THE CAPTIVE.
Many a wild thought raged in Mahaska’s mind, too wild for reason or
control, but all bearing to one end. She rode on day after day, haunted
by the idea that some unlooked-for event would place it in her power to
wreak the vengeance she yearned for against the Governor of Quebec, and
so bring at once her wishes to a fulfillment.
Mahaska had her scouts out in every direction. They had received strict
orders to report to her without informing Gi-en-gwa-tah of any
discoveries they might make. Gi-en-gwa-tah had gone one day with several
companions on a hunting excursion. Mahaska wishing to rid herself of his
presence, had expressed a desire for him to bring her venison and game
of his own shooting, and her slightest request was still his law.
Mahaska was sitting in her tent, several miles back from the river. She
had determined that if no opportunity to annoy the French offered, she
would at least visit the island in person before the neighborhood of the
Indians should become known, and then return to Seneca lake, having
possession of the buried treasures which Ahmo’s ingenuity and avarice
had secured to her grandchild.
One morning a scout approached her tent.
“What news?” she asked, abruptly.
“Many boats on the river,” he answered, “going up to the great
settlement.”
“Who are they? Did Omene hear?”
“It is reported that the Governor-chief is sending his squaw back to the
great settlement,” he answered.
Mahaska sprung to her feet with the bound of a lioness. She had learned
the fact of De Laguy having become Governor of Quebec: the thought that
Adèle might again be thrown in her power fairly dizzied her with its
promise of torture to her hated foe and his despised wife. Having
questioned the man minutely, she dismissed him and sat down to arrange
in her mind the project which had so suddenly been called into life.
Toward sunset she selected a number of her body-guard and set out in the
direction of the river. One of the savages was sent in advance, to await
the coming of the boats and learn the exact order in which they were
journeying. It so chanced that the boat which carried the Governor’s
wife had fallen behind. Adèle, having placed the nurse and child in
another canoe, sat conversing with a female acquaintance who was
accompanying her on her return to Quebec. It was growing almost
twilight; they had reached a point where the river took a variety of
short curves, and the bank was so thickly wooded that the boats often
lost sight of each other. Still, the officer who had command of the
expedition had given no orders for the canoes to be kept more closely
together, as there was scarcely a supposition of danger in the whole
journey.
The two ladies were conversing so eagerly that they did not observe that
the other boats had passed out of sight. But the rower seeing this, was
bending forward to make new exertions, and they were just passing a dark
point of the forest, when he was struck violently upon the head, lost
his balance, and fell backward into the water.
The two women sprung up with a cry of dismay; at the same instant,
several Indians burst out of the thicket and plunged into the water. The
boat was seized and dragged to the shore, and Madame De Lenneville, as
she fell insensible in the canoe, heard one last shriek from the hapless
Adèle, and saw her borne off in the arms of savages.
That appalling cry brought back the other boats; they saw the canoe
drifting down the current with the lady’s companion lying senseless, but
neither the oarsman nor the Governor’s wife were to be seen.
It was a long time before Madame De Lenneville could be restored to
consciousness, and even then, her senses were so confused by the shock,
that she could give no clear account of the occurrence.
Further down the river they found the body of the oarsman, who had been
so stunned by the blow that he could make no effort, and was swept
passively down the stream.
To Madame De Lenneville’s excited imagination, the number of the savages
appeared immense, and the officers decided that nothing could be done
but to push on to Quebec for assistance, as any attempt to follow the
Indians with their little party would only result in a general massacre.
They hurried on through the gathering twilight, every breast tortured
with anxiety. The child awoke and moaned piteously for his mother. The
sound was a new agony to her friends, for but few of that little party
ever expected to see the Governor’s wife alive.
The queen’s body-guard bore the hapless lady swiftly along through the
forest, answering neither her cries or supplications. After the first
moments of agonizing fear, her thoughts were of her child. Anxiety kept
her senses all acute; she had not even the blessing of insensibility.
Once or twice she caught glimpses of men on horseback galloping before
them through the windings of the forest; but she could distinguish
nothing more. No one spoke to her. She was a prisoner. Mahaska was one
of the riders—she urged her horse forward into the camp. Gi-en-gwa-tah
met her, but before he could speak, she exclaimed:
“Prepare every thing for our departure; we must be miles away before the
dawn breaks.”
“Our queen rides fast,” he returned, with a feeling that she had been
upon some lawless errand. “Whence comes she in such haste.”
“Let Gi-en-gwa-tah keep silent,” she exclaimed; “it is not for him to
question the descendant of the prophet.”
She turned to the Indians, and issued her commands for an instant
departure.
“Where are the rest who went out with the queen?” demanded the chief.
“They are coming through the forest,” cried Mahaska.
She pointed down the path. As the chief looked, the party carrying Adèle
appeared in sight.
“A prisoner!” he exclaimed. “What has the queen done?”
“The wife of the French Governor is Mahaska’s prisoner,” returned she,
with a fearful laugh. “This time, these hands shall strangle the viper;
there is no escape now.”
The chief uttered an exclamation of horror.
“The Nations have not declared war,” he said, hurriedly; “Mahaska will
ruin herself by this act.”
“Fool!” she exclaimed. “Will you try to teach Mahaska? Out of my path,
or I will trample you under my horse’s feet!”
But he stood his ground firmly, and after one prolonged glance of
fiendish hate, Mahaska turned toward her prisoner.
Adèle caught sight of her old friend and arch-enemy, as she was seated
upon the powerful black horse. A light from the fires fell full upon
Mahaska’s face, and in spite of the changes evil passions and her wild
life had made, Adèle recognized her foster-sister at once. From that
instant she resigned all hope; she uttered no cry, but remained gazing
at the face turned upon her as if fascinated by the glare of those
basilisk eyes.
The savages placed her upon the ground. She leaned against a tree for
support, but did not turn her eyes from the face of her captor.
A cold, deadly smile wreathed the white queen’s lip. She bowed low, with
an affectation of extreme courtesy, and said in her blandest voice:
“Queen Mahaska bows herself before the guest who honors her camp; the
wife of the French Governor is welcome.”
Adèle shuddered at that voice, for she knew well the hatred and danger
expressed in its accents.
“Katharine!” she exclaimed, involuntarily, calling her by the familiar
name which she had borne when a child in her father’s castle. “Oh,
Katharine, what harm have I done you?”
Mahaska started; wrath surged into her face, but she controlled the
rising tempest, looked carelessly about, as if to see whom the lady had
thus addressed, and said:
“The pale-face wanders in her mind; there is no one here but Mahaska and
her braves.”
“Why have you brought me here?” cried Adèle. “What have I done to you,
that you should pursue me with such remorseless hatred? Only set me
free, and my husband will pay you any ransom. Name your price—but let me
go.”
The smile died from Mahaska’s lips. She leaned forward in her saddle,
and hissed from between her clenched teeth:
“He must offer it for your dead body then, for he will have no time to
make other terms. All the wealth of France would not purchase your life.
Mahaska does not sell her hate.”
Adèle’s overwrought faculties gave way at those fearful words, and, with
one low moan, she fell senseless almost under the horse’s feet.
Mahaska motioned the Indians to raise her and turned coldly away. The
preparations for departure were going hurriedly on. Gi-en-gwa-tah had
been standing near, and being sufficiently familiar with French to
understand, had comprehended the conversation that had passed between
the two women. He looked pityingly at the white face, so pure and
girlish still; then he turned toward the pitiless woman, sitting there
so unconcerned, to make one last effort.
“Let the queen reflect,” he said; “she is doing a dangerous thing—”
“Queen Mahaska loves danger,” she interrupted, without even glancing
toward him. “Let the fire be put out; let the guard make ready!” she
called, in a loud voice.
“Let Mahaska at least wait here till the day breaks,” urged the chief.
She turned upon him with a look of contempt.
“Wait here that the dogs of pale-faces may come up and rescue her?” she
exclaimed. “Is the queen a mad woman to heed such advice? If
Gi-en-gwa-tah had no other counsel to offer, he had better leave off his
eagle plumes.”
The chief was stung beyond endurance by the insult.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is indeed a chief,” he answered, “and Mahaska is only his
wife, only a squaw, in spite of the favor his people have shown her.”
The woman turned upon him in speechless rage; her right hand moved
slowly, as if clutching for her tomahawk, but he paid no attention to
the menace.
“The wife of the Governor-chief shall be returned to him,” he said.
“Who will give her back?” she almost whispered, in the hoarseness of her
rage.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah,” he replied. “The chief will not permit his people to be
false and treacherous, to gratify the anger a woman.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah will give her back?” she repeated, slowly.
“He will do it. The French are our allies; we will keep faith with
them.”
She bent her head with mocking reverence.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is a great chief,” she said; “he wills a thing only to be
obeyed. Let him command the queen’s guards to give up her prisoner.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah does command,” he replied; “here he will be obeyed.”
The principal warriors had pressed nearer, and listened in silence to
the altercation.
“The braves hear,” said Mahaska, turning toward them; “let them tremble
before the frown of Gi-en-gwa-tah; they are his slaves.”
An angry murmur went through the throng. Mahaska saw her advantage and
went on.
“Does it please Gi-en-gwa-tah that the pale-face should be sent back
to-night?” she asked.
He understood the mockery in her voice. Worse still, he perceived that
he was quite powerless. The chiefs drew around Mahaska, avoiding him.
“Once more, Gi-en-gwa-tah asks the queen to reflect,” he said:
“The great prophet teaches the queen,” she returned. “The Six Nations
wish to break their treaty with the French. When they dance about the
death-fire of the Governor’s wife, they will feel that they are repaid
for many wrongs.”
“It shall not be!” cried the chief. “The pale-face shall be given to her
husband.”
“Let Gi-en-gwa-tah save her then!”
He started forward, ready in his single bravery to attempt the
fulfillment of her mocking words, but at a signal from Mahaska, he was
surrounded by her guard. He dropped his bands and stood gazing upon his
captors with a look of angry sorrow.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah sees that Mahaska commands here,” she said, slowly. “Let
him go back to his place among the chiefs.”
Gi-en-gwa-tah leaped upon his horse and rode close to Adèle.
Every thing was by this time prepared for the departure; the insensible
Adèle was placed upon a horse behind one of the guards, and the whole
band started rapidly off through the forest.
Gi-en-gwa-tah rode in silence close by the white captive; his face was
stern but sorrowful; the mortification he felt at the insult which he
had received was light compared with the pain he endured at feeling the
power of Mahaska’s hate.
They rode on through the darkness of the night, Mahaska giving way in
her thoughts to the fierce joy which the capture of her innocent enemy
had cast upon her soul. So great was her exultation, that she made her
horse leap and prance through the darkness in the exuberance of her
glee. This time there should be no escape; her own hands should deal the
blow that terminated that guileless life, and she would send the scalp
fringed with those golden tresses back to the agonized husband, with
only these words: “Katharine is avenged!”
Adèle came to her senses, only to find herself borne swiftly away
further and further from all hope of rescue. She looked back; the
starlight showed the pallid, terrible face of the woman who had brought
this misery upon her. She closed her eyes to shut out the awful vision
of fiendish beauty, and allowed them to bear her on.
“Husband! child!” was the agonized moan that broke from her lips; their
sufferings made her forget her own.
Mahaska caught the convulsed cry.
“Let the pale-face shriek,” she said; “the flames of her death-fire will
soon scatter the darkness she dreads so much.”
So they rode on. The cold stars looked pitilessly down; the wind
shivered by, seeming to bear her the moans of her loved onces, and at
intervals the voice of that dreaded woman struck her ear like a warning
of the terrible doom of the stake and the death-fire.