Constance and her father, rudely dragged from their home, were hurried
off to the fort. No allowance was made for the weakness of her sex, and
no pity was shown her by the savage priests, who, supposing that she was
not aware of her husband's escape, endeavoured still more to wound her
feelings by telling her that he was condemned to death, and that, unless
she and her father recanted, they would meet with the same fate.
"Silence, priest, silence! It is cowardly and unmanly to speak thus to
my daughter," exclaimed the count. "Add not insult to the injury you
have already inflicted. We have broken no laws; we have done harm to no
one; and we find ourselves treated as if we were the vilest of
malefactors."
The count's address had no effect upon the priest, who took a cruel
pleasure in annoying them. Such is ever the character of the emissaries
of Rome when they are in the ascendency and are opposed; when in the
minority, they are humble and meek, plausible and silver-tongued; and
when there are none to oppose them, haughty, indolent, sensual, and
self-indulgent. Such they have been in all ages and in every country,
with the exception of the devoted Jesuit slaves, who have gone forth to
carry their spurious gospel into heathen lands.
On arriving at the fort, the mockery of a trial was gone through; the
priest's myrmidons swore to having seen Constance reading the Bible, and
that, as the crime had been committed on the count's property, he was
therefore equally guilty. Having been a lawyer in his youth, the count
was able to defend himself, and had a jury of twelve honest men been
present, he would have undoubtedly been acquitted; but, unhappily, that
system being unknown among the French, he had no such advantage. The
governor and the priest, exasperated at Nigel's escape, grossly abused
him, and interrupted him with shouts and execrations whenever he
especially pointed to the proofs of his innocence. The count, of
course, defended Constance, and argued that she was but listening to her
husband, whom she was bound to obey, and was therefore guiltless.
"It is false!" exclaimed the priest, starting up; "her duty to the
Church is above all others. It was for her to denounce her husband
rather than to listen to him. Such heretical notions as yours, Count de
Tourville, must be destroyed. The Church would lose her authority and
power were they to prevail."
"Ma foi!" exclaimed the count; "in that case no husband can venture to
trust his wife with the slightest secret. It would not be confided to
her keeping, but to that of the confessor. For that reason, and many
others, we repudiate the system you, for your own ends, are anxious to
maintain. I advise those who are husbands never to tell to their wives
words they would not have known where the system prevails."
"Silence! Count de Tourville," exclaimed the priest, foaming with rage,
"you shall answer for these insulting words."
The count, it must be confessed, regretted having touched on the
subject, as it was like throwing pearls to swine; but he felt for the
moment that he might shield his daughter by drawing the anger of the
priests on himself.
The mockery of a trial came to a conclusion, and the governor, who had
taken upon himself the office of judge and inquisitor-general, found the
count and his daughter guilty of the crimes with which they were
charged, and condemned them both to death. In consequence of Nigel's
escape, the priest begged that they might be kept for safe custody in
the prison within the fort; the same wretched place in which Nigel had
first been confined, and utterly unfit for the reception of any female.
Poor Constance shuddered as she was led into it. Her father begged that
he might send to his house for such necessaries as his daughter
required, but his request was roughly refused. It was not without
difficulty even that he obtained some matting, and a few armfuls of
rushes on which she might rest.
"Lie down, my child," said the count to Constance, when they were at
length left alone. "We will not altogether despair, but look to Him who
is always ready to protect us. You require rest; and we know not what
we may have to go through."
Constance obeyed her father, while he continued pacing up and down the
narrow space allowed him, to collect his thoughts. He harboured no
ill-feeling towards his persecutors, but, following the example of his
Master, he prayed for their forgiveness, while he looked forward with
joy, rather than fear, to the time when he should be welcomed into His
presence. He knew, too, that his beloved daughter, should her life be
taken, would bear him company to that home where their Saviour had gone
before to prepare a place for all those who love Him.
The night passed on. Constance was sleeping. Still the count felt no
desire to lie down and rest. The whole fort seemed wrapped in silence,
except when the voice of a distant sentry reached his ear. The silence
was suddenly broken by a shot fired from the fort. Others followed in
rapid succession. Then arose loud shouts and shrieks, and the Indian
warwhoop rising above all others. Constance started from her slumbers,
and clung to her father. The noises grew louder and louder.
"The fort is attacked. The enemy are scaling the walls!" exclaimed the
count. "Both parties are fighting desperately. Constance, there is
hope for us, for even the Portuguese would scarcely wish to injure those
who are unable to oppose them."
The sounds of strife increased. The count could with difficulty judge
how the fight was going. Supporting his daughter on his arm, he awaited
the issue. The great guns roared, the bullets rattled, and presently
there came an uproar which showed that the assailants had gained the
fort, and the shriek and cries of the combatants, and other sounds of a
desperate struggle, approached their prison. Just at that juncture the
warwhoops of apparently a fresh party burst forth within the fort. The
count recognised the cry as that of the Tamoyos. On they came from the
opposite side of the fort, and the battle seemed to rage hotter than
ever. In the midst of the fierce turmoil the door of their prison was
burst open, and Tecumah, leaping in, seized Constance in his arms, while
a companion took charge of the count, and hurried him off.
"I promised to save you or perish," said the Indian. "We had a hard
matter to enter the fort, and it will be no less difficult to escape;
but I have succeeded thus far, and trust to place you in safety."
These words were uttered hurriedly, as Tecumah, surrounded by a faithful
band, was fighting his way across the fort, in all parts of which a
furious battle was raging; the Portuguese and their Indian allies, the
Tuparas, having forced an entrance, being engaged with the French and
Tamoyos, who were struggling desperately for life.
Bullets were whizzing and arrows flying in all directions; the fierce
shouts and shrieks of the combatants sounding above the clash of steel
and the rattle of musketry. Numbers and discipline favoured the
Portuguese, who had well trained their native allies, while the French
mistrusted each other, and had but little confidence in the natives,
who, however, were gallantly doing their utmost to assist them, headed
by their brave chief, Tuscarora. Tecumah and his faithful band had but
one object in view, to rescue Constance and her father. Like a wedge,
with their most stalwart warriors in the van, they fought their way
through the mass of foes entering the fort towards the outlet which had
allowed the latter ingress. Several of their number fell; scarcely one
escaped a wound. Still Constance was untouched. Often they were almost
overwhelmed. Still on they went, their track marked by the bodies of
their foes, and many of their own party. The gateway was reached.
Constance felt Tecumah stagger. A fear seized her that he had received
a wound; but no cry escaped him, and, recovering himself, he bore her
onwards. Scarcely had they emerged into the open, when they encountered
a fresh party of the Portuguese. The Tamoyos halted for a moment to
draw their bows, and not a shaft failed to pierce a foe, the shower of
bullets, which came in return, passing mostly over their heads.
"On! on!" shouted Tecumah, though his voice no longer rang with its
usual clear tone.
Constance observed with grief that he was faint and hoarse. His band,
obeying him, turned round and shot their arrows as they advanced.
Scarcely, however, had they moved forward, when the Portuguese, seeing
the handful of men opposed to them, fiercely charged their ranks,
Tecumah and only a few of the warriors surrounding him, having got some
way in advance, escaping the onslaught; the rest, who had the count in
charge, were compelled to halt, in a vain endeavour to withstand their
overwhelming foes. The darkness enabled Tecumah, and the few who
remained by him, to push on without being observed.
"On! on!" again cried Tecumah. "The rest will follow when they have
driven back our enemies."
"Oh, my father! my father! Where is he?" exclaimed Constance.
Tecumah did not answer her.
Making their way towards the shore, they reached it at length.
"Where are the canoes?" exclaimed Tecumah, looking along the beach where
they had been left hauled up.
His companions dispersed on either side to look for them. Their cries
told what had happened. Some had been sent adrift, and others had been
battered in, and utterly destroyed by a band of Tuparas, as the Tamoyos
truly surmised.
"We must make our way to the spot where they have left their canoes,"
exclaimed Tecumah; and he again attempted to lift up Constance, who had
earnestly entreated to be placed on the ground.
The din of battle still sounded as loud as ever, and the rattle of
musketry was heard close at hand. It was evident that the combatants
were approaching the shore.
"On! on!" again cried Tecumah; and, lifting up Constance, he was
staggering forward, when, faint from loss of blood, he sank on the
ground.
At that moment an Indian rushed out of the wood behind them. "Fly! fly!
our enemies are at hand. All, all have been cut to pieces. I alone
have escaped."
His arm, as he spoke, dropped by his side, while the blood flowed
rapidly from his head, giving evidence of the truth of his assertion.
Constance was kneeling down, trying to staunch the blood flowing from
Tecumah's wound. He raised himself on one arm.
"Think not of me," he said, "but endeavour, with my faithful friends,
who will accompany you, to find concealment among the rocks."
"We cannot leave you," answered Constance; "better to yield ourselves
prisoners, than to allow you to perish alone."
"You know not the nature of our enemies," said Tecumah, faintly; "they
spare no one. Fly, fly, while there is time."
The sounds of fighting were drawing rapidly nearer. All prospect of
escape seemed cut off. Constance gazed up for a moment from the task at
which she was engaged. Bullets were striking the branches of the trees
a short distance from them. Her heart sank with grief. She felt the
probability that her father had been cut off with the rest of the brave
Tamoyos. Just then one of the Indians exclaimed, "See, see! a canoe
approaches." Constance cast a glance across the waters, and caught a
glimpse of a canoe emerging from the darkness. It rapidly approached
the beach. The shouts of the Indians showed that friends were on board.
Their hails were answered. In another moment Nigel leapt on shore.
Tecumah recognised him.
"Save her first--care not for me," he exclaimed.
Nigel was not likely to disobey such a command, and, taking Constance in
his arms, he bore her to the canoe.
"Oh, save our brave friend," she cried, as she pressed her lips to her
husband's, who immediately sprang back to the beach, and, listening not
to Tecumah's request to be allowed to die where he lay, he carried him,
with the assistance of the Indians who still had strength to exert
themselves, to the canoe.
Holding the steering paddle in her hands, stood Cora. The instant her
brother and Nigel were on board, she gave it a dexterous turn, and the
canoe shot away from the shore, impelled by the strokes of two lads who
formed the crew. Nigel and an Indian seized two other paddles, and with
all their strength urged on the canoe. There was no time to be lost;
already they could see a number of dark forms emerging from the wood,
while numerous bullets splashed into the water astern. The veil of
night would prove their best protection, and every effort was made to
get ahead. Cora, believing that they could no longer be seen, directed
the canoe on a different course, to one side parallel with the shore,
thus avoiding the bullets which were fired in the direction it had last
been seen. After going on for some distance, she again steered directly
for the opposite shore, which her keen sight could distinguish through
the darkness. Meantime, Constance, seated at the bottom of the canoe,
supported Tecumah's head. He gently took her hand, and pressed it to
his lips.
"I have more to thank you for than I can express by words," he
whispered, in a low, faltering voice. "I first followed a shadow, but
you showed me the glorious reality, and led me to Him, whom to know is
life eternal. I die happy, resting in His love, with the thought also
that I have preserved your life to be a blessing to one who is worthy of
you. I am going quickly, but do not mourn aloud, lest you paralyse the
efforts of our friends."
Constance felt the hand which held hers relax its grasp, and ere long
she knew that the spirit of the young Indian had taken its flight to the
realms of bliss. She placed his hand on his breast, and, obeying his
dying injunctions, refrained from giving way to her feelings. Not till
they were near the north shore, and safe for the present from their
enemies, did she speak. She then endeavoured to prepare Cora for the
discovery of her brother's death.
"I feared it was so," replied Cora, when Constance had told her clearly
what had happened. "I know, however, that no joy on earth could be more
exquisite than that he felt in the consciousness that he had given his
life to save yours. I must not mourn for him as those who have no hope.
We must not remain here," continued Cora, as they disembarked from the
canoe. "They will certainly pursue us, and we shall not be in safety
till we reach our village, where the remnant of our tribe is collected.
Alas! there will be bitter grief and loud wailing for the many who have,
I fear, fallen."
With perfect calmness Cora gave directions to her people to convey the
body of her brother, and follow quickly, while she led Nigel, who
supported Constance, through the woods. Faint and overcome with grief
as Constance was, Cora urged, notwithstanding, that they should continue
their course without stopping, for she felt convinced that a fearful
loss had overtaken her tribe from the account which the last-arrived
Indian had given her. He had, he affirmed, before Tecumah and his party
had cut their way out of the fort, seen Tuscarora and many of their
tribe shot down by the enemy; and he had also witnessed the death of the
count. Nigel questioned him narrowly, but could elicit nothing that
could shake his testimony.
Sad, indeed, as Cora had expected, was the way in which they were
received at her village, and it was feared, indeed, that even it might
be attacked while there only remained the old men and boys for its
defence. It was proposed, therefore, that they should move further into
the country; but Cora urged them to remain, and, as a precaution against
surprise, sent out scouts to give timely notice of the appearance of an
enemy, or the return of their friends. They all, however, packed up
their property, and remained prepared for instant flight.