to dare whatever should follow--and it marks the character of the man,
that the bitterness of the moment was aggravated at the thought of the
vanishing of the fond dreams with which he had idly fed his
imagination.

His captor called out in his own language, and presently another
Indian came running up. A few words passed between them, when the
latter stepping forward, Sassacus made a motion to Spikeman to follow,
placing himself at the same time in the rear. Resistance would have
been unavailing, and could serve no other purpose than to rouse the
passions of the Indians, and invite immediate injury. Something might
yet happen to his advantage. He might be rescued, or effect his
escape, or the chapter of accidents might have something else
favorable, he knew not what, in store. The Assistant, therefore,
quietly submitted, and followed as ordered.

Their course lay directly through the densest portions of the forest,
and as the rapidity of their progress was impeded by the constrained
position of the captive's arms, Sassacus, as if in contempt of any
effort to escape, cut the ligatures with the knife that hung at his
neck, intimating the motive at the same time by an acceleration of
speed. As Spikeman was thus hurried along, his thoughts went after
Prudence, and he wondered what had become of her. Notwithstanding his
own peril, he felt (and it proves the deep interest he cherished for
the girl) a melancholy pleasure in the hope that she had escaped, not
that even though she had fallen into the hands of the savages, he
would have entertained fears for her life, but she might have been
doomed to a hopeless captivity, far away from friends, whom she was
never to see again, and condemned, in some distant wigwam, to exchange
the comforts of civilization for a wild life, which, to her, could