A round red spot formed on each of the cheeks of Mr. Woods as he proceeded, and his voice gathered strength, until its lowest intonations came clear and distinct on every ear.  Just as the bodies were about to be lowered into their two receptacles, the captain, his wife and daughter being laid in the same grave, Nick came with his noiseless step near the little group of mourners.  He had issued from the forest only a few minutes before, and understanding the intention of the ceremony, he approached the spot as fast as weakness and wounds would allow.  Even he listened with profound attention to the chaplain, never changing his eye from his face, unless to glance at the coffins as they lay in their final resting-place.

“I heard a voice from Heaven, saying unto me, write, From henceforth blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours,” continued the chaplain, his voice beginning to betray a tremor; then the gaze of the Tuscarora became keen as the panther’s glance at his discovered victim.  Tears followed, and, for a moment, the voice was choked.

“Why you woman?” demanded Nick, fiercely.  “Save all ’e scalp!”

This strange interruption failed to produce any effect.  First Beekman yielded; Maud and Willoughby followed; until Mr. Woods, himself, unable to resist the double assaults of the power of sympathy and his own affection, closed the book and wept like a child.

It required minutes for the mourners to recover their self-command.  When the latter returned, however, all knelt on the grass, the line of soldiers included, and the closing prayers were raised to the throne of God.

This act of devotion enabled the mourners to maintain an appearance of greater tranquillity until the graves were filled.  The troops advanced, and fired three volleys over the captain’s grave, when all retired towards the Hut.  Maud had caught little Evert from the arms of his father, and, pressing him to her bosom, the motherless babe seemed disposed to slumber there.  In this manner she walked away, attended closely by the father, who now cherished his boy as an only treasure.

Willoughby lingered the last at the grave, Nick alone remaining near him.  The Indian had been struck by the exhibition of deep sorrow that he had witnessed, and he felt an uneasiness that was a little unaccountable to himself.  It was one of the caprices of this strange nature of ours, that he should feel a desire to console those whom he had so deeply injured himself.  He drew near to Robert Willoughby, therefore, and, laying a hand on the latter’s arm, drew his look in the direction of his own red and speaking face.

“Why so sorry, major?” he said.  “Warrior nebber die but once—­ must die sometime.”

“There lie my father, my mother, and my only sister, Indian—­is not that enough to make the stoutest heart bend?  You knew them, too, Nick—­ did you ever know better?”