Again they retraced their steps back to the house; but they found her not
there. They continued their unavailing search till the moon setting left
them in darkness, and they laid down to rest, but not to sleep. The first
streak of dawn saw them again hurrying to and fro, calling in vain upon the
name of the loved and lost companion of their wanderings. Desolation had
fallen upon their house, and the evil which of all others they had most
feared, had happened to them.
Indiana, whose vigilance was more untiring, for she yielded not so easily
to grief and despair, now returned with the intelligence that she had
discovered the Indian trail, through the big ravine to the lake shore; she
had found the remains of a wreath of oak leaves which had been woven by
Catharine, and probably been about her hair; and she had seen the mark
of feet, Indian feet, on the soft clay, at the edge of the lake, and the
furrowing of the shingles by the pushing off of a canoe. It was evident
that she had been taken away from her home by these people. Poor Louis gave
way to transports of grief and despair; he knew the wreath, it was such
as Catharine often made for herself, and Mathilde, and petite Louise, and
Marie; his mother had taught her to make them; they were linked together
by the stalks, and formed a sort of leaf chain.
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