sartain of your rifle, and then come back and do you what sarvice I can. Though here I can't stay much longer, as the crack of three rifles will be apt to bring some of your devils down upon me."

The close of this was said in a sort of soliloquy, as the young man went in quest of the fallen rifle. The piece was found where its owner had dropped it, and was immediately put into the canoe. Laying his own rifle at its side, Deerslayer then returned, and stood over the Indian again.

"All inmity atween you and me's at an ind, redskin," he said; "and you may set your heart at rest on the score of the scalp, or any further injury. My gifts are white, as I've told you; and I hope my conduct will be white also!"

Could looks have conveyed all they meant, it is probable that Deerslayer's innocent vanity on the subject of colour would have been rebuked a little; but he comprehended the gratitude that was expressed in the eyes of the dying savage, without detecting in the least the bitter sarcasm that struggled with the better feeling.

"Water!" ejaculated the thirsty and unfortunate creature; "give poor Indian water."

66

'Ay, water you shall have, if you drink the lake dry. I'll just carry you down to it, that you may take your fill. This is the way, they tell me, with all wounded people-water is their greatest comfort and delight."

So saying, Deerslayer raised the Indian in his arms, and carried him to the lake. Here he first helped him to take an attitude in which he could appease his burning thirst; after which he seated himself on a stone, and took the head of his wounded adversary in his own lap, and endeavoured to soothe his anguish in the best manner he could.

"It would be sinful in me to tell you your time hadn't come, warrior," he commenced," and therefore I'll not say it. You've passed the middle age already, and, considerin' the sort of lives ye lead your days have been pretty well filled. The principal thing now is to look forward to what comes next. Neither red-skin nor pale-face, on the whole, calculates much on sleepin' for ever; but both expect to live in another world. Each has his gifts, and each will be judged by 'em, and I suppose you've thought these matters over enough, not to stand in need of sarmons, when the trial comes. You'll find your happy hunting-grounds if you've been a just Indian; if an unjust, you'll meet your desarts in another way. I've my own ideas about these things; but you're too old and exper'enced to need any explanations from one as young as I."

"Good!" ejaculated the Indian, whose voice retained its depth even as life ebbed away; "young head-old wisdom!"

"It's sometimes a consolation, when the ind comes, to know that them we've harmed or tried

to harm, forgive us. I suppose natur' seeks this relief by way of getting a pardon on 'arth: as we never can know whether He pardons, who is all in all, till judgment itself comes. It's soothing to know that any pardon at such times; and that, I conclude, is the secret. Now, as for myself, I overlook altogether your designs ag'in my life; first, because no harm came of 'em; next, because it's your gifts, and natur', and trainin', and I ought not to have trusted you at all; and finally and chiefly, because I can bear no ill-will to a dying man, whether heathen or Christian. So put your heart at ease, so far as I'm consarned; you know best what other matters ought to trouble you, or what ought to give you satisfaction, in so trying a moment."

It is probable that the Indian had some of the fearful glimpses of the unknown state of being which God, in mercy, seems at times to afford to all the human race; but they were necessarily in conformity with his habits and prejudices. Like most of his people, and like too many of our own, he thought more of dying in a way to gain applause among those he left, than to secure a better state of existence hereafter. While Deerslayer was speaking, his mind was a little bewildered, though he felt that the intention was good; and when he had done, a regret passed over his spirit that none of his own tribe were present to witness his stoicism, under extreme bodily suffering, and the firmness with which he met his end. With the high, innate courtesy that so often distinguishes the Indian warrior before he becomes corrupted by too much intercourse with the worst class of the white men, he endeavoured to express his thankfulness for the other's good intentions, and to let him understand that they were appreciated.

"Good!" he repeated-for this was an English word much used by the savages-"good-young head; young heart, too. Old heart tough; no shed tear. Hear Indian when he die, and no want to lie-what he call him?"

"Deerslayer is the name I bear now, though the Delawares have said that when I get back from this war-path, I shall have a more manly title, provided I can 'arn one."

"That good name for boy-poor name for warrior. He get better quick. No fear there"-the savage had strength sufficient, under the strong excitement he felt, to raise a hand and tap the young man on his breast-"eye sartain-finger lightning-aim death-great warrior soon. Deerslayer Hawkeye Hawkeye - Hawkeye. Shake hand."

No

Deerslayer-or Hawkeye, as the youth was then first named, for in after years he bore the appellation throughout all that region-Deerslayer took the hand of the savage, whose last breath was drawn in that attitude, gazing in admiration at

And from the ground

Rose an odour sweet and fragrant
Of the wild flowers and the vagrant
Vines that wandered,

Seeking the sunshine, round and round.

These he heeded not, but pondered
On the volume in his hand,
A volume of Saint Augustine,
Wherein he read of the unseen
Splendours of God's great town
In the unknown land,

And, with his eyes cast down
In humility, he said:

"I believe, O God,

What herein I have read,

But, alas! I do not understand!"

And, lo, he heard

The sudden singing of a bird,

A snow-white bird, that from a cloud
Dropped down,

And among the branches brown

Sat singing

So sweet, and clear, and loud,

It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing.

And the Monk Felix closed his book,

And long, long,

With rapturous look,

He listened to the song,

And hardly breathed or stirred,

Until he saw, as in a vision,

The land Elysian,

And in the Heavenly City heard

Angelic feet

Fall on the golden flagging of the street.

And he would fain

Have caught the wondrous bird,

But strove in vain;

For it flew away, away,
Far over hill and dell,

And instead of its sweet singing,

He heard the convent bell
Suddenly in the silence ringing,
For the service of noonday.
And he retraced

His pathway homeward sadly, and in haste.

In the convent there was a change!
He looked for each well-known face,
But the faces were new and strange;
New figures sat in the oaken stalls,
New voices chaunted in the choir;
Yet the place was the same place,
The same dusky walls

Of cold, grey stone,

The same cloisters, and belfry, and spire.

A stranger and alone

Among that brotherhood
The Monk Felix stood.

66

Forty years," said a friar, "Have I been prior

Of this convent in the wood,
But for that space

Never have I beheld thy face!"

The heart of the Monk Felix fell:
And he answered, with submissive tone,
"This morning, after the hour of Prime,
I left my cell,

And wandered forth alone,
Listening all the time

To the melodious singing
Of a beautiful white bird,
Until I heard

The bells of the convent ringing
Noon from their noisy towers.
It was as if I dreamed;
For what to me had seemed
Moments only, had been hours!"
"Years!" said a voice close by.
It was an aged monk who spoke,
From a bench of oak

Fastened against the wall;

He was the oldest monk of all.
For a whole century

Had he been there,

Serving God in prayer,

The meekest and humblest of his creatures.

He remembered well the features

Of Felix, and he said,

Speaking distinct and slow;

"One hundred years ago,

When I was a novice in this place,

There was here a monk, full of God's grace, Who bore the name

Of Felix, and this man must be the same."

And straightway

They brought forth to the light of day

A volume old and brown,

A huge tome, bound

In brass and wild boar's hide,

Wherein were written down

The names of all who had died

In the convent, since it was edified.
And there they found,

Just as the old monk said,

That on a certain day and date,

One hundred years before,

Had gone forth from the convent gate

The Monk Felix, and never more

Had entered that sacred door.
He had been counted among the dead!
And they knew, at last,

That, such had been the

power

Of that celestial and immortal song,
A hundred years had passed,
And had not seemed so long
As a single hour!

THE

[Sir WALTER SCOTT.

THEIR warning blast the bugles blew,
The pipe's shrill port* aroused each clan;
In haste, the deadly strife to view,

The trooping warriors eager ran:
Thick round the lists their lances stood,
Like blasted pines in Ettricke wood;
To Branksome many a look they threw,
The combatants' approach to view,
And bandied many a word of boast,
About the knight each favoured most.

Meantime full anxious was the Dame;
For now arose disputed claim,
Of who should fight for Deloraine,
"Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestane :
They 'gan to reckon kin and rent,
And frowning brow on brow was bent;
But yet not long the strife-for, lo!
Himself, the Knight of Deloraine,
Strong, as it seemed, and free from pain,

In armour sheathed from top to toe,
Appeared, and craved the combat due.
The Dame her charm successful knew,
And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.

When for the lists they sought the plain,
The stately Ladye's silken rein

Did noble Howard hold;
Unarmed, by her side he walked,
And much, in courteous phrase, they talked
Of feats of arms of old.
Costly his garb-his Flemish ruff
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff,

With satin slashed, and lined; Tawny his boot, and gold his spur, His cloak was all of Poland fur,

His hose with silver twined; His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt, Hung in a broad and studded belt; Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still Called noble Howard, Belted Will.

Behind Lord Howard and the Dame,
Fair Margaret on her palfrey came,
Whose footcloth swept the ground;
White was her wimple, and her veil,
And her loose locks a chaplet pale
Of whitest roses bound;
The Lordly Angus, by her side,
In courtesy to cheer her tried;
Without his aid, her hand in vain
Had strove to guide her broidered rein.
He deemed, she shuddered at the sight
Of warriors met for mortal fight;

A martial piece of music, adapted to the bagpipes.

LISTS.
See Page 116, Vol. I.]

But cause of terror, all unguessed,
Was fluttering in her gentle breast,
When, in their chairs of crimson placed,
The Dame and she the barriers graced.

Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch
An English knight led forth to view;
Scarce rued the boy his present plight,
So much he longed to see the fight.
Within the lists, in knightly pride,
High Home and haughty Dacre ride;
Their leading staffs of steel they wield,
As marshals of the mortal field;
While to each knight their care assigned
Like vantage of the sun and wind.
Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,
In king and queen, and warden's name,
That none, while lasts the strife,
Should dare, by look, or sign, or word,
Aid to a champion to afford,

On peril of his life;

And not a breath the silence broke,
Till thus the alternate heralds spoke :-

English Herald.

Here standeth Richard of Musgrave,

Good knight and true, and freely born, Amends from Deloraine to crave,

For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. He sayeth, that William of Deloraine Is traitor false by Border laws; This with his sword he will maintain, So help him God, and his good cause !

Scottish Herald.

Here standeth William of Deloraine,
Good knight and true, of noble strain,
Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain,
Since he bore arms, ne'er soiled his coat;
And that, so help him God above!
He will on Musgrave's body prove,
He lyes most foully in his throat.
Lord Dacre.

Forward, brave champions, to the fight!
Sound trumpets!

Lord Home.

"God defend the right!"

Then, Teviot! how thine echoes rang,
When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang
Let loose the martial foes,
And in mid list, with shield poised high,
And measured step and wary eye,

The combatants did close.

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