"It is the appellation of a native chief, that both my uncle and myself bear with pride; for it is the memorial of an important service done my family by a warrior in the old wars of the provinces." "Uncas! did ye call him Uncas ?" repeated the trapper, approaching the youth and parting the dark curls which clustered over his brow, without the slightest resistance on the part of their wondering owner.

"Ah my eyes are old, and not so keen as when I was a warrior myself; but I can see the look of the father in the son! I saw it when he first came nigh, but so many things have since passed before my failing sight, that I could not name the place where I had met his likeness! Tell me, lad, by what name is your father known ?" "He was an officer of the States in the war of the revolution, of my own name of course; my mother's brother was called Duncan Uncas Heyward." "Still Uncas! still Uncas!" echoed the other, trembling with eagerness.
"And his father ?" "Was called the same, without the appellation of the native chief.

It was to him, and to my grandmother, that the service of which I have just spoken was rendered." "I know'd it! I know'd it!" shouted the old man, in his tremulous voice, his rigid features working powerfully, as if the names the other mentioned awakened some long dormant emotions, connected with the events of an anterior age.

"I know'd it! son or grandson, it is all the same; it is the blood, and 'tis the look! Tell me, is he they call'd Duncan, without the Uncas--is he living ?" The young man shook his head sorrowfully, as he replied in the negative.
"He died full of days and of honours.

Beloved, happy, and bestowing happiness!" "Full of days!" repeated the trapper, looking down at his own meagre, but still muscular hands.