As the last rays died away from the volcanic peaks, the Indian started up and prepared to inter the remains of poor Mary, when the glittering epaulettes and appointments of a French officer, who was leading his horse by the bridle, appeared at the door of the wigwam.
He was the Baron de Beauchatel, with the gold cross of St. Louis dangling on the lapelle of the gay white uniform of the Grenadiers of Guienne. Having lost his way in the forest, he now sought a guide to the camp of Montcalm; but the dead mother caught his eye at the moment he peered into the obscurity of the hut.
"Mon Dieu! what have we here?" he asked, with surprise.
"The squaw and papoose of a pale chief," replied the apparently unmoved Indian.
"Dead—a lady, too!" exclaimed the French officer, stooping over her with a c
