to make her his wife when twelve moons more
were past.

One
evening in the early autumn a war party returned from the east, bringing with
them a white man, a prisoner, whose fate had been decided. The prisoner, Paul Harcourt, was a young
Georgian who had left his home to join a party of trappers whose headquarters
were on the Ouachita River, near where Monroe is now. A party of Indians returning from the east,
as we have said, surprised and captured him.
He was securely bound for several days, but appearing quiet and
submissive to his fate, he was released and allowed the freedom of the village,
but prohibited wandering outside its limits.

A
close friendship sprang up between Paul and White Fawn, and they often wandered
off and amused themselves for hours in exchanging confidences. Though no otherthe string,
draws the string back to his ear and covers the heart of the white man with his
eye. The sinking sun casts a red glow
over the scene, a little mockbird [sic] in the branches over their heads
uttered a shrill note of warning and darted away.

For a moment the Indian stood like a statue,
then the sharp twang of the bowstring told its own story. The feathered barb shot like a gleam of light
through the air and quivered in the heart of the white man. Then with a yell of a fiend he sprung
forward, whirled his tomahawk aloft, and sunk it in the brain of the Indian
girl.

They
were buried together, the darling of the tribe, White Fawn, and the handsome
young pale face. Beneath the spreading
branches of the oak where they were