"But he has been in danger."
"No scalps hang at his girdle."
"_And none shall ever hang there again._"
"Not the scalp of the Shawnee?"
"No," replied the Huron, in a voice as deep and solemn as a distant
peal of thunder.
Fluellina looked at her husband a moment, with her face lit up by a
strange expression. Then, as she read the determination impressed upon
his countenance, and knew the sacredness with which he regarded his
pledged word, she sunk down on her knees, and clasping her hands,
turned her dark, soulful eyes to heaven and uttered the one exclamation:
"Great Spirit, I thank thee!"
The kneeling Indian woman, her face radiant with a holy happiness, the
stern warrior, his dark countenance lighted up as he gazed down upon
her as if the long obscured sun had once more struggled from behind the
clouds--these two silent figures in the green wood of their island home
formed a picture touchingly beautiful and sublime.
Who can picture the glory that illuminated the soul of the Huron
warrior, the divine bliss that went thrilling through his very being,
as he uttered this vow, and felt within him the consciousness that
never, never again would he be overcome by the temptation to tear the
scalp from the head of his enemy, the vengeful Shawnee.
"When has Fluellina seen the Moravian missionary?" he asked, as she
reseated herself beside him.
"But a short time since. He inquired of Oonomoo.
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