h him."
He gazed at Cecil an instant longer; then, with a forbearance that more civilized men do not always show, he left the lodge without another word.
But what he said had its effect. Through Cecil s veins leaped the impulse of a sudden resolve, a resolve that was both triumph and agony. He fell on his knees beside the couch.
"Thou hast shown me my duty by the lips of the Indian, and I will perform it. I will tear this forbidden love from my heart. Father, help me. Once before I resolved to do this and failed. Help me that I fail not now. Give me strength. Give me the mastery over the flesh, O God! Help me to put this temptation from me. Help me to fulfil my mission."
The struggle was long and doubtful, but the victory was won at last. When Cecil arose from his knees, there was the same set and resolute look upon his face that was there the morning he entered the wil derness, leaving friends and home behind him for ever, the look that some martyr of old might have worn, putting from him the clinging arms of wife or child, going forth to the dungeon and the stake.
"It is done," murmured the white lips. "I have put her from me. My mission to the Indians alone fills my heart. But God help her! God help her!"
For the hardest part of it all was that he sacrificed her as well as himself.
"It must be," he thought; " I must give her up. I will go now and tell her; then I will never look upon her face again. But oh! what will become of her? "
And his long fingers were clinched as in acutest pain. But his sensitive nerves, his intens
