Hammond felt that he had done his duty. He had awakened the trapper to
a sense of his personal danger, and that was enough. Without waiting
for his reply, he moved rapidly away, taking a direction that led
toward the Meagan village.
When he had gone a few hundred yards, a close scrutiny would have
revealed that he was following a path--a very slight one, it is true,
but still sufficiently defined to show that it was familiar to him.
On he walked, until he had traversed fully a mile, when he paused and
began carefully to examine the bushes that overhung the path. Suddenly,
he found a leaf that was twisted in a peculiar manner, and instantly
his face brightened.
“She is coming! she is coming!” he exclaimed, to himself, after he had
carefully examined it a moment.
The words were yet in his mouth, when a light footstep was heard, and
the next instant a rare vision burst upon him.
She did not appear to be over twenty years of age at the most, and
she was as beautiful as an Oriental dream. Her cheeks had the tint of
the pearl, her hair was abundant, of glossy blackness, confined by a
red band at the neck; her features were faultlessly regular, her eyes
dark and lustrous, her form rounded and perfect, while the half-Indian
dress, with its brilliant and varied colors, set her figure off to the
best advantage.
Over all there was that indescribable charm of perfect physical
health--that charm which makes the homely handsome, without which the
most perfect features lack fascination, and which, when added to the
handsome woman, places her upon the very pinnacle of female loveliness.
She came forward somewhat timidly, while Hammond, his face aglow with
happiness, hurried forward to meet her. Seizing one of her hands in
both of his, he pressed it warmly, and exclaimed, in the low, sweet
voice of fervent love:
“Lamora, you have granted my prayer; you have come again; you have
allowed me to see you.”
“Yes,” she replied, in a low, sweet voice, “you know that Lamora is
your friend.”
“I hope she is more than that.”
“No, no.”
Her eyes were upon the ground and she shook her head with an
indescribable sadness in her manner.
She was a white woman; she spoke the English language fluently, and she
seemed to understand her own race. She was modest and reserved, and
although one might reasonably suspect that she felt no little interest
in Hammond, yet it was no blind, reckless passion, such as an ignorant
person sometimes shows, but a pure, maidenly emotion.
“Lamora,” said the lover, still holding her hand and looking tenderly
down in her face, “you are a white person of the same blood as myself;
you live among the Indians; do you not wish to return to your own
kindred?”
“Why should I?” she returned, in the same sorrowful voice. “I do not
know that I have any relations living; I have almost forgotten their
names. I have no one but a father, and he has long since forgotten that
he had a child stolen by the Indians.”
“How old were you when you were taken away?”
“I could not have been more than five years.”
“How is it that you speak English so well?”
Lamora looked up in surprise.
“My tribe use the language, more than their own tongue.”
“Was it the Meagans that stole you?”
“No; _they_ would not do such a thing. I was stolen by the Sioux,
shortly after my father had emigrated to the West. They killed my
mother and sisters and brothers, but father escaped, and I was carried
away captive.”
“How did you learn all this.”
“Kipwan, who is the chief of our tribe, and who is my adopted father,
ransomed me of the Sioux who claimed me as his booty, and from him he
got the particulars of my misfortune.”
Hammond was silent a moment, as if in doubt to ask the question
trembling upon his tongue, but he uttered it.
“Have you yourself no recollection of that terrible time?”
“Yes, I remember it well. It was a fearful experience indeed, but it
was so long since that I can think upon it, without the shuddering you
would suppose I ought to feel. I remember the long ride in the emigrant
wagon--the halt in the woods--the cutting down of the trees--the
building of the cabin--the howling of the wolves at night--my sports
with my brothers and sisters by the brook that ran near the house--the
dark night when we were all awakened from sleep by the whoops of
Indians--the burning of the cabin--the tomahawking of my mother as
she threw herself between her children who were huddling together in
terror--the slaying of them--the brave but useless fight my father
made--how I was then caught up in the arms of a savage and borne away
in the dark woods. Oh, it was a dreadful sight!”
And in spite of what Lamora had said, her feelings overcame her, and
she sobbed as if her heart was breaking.
Her lover was silent out of respect and sympathy for her, until she had
regained her self-command in a degree, when he said in the kindest of
tones:
“It was cruel in me to call up the remembrance; will you forgive me?”
“It is past now,” she replied. “Then follows a summer in an Indian
village on the shore of some great lake, where I was treated harshly,
and then, one day, Kipwan, an old man, and a Christian Indian, came to
the village, and when he went away he took me with him on his horse. We
rode a long distance until we reached his tribe, where I staid until I
was quite a girl, when they moved a great way westward to this place,
where we have been ever since.”
“And during all this time, did you feel no longing to return to your
father?”
“Yes; and I shed many tears, but I was treated with great kindness, and
the longing gradually wore away until it entirely disappeared.”
“Entirely so?”
“Yes, entirely.”
“And do you think you can be content to spend the remainder of your
life among those Indians, and finally to die there?”
“Why not? I have no enemies; they are all my friends.”
“I do not doubt that; but they are savage and you are civilized; they
are of one race and you of another.”
“It is a difference to you but none to me,” she said, sorrowfully.
“Nowhere else could I find such friends as there.”
“Do you doubt me, dearest Lamora? Do you not believe that I love you?
that I am yours, heart and soul? Tell me, do you think I am deceiving
you?”
Her head drooped still lower, but she replied distinctly:
“No; I do not think you would do that.”
“Then do not doubt me; I will take you to my own home; you shall be
mine and I shall be yours; there is nothing that love can do for you
that shall not be done. Can you not be happy in my love?”
She was silent a few moments, as if too much affected to speak. Hammond
truly and deeply loved this girl, and had all the eagerness of a young
lover to carry away the prize with him. He had spent several months
here, held solely by the magnetism of her presence.
We have described in the first chapter his singular meeting with her,
and the deep impression her appearance and her act of kindness had made
upon him. True to his declaration, he had left his companions, and had
devoted all to searching her out. He knew that she dwelt somewhere in
this neighborhood, but it was a long time before he could discover her.
Seemingly by pure accident he had encountered her a few days before. As
may be supposed, she was greatly surprised to see him, and their first
interview was quite embarrassing upon both sides.
But their acquaintance rapidly progressed, until we have shown how he
learned much regarding her early history, and finally declared his love
to her.
It was plain, and Hammond saw that he had awakened a tender interest
in her, but she had not yet reached the point of giving her love
unreservedly to him. She was strongly attached to Kipwan and her Meagan
friends, and it was a painful struggle for her to decide to leave them
forever.
“You have grown up among the people who have treated you kindly, and
to whom you feel devotedly attached. It is natural that you should;
_I_ love them because of their kindness to you; but you are fitted for
another life than this; go with me, and you shall never regret the
step.”
Hitherto the two had been standing, but now Hammond conducted her some
distance from the path to a flat rock, where the two seated themselves.
It was a bright sunshiny day; they were enveloped in shrubbery and
undergrowth, which were so dense about them, that they were invisible
to any one a short distance away.
They sat in silence for a few moments; their hearts too full for
speech. _She_ was thinking how much she loved the noble figure beside
her: how happy she could be to yield her heart to him, and to go where
she could be wholly his. But--
“Can I? Is it best? Heaven direct me!”
She prayed earnestly for guidance, for, like the simple-minded people
among whom she dwelt, she was a devout believer in the protecting care
of heaven.
It was hard for her to decide, and still the struggle went on.
Hammond was partly sitting and reclining, and now and then gazing up in
the face of the maid beside him. It seemed to him that with each look
the wonderful loveliness of her face increased.
“She is beautiful--surpassingly beautiful,” he thought, as he looked,
returning again and again to feast upon the vision. “No one can help
admiring her; no one can deny that she is faultless in form and
feature, and yet it is not _that_ alone which has drawn me toward her.
She is devoutly religious, good, and with a heart of the tenderest
sympathy. I _must_ have her; I can not live without her.”
“Yes, Lamora,” said he, sitting upright, and drawing her to him, “you
must go home with me; you must be my wife; you will find nothing but
kindness awaiting you; you will have the heart of your lover forever.
You must; you shall go.”
The beautiful head, with its wealth of black hair, was now resting
unresistingly upon his shoulder. He gently raised it, and imprinted a
kiss upon the warm cheek.
“Answer me, Lamora,” he said, in the gentlest of voices, “do you love
me, or do you feel indifferent toward me?”
“_I love you; I can not help it!_”
“Heaven bless you! who wants you to help it?” exclaimed the delighted
Hammond, as he rained his kisses, and she smiled through her tears, and
showed how perfect her happiness was, in confessing her love.
“Lamora, _will_ you be mine? Will you go home with me?”
She looked at him unflinchingly in the face, and a seraphic light
seemed to suffuse her eyes and countenance as she answered:
“Yes, I will go to your home with you and be yours.”
“Ah! who on earth does not envy me!” exclaimed the overjoyed lover.
“You are mine; your promise is given. You feel no regrets?”
“No; none at all,” she answered, with the same bewitching sweetness.
“I thank Providence for this,” said Hammond, fervently. “You have
intrusted your happiness into my hands, and never, no, _never_ shall
you regret it.”
Ah! they were happy moments to both. It was “love’s young dream,” in
all its measureless hight and depth; their cup was pressed down and
running over.
They talked and chatted, and billed and cooed, and replighted and
revowed, as only young lovers can in the fulness of their hearts, and
when an hour or two had slipped by in this delightful manner, then they
began to discuss the matter practically.
“Will you leave your friends, without acquainting them of your
determination?” he inquired.
“No; that would be cruel; they would never cease hunting and searching
for me, and it would break Kipwan’s heart.”
“Will you tell him all?”
“Yes.”
“Do you suppose he will object or attempt to dissuade you?”
“He is too good a man to attempt either. He will feel sorrowful, and so
shall I, at the separation from those who have been such friends to me
all my life--but he will wish me good-speed upon my journey.”
“He must be a good man indeed, and I should like to go into the village
and take him by the hand,” said Hammond, who felt just then that he
could take any one in the world by the hand.
“No,” she replied; “do not show yourself in the village. You know why?”
“No,” he answered, looking inquiringly at her.
“In the first place, they are always uneasy at the approach of
strangers, and then, when it became known that you are the cause
of my leaving them, some of the younger members might not feel so
particularly Christian toward you.”
“I see; it shall be as you say. I will wait your own good time and
pleasure, praying you to remember that the days will drag wearily until
we turn our faces eastward.”
“I shall not be long.”
“Two or three days, I suppose, will be all-sufficient?”
“Perhaps so, but I can not say with certainty.”
“And there is no danger of your desiring to withdraw your consent; you
can never be sorry for your promise.”
“Not so long as you do not forget yours.”
“Then it can never be,” was the ardent reply of Hammond, as he again
pressed her to him, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek.
She gently freed herself, and rising to her feet, stood calmly before
him, looking lovingly and trustingly in his face.
“No,” she said, after a moment’s pause, “I do not think one of us ever
will be sorry for this. You profess to love me, and I believe you, and
I know, too, that you have the whole, undivided affection of Cecilia
Alamant--that she is yours, now and forever!”
But there must be an end to all things, and the lovers became sensible
that several hours had passed since they met, and it was now past
noon. Lamora moved toward the path, Hammond still holding her hand and
walking beside her.
“I do not know which is the prettiest, your Indian or your Christian
name,” he remarked, as they walked slowly along.
“I am the most accustomed to the first, but I suppose I shall lose that
when I leave them.”
“It was that by which I first knew you, and I never wish to forget
it. There will be a charm clinging to it which can never lose its
fascination for me.”
“Well, you can call me by both,” she laughed; “one will suit me as well
as the other.”
“Lamora,” suddenly spoke up Hammond, “there are three white men near
us; they are searching for gold. If they are successful we may all
return to the States together.”
“That will be safer, I suppose.”
“They have been greatly alarmed by this strange--what shall I call
it?--creature that makes his home near your village.”
“It has not harmed them?” she asked, with a peculiar expression.
“No; but they are much terrified. Why not tell _them_ the secret?”
“You know Kipwan’s wish,” she answered, earnestly. “I could not do so
without his permission.”
“I suppose not; but doubtless you can obtain it. This is an exceptional
instance, and will be to our interest to have them acquainted with the
facts.”
She promised to ask the old chief’s advice, and then moved along the
path more rapidly. A hundred yards or so away her horse was found
quietly cropping the grass and herbage. Without any assistance from
her lover, Lamora vaulted lightly upon his back, bade Hammond a gay
good-by, and the next moment had vanished in the direction of the
Indians’ home.