chief.  To prove, indeed, that he was no less, there was visible upon his head, secured to the tiara, or glory, as it might be called (for such is its figure) of badgers’ hairs, which is so often found woven around the scalp-lock of a North-western Indian, an ornament consisting of the beaks and claws of a buzzard, and some dozen or more of its sable feathers.  These, as Nathan had previously told the soldier, were the distinguishing badges of Wenonga, or the Black-Vulture (for so the name is translated); and it was no less a man than Wenonga himself, the oldest, most famous, and, at one time, the most powerful chief of his tribe, who thus lay, a wretched, squalid sot, before the doors of his own wigwam, which he had been unable to reach.  Such was Wenonga; such were many of the bravest and most distinguished of his truly unfortunate race, who exchanged their lands, their fathers’ graves, and the lives of their people, for the doubtful celebrity which the white man is so easily disposed to allow them.

The spy looked upon the face of the Indian; but there was none at hand to gaze upon his own, to mark the hideous frown of hate, and the more hideous grin of delight, that mingled on, and distorted his visage, as he gloated, snake-like, over that of the chief.  As he looked, he drew from its sheath in his girdle his well-worn, but still bright and keen knife,—­which he poised in one hand, while feeling, with what seemed extraordinary fearlessness or confidence of his prey, with the other along the sleeper’s naked breast, as if regardless how soon he might wake.  But Wenonga still slept on, though the hand of the white man lay upon his ribs, and rose and fell with the throbs of his warlike heart.  The knife took the place of the hand, and one thrust would have driven it through the organ that had never beaten with pity or remorse; and that thrust Nathan, quivering through every fibre with nameless joy and exultation, and forgetful of everything but his prey, was about to make.  He nerved his hand for the blow; but it trembled with eagerness.  He paused an instant, and before he could make a second effort, a voice from the wigwam struck upon his ear, and the strength departed from his arm.  He staggered back, and awoke to consciousness; the sound was repeated; it was the wail, of a female voice, and its mournful accents, coming to his ear in an interval of the gust, struck a new feeling into his bosom.  He remembered the captive, and his errand of charity and mercy.  He drew a deep and painful breath, and muttering, but within the silent recesses of his breast, “Thee shall not call to me in vain!” buried the knife softly in its sheath.  Then crawling silently away, and leaving the chief to his slumbers, he crept through the bushes until he had reached the tent from which the mourning voice proceeded.  Still lying upon his face, he dragged himself to the door, and looking under the corner of the mat that waved before it in the wind, he saw at a glance that he had reached the goal of his journey.