality to
one tune, and he has a prodigious self-confidence
in that one, for he delivers himself like a north-wester
sweeping across the lake.—But come, gentleman,
our way is clear, and the sleigh waits.—
Good evening, Mr. Grant. Good night, young
lady. Remember that you dine beneath the Corinthian
roof to-morrow, with Elizabeth.”

The parties separated, Richard holding a close
dissertation with Mr. Le Quoi, as they descended
the stairs, on the subject of psalmody, which he
closed by a violent eulogium on the air of the
“Bay of Biscay O,” as particularly connected
with his friend Benjamin's execution.

During the preceding dialogue, Mohegan had
retained his seat, with his head shrouded in his
blanket, as seemingly inattentive to surrounding
objects, as the departing congregation was, itself,
to the presence of the aged chief. Natty, also,
continued on the log, where he had first placed
himself, with his head resting on one of his hands,
while the other held the rifle, which was thrown
carelessly across his lap. His countenance expressed
extraordinary uneasiness, and the occasional
unquiet glances, that he had thrown around
him during the service, plainly indicated some
unusual causes for unhappiness. His continuing
seated was, however, from respect to the Indian
chief, to whom he paid the utmost deference, on
all occasions, although it was mingled with the
rough manner of a hunter.

The young companion of these two ancient inhabitants
of the forest, remained, also, standing
before the extinguished brands, probably from an
unwillingness to depart without his comrades.
The room was now deserted by all but this group,
the divine and his daughter. As the party from
the Mansion-house disappeared, John arose, and
dropping the blanket from his head, he shook
back the mass of black hair from his face, and approaching
Mr. Grant, he extended his hand, and
said, solemnly—

“Father, I thank you. The words that have
been said, since the rising moon, have gone upward,
and the Great Spirit is glad. What you
have told your children, they will remember, and
be good.” He paused a moment, and then elevating
himself to all the grandeur of an Indian
chief, he added—“If Chingachgook lives to travel
towards the setting sun, after his tribe, and the
Great Spirit carries him over the lakes and mountains,
with the breath in his body, he will tell his

people the good talk he has heard; and they will
believe him; for who can say that Mohegan has
ever lied?”

“Let him place his dependence on the goodness
of Divine mercy,” said Mr. Grant, to whom the
proud consciousness of the Indian sounded a little
heterodox, “and it never will desert him. When
the heart is filled with love to God, there is no
room left for sin.—But, young man, to you I owe
not only an obligation, in common with those you
saved this evening, on the mountain, but my
thanks, for your respectful and pious manner, in
assisting in the service, at a most embarrassing
moment. I should be happy to see you sometimes,
at my dwelling, when, perhaps, my conversation
may strengthen you in the path which you
appear to have chosen. It is so unusual to find
one of your age and appearance, in these woods,
at all acquainted with our holy liturgy, that it lessens
at once the distance between us, and I feel
that we are no longer strangers. You seem quite
at home in the service: I did not perceive that you
had even a book, although good Mr. Jones had
laid several in different parts of the room.”

“It would be strange, if I were ignorant of the
service of our church, sir,” returned the youth,
modestly, for I was baptised in its communion,
and I have never yet attended public worship elsewhere.
For me, to use the forms of any other denomination,
would be as singular as our own have
proved, to the people here this evening.”

“You give me great pleasure to hear you, my
dear sir,” cried the divine, seizing the other by
the hand, and shaking it cordially.—“You will
go home with me now—indeed you must—my
child has yet to thank you for saving my life. I
will listen to no apologies. This worthy Indian,

and your friend there, will accompany us.—Bless
me! to think that he has arrived at manhood, in
this country, without entering a dissenting meeting-house!”

“No, no,” interrupted the Leather-stocking, “I
must away to the wigwam: there's work there,
that mus'nt be forgotten, for all your churchings
and merry-makings. Let the lad go with you in
welcome; he is used to keeping company with
ministers, and talking of such matters; so is old
John, who was christianized by the Moravians,
about the time of the old war. But I am a plain,
unlarned man, that has sarved the king and his
country, in his day, ag'in the French and savages,
but never so much as looked into a book,
or larnt a letter of scholarship, in my born days.
I've never seen the use of sitch in-door kind of
work, though I have lived to be partly bald, and in
my time, have killed two hundred beaver in a season,
and that without counting the other game.—
If you mistrust what I am telling you, you can ask
Chingachgook there, for I did it in the heart of the
Delaware country, and the old man is knowing to
the truth of every word I say.”

“I doubt not, my friend, that you have been
both a valiant soldier and skilful hunter, in your
day,” said the divine; “but more is wanting, to
prepare you for that end which approaches. You
may have heard the maxim, that `young men may
die, but that old men must.' ”

“I'm sure I never was so great a fool as to expect
to live for ever,” said Natty, giving one of
his silent laughs: “no man need do that, who
trails the savages through the woods, as I have
done, and lives, for the hot months, on the lakestreams.
I've a strong constitution, I must say
that for myself, as is plain to be seen, for I've
drank the Onondaga water a hundred times,

while I've been watching the deer-licks, when the
fever-an-agy seeds was to be seen in it, as plain
and as plenty as you can see the rattle-snakes on
old Crumhorn. But then, I never expected to
hold out for ever; though there's them living,
who have seen the Garman Flats a wilderness, ay!
and them that's larned, and acquainted with religion
too; though you might look a week now and
not find even the stump of a pine on them; and
that's a wood, that lasts in the ground the better
part of a hundred years.”

“This is but time, my good friend,” returned
Mr. Grant, who began to take an interest in the
welfare of his new acquaintance, “but it is for
eternity that I would have you prepare. It is incumbent
on you to attend places of public worship,
as I am pleased to see that you have done
this evening. Would it not be heedless in you to
start on a day's toil of hard hunting, and leave
your ramrod and flint behind you?”

“It must be a young hand in the woods,” interrupted
Natty, with another laugh, “that didn't
know how to dress a rod out of an ash sapling, or
find a fire-stone in the mountains. No, no, I never
expected to live for ever; but I see, times be
altering in these mountains from what they was
thirty years ago, or for that matter, ten years.
But might makes right, and the law is stronger
than an old man, whether he is one that has much
larning, or only one like me, that is better now at
standing at the passes than in following the hounds,
as I once used to could. Heigh-ho! I never
know'd preaching come into a settlement, but it
made game scearce, and raised the price of gunpowder;
and that's a thing that's not as easily
made as a ramrod, or an Indian flint.”

The divine, perceiving that he had given his

opponent an argument, by his own unfortunate
selection of a comparison, very prudently relinquished
the controversy, for the present; although
he was fully determined to resume it, at a more
happy moment. Repeating his request to the
young hunter, with great earnestness, the youth
and Indian consented to accompany him and his
daughter to the dwelling, that the care of Mr.
Jones had provided for their temporary residence.
Leather-stocking persevered in his intention of
returning to the hut, and at the door of the building
they separated.

After following the course of one of the streets
of the village, for a short distance, Mr. Grant, who
led the way, turned into a field, through a pair
of open bars, and entered a foot-path, of but sufficient
width to admit of only one person to walk
in it, at a time. The moon had gained a height
that enabled her to throw her rays nearly perpendicularly
on the valley; and the distinct shadows
of the party flitted along on the banks of the silvery
snow, like the presence of aerial figures, gliding
to their appointed place of meeting. The
night still continued intensely cold, although not
a breath of wind was to be felt. The path was
beaten so hard, that the gentle female, who made
one of the party, moved with ease along its windings;
though the frost emitted a low creaking, at
the impression of even her light footsteps.

The clergyman, in his dark dress of broadcloth,
with his mild, benevolent countenance occasionally
turned towards his companions, expressing that
look of subdued care, that was its characteristic,
presented the first object of this singularly constituted
group. Next to him moved the Indian, with
his hair falling about his face, his head uncovered,
and the rest of his form concealed beneath his
blanket. As his swarthy visage, with its muscles

fixed in rigid composure, was seen under the light
of the moon, which struck his face obliquely, he
seemed a picture of resigned old age, on whom
the storms of winter had beaten in vain, for the
greater part of a century; but when, in turning
his head, the rays fell directly on his dark, fiery
eyes, they told a tale of passions unrestrained,
and of thoughts free as the air he breathed. The
slight person of Miss Grant, which followed next,
and which was but too thinly clad for the severity
of the season, formed a marked contrast to the
wild attire, and uneasy glances of the Delaware
chief; and more than once, during their walk, the
young hunter, himself no insignificant figure in
the group, was led to consider the difference in the
human form, as the face of Mohegan, and the gentle
countenance of Miss Grant, with eyes that rivalled
the soft hue of the sky in colour, met his
view, at the instant that each turned, to throw a
glance at the splendid orb, that lighted their path.
Their way, which led through fields, that lay at
some distance in the rear of the houses, was cheered
by a conversation, that flagged or became animated
with the subject. The first to speak was
the divine.

“Really,” he said, “it is so singular a circumstance
to meet with one of your age that has not
been induced, by an idle curiosity, to visit any
other church than the one in which he has been
educated, that I feel a strong curiosity to know
the history of a life so fortunately regulated.—
Your education must have been an excellent one;
as indeed is evident from your manners and language.
Of which of the states are you a native,
Mr. Edwards? for such, I believe, was the name
that you gave to Judge Temple.”

“Of this—”

“Of this! I was at a loss to conjecture, from

your dialect, which does not partake, particularly,
of the peculiarities of any country with which
I am acquainted. You have, then, resided much
in the cities, for no other part of this country is so
fortunate as to possess the constant enjoyment of
our excellent liturgy.”

The young hunter smiled, as he listened to the
divine, while he so clearly betrayed from what
part of the country he had come himself; but, for
reasons, probably, connected with his present situation,
he made no answer.

“I am delighted to meet with you, my young
friend, for I think an ingenuous mind, such as I
doubt not yours must be, will exhibit all the advantages
of a settled doctrine and devout liturgy.
You perceive how I was compelled to bend
to the humours of my hearers this evening. Good
Mr. Jones wished me to read the communion, and,
in fact, all the morning service; but, happily, the
canons do not require this, in an evening. It
would have wearied a new congregation; but tomorrow
I purpose administering the sacrament—
do you commune, my young friend?”

“I believe not, sir,” returned the youth, with
a little embarrassment, that was not at all diminished
by Miss Grant's pausing involuntarily, and
turning her eyes on him in evident surprise—“I
fear that I am not qualified; I have never yet approached
the altar; neither would I wish to do it,
while I find so much of the world clinging to my
heart, as I now experience.”

“Each must judge for himself,” said Mr. Grant;
“though I should think, that a youth who had never
been blown about by the wind of false doctrines,
and who has enjoyed the advantages of
our liturgy for so many years, in its purity, might
safely come. Yet, sir, it is a solemn festival,
which none should celebrate, until there is reason

to hope it is not mockery. I observed, this evening,
in your manner to Judge Temple, a resentment,
that bordered on one of the worst of human
passions.—We will cross this brook on the
ice: it must bear us all, I think, in safety.—
Be careful not to slip, my child.” While speaking,
he descended a little bank, by the path, and
crossed one of the small streams that poured their
waters into the lake; and, turning to see his
daughter pass, observed that the youth had advanced,
and was kindly directing her footsteps.
When all were safely over, he moved up the opposite
bank, and continued his discourse:—“It
was wrong, my dear sir, very wrong, to suffer
such feelings to rise, under any circumstances, and
especially in the present, where the evil was not
intended.”

“There is good in the talk of my father,” said
Mohegan, stopping short, and causing those who
were behind him to pause also; “It is the talk of
Miquon. The white man may do as his fathers
have told him; but the `Young Eagle' has the
blood of a Delaware chief in his veins: it is red,
and the stain it makes, can only be washed out
with the blood of a Mingo.”*

Mr. Grant was surprised by the interruption of
the Indian, and stopping, faced the speaker. His
mild features were confronted to the fierce and
determined looks of the chief, and expressed all
the horror that he felt, at hearing such sentiments
from one who professed the religion of his Saviour.
Raising his hands to a level with his head,
he exclaimed—

“John, John! is this the religion you have
learned from the Moravians? But no—I will not
be so uncharitable as to suppose it. They are a

pious, a gentle, and a mild people, and could
never tolerate these passions. Listen to the language
of the Redeemer—`But I say unto you,
love your enemies, bless them that curse you; do
good to them that hate you; and pray for them
that despitefully use you and persecute you.'—
This is the command of God, John, and without
striving to cultivate such feelings, no man can see
him.”

The Indian heard the exclamation of the divine
with attention; the unusual fire of his eye gradually
softened, and his muscles relaxed into their
ordinary composure; but, slightly shaking his
head, he motioned with dignity for Mr. Grant to
resume his walk, and followed himself again in
silence. The agitation of the divine caused him
to move with unusual rapidity along the deep path,
and the Indian, without any apparent exertion,
kept an equal pace; but the young hunter observed
the female to linger in her steps, until a trifling
distance intervened between the two former
and the latter. Struck by the circumstance, and
not perceiving any new impediment to retard her
footsteps, the youth made a tender of his assistance,
by saying—

“You are fatigued, Miss Grant; the snow yields
to the foot, and you are unequal to the strides of
us men. Step on the crust, I entreat you, and
take the help of my arm. Yonder light is, I believe,
the house of your father; but it seems yet
at some distance.”

“I am quite equal to the walk,” returned a low,
tremulous voice; “but I am startled by the manner
of that Indian chief. Oh! his eye was horrid,
as he turned to the moon, in speaking to my
father. But I forget, sir; he is your friend, and,
by his language, may be your relative; and yet,
of you I do not feel afraid.”

The young man stepped on the bank of snow,
which firmly sustained his weight, and by a gentle
effort, induced his companion to follow him.
Drawing her arm through his own, he lifted his
cap from his head, allowing his dark locks to flow
in rich curls over his open brow, and walked by
her side, with an air of conscious pride, as if inviting
an examination of his inmost thoughts.—
Louisa took but a furtive glance at his person,
and moved quietly along, at a rate that was greatly
quickened by the aid of his arm.

“You are but little acquainted with this peculiar
people, Miss Grant,” he said, “or you would
know that revenge is a virtue with an Indian.
They are taught, from infancy upward, to believe
it a duty, never to allow an injury to pass unresisted;
and nothing but the stronger claims of
hospitality, can guard one against their resentments,
where they have power to act their will.”

“Surely, sir,” said Miss Grant, involuntarily
withdrawing her arm from his, “you have not
been educated with such unholy sentiments.”

“It might be a sufficient answer to your excellent
father, to say that I was educated in the
church,” he returned; “but to you I will add,
that I have been taught deep and practical lessons
of forgiveness. I believe that, on this subject, I
have but little cause to reproach myself; but it
shall be my endeavour, that there yet be less.”

While speaking, he stopped, and stood with his
arm again proffered to her assistance. As he ended,
she quietly accepted his offer, and they resumed
their walk.

Mr. Grant and Mohegan had reached the door
of the former's residence, and stood waiting near
its threshold, for the arrival of their younger
companions. The former was earnestly occupied,
in endeavouring to correct, by his precepts,

the evil propensities, that he had discovered in the
Indian, during their conversation; which the latter
heard in profound, but respectful attention. On
the arrival of the young hunter and the lady, they
entered the building.

The house stood at some distance from the village,
in the centre of a field, surrounded by stumps,
that were peering above the snow, bearing caps
of pure white nearly two feet in thickness. Not
a tree or a shrub was nigh it; but the house, externally,
exhibited that cheerless, unfinished aspect,
which is so common to the hastily-erected
dwellings of a new country. The uninviting character
of its outside was, however, happily contrasted
by the exquisite neatness, and comfortable
warmth, within.

They entered an apartment that was fitted as a
parlour, though the large fire-place, with its culinary
arrangements, betrayed the domestic uses to
which it was occasionally applied. The bright
blaze from the hearth, rendered the light that proceeded
from the candle that Louisa produced, unnecessary;
for the scanty furniture of the room
was easily seen and examined, by the former.
The floor was covered, in the centre, by a carpet
made of rags, a species of manufacture that was,
then, and yet continues to be, much in use, in the
interior; while its edges, that were exposed to
view, were of unspotted cleanliness. There was a
trifling air of better life, in a tea table and work-stand,
as well as in an old-fashioned mahogany
book-case; but the chairs, the dining-table, and
the rest of the furniture, where of the plainest and
cheapest construction. Against the walls were
hung a few specimens of needle-work and drawing,
the former executed with great neatness,
though of somewhat equivocal merit in their designs,

while the latter were strikingly deficient in
both.

One of the former represented a tomb, with a
youthful female weeping over it, exhibiting a
church with arched windows, in the back-ground.
On the tomb were the names, with the dates of the
births and deaths, of several individuals, all of
whom bore the name of Grant. An extremely
cursory glance at this record, was sufficient to discover
to the young hunter the domestic state of
the divine. He there read, that he was a widower,
and that the innocent and timid maiden, who
had been his companion, was the only surviver of
six children. The knowledge of the dependence,
which each of these meek christians had on the
other, for happiness, threw an additional charm
around the gentle, but kind attentions, which the
daughter paid to the father.

These observations occurred while the party
were seating themselves before the cheerful fire,
during which time, there was a suspension of their
discourse. But when each was comfortably arranged,
and Louisa, after laying aside a thin coat of
faded silk, and a Gipsy hat, that was more becoming
to her modest, ingenuous countenance, than
appropriate to the season, had taken a chair between
her father and the youth, the former resumed
the conversation.

“I trust, my young friend,” he said, “that the
education which you have received, has eradicated
most of those revengeful principles, which you
may have inherited by descent; for I understand
from the expressions of John, that you have some
of the blood of the Delaware tribe. Do not mistake
me, I beg, for it is not colour, nor lineage,
that constitutes merit; and I know not, that he
who claims affinity to the proper owners of this

soil, has not the best right to tread these hills with
the lightest conscience.”

Mohegan turned solemnly to the speaker, and,
with the peculiarly significant gestures of an Indian,
he spoke:—

“Father, you are not yet past the summer of
life; your limbs are young. Go to the highest
hill, and look around you. All that you see,
from the rising to the setting sun, from the head-waters
of the great spring, to where the `crooked
river' is hid by the hills, is his. He has Delaware
blood, and his right is strong. But the brother of
Miquon is just: he will cut the country in two
parts, as the river cuts the low-lands, and will say
to the `Young Eagle,' Child of the Delawares!
take it—keep it—and be a chief in the land of
your fathers.”

“Never!” exclaimed the young hunter, with a
vehemence that destroyed the rapt attention with
which the divine and his daughter were listening
to the earnest manner of the Indian—“The wolf
of the forest is not more rapacious for his prey,
than that man is greedy for gold; and yet his
glidings into wealth are as subtle as the movements
of a serpent.”

“Forbear, forbear, my son, forbear,” interrupted
Mr. Grant.—“These angry passions must be
subdued. The accidental injury you have received
from Judge Temple, has heightened the sense
of your hereditary wrongs. But remember, that
the one was unintentional, and that the other is
the effect of political changes, which have, in their
course, greatly lowered the pride of kings, and
swept mighty nations from the face of the earth.
Where now are the Philistines, who so often held
the children of Israel in bondage! or that city of
Babylon, which rioted in luxury and vice, and
who styled herself the Queen of Nations, in the

drunkenness of her pride? Remember the prayer
of our holy litany, where we implore the Divine
power—“That it may please thee to forgive our
enemies, persecutors, and slanderers, and to turn
their hearts.” The sin of the wrongs which have
been done to the natives is shared by Judge
Temple, only, in common with a whole people,
and your arm will speedily be restored to its
strength.”

“This arm!” repeated the youth, scornfully,
pacing the floor in violent agitation; “think you,
sir, that I believe the man a murderer!—oh, no!
he is too wily, too cowardly, for such a crime.
But, let him and his daughter riot in their wealth
—there will a day of retribution come. No, no,
no,” he continued, as he trod the floor more calmly—“it
is for Mohegan to suspect him of such a
crime, as an intent to injure me; but the trifle is
not worth a second thought.”

He seated himself, and hid his face between his
hands, as they rested on his knees.

“It is the hereditary violence of a native's passion,
my child,” said Mr. Grant, in a low tone, to
his affrighted daughter, who was clinging, in terror,
to his arm. “He is mixed with the blood of
the Indians, you have heard; and neither the refinements
of education, nor the advantages of our
excellent liturgy, have been able entirely to eradicate
the evil. But care and time will do much for
him yet.”

Although the divine spoke in a low tone, yet
what he uttered was heard by the youth, who raised
his head, with a smile of indefinite expression,
and spoke more calmly:—

“Be not alarmed, Miss Grant, at either the
wildness of my manner, or that of my dress. I
have been carried away by passions, that I should
struggle to repress. I must attribute it, with your

father, to the blood in my veins, although I would
not impeach my lineage willingly; for it is all that
is left me to boast of. Yes! I am proud of my
descent from a Delaware chief, who was a warrior
that ennobled human nature. Old Mohegan,
was his friend, and will vouch for his virtues.”

Mr. Grant here took up the discourse, and, finding
the young man more calm, and the aged chief
attentive, he entered into a full and theological
discussion of the duty of forgiveness. The conversation
lasted for more than an hour, when the
visiters arose, and, after exchanging good wishes
with their entertainers, they departed. At the
door they separated, Mohegan taking the direct
route to the village, while the youth moved towards
the lake. The divine stood at the entrance
of his dwelling, regarding the figure of the
aged chief, as it glided, at an astonishing gait,
for his years, along the deep path; his black,
straight hair, just visible over the bundle formed
by his blanket, which was sometimes blended with
the snow under the silvery light of the moon.
From the rear of the house was a window, that
overlooked the lake; and here Louisa was found
by her father, when he entered, gazing, intently
on some object, in the direction of the eastern
mountain. He approached the spot, and saw the
tall figure of the young hunter, at the distance of
half a mile, walking with prodigious steps, across
the wide fields of frozen snow, that covered the
ice, towards the point, where he knew the hut
that was inhabited by the Leather-stocking was
situated, on the margin of the lake, under a rock,
that was crowned by pines and hemlocks. At the
next instant, the wildly looking form entered the
dark shadow, that was cast from the overhanging
trees, and was lost to view.

“It is marvellous, how long the propensities of
the savage continue, in that remarkable race,”
said the good divine; “but if he perseveres, as
he has commenced, his triumph shall yet be complete.
Remember me, my child, to lend him the
homily `against peril of idolatry,' at his next visit.”

“Surely, father,” cried the maiden, “you do
not think him in danger of relapsing into the worship
of his ancestors!”

“No, my child,” returned the clergyman, laying
his hand affectionately on her flaxen locks, and
smiling, “his white blood would prevent it; but
there is such a thing as the idolatry of our passions.”