saying, "I will call for that to-morrow."
When it was nearly sunset the little garrison
came out into the court-yard to watch
his departure.  Among the spectators were
the boy-soldiers whose parade of the morning
had daunted even the terrible Brant.  Foremost
stood the doughty Douglas, and by his
side the timid Angus, gazing with childish
curiosity on the dashing young officer, and
marking with wondering delight his smiling
mastery over his steed.

Suddenly the boy passed his hand over his
eyes, grew marble-white and rigid for an
instant, then shuddered, and burst into tears.
Before he could be questioned, he had quitted
his brother, rushed forward, and was clinging
to the lieutenant's knee; crying, in a tone of
the most passionate entreaty,

"Oh, sir, ye maun stay here to-night—
here, where a' is safe!  Dinna gang; they'll
kill ye!  Oh, dinna gang!"

"Who, my little lad, who'll kill me?"
gently asked the officer, looking down into
the delicate face of the boy, struck by its
agonised expression.

"The Indians. They're waitin' for you in
yon dark, awfu' place by the falls," replied
Angus, in a tone of solemnity.

"And how do you know all this, my little
man?" asked the officer, smiling.

"I hae seen them," said Angus, in a low,
hoarse tone, casting down his eyes and
trembling visibly.

"Seen them! When?"

"Just noo. I saw them a' as weel as I see
you and the lave. It's the guid God, may be,
that sends the vision to save you frae death.
So, ye maun heed the warning, and not put
your life in peril by riding up there, where
they're waitin' for ye in the gloaming."

"What is the matter with this child?"
exclaimed Lieutenant Woodville, turning
to a friend in the little crowd.  The man,
for answer, merely touched his forehead
significantly. "Indeed! So young!" replied
the officer.  Then, laying his hand gently on
the head of the boy, and smiling pityingly
into his wild beseeching eyes, he said, "But
indeed I must go, prophet of evil. Indians
or no Indians, a soldier must obey orders,
you know.  Come, dry your tears, and I will
bring you a pretty plume for your soldier-cap
when I return. Adieu, friends, until tomorrow!"

Saying this, he bent to loosen Angus's
hands from the stirrup; but the child clung
convulsively, shrieking out his warnings and
entreaties, until his father broke through the
crowd, and bore him forcibly away.

Lieutenant Woodville galloped off, with gay
words of farewell; but, as some noticed, with
an unusual shadow on his handsome face.

Mrs. Lindsay took Angus in her arms, and
strove to soothe him in her quiet, loving
way.  Yet the child would not be comforted.
He hid his face in her bosom, sobbing and
shuddering, but saying nothing for several
minutes. Then he shrieked out—"There!
There! Oh, mither, they hae killed him! I
hae seen him fa' frae his horse.  I see him
noo, lying amang the briars, wi' the red bluid
rinning frae his head, down on to his braw
soldier-coat.  Oh, mither, I could na help it;
he would na believe the vision!"

After this, the repose of a sad certainty
seemed to come upon the child, and, sobbing
more and more softly, he fell asleep; but not
until the return of Lieutenant Woodville's
horse, with an empty saddle stained with
blood, had brought terrible confirmation of
the vision.  Next morning, the body of the
unfortunate young officer was found in the
dark pass, near the falls of Tekaharawa.  He
had been shot and scalped by Brant himself.

As may be supposed, this tragic verification
of Angus Lindsay's prophecy excited
surprise and speculation, and caused the child
to be regarded with a strange interest, which,
though not unfriendly, had in it too much of
superstitious dread to be altogether kindly.

The boy instinctively shrank from it, and
grew more sad and reserved day by day.
Some regarded the prediction as naturally
resulting from the omnipresent fear of savages
—common to settlers' children—taking more
vivid form in the imagination of a nervous and
sickly boy, and the fate of Lieutenant
Woodville as merely a remarkable coincidence.
But, more shook their heads with solemn
meaning, declaring the lad a young wizard;
and went so far as to intimate that the real
wizard was the lad's father, whose haughty
and melancholy reserve was little understood
by the honest settlers, and that poor little
Angus was his victim: the one possessed.

The expression of this feeling—not in
words, but in a sort of distrustful avoidance
—made Mrs. Lindsay consent to the proposition
of her husband to return to their home
for the harvest.  Several families were venturing
on this hazardous step, encouraged by
the temporary tranquillity of the country,
and thinking that their savage enemies had
quenched their blood-thirst at Wyoming,—
thus rather taking courage than warning by
that fearful massacre.

The Lindsays found their home as they
had left it three months before; nothing had
been molested; they all speedily fell into
their old in-door and out-door duties and
amusements.  And so passed a few weeks of
quiet happiness.  Captain Lindsay and his
man always took their arms with them to
the harvest-fields, which were in sight of the
house. The two elder sons usually worked
with their father.  On the last day of the
harvest, when little remained to be done, the
boys asked permission to go to a stream,
about two miles away, to angle for trout.

In his moody abstraction, or fearlessness,
Captain Lindsay consented, and the boys set
out in high glee.  Little Archie, who was also
with his father for that day, begged to be
taken with them; but the lads did not