THE SIMOOM OF PASSION.
For some time there had been no further communication between Mahaska
and her husband upon the disputed point of the French alliance. Not that
the woman had been idle; she had never relaxed in her exertions among
the tribes, and she knew that not only the chiefs among the Senecas were
with her, but so many leaders among the other Nations, that she should
be able to carry the whole body at the desired moment.
She feared Gi-en-gwa-tah more than any other man; she was confident that
she had greatly undermined the influence he had formerly possessed, but
she knew that, despite her machinations, he still was much beloved, and
she dreaded the weight his opinion and his passionate eloquence might
have.
But one of two things remained: either he must yield to her will, or
fall a victim to her vengeance, even if her own hand dealt the blow.
Failing that, some plot must be formed, so thoroughly to disgrace him,
that death, such as she had dealt her old enemy, the Fox, would be a
blessing in comparison.
She was sitting alone in her dwelling, revolving these thoughts in her
mind, even while the child of which he was the father lay sleeping on
her knees. Her fondness for her babe was like the love of the tigress
for its young; she would have fought for it, died for it; the idea of
sharing its affection with any human being, would of itself have been
enough to make her hate Gi-en-gwa-tah for having a _right_ to expect
duty and affection from it.
The door was opened softly and her husband stood looking in. She was so
absorbed in her child, that she did not see him. There he stood, looking
at her and his sleeping son, full of a love and tenderness which seemed
almost unmanly to his reason. He stepped softly across the floor,
fearful of disturbing the sleeping boy. She looked up.
“I thought the warriors had gone out to hunt,” she said; “how comes it
that Gi-en-gwa-tah is here?”
“The chief wished to speak with Mahaska,” he replied, “and so returned
to the village.”
She laid her child down upon a couch and turned coldly toward him. She
had grown less careful of appearances now, and did not scruple to treat
him haughtily.
“Mahaska holds secret councils with none of the chiefs,” she said;
“Mahaska is a queen; but what has Gi-en-gwa-tah to say?”
He was deeply wounded by her tone; she had a keen satisfaction in
stabbing him with such needle-thrusts, and she knew that he was
sensitive enough to feel them keenly.
“There is a cloud between Mahaska and the chief,” he said, sorrowfully;
“Gi-en-gwa-tah has tried to brush it away, but he can not; will Mahaska
tell whence it comes?”
She smiled scornfully as she answered:
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is full of fancies as a sick girl; Mahaska can not
understand them—she is a chief!”
He started at the taunt; the fire flashed into his eyes; but he did not
yield to the anger which her words excited.
“Mahaska keeps aloof from the chief,” he said, “and carries her child
with her.”
“Is it that Gi-en-gwa-tah complains of?”
“The great lodge is dark to him when she and the child are not here,” he
answered, with a tenderness and simple pathos inexpressibly touching in
the hardy, stalwart man.
“Does Gi-en-gwa-tah wish to take the place of the squaws and tend
Mahaska’s babe?” she sneered.
Again the hot color mounted to his forehead and the flash to his eyes,
but he answered with quiet dignity:
“Mahaska does ill to mock the chief.”
“He talks riddles,” she returned; “the queen does not understand. If the
chief has a message for Mahaska, let him speak; if he has questions to
demand, let him ask.”
“He came to tell Mahaska news which he heard only now.”
“News?” she repeated. “What news has Gi-en-gwa-tah which the queen does
not know? Did the birds of the air bring it?”
He did not appear to notice the taunt; his determined composure only
served to irritate her the more.
“Speak,” she cried, “and have done; Mahaska has no time to waste in talk
such as pleases old squaws.”
“Mahaska thought the French chief a bad man,” he said.
“He is,” she interrupted, “a base coward.”
“She wished to break off the treaty on account of it—”
“And it shall be done; Mahaska’s will is the prophet’s; it shall be
done. Woe to those who stand in her path!”
“It is not needed now,” he said; “Mahaska has no more to fear from him;
the French chief has left the great city.”
“Left? Where is he gone—is he dead?”
“Not dead; he has gone across the great waters—back to his own country,
and will return no more.”
This was an unexpected and most unwelcome obstacle, since she had fixed
upon the Governor’s falsity as the principal reason for breaking the
treaty. The tidings made her more enraged.
“But another will come,” she cried, “worse than he was—baser, more
cowardly.”
“Mahaska can not know that.”
She turned upon him with a furious gesture.
“How is Gi-en-gwa-tah able to tell what the queen knows; can he read her
thoughts or hear her voices?”
“She has not yet heard the name of the new Governor-chief.”
“Tell it then!” she exclaimed; “tell it and have done. The chief caws
like a crow and utters no news at last. Who have they sent as Governor
now?”
“A man whom Mahaska once knew—”
“His name,” she interrupted, “his name!”
“It is hard for the chief to speak; the red-men called him Willow Bough;
his nation called him—”
He was hesitating over the word, when a sound from Mahaska made him look
up; it was like no human cry—a strangled tiger might have uttered such a
moan.
He looked at her in horror. She was pale as a corpse, her features so
convulsed that they looked scarcely human—her arms were stretched out,
her fingers knotting themselves together, as if crushing some unseen
object.
“De Laguy,” she cried, “Gaston De Laguy?”
The chief called her name in accents of vague terror, but she did not
appear to heed; still the long fingers writhed and the lips muttered:
“Gaston De Laguy.”
Strange thoughts flashed across the mind of the chief, thoughts which he
could not explain, but which stung like a knife. Her terrible agitation,
the tone of deadly agony and hate in which she pronounced that name, all
carried his fancy to what he had known of her past life, and connected
her fierce hatred toward the French with that man.
He had little time to indulge these painful reflections; Mahaska
tottered into a seat, her hands fell to her side, and her strong
self-control began to exert itself.
“You bring me this news,” she exclaimed, at length, in a voice worn and
hollow from her passion; “you say there is nothing to fear now? Blind
fool, there is every thing to fear!”
“Is the young brave false, too?” he asked.
“False!” she gasped. “A fiend from among the pale-faces is not falser!
He hates the very name of an Indian—the Senecas worst of all! Away with
all treaties—broken from this hour! Mahaska swears it! Does the chief
hear?” she cried, turning furiously toward him.
“He hears,” he replied, in a tone expressive of great agitation.
“No more talk of keeping faith,” she shrieked; “whoever comes between
Mahaska and her revenge, shall die like a dog.”
“What revenge does she seek?” he asked.
In her passion she had used the word incautiously, but she was too
nearly mad to remember prudence.
“Yes, revenge!” she repeated. “Mahaska hates the whole race, but that
man and his pale wife worst of all! That girl’s mother broke the heart
of Mahaska’s mother; she will have revenge! That man insulted and defied
Mahaska—she will have his heart’s blood! Let the chief beware; he is
either with or against the queen in this thing; let him think well; so
surely as he tries to thwart her, he shall meet the doom of the Fox!”
She poured out her threats fearlessly; all other arguments had failed;
fear of her anger might check him; at all events, in her insane passion
she must speak.
“The prophet warned Mahaska; the serpent’s nest shall be crushed! Gaston
De Laguy!” she called again, unconsciously employing the language of her
youth. “Beware! Better have trusted to the mercy of a panther than have
crossed the sea again. Both you and Adèle, your noble wife, shall be in
my power—both—at my feet, suing for mercy only to be trampled under
foot! Revenge is now possible—give me my revenge!”
The chief understood enough of the rapid words to gather their import,
and his brow grew darker and sadder.
Suddenly she darted toward him, and caught his arm in her grasp.
“Let the chief speak,” she cried, in the Indian tongue; “does he join
Mahaska or not? Must she expect aid or enmity from him?”
“Never enmity,” he exclaimed, “Mahaska knows that.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah hesitates! This is no time for him to choose his words!
If he opposes Mahaska further, he is her enemy; the chief knows how
Mahaska can hate!”
He did not appear to heed the menacing tone in which the last words were
spoken; she turned from him and paced up and down the room. Once she
paused and looked down upon her sleeping child, but her face, instead of
softening at its innocent slumber, gathered new ferocity.
“Let Mahaska weigh well her actions,” said the chief, after a pause,
with a calmness which contrasted strangely with her agitation. “This is
no light matter that she contemplates; let her not decide from her own
passions—”
She turned upon him as if she could have smitten him to the ground.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah speaks folly,” she cried; “is he a coward, too? Does he
fear the long rifles of the Frenchmen?”
He disdained even to answer her by the braggadocio so common among the
Indians; and, though his whole frame shook with agitation at the
insulting words, his voice was unmoved, as he said:
“Let Gi-en-gwa-tah’s past speak for itself! The chief fears to break his
word; never did he do it, even when as a boy he first began to hunt the
wild deer; he could not see his people go back from their pledges and
prove themselves false as the lying Tuscaroras, whatever their gain
might be.”
“The chief had better go among the pale-faces that he man learn the
mummeries of their faith, and turn his brethren into black-coated owls,
such as live in the stone lodges in Quebec,” retorted Mahaska, with
bitter irony.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is content with the faith of his fathers,” he said, still
struggling to maintain his composure. “Mahaska is not like herself
to-day; her words are sharp as arrows. Has some evil spirit taken
possession of her?”
“A spirit that shall rend the chief in pieces if he oppose her,” she
cried, in a terrible voice; “let him beware!”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah will do his duty whatever happens; he has never yet
turned aside from it.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah may wrap himself in a blanket and weave baskets in the
door of his lodge; he is not fit to be a chief. Let him prove himself a
coward and the people will tear the eagle plumes from his hair!” she
exclaimed, stamping upon the floor in her rage.
He took a step forward and looked in her face with an expression of
concentrated indignation she had never seen there before.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is the chief chosen for Mahaska,” he said. In a deep
voice; “she may be a queen, but let her not speak base insults to her
husband!”
She laughed aloud, driven beyond the possibility of self-control by the
storm his words aroused, the first approaching menace which she had ever
heard from his lips.
“Mahaska chose—Mahaska can put aside; she is a queen still! Does the
chief threaten her? Let him follow her to the village; the council shall
decide between them; let him come!”
She took a step toward the door but he did not stir—not for any price
would he have had her exhibit herself to the people while in that insane
fury, which his natural dignity of character felt was so degrading to
her state.
“The council can not come between the chief and the queen,” he said;
“this matter must be settled in their own lodge, not before the eyes of
all the people.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah knows well what their judgment would be,” she answered,
mistaking his hesitation for a dread of the disapproval of the tribe;
“he dare not go before the chiefs and say that he opposes the will of
Mahaska—the command of the prophet.”
“Mahaska speaks from her anger; Gi-en-gwa-tah does not hear the voice of
the prophet in her words.”
It was the first time he had ever really rebuked her—the first time he
had ever ventured to doubt her; but love gave to the savage that
intuitive knowledge of her feelings which love alone can give; he saw
she was actuated by a desire of vengeance against the new Governor; he
felt, with a horrible pang, that in her old life that man had been every
thing to her—that it was affection turned to hate which now urged her
on.
“Let Gi-en-gwa-tah repeat those words,” she almost whispered, in a tone
that sounded like the hiss of a serpent; “let him say again that he does
not believe her visions; it shall be the last time he ever utters such
doubts.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah does not doubt her; he knows that she is a great
prophetess; but, now, she can not be speaking what her spirits have told
her, for until Gi-en-gwa-tah brought the tidings, she thought the young
French brave across the deep waters.”
That he should have in a measure penetrated her feelings and possess
acuteness to argue thus, inflamed her passion still more; her first
impulse was to kill him where he stood; only a keen sense of the danger
to herself in this act prevented her.
Not daring to trust herself to speak just then, she resumed her rapid
march up and down the room, while a thousand projects darted like
lightning-flashes through her quick brain. She must employ craft still,
but only once more; let her keep him from appealing to the chiefs for a
few hours, and she could render him powerless.
When she had gained sufficient command over herself to speak calmly, she
paused in her walk before him—cold and white from the effects of her
fury, but forcing her voice into a tone that sounded more natural and
calm.
“The queen has reflected,” she said; “Gi-en-gwa-tah is right; words such
as have passed between them are not for the people to hear.”
He bowed his head to conceal the expression of anguish which passed over
it; that stormy dialogue and the revelations it forced upon his mind,
made the bitterest hour of his whole life.
“Mahaska has decided well,” he answered; “but even the lodge that holds
the chief and his wife should never hear such words.”
She clenched her hands together in her loose sleeves, feeling the
necessity of some physical struggle to restrain the insulting epithets
which sprung to her lips.
“What is passed is passed,” she said; “let there be no more talk of
these things; Mahaska goes to consult her spirits.”
He bowed assent to her wishes, but made no movement to leave the room.
She must have him out of the way if she would succeed in her project.
She turned toward him with a change of manner and face so sudden and
entire that it was really marvelous, and he stood bewildered before the
coming forth of her beauty from its black cloud of anger—bewildered and
fascinated, but not with the faith and weakness of the past; through it
all pierced the fierce pain which had smitten his heart when she uttered
her vows of vengeance against the French Governor.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah promised Mahaska fresh salmon from the lake,” she said,
and a sweet, girlish laugh, rung from the lips that had before trembled
with bitter denunciations; “let him bring them to-night, that she may
know her peace is made with the chief.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah will go,” he replied, gravely, anxious to be alone that
he might reason away the cruel thoughts which struggled in his heart.
“And when will the chief return?” she demanded, carelessly playing with
the fringe of her girdle, as if she had absolutely forgotten her
passion, so changed and smiling that it seemed hardly possible she could
be the woman who had raged there like a chained tigress only a few
moments before.
“He must go miles up the lake,” replied Gi-en-gwa-tah; “it will be after
nightfall when he returns.”
“Mahaska will wait for the evening meal till he returns,” she said;
“wait for the chief’s peace-offering,” and she smiled again, with such
frank sweetness that eyes more skilled than those of the Indian would
have failed to detect the danger in its depths.
She parted from him with the same pleasant manner. As he left the room
he looked back—she had taken up her sleeping child and was pressing it
to her bosom, as if all her thoughts had centered again in that
engrossing maternal love.