Staining the desert with blood; and above their

terrible war-trails

Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the

vulture,

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,

By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the

heavens.

Here and there rise smokes from the camps of

these savage marauders;

Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;

And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,

Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brookside,

And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,

Like the protecting hand of God inverted above

them.

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the

Ozark Mountains,

Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and

trappers behind him.

Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil

Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.

Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire

Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,

When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.

And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,

Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata

Morgana

Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated

and vanished before them.

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there

silently entered

Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features

Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.

She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,

From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel

Camanches,

Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des

Bois, had been murdered.

Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome

Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them

On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on

the embers.

But when their meal was done, and Basil and

all his companions,