THE TIGRESS DALLYING WITH HER PREY.
While the savage enthusiasm of the gathered people was at its hight,
Mahaska did not forget to urge anew the wish for a chieftainship, which
the dead Fox had opposed. Her set purpose was in no manner changed by
the evident decision of the chiefs to consider her their prophet and
queen—not their chiefest chief. They said, “Gi-en-gwa-tah is our chief,
as he is your husband;” thus implying that she was not supreme. A great
throb of pain, the pang of a thwarted ambition, shot through her bosom.
Had she, the daughter of the noble Frontenac, deserted her father’s
halls of splendor—had she cast her civilization away and wedded, at the
command of her Indian half-countrymen, a savage chief—all to be denied
the prize for which she had aimed? No! the fierce heart of the woman
cried; she would be chief not alone of the Senecas, but chief of her
husband—chief of the Six Nations; she would be supreme, or be powerless
altogether. She glanced toward Gi-en-gwa-tah, her eyes fairly blazing
with indignation. A sense of intense dislike of him surged through her
breast.
His brow was overcast with thought; there was a heavy pain in the stern,
dark eyes. Love for his beautiful wife had become so strong in his
savage nature, that it was absolute idolatry; but, with all his bravery,
his heart was gentle and tender almost as a woman’s. It had sent a
terrible shock through his whole being when he saw Mahaska, with her own
hand, deal that death-blow to his enemy. Not that he loved her less; his
savage teachings made him admire her daring; but the pain was at his
heart, notwithstanding, and he shuddered when he saw the blood-stain on
that slender white hand.
The young chief felt no jealousy of his wife for the supremacy she had
gained over the people. He believed, firmly as the others, in her
supernatural powers; but the sneers of the murdered man had touched him
to the quick—he burned for some opportunity to prove to his people that
he did not bury his manhood in the reflected glory of a woman, however
much he might bow before her claims as a prophetess and the descendant
of their great medicine men, by whom she had been bequeathed to the
tribe.
Whatever the feelings might be which actuated him, Mahaska could not
afford then to allow any cloud to come between them—hereafter it would
matter little; her eagle gaze was looking forward to a future of
undivided sway, to which the present was but a stepping-stone.
She motioned the chiefs to approach her, saying:
“The council-fire has been kindled in vain—the braves have forgotten.”
“Mahaska is wrong,” returned Upepah; “the chiefs never forget; let them
hear the queen speak.”
“The Delawares are our neighbors, but Shewashiet, a chief of their
tribe, has said that the Senecas are cowards, because they have chosen a
woman for their great medicine prophet. You have just proclaimed
Gi-en-gwa-tah your first chief. Let him take a band of warriors and
bring Mahaska her traducer’s scalp. It shall be a proof that he is
worthy to share her rule over a great tribe.”
A shout of exultation went up from the body of youthful warriors,
checked at once by a sign from the old chief. They looked at her with
new pride and wonder. To their savage natures, the bloodthirsty spirit
she evinced had nothing revolting in it; they only worshiped her the
more for her ferocious decision.
Gi-en-gwa-tah placed himself by her side, uttering a shrill
battle-shout. Again there was a consultation about the council-fire,
then Upepah said:
“The queen has spoken well. In three days the braves will set out upon
the war-path. Our young chief shall earn another plume.”
He turned toward the young men and delivered an address full of fire and
passion, calculated to inflame still more their desires and ambition.
Then the chiefs rose—the council was broken up.
Mahaska made a proud obeisance of farewell, and passed out of the
throng, casting a meaning glance at Gi-en-gwa-tah, who was conversing
with Upepah, which he understood as a sign that she desired to speak
with him.
The whole band of young warriors filed into procession and followed at a
little distance in her footsteps, till she reached her lodge. She turned
at the entrance, bowed a last farewell, and disappeared, retiring to her
own inner room.
Mahaska now sat down upon a pile of furs, and gave herself up to hard,
cruel thought. The straight, black brows contracted, the great eye
gleamed out hatefully beneath, and her whole face so changed and
darkened under her wicked reflections that it looked years older.
The first obstacle in her path had been swept aside—her first foe had
fallen a victim to her vengeance; the gratification of her own evil
passions had only strengthened her power.
There was no regret in that cruel heart, even in the solitude of her
lodge. Though her half-savage nature had been refined by education, and
softened by the best blood of France, every instinct of her soul became
barbarous under the reign of her vaunting ambition, and of her desire to
avenge supposed wrongs. It seemed as if the white blood in her veins had
turned drop by drop to hate. So hideous a transformation it was hard to
conceive, but history writes that it was so, and her extraordinary
career has left behind records enough to prove her to have been more
savage, more treacherous, more relentless, than the untutored barbarian
would have been. Katharine Frontenac, when she threw aside her civilized
life, became Mahaska, the Avenger. The avenger of what? She forced
herself to say that her father, Count Frontenac, had neglected her
mother, Chileli, whom he had chosen as his lawful wife, but whom he had
killed by neglect. As Katharine Frontenac, she had dared to love, with a
fierce, wild love, a French cavalier, but he had spurned her, and had
wedded another—her rival sister, a child of Frontenac’s second wife, the
beautiful Countess Adèle. It was this rejection which had decided her to
cast away all the ties of civilization, to become a tigress in the
wilderness—this rejection which had turned all the sweet springs of her
spontaneous, exuberant nature into waters not of bitterness alone, but
of qualities repulsive enough to slake the thirst of ghouls.
After a time she heard Gi-en-gwa-tah’s step in the outer room; at the
sound, her hand instinctively clenched the handle of her tomahawk, in
unison with the deadly thought in her mind. The loathing which she first
had felt when forced to wed the noble savage, grew every day more deep.
She inwardly shrunk from the earnest devotion which beamed in his
eyes—from the anxious love with which he watched her every glance; but
now that he stood in her path, she began to scorn and to hate him.
For the present it must be endured with that patience and craft which
were the inheritance of her Indian blood; but woe to the hapless man
when the hour came that should enable her to carry out the schemes which
had been in her mind even on the very day when he led her to his lodge.
He swept aside the furs which hung before the entrance to Mahaska’s
lodge, and entered the apartment; she sat there so peaceful and calm in
her splendid beauty, that it hardly seemed possible she could have been
the author of the bloody deed which had filled every heart in the tribe
with consternation, scarcely an hour before. Perhaps some such thought
was in the Indian’s mind as he stood looking down upon her.
The first sound of her voice was low and sweet as that of some woodland
bird hushing her young:
“Gi-en-gwa-tah has left the chiefs’ company for that of Mahaska,” she
said. “Mahaska thanks him for it.”
“Mahaska’s wishes are always pleasant to Gi-en-gwa-tah,” he answered;
“she signed him to follow as she left the council-fire.”
The woman motioned him to her side with a smile of winning sweetness.
For the present she must essay all her arts of fascination to retain him
her slave; the day was not far off when she would boldly declare her
will, and crush him in her path if he disputed it. But that time had not
yet come, and now she was anxious to remove from his mind the impression
left there by her cruel murder.
“Have they taken away that dog of a chief?” she asked, as he seated
himself at her side.
“The squaws of burthen have carried him into the woods,” he answered,
gravely; “there is no burial for a brave dishonored and disgraced.”
The woman laid her hand softly on his arm:
“Gi-en-gwa-tah’s brow is dark; there is a shadow on his heart because
Mahaska his queen revenged herself on her enemy. She was warned by the
prophet that this man’s death was necessary; he was dangerous to
Mahaska; he would have disputed her power, and led his people into great
troubles. Mahaska does not love to shed blood, but she must obey her
visions; she was warned to do this.”
She spoke in a tone which greatly impressed the brave; he had the most
implicit faith in her supernatural communications.
“Mahaska has done well,” he answered; “she is a chief now—she might
tread the war-path with the noblest of the tribe.”
“But, Mahaska does not wish Gi-en-gwa-tah to think her cruel,” she said;
“she is a woman to him—she loves the chief.”
His dusky face glowed under her words, spoken in that thrilling,
impassioned tone. She watched him narrowly. To her crafty nature there
was a bitter pleasure in this loathsome deceit; the more fondly he loved
her, the sterner the retribution she should be able in the future to
bring upon him for having been the man whom fate had assigned as her
husband.
“The Fox hated Gi-en-gwa-tah,” she went on; “he was plotting against
him; cannot Gi-en-gwa-tah think why? _He_ wanted to be the husband of
the queen—he would have used all his arts to put the young chief away,
that he might aspire to his place.”
A fierce light shot into Gi-en-gwa-tah’s eye; she had touched the right
chord; he forgot every thing, except that the murdered man would have
conspired against his happiness with her.
“The dog is dead,” he hissed; “let him lie unburied; his carcass shall
become food for the crows. Mahaska has done well; her visions never
speak falsely.”
She smiled in his face, with the fascination which, in her past life,
had thrilled many a noble white heart.
“Henceforth, even the memory of the Fox shall not desecrate Mahaska’s
lodge,” she said; “his spirit is with the dark shadows that can never
enter the happy hunting-grounds.”
She changed the subject, and began speaking of the expedition which was
to take place.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah will lead the young braves,” she said; “Upepah has
promised Mahaska. While he follows the war-path, and brings back her
enemy’s scalp, Mahaska will work for him at the council; her chief shall
be the greatest of the Six Nations.”
He listened eagerly to the visions of future greatness which she called
up.
“Mahaska is happy,” he exclaimed, suddenly, giving utterance to some
train of thought which had been called up by her words.
“Happy?” she repeated. “Why does Gi-en-gwa-tah ask idle questions?”
“It was no question,” he replied; “Gi-en-gwa-tah sees that she is
content. Once he feared that the dark forest might look dreary to her.
Mahaska, in the Governor’s palace, has been reared gently; he feared
that she might regret all that she left behind in the white
settlements.”
Mahaska’s brow darkened when her life among the whites was spoken of.
She had left nothing there but a dead youth, crushed, under terrible
hate and thwarted dreams. The dreams were buried deep in the past; the
hatred she brought in her heart to the forest, to be nursed and
strengthened until she should be able to make the loathed race feel its
most deadly sting.
“Mahaska is among her people,” she said, proudly; “she has obeyed the
will of the Manitou, and dwells among them as their queen. What should
she regret?”
But his words recalled the one era in her life when tender emotions had
for a time softened her heart. She looked at the Indian; she remembered
the noble pale-face whom she had given a love intense with the passion
and fire of her Indian nature; she remembered how she had been scorned
and set aside for another: the hatred she had vowed against the man who
had preferred another to her, was reflected toward the savage who had
come between her and the lonely state which she had struggled to
maintain, but which she had to forego in order to gain ascendency over
the tribes. It was difficult for her to feign longer; she was young
still, and her self-control could sometimes be shaken. At such times it
was necessary to be alone, that no human being might suspect the tempest
which stirred her whole nature to revolt.
“Let Gi-en-gwa-tah return to the chiefs,” she said; “Mahaska hears the
voices of her spirits; they have promised to come to her to-night.”
The Indian rose at once, with a sudden awe settling over the gravity of
his countenance; he glanced furtively about, as if almost expecting to
see some trace of the supernatural beings of whom she spoke.
“In the morning Mahaska will tell her dreams to the chief,” she said;
“many things have been whispered faintly to her which will now be said
clearly. Gi-en-gwa-tah will follow their warning?”
“Always,” he answered; “Mahaska is the chosen of the Manitou—her words
are full of wisdom.”
He went away softly, as if fearing to disturb the mysterious silence of
the lodge by a footfall, and Mahaska sat there in her loneliness until
the night was almost spent—communing indeed with spirits, the dark,
distorted shapes which rose out of the depths of her now bloodstained
soul.
When she threw herself upon her couch, it was only to pursue in sleep
those bloody reflections, and if the face of the dead man, the first
victim in her path, rose before her, it only brought with it a fiendish
exultation at her own success, and a sterner determination to carry out
her schemes, however dark the way and fierce the tempest through which
they might lead her.