observed; and believing that they would spare my life, even if they should
destroy the other captives, addressed me as near as I can remember in the
following words:--

"My dear little Mary, I fear that the time has arrived when we must be
parted forever. Your life, my child, I think will be spared; but we shall
probably be tomahawked here in this lonesome place by the Indians. O! how
can I part with you my darling? What will become of my sweet little Mary?
Oh! how can I think of your being continued in captivity without a hope of
your being rescued? O that death had snatched you from my embraces in your
infancy; the pain of parting then would have been pleasing to what it now
is; and I should have seen the end of your troubles!--Alas, my dear! my
heart bleeds at the thoughts of what awaits you; but, if you leave us,
remember my child your own name, and the name of your father and mother.
Be careful and not forget your English tongue. If you shall have an
opportunity to get away from the Indians, don't try to escape; for if you
do they will find and destroy you. Don't forget, my little daughter, the
prayers that I have learned you--say them often; be a good child, and God
will bless you. May God bless you my child, and make you comfortable and
happy."

During this time, the Indians stripped the shoes and stockings from the
little boy that belonged to the woman who was taken with us, and put
moccasins on his feet, as they had done before on mine. I was crying. An
Indian took the little boy and myself by the hand, to lead us off from the
company, when my mother exclaimed, "Don't cry Mary--don't cry my child.
God will bless you! Farewell--farewell!"

The Indian led us some distance into the bushes, or woods, and there lay
down with us to spend the night. The recollection of parting with my