IN BONDS AND OUT OF THEM.
All that night and the next day, the savage troop sped on through the
forest. When twilight came, Mahaska issued orders for a halt. She had
paid no attention to Gi-en-gwa-tah after their conversation the night
before, and he had ridden on almost unnoticed, keeping close to the
white captive. The mingled wrath, indignation and sorrow which filled
his mind it were not in the power of words to describe. But all the
while his pity for the unfortunate captive rose more strongly than those
harsher feelings. He was horrified by Mahaska’s base treachery; every
instinct of his honorable nature rose up against it. He knew that his
expostulations would only increase the dangers that menaced the captive,
and might, indeed, lead to her instant death. He foresaw that when they
reached the tribe, Mahaska’s will might not be disputed, and that any
arguments he could employ would be treated with disdain by the chiefs,
so completely were they under the control of the imperious woman. For
the first time he fully realized the extent of Mahaska’s power. He now
only became fully conscious of the terrible uses she would make of it.
Warfare and strife were the rightful inheritance of his savage nature,
but uprightness and truth were equally well rooted there, and he shrunk
in abhorrence from the unscrupulous path along which she intended to
lead his people. There was but one way open to him—he might be able to
effect Adèle’s escape. He would bend all his energies to accomplish
that, and thus save any further open conflict with his wife.
When the second evening came, the Indians proposed to encamp for the
night. Adèle became so exhausted by the hard journey, that her guard was
obliged to support her on her horse. She had sunk into a state of
passive misery, from which, at intervals, a keen pang would rouse her as
some recollection of her husband or child intruded like the sudden
thrust of a dagger. Mahaska rode all day a little in advance of her
prisoner. She was in one of her most agreeable humors, conversing gayly
with those about her, and ever and anon her clear laugh would ring on
the air, mocking Adèle with recollections of the time when that sound
had been full of pleasure to her ear.
Gi-en-gwa-tah had on the previous evening effected a reconciliation with
Mahaska. Not that she forgave him for venturing to oppose her, or had,
in the least, resigned her revengeful determination; but, like Catharine
De Medicis, she loved to bestow her softest smiles and blandest words
upon those whose destruction she was plotting.
Once or twice during the journey, the chief had found an opportunity to
make a slight sign to Adèle which filled her heart with a hope, only to
die out in new agony as the hours wore on and the distance lengthened
between her and all prospect of deliverance.
“We will rest here to-night,” Mahaska said, as she dismounted from her
horse. “Let the tent be spread, but, before the dawn, all must be ready
for departure.”
Mahaska’s prudence would not allow a fire to be kindled, although there
was no probability that their pursuers could be anywhere within the
neighborhood, but she was determined to run no risks where her hapless
captive was concerned. Adèle was taken off her horse and seated upon a
pile of blankets near Mahaska’s tent. The moonlight was sufficient to
make every object distinctly visible, and, as she sat there in the
vacancy of her despair, she could see the woman moving briskly about,
superintending every arrangement, doubling the usual number of
sentinels, appointing a portion of her guard to watch near her place of
repose, and employing every means of security that vigilance, sharpened
by revenge, could devise.
They placed food before the captive; but at first she turned from it
with sickly loathing, and again Gi-en-gwa-tah passed her, and she heard
him whisper rapidly in broken French:
“Let the pale-face eat—she will need much strength before the dawn
comes.”
She could not repress one start; he moved on with a warning gesture, and
seated himself with his back toward her at a considerable distance. She
took up the piece of bark upon which the food had been spread, and ate
eagerly of the corn-bread and dried venison; she had been so many hours
without food, that the supper brought back an increase of strength, and
the new hope which stirred her heart added sudden vitality to her frame.
While she was sitting there, Mahaska approached and stood looking down
upon her with an icy smile.
“This is not like the castle to which the Governor’s wife is accustomed,
and in which my mother pined herself to death,” she said, with cruel
sarcasm; “Mahaska hopes to receive the lady in her own palace before
many days.”
Adèle made no answer; she was looking in the woman’s face, wondering if
it could indeed be real—if she saw before her the girl in whose arms she
had so often slept in peace and affection, with whom she had shared
every hope and joy, and whose happiness had been the chief study of her
young life.
“Can you, indeed, be Katharine!” she exclaimed, involuntarily, giving
expression to her thoughts.
“The pale-face mistakes,” returned Mahaska, with a warning quiver in her
voice; “I am Mahaska, queen of the Senecas, a prophetess among the Six
Nations. If the whites gave her another name, she flung it in the dirt
with every thing else that was theirs.”
“But you were once my friend,” cried Adèle, nerved by desperation to
make one last effort to touch her heart. “I loved you as a sister—I
shared every hope, every enjoyment with you; surely, all recollection of
the old time can not have died out of your soul, Katharine?”
“It has not!” she exclaimed, with sudden passion; “Mahaska never
forgets! You came between me and all that makes life endurable—you
trailed the venom of your smile over every hope of my heart—you usurped
my place in the house of my father—you made me an outcast, an alien, and
then dared to insult me by offering your pity to her you called the
‘poor half-breed!’”
“Had you been my own sister, I could not have loved you more fondly,”
returned Adèle. “Oh, Katharine, give up those cruel thoughts—even now, I
will forget the past and be your friend—”
Mahaska interrupted her with a laugh.
“Queen Mahaska can not express her gratitude for the honor Madame De
Laguy offers her,” she said.
“Oh, Katharine, do not mock me with such cruel words There _must_ be
some tenderness left in your heart! I implore you, by the pious teaching
we learned together in the convent for the love of the Virgin, whom they
taught us to venerate, to show mercy.”
“The superstitions of the pale-face found no resting-place in Mahaska’s
mind,” she replied. “I am an Indian, the faith of the red-men is mine. I
once was Katharine the half-breed but now am Mahaska, queen of the
Senecas!”
“By your father’s memory—”
“He broke my mother’s heart that yours might fill her home; forced me
out of his heart to give you a place there; do not rouse _that_
recollection.”
Adèle wrung her hands in anguish.
“You have a husband,” she cried, “perhaps a child; oh by the love you
bear that little one, have mercy on my poor babe!”
Mahaska clenched her hands in the loose sleeves of her robe and cried in
a terrible voice:
“Yes, I have a son, and thanks to you and yours, his father is an
_Indian_! Your cowardly prayers can not touch my heart! I tell you,
before three days are gone, the winds shall bear the smoke of your
funeral-pile toward the husband and child of whom you boast.”
Adèle sunk back in her seat and covered her face with the folds of her
mantle. Mahaska stood for an instant, regarding her with fierce joy.
Then she turned to move away. When Adèle heard the rustle of her robes
and comprehended that she was leaving her without a word, she flung out
her hands and cried:
“Stay, stay—hear me yet!”
Mahaska paused and looked down upon her with the same scornful smile
wreathing her lips.
“Let the pale-face speak quickly, Mahaska has no time to waste in
hearing complaints.”
“Your nation is at peace with the French,” said Adèle, eagerly; “this
act will break off all friendship between you—”
“Does the pale-face threaten?” demanded Mahaska, with a calmness more
appalling than her rage.
“No, no! But you would not be guilty of an art of treachery—”
“Enough!” interrupted she. “The Six Nations are no longer at peace with
the cowardly Frenchmen; they are weary of being cajoled and treated like
slaves; the hate that fills their queen’s heart now inspires the tribes.
We are your enemies and fear not!”
Adèle let her hands drop in her lap. She had exhausted every appeal,
every argument, but the woman only remained the more merciless and
immovable.
“I can say no more,” she sobbed, brokenly; “kill me then. But at least
show me one mercy—end my sufferings at once.”
Mahaska caught her wrist, fairly hissing in her face:
“You shall die by inches! Would that you had a hundred lives! I have the
heart to crush each with unheard of torture! There is no hope—no
release! You shall be my slave. There is no degradation I will not heap
upon you—no outrage you shall not endure! Death shall be long in coming;
every torture, every groan shall be reported to your false husband, and
crush him with its agony.”
She thrust the wretched creature wildly from her and went away without
another word, leaving Adèle crouched upon the ground, so overcome by
horror that she could not even comfort her misery by a prayer. She sat
upon the earth motionless, until one of the savages approached and made
signs that she was to enter the tent. She comprehended that Mahaska did
not intend to lose sight of her even for an instant; there was no
possibility of release from the panther’s lair.
She crept into the tent and lay down upon the greensward that covered
the earth which it shadowed like a carpet, but sleep, worn out as she
was, would not come to her relief.
There she lay, listening to every sound, while the moments appeared like
hours, and it seemed to the hapless creature that death in its most
terrible form would not be so hard to bear as the agony of that
suspense. She could only lie there in passive immobility, trying to
murmur broken prayers, at times roused into keener torture by the
thought of her husband and child, seeming to hear their voices call her,
springing up on the furs with a wild belief that it was real, then
sinking back overwhelmed with fresh agony by the consciousness of her
own delirious fancies.
So the night dragged on, but what time passed, whether moments or hours,
the girl could not tell.
When the camp grew quiet, Gi-en-gwa-tah saw Mahaska start softly away
toward the forest. Once he might have thought that she had gone to
consult her spirits, but the events of the past few days had blotted out
his superstitious belief; he determined to follow her.
Mahaska walked on under the forest-boughs until she reached a little
natural clearing, and paused. The moonlight made the place clear as day.
He saw her glance narrowly about, as if she were not certain of its
being the place which she sought. Suddenly her eye caught some white
fragment fluttering on a blasted oak, and the chief saw by her face that
it was a signal which she had expected. She took her whistle from her
bosom and sounded a low call. This was answered from a neighboring
thicket, and soon Gi-en-gwa-tah saw a man, gliding from the underbrush,
approach her. The watchful and now excited chief crept slowly toward the
log where Mahaska had seated herself. He paused within sound of their
voices, concealed perfectly by a clump of bushes. He could see the man’s
face now, and recognized the half-breed, Rene, whom he had seen in
Quebec.
“I have had no opportunity of speaking with you until to-night,” Mahaska
was saying in French.
“You have ridden fast, day and night,” he returned; “I had difficulty in
keeping in advance of you, but this was our last meeting-place, so I
thought I should meet you here.”
“Do you know who is with me?” she asked.
“A prisoner I could see, but nothing more.”
She laughed.
“A prisoner, indeed! Go back to the English General and tell him queen
Mahaska has indeed shaken off all faith with the French: she carries
with her the wife of the Governor of Canada!”
The spy gave a start of mingled fear and astonishment her reckless
daring.
“The French will be mad!” he exclaimed.
“Ay, ay!” she said. “But let them come! I am ready to meet them.”
“Do you mean to demand a heavy ransom?” he asked.
“A ransom!” she repeated; “for _her_! Man, there isn’t gold enough in
all France, to buy _her_ ransom!”
She checked herself suddenly and added in a calmer tone:
“Never mind what I mean, Rene, but listen to what I bid you do. Go back
to the English General and tell him what has happened; tell him that my
prisoners are my own and he can not interfere; but my people will now be
with him to a man. The next battle he fights, tell him to call for as
many warriors from the Six Nations as he may wish.”
The spy bowed respectfully. One could see in his wicked, crafty face,
how his petty soul was overawed by the woman’s boldness.
“Rene will do his errand well,” he said; “the queen has always been
content with him?”
“Yes, yes! You will tell the General that before long the queen hopes to
see him; she has many things to tell, many plans to reveal which are for
his ear alone. Tell him this, that soon she will reign alone among the
Indians, and then—but no matter.”
Gi-en-gwa-tah was listening breathlessly to her words; the spy looked at
her in surprise.
“But the queen has a husband, a great chief.”
“Bah! the power that made can unmake; Mahaska will soon sweep the
traitor from her path—his days are on the wane.”
Even in that terrible moment, bitter sorrow was the prominent feeling in
the chief’s mind as he heard those words.
“Has the queen any other message for the General? Would she like more
presents for her palace?”
“No, the house is well supplied, Rene. My people believe those gifts
came from the Great Spirit. What would they think if they knew you were
one of his messengers?”
She laughed as she spoke. How the last spark of faith had gone out in
Gi-en-gwa-tah’s mind; he comprehended all her falsity.
For some time longer she conversed with the spy, but as they rose to go,
Gi-en-gwa-tah crept away through the bushes, anxious to reach the camp
before Mahaska.
His course was clear. Her treachery and deception must be exposed to the
tribes at the first opportunity, but he could not think of that now; he
had another work to perform. He must save the wife of his ally; that
very night she must be removed beyond the reach of Mahaska’s vengeance.
Silently as he glided away, some sound reached Mahaska’s ear. She
touched the spy’s arm warningly, and both bent their keen eyes in the
direction to which she pointed.
Mahaska caught sight of the retreating form and recognized the chief.
“It is Gi-en-gwa-tah!” exclaimed the spy; “he has overheard us.”
“It matters not,” she replied; “this only seals his fate; an hour after
our arrival at the lake village, you should hear his death-song if you
could be near.”
She waved a careless adieu to the spy and walked rapidly away toward the
camp. She soon entered the tent—threw off the fur cloak she had worn
during the evening, flung her coronet of feathers upon it and lay down
on the bed. Once she drew near Adèle, but the sleepless captive closed
her eyes to avoid the sight; and, apparently satisfied that her victim
was sleeping, Mahaska turned away for repose. A drinking cup had been
set near her bed, for she never slept without a cooling draught within
reach of her hand. Before lying down, she quaffed a deep draught and
covered herself up with furs.
Adèle heard the sound of her breathing, and ere long she was sleeping
heavily. Then, there was a grating upon the side of the tent—a warning
whisper reached her ear; a face appeared at an aperture close by the
ground, and in the moonlight she recognized the features of the chief,
Mahaska’s husband.
“Let the pale-face rise,” he whispered.
He caught her hand when she moved, suddenly, and drew her toward him.
“The queen will not wake,” he said; “her cup was drugged from the
medicine-flask. The pale-face must put on the queen’s own fur mantle and
coronet, and walk out of the tent and go slowly down the hill. She will
find Gi-en-gwa-tah there.”
The chief disappeared and Adèle rose to perform his bidding. It seemed
to her that she did not move; she was unconscious of feeling any great
eagerness; her limbs felt half-paralyzed; the shock of a new hope had
fairly benumbed her faculties.
She saw that Mahaska had not stirred. Then she put the coronet on her
head, threw the mantle over her shoulder, and gathering the folds about
her face passed out of the tent. At the entrance a sudden thought
occurred to her; she crept back to her bed, heaped some loose furs
together on the spot she had occupied, so that if Mahaska awoke, it
would appear as if some one were lying among them; this done, she passed
out into the moonlight.
The guards were dozing near the tent, but as it was almost a nightly
occurrence, when in camp, for Mahaska to walk abroad, sometimes for
hours, when the tall form passed them, wrapped in the rich mantle and
crowned with the familiar diadem, they did not move, and the fugitive
walked on. At length she reached the trysting-place at the foot of the
hill. She then beheld the chief waiting under the trees, mounted upon
his horse. Without a word, he raised her in front of his saddle and
dashed off through the wilderness.
“The pale-face must have courage,” he said, after a time; “before many
hours she shall be with her friends. Gi-en-gwa-tah left signs along the
path which will guide them. When the day breaks, let the lady watch; she
will see her companions coming.”
It was long before Adèle could feel that she had escaped—that she was on
the path to freedom and safety. She could not weep; a low prayer went up
from her inmost soul—that was all. She tried to speak a few broken words
of thankfulness, but the chief checked her with grave kindness.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah understands the pale-face; let her be silent—he has sad
thoughts in his heart.”
On, on, they sped through the great forest. The morn waned, the dawn
broke, the sun rose and lighted the wilderness with its golden gleams.
Adèle recognized many a vine-wreathed rock and picturesque nook which,
during the previous day, she had seen vanish into distance with a
feeling of despair; now she watched them fade with hope growing stronger
in her soul, for they put space between her and the danger which had
menaced her life.
* * * * *
The officer who commanded Adèle’s escort had sent intelligence with all
speed back to the Governor, and on the next day the frenzied husband had
reached the scene of his wife’s capture. Without an hour’s delay, he was
rushing through the wilderness in pursuit of her, but he dared not even
hope; he felt instinctively in whose hands she had fallen, and almost
sunk under the horror of the thought.
It was after midday, but the horse of the chief still kept gallantly on
his way, as if he understood the danger from which he was bearing his
charge.
They reached a sudden rise in the path, when the forest gave place for a
little distance to a natural opening. Looking down the slope, Adèle saw
a band of horsemen approaching. Even at that distance, she recognized
her husband, and stretched out her hands with a cry of such exquisite
happiness, that the chief looked down upon her with sad envy. The
horseman rushed up; in another moment Adèle was clasped in Gaston’s
arms.
When the first burst of thankfulness was over, Adèle’s broken words made
him understand all the chief had done. The Governor turned toward
Gi-en-gwa-tah, who sat on his horse gravely watching them, and tried to
express his gratitude.
The chief checked him.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah has acted aright,” he said; “the French were the friends
of the Six Nations; bad counsels have led them astray, but Gi-en-gwa-tah
can not endure treachery. He has brought back the Governor’s wife; let
him take good care of her.”
He turned his horse to go; Adèle cried out with eager words of
thankfulness.
“Let the Governor make his way on with all speed,” said the chief; “long
before this the queen is on his track.”
He urged his horse on, and the Governor’s band turned back upon their
homeward route in all haste.
It was sunset, and the chief paused a few moments to rest his weary
horse.
He foresaw clearly the peril in which he had placed himself by the act
he had committed, but it did not shake his firmness—he had acted as his
conscience urged—he hoped, too, that the chiefs would yield to the
justice of his report, and the queen would submit herself to their
decision; for he now saw clearly that he must dispossess her from power
to save the ruin of his tribe.
It was not till morning that Mahaska learned what had happened. The
potion had worked well, and all through the night she had remained in
deep, dreamless slumber. Her fury burst forth like a torrent, and when
told that the chief was gone, she understood every thing. After the
first spasm of passion she calmed herself, and, followed by her retinue,
started off in pursuit; but they rode all day without discovering any
trace of the fugitives, beyond the occasional footprints of their horse.
In the glory of the sunset the band galloped toward the spot where
Gi-en-gwa-tah had paused. When Mahaska saw him she grasped her tomahawk
as if to hurl it at his head; but, his calm courage checked her
presumption, and she dashed toward him, crying out:
“What has Gi-en-gwa-tah done with the pale-face?”
He evinced no emotion at her sudden approach, and answered, quietly:
“She is safe with the Governor-chief. Gi-en-gwa-tah has kept the queen
from doing a great wrong and bringing much harm upon her people!”
“Coward!” shrieked Mahaska. “Dog! you shall die with all the tortures
reserved for her! Secure him—bind him, hand and foot, and drag the
traitor before his chiefs.” Her guard sprung forward to obey her order,
but the chief lifted his musket and called out:
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is your chief. The first brave who touches him, dies. He
will go before his people—they shall judge him—not you, who are slaves
of this woman.”
“They shall, indeed!” cried Mahaska; “he is a dog, and shall die a dog’s
death.”
The chief turned upon her like a lion at bay.
“Let the woman beware; Gi-en-gwa-tah has borne in silence long enough;
for her own sake, for her child’s sake, let her pause and think, before
her craft is exposed.”
“Let him speak—who will heed his lies? What he means to say has been
already revealed to Mahaska; he will dispute her power—he will say that
the prophet does not direct her—that the Great Spirit did not fill her
dwelling with gifts—let him speak—the queen laughs!”
He stood confounded by her words; he was at a loss to understand how she
could have penetrated the secret he had discovered, and stunned by the
matchless audacity with which she avowed it.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah may well look troubled,” she said; “he can not doubt the
queen’s power, in spite of his lies.”
“He does doubt it!” he cried. “He knows that she is false—that the gifts
which fill her home came from the English—he will tell all at the
council—”
She interrupted him with a fearful denunciation, and again cried out:
“Secure him! Obey, or every guard shall hang before to-morrow’s sunset.”
The guards rushed forward again—the chief leveled the foremost with a
blow of his musket, but he was speedily overpowered by numbers and soon
bound hand and foot.
“Guard his horse,” cried Mahaska; “death to him who allows the traitor
to escape! Now, on toward the lake!”
They paused neither for rest nor food till they came in sight of Senaca
lake—Mahaska was so eager for revenge that she could hardly breathe till
the moment arrived. Once only did the chief condescend to address
argument or rebuke for the baseness and enormity of her conduct. She was
riding near him for the moment, urging on the band to renewed exertions,
when he turned toward her, saying:
“Mahaska has done a wicked thing; she is not worthy to be a queen among
a brave people—Gi-en-gwa-tah can die—but his memory will be a curse that
shall drag her down.”
“The dog snarls no longer!” she exclaimed, with a bitter laugh; “he
begins to beg now; let him show his teeth to the last.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah has no fear,” he answered; “Mahaska has not made the
people wholly blind.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah shall teach them to see,” she retorted; “they will listen
to his voice—they will drive Mahaska into the forest at his bidding.”
“Let the queen wait,” he replied, with a calmness which galled her
beyond endurance.
“The queen will bandy no words with a traitor,” she cried; “let the dog
without a name be silent.”
His savage nature was on fire at the indignity with which he had been
treated; he shook his pinioned hands, exclaiming:
“Mahaska is mad, and she will drive her people to destruction.”
“She will not betray them, as Gi-en-gwa-tah has done!” replied the
woman.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah did that which was right; he does not need to be taught
by a woman.”
“But he shall die by a woman’s hand!” she cried. “His death-shrieks will
be sweet in his son’s ears!”
“He can die with a war-cry on his lips that his son shall remember,” he
answered, proudly; “but his time is not yet; his people now, more than
ever, need his counsel.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah’s power is like a broken reed,” she said; “Mahaska rules
the Senecas and soon shall rule the Six Nations, for it is the prophet’s
will. She tells him that he _shall_ die and he shall!”
“Would the queen murder the father of her child?”
“Mahaska’s child is the gift of the Great Spirit!” she exclaimed; “he
has no other father.”
“Mahaska speaks lies! She is false as an adder!”
“And her bite is more deadly. The chief shall feel it soon!”
“He does not fear! Let the band hasten on; Mahaska shall see how her
people will receive her.”
“And Gi-en-gwa-tah shall hear their cries of hate,” she answered; “they
will tear him limb from limb when Mahaska tells them all.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah will speak for himself; he does not need a squaw to be
his mouthpiece.”
He smiled scornfully at her passion.
“On!” she shrieked to her guards. “The queen can not breathe the same
air with that dog—on with him to judgment!”
They answered with a fierce shout, in which the chief seemed to hear his
death-warrant, but he did not quail.
“These dogs are not chiefs,” he said; “they are only slaves that the
squaw has bought with the gifts the English gave her. The chiefs will
allow them no voice; they will be driven out of the tribe for their
insults to its chief.”
They answered with menacing murmurs. Mahaska’s first impulse was to put
him to death on the spot, but she waited; it was better to taste her
revenge to the full. He should be punished in the presence of the whole
tribe, as a warning to all who might ever after dare her displeasure.
Thus she would confirm her power, and in his death, by decree of the
council, would she make the chiefs confess her supremacy. After that,
her word would be law, and even the council would be harmless.
CHAPTER XII.
THE SPELL BROKEN.
Mahaska and her band of warriors rode into the Indian village with their
chief a captive in their midst.
The people came out to meet them, and when the shouts of joy that
greeted the queen’s return had died away, Gi-en-gwa-tah lifted his
pinioned hands, and cried out:
“Behold the way in which your chief is treated! He comes among you,
bound like a dog!”
“He suffers the disgrace of a traitor!” exclaimed Mahaska, “and the lips
of the tribe shall pronounce upon him a traitor’s doom.”
The savages pressed about him in great confusion at the strange sight,
and the words which the two had spoken.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah demands instant judgment!” cried the chief.
“The chiefs gave Mahaska command of the expedition,” said the woman,
turning to the old men. “She has fulfilled their wishes. She is weary
and will commune with her spirits; she asks that they may not meet in
council till nightfall.”
The wily creature, it was apparent to her husband, desired to employ the
interval in winning the principal warriors entirely to her cause.
“Let the council sit now!” exclaimed Gi-en-gwa-tah; “the chief is not to
be kept bound at the bidding of a squaw.”
His violent words excited the interest and astonishment of the greater
portion of those present. Their favorite chief and husband of their
queen a prisoner and a traitor!
Old Upepah advanced, after a moment’s hesitation.
“I demand the council shall convene at once, for by delay to consult her
dreams, this bad woman means to pour poison into your ears. I demand the
council-fire to be lit _now_.”
“It shall be as the chief demands,” Upepah added.
“It shall not be!” shouted Mahaska, fairly beside herself, and fearful
of the power which her husband’s eloquence would bring to bear against
her.
“Mahaska is queen, not chief,” said Upepah. “She will not command now.”
“She _will_ command. She _will_ consult the prophet before she goes to
the council. It shall be as she says; nor will she release this dog
until he goes to the council.” She spoke with frenzied energy, and
looked like a Nemesis of fury.
“She dares not go where Gi-en-gwa-tah will expose her wicked craft and
tell the story of her past crimes. Let my people only hear me and her
power is gone forever. She then becomes my squaw, and the Senecas shall
be saved from the destruction which she is plotting. To the
council-chamber!” The chief rose upon his horse, extending his pinioned
hands to the sight of his braves and the chiefs. Upepah stepped forward,
and, with his knife, severed the thongs which bound his wrists.
Unable longer to control herself, the infuriated woman hurled her
tomahawk full at Gi-en-gwa-tah’s head, but it passed harmlessly by him
and buried itself in the brain of old Upepah, who sunk to the earth a
corpse!
“Seize her—seize her!” cried a dozen voices at once, maddened as they
were at the atrocious deed. But she drew herself up proudly on the
horse, her eyes flashing and scintillating like a serpent’s.
“Let him who wants to die,” she hissed, “but touch a hair of my horse’s
mane. Guards!” she added, in a tone of imperious command, “see to it
that that dog does not escape. I will be at the council-chamber at
nightfall.” With that, she turned to ride away for the castle. It was
the mistake of her life, to leave her husband there with the people whom
he might harangue, and, over the dead body of the aged chief, might
recall the Senecas to a sense of their baseness and humiliation in
submitting to the tyranny of a woman. But, she could not do otherwise;
for the dead Upepah was a power she dare not face, and she resolved to
rely upon her own resources for any emergency that might arise.
Gi-en-gwa-tah, at the fall of the old man, had leaped from his horse,
and was leaning over him when the queen rode away. The bloody tomahawk
he placed in his own girdle. Then he gave orders for the removal of the
body to the council-house. The guards still hovered around as if to
execute the queen’s orders for his secure keeping, but he did not notice
them, and no attempt was made for his seizure. Arrived at the
council-lodge, the crowd paused while the body was borne within. None
but chiefs entered, at first, but Gi-en-gwa-tah ordered the old warriors
to enter and the young braves to surround the building, that they might
hear all that was said—a very unusual proceeding, for the young men had
never been permitted even to hear the discussions in the lodge.
All was still and solemn as the death-scene within demanded. Soon,
however, the voice of Gi-en-gwa-tah broke the stillness. At first it was
low and monotonous, as if but the expression of commonplace phrases; but
soon it grew in volume, and the attentive crowd without caught his
words. They were the words of one who spoke with great pain, of one
whose own wrongs were past expression. The speaker suddenly paused, and
all outside thought his speech ended. It was but a moment’s lull, for,
like a thunder-burst, his cry of mingled scorn, anguish, and offended
honor rose wild and high, penetrating even to the forest beyond the
lodges. The savages were riveted to the soil by the tremendous fury of
the speaker’s eloquence—were silent and motionless as the great oaks
around. Higher and fuller rolled forth the volume of words. In the
strong imagery of the Senecas’ figurative tongue, he painted not his own
but his people’s abasement in permitting the will of a woman, proven to
be artful as a serpent and as cruel as a wolf, to rule them. His
language was, at times, that of resolution and defiance; then he uttered
a reproof calculated to sting the Indians’ sense of honor; all at once,
the picture of a nation humiliated by English insolence, bleeding from
its feuds, sorrowing for its braves lost in an unholy contest against
their old friends the French, sprung to vivid reality before their
startled gaze, and the dread silence without was broken. A long, low
howl, resembling a wail, broke over the masses; it was the wail of men
roused to their danger and eager to retrieve it. Ere it had died away,
the chief bent over, raised the body of the dead Upepah in his arms,
held it aloft, crying in his loudest tones:
“As this body of our wise chief is a mark of the queen’s regard for our
old men, it is but a type of the fate in store for the Seneca nation if
she is permitted to exercise dominion over it. If it is your will to
retain her as your ruler, then Gi-en-gwa-tah is a dog—a woman’s
whelp—made to die by her hand as Upepah has died, and as others who
oppose her will shall die. _Let_ him die rather than live and see his
people a lost, ruined, and disgraced race.”
He ceased, and stepping forth from the council-lodge, placed his hands
together and shouted:
“Guards! do the duty of your queen, and make your chief a dog!”
Not one of the hundred chosen braves stirred; they stood abashed and
awed before the noble man. Soon a murmur ran through the crowd of young
men surrounding the lodge; some clutched their tomahawks and looked
fiercely at the silent guards; others talked excitedly together; a
powerful body gathered around Gi-en-gwa-tah, until he was encompassed by
a human wall which it were dangerous for any person to attempt to
penetrate. Within the council-chamber now arose the sound of voices
engaged in dispute. Gi-en-gwa-tah listened. The chiefs were disagreed as
to the course to be pursued. Some were for banishing the woman from
their midst; some would have her slain; others would retain her, but
deprive her of power. It was a moment of extreme pain to the chief; for
soon surged up in his bosom his old love of the dazzling woman; she was
the mother of his child, too; could he see his wife disgraced, driven
away, or consent to her death? The struggle for a minute was fearful,
for the cup was indeed bitter; but, there came back to him the last few
days’ experiences—the remembrance of her scorn and galling insults—the
knowledge of her duplicity and craft; and he was decided. She was no
longer his wife—she was not the mother of his child, for she was a
beautiful monster, as loathsome as a serpent and as treacherous.
“Guards!” he shouted, “bring hither Mahaska, the squaw of
Gi-en-gwa-tah!”
The hundred men did not, for a moment, seem to comprehend the nature of
the order.
“Dogs! I say, bring hither your woman master!”
The men moved slowly away to their task, for the fire in Gi-en-gwa-tah’s
eyes, and the fierce temper sitting like a thunder-cloud on the features
of the young braves surrounding him, proved to the guards that to
disobey would be their own death-warrant.
They had not to proceed far, for Mahaska appeared on her way to the
council. She was pale, and evidently intensely excited, though outwardly
composed. Her dress was elaborate and gorgeous in the extreme, all the
resources of her magnificent wardrobe having been taxed to add to her
display. Evidently she knew what had transpired—some one of her
body-guard probably having informed her of the proceedings—and she came
forth realizing that the great and final crisis in her fortunes was to
be faced. She was not unprepared; but, little did she know of the
terrible strength of the elements against her.
Walking with a step of haughty independence, she passed on, the crowd
giving way before her, and approached the lodge through an avenue of
men. As she neared the entrance she confronted her husband, who stood
with folded aims in her path.
“Away with you, dog—traitor—coward!” was her greeting.
She had determined, it was apparent, to carry her point by force—too
proud, too defiant to yield, at that crisis evoked by her own fury.
The chief stepped not out of her way, but more completely before her.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah will no longer permit a squaw decked in gewgaws presented
by the English hogs as the price of her baseness, to address him. Thus
he disposes of these emblems of disgrace and treachery.”
He deliberately seized her coronet of feathers and dashed it to the
earth; then her splendid cloak and trail of crimson velvet he stripped
from her shoulders. She was speechless and powerless before this
unexpected display of audacious assumption, but, recovering in a moment,
she caught the jeweled dagger from her belt, and, quick as thought,
aimed a blow full at his breast. His hand was too rapid in its movement,
for he caught her wrist in his vice-like clutch, drew the poniard from
her grasp, and threw it away. He unclasped from her arm its serpent
wristlet of gold and blood-stone, wrenched from her neck the splendid
necklace of pearls and crown diamond. This done, he led her
unresistingly into the lodge. Proceeding to its center, he said:
“Here is the murderer of Upepah—the attempted betrayer of my tribe—the
deceiver and impostor. Do with her as you will. Gi-en-gwa-tah repudiates
her as his wife; she is no longer the mother of his child, and he casts
her forth as the enemy of his race—the destroyer of his peace.
Henceforth she is not even to him a slave. Gi-en-gwa-tah bids her
away—away forever, for the door of his lodge is closed against her.”
With that he left her, disrobed and disowned, standing alone in the
center of the circle, while he took his seat on the ground in the first
rank allotted to the leading chiefs.
“It is well!” said the eldest of the chiefs.
“It is well!” was slowly and solemnly repeated in turn by every one of
the circle save Gi-en-gwa-tah, who sat as one conscious of his triumph,
but too dignified, too much afflicted by the events of the hour to
betray his feelings further. He was as impassive in his grief and pain
as a statue of bronze—as insensible as a rock.
Mahaska stood as one in a dream. So sudden, so unexpected, had been the
act of Gi-en-gwa-tah, as to confound her, while the conscious justice of
his act seemed to strike her nerves powerless. Then that line of faces,
as hard and as dark as flint, all acting with one common impulse of
sympathy and duty, convinced the queen that she had, indeed, passed from
power and was a queen no longer. This consciousness was overwhelming;
the long pent-up, warped and perverted woman’s nature asserted itself;
tears, so strange, so almost unknown to her wild, fierce breast, welled
up in her eyes and dropped upon her bosom; a low moan, something like a
wail and a sigh, broke from her white lips; and, clasping her hands over
her heart, she turned and walked slowly out of the lodge toward the
castle. All eyes followed her, but not a soul approached, for all
respect for and fear of her had not passed away in that act of
dethronement and widowhood. She was alone in her sorrow, and was so
absorbed by it as to be unconscious of all things else. Once or twice
she paused, and, for a second, the old baleful light of uncontrolled
passion would gleam in her eyes and redden her cheeks; but only for a
second, for the deadly whiteness would quickly return, and, with a gasp,
a smothered sob, a suppressed cry of anguish painful even to the dullest
sense, she would hurry on, evidently eager to reach the shelter of her
lake retreat. How hateful, how reproachful all looked to her now!
Everywhere were tokens of her deception and treachery; every article of
English gift was a silent witness of her duplicity; but amid them were
the gifts of costly furs from her noble husband’s hands, and oh, how
they rebuked her! Strange that never before this woman, so shrewd, so
sagacious, so intellectual, had looked upon herself in her true light!
But, she saw it all now; and not more desolate was the lonely pine on
the mountain, with the wind sobbing and shrieking through its branches,
than the soul of that proud, crushed woman at that moment.
Proceeding at once to her chamber, where she had left her boy asleep,
she found his little couch of furs vacant—he was gone—was not there to
receive her parting kiss! Thus was the cup of her agony made full, but,
in her self-abasement, she felt that it was just the outraged father
should have removed him. Mahaska sunk upon a seat and gave way to her
great grief. Ah, it was terrible to witness. Such grief could only come
from the conscience-stricken, from the wretch conscious of his own
debasement past all redemption. For an hour she remained in her fearful
agony—not over her wrecked fortunes, over her lost empire, over the
detection of her true character and her humiliating exposure, for all
these things her fierce nature could bear; but that she was an outcast,
scorned by the savage who had loved her like a Spartan, despised by the
race among whom she had come as prophet and queen, and, more than all,
that she, a mother, was childless as well as a banished, disgraced
wife—all these made her hour of agony one passing all words to depict.
That hour had one redeeming virtue—it proved that she was a woman, and
taught us to know that beneath the fury of the most violent natures is a
deep of humanity and purity which will assert itself at the propitious
moment.
At length Mahaska arose, gathered up some of the child’s little garments
and some of her own clothing, which she made up into a light bundle.
Then she took from the drawer of her dressing-case a purse of gold, and
her jewels, which she placed in her bosom. A tomahawk and jeweled dagger
she cast upon the floor, but, thinking a moment, she picked up the
dagger and placed it in her belt. This completed her preparations for
the exile; like Hagar, she was banished, but, unlike the Jewess, she had
no child to comfort her and to suffer with her. Bestowing one long,
agonizing look upon the child’s bed, murmuring his name in tones of
endearment, she passed out of the castle, by the door looking out upon
the lake. Her canoe she pushed off the sands, and, entering it, swept
off over the waters just as darkness began to make somber shadows in the
forests. Away she sped—out into the gloom until suddenly she vanished
from sight, whether swallowed up in the deep waters or caught up into
the clouds the Senecas could not divine. They had watched her departure
in awe and in fear, for their superstitious souls still were filled with
images of her divinity; and when the canoe suddenly vanished it was only
to confirm their impression of her league with spirits—whether with the
good or the bad spirits, they did not care to say.
The next morning Mahaska’s canoe was seen floating on the bosom of the
water in the center of the lake, but she was gone. It was brought to the
shore and given to Gi-en-gwa-tah. The chief received it as a token of
her final departure and placed it in the castle. Then he closed the
building and it was left in all its loneliness, sitting upon the shore
of the lake like a watcher daily and nightly awaiting for its mistress
to come again, but she came not.
Mahaska, the Indian Queen, was no more.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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_The Travels of Rolando._ 1st Series.
_Celebrated Children._
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_Seven Wonders of the World._
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[Sidenote: =3 6=]
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_Animal Traits and Characteristics._ By Rev. J. G. Wood.
_Wood’s My Feathered Friends._
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_Rev. J. G. Wood’s Boy’s Own Natural History Book._
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_Heroines of Domestic Life._
_Tales of Charlton School._ By the Rev. H. C. Adams.
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_Dashwood Priory._ By E. J. May.
_Freaks on the Fells._ By R. M. Ballantyne.
_Lamb’s Tales from Shakspeare._
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_The Girl of the Family._ By the Author of “A Trap to Catch a Sunbeam.”
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_Johnny Jordan._ By Mrs. Eiloart.
_Ernie Elton, at Home and at School._
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_Jack Manly._ By J. Grant.
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_History for Boys._ By J. G. Edgar.
_Through Life and for Life._
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_The White Brunswickers._ By Rev. H. C. Adams.
_A Boy’s Adventures in the Wilds of Australia._ By W. Howitt.
_Tales of Walter’s School Days._ By Rev. H. C. Adams.
_The Path She Chose._ By F. M. S.
_Little Women._ By L. Alcott.
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[Sidenote: _s. d._
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[Sidenote: =3 6=]
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_Desert Home._
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_Ran away to Sea._
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_The Young Voyagers._
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In post 8vo, toned paper, green cloth, =3s. 6d.= each.
[Sidenote: _s. d._
=3 6=]
_The Arabian Nights._
_Don Quixote._
_Gil Blas._
_Curiosities of Literature._ By Isaac D’Israeli.
_1,001 Gems of British Poetry._
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Under the above title Messrs. G. ROUTLEDGE & SONS are about to issue a
New Series of Juvenile Books, all well Illustrated and well bound in a
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List of the Series.
[Sidenote: =3 6=]
_Boys at Home._ By C. Adams.
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_Dogs and their Ways._
_Our Holiday Camp._ By St. John Corbet.
_Helen Mordaunt._ By the Author of “Naomi.”
_Romance of Adventure._
_The Island Home._
_Play Hours and Half Holidays._
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_Hildred the Daughter._
_Hardy and Hunter._
_Fred and the Gorillas._
_Guizot’s Moral Tales._
_Frank Wildman._
=Routledge’s One Syllable Series.=
By MARY GODOLPHIN.
In 16mo, cloth gilt, with Coloured Plates, price =2s. 6d.= each.
_Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress._ =2 6=
_Evenings at Home._
_Swiss Family Robinson._
_Robinson Crusoe._
_Child’s First Lesson Book._
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Fcap. 8vo, Illustrated by the Best Artists, gilt, 2s. 6d. each.
[Sidenote: _s. d._
=2 6=]
_Arbell._
_Eda Morton and her Cousins._ By M. M. Bell.
_Gilbert the Adventurer._
_The Lucky Penny_, and other Tales. By Mrs. S. C. Hall.
_Minna Raymond._ Illustrated by B. Foster.
_Helena Bertram._ By the Author of “The Four Sisters.”
_Heroes of the Workshop, &c._ By E. L. Brightwell.
_Sunshine and Cloud._ By Miss Bowman.
_The Maze of Life._ By the Author of “The Four Sisters.”
_The Twins_; or, Sisterly Love.
_The Wide, Wide World._
_The Lamplighter._ By Cummins.
_The Rector’s Daughter._ By Miss Bowman.
_The Old Helmet._ By Miss Wetherell.
_Deeds, Not Words._
_The Secret of a Life._
_Queechy._ By Miss Wetherell.
_Sir Roland Ashton._ By Lady C. Long.
_Sir Wilfred’s Seven Flights._ By Madame de Chatelaine.
_Ellen Montgomery’s Bookshelf._ With Coloured Illustrations.
_The Two School Girls._ With Coloured Illustrations.
_The First Lieutenant’s Story._
_Melbourne House._ By Miss Wetherell.
_The Word_; or, Walks from Eden.
_Rough Diamonds._ By J. Hollingshead.
_The Medwins of Wykeham._ By the Author of “Marian.”
_The Young Artists._
_The Boy Cavalier._ By the Rev. H. C. Adams.
_Gilderoy, the Hero of Scotland._
_Lamb’s Tales._
_Stories of Old Daniel._
_Extraordinary Men._
_Extraordinary Women._
_Life of Napoleon._
_Popular Astronomy._
_Orbs of Heaven._
_Pilgrim’s Progress._ By Offor.
_Friend or Foe_: A Tale of Sedgmoor. By the Rev. H. C. Adams.
_Tales of Naval Adventure._
_Matilda Lonsdale._
_The Life of Wellington._
_The Glen Luna Family._
_Uncle Tom’s Cabin._
_Mabel Vaughan._
_Christian Melville._
_The Letter of Marque._
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=Routledge’s Books for Young Readers.=
Illustrated by ABSOLON, GILBERT, HARRISON WEIR, &c., square royal, gilt,
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[Sidenote: =2 0=]
_Amusing Tales for Young People._ By Mrs. Myrtle.
_The Donkey’s Shadow_, and other Stories.
_The Broken Pitcher_, and other Stories.
_The Little Lychetts._ By the Author of “Olive,” &c.
_The Great Wonders of the World._
_My First Picture Book._ 36 Pages of Coloured Plates. 16mo, cloth.
_A Visit to the Zoological Gardens._
_The Richmonds’ Tour in Europe._
_Aunt Bessie’s Picture Book._ With 96 Pages of Plates.
_Little Lily’s Picture Book._ With 96 Pages of Plates.
_The Story of a Nutcracker._ With 234 Pictures.
_Old Mother Hubbard’s Picture Book._ 36 Pages of Coloured Plates.
=Two-Shilling Gift-Books.=
With Illustrations, strongly bound in cloth.
[Sidenote: =2 0=]
_Ten Moral Tales._ By Guizot.
_Juvenile Tales for all Seasons._
_Conquest and Self-Conquest._
_Evenings at Donaldson Manor._
_Praise and Principle._
_Grace & Isabel (M’Intosh)._
_Charms and Counter-Charms._
_Gertrude and Eulalie._
_Robert and Harold._
_Robinson the Younger._
_Amy Carlton._
_Robinson Crusoe._
_Laura Temple._
_Harry and his Homes._
_Our Native Land._
_Bundle of Sticks._
_Family Pictures from the Bible._
_Hester and I_; or, Beware of Worldliness. By Mrs. Manners.
_The Cherry Stones._ By Rev. H. C. Adams.
_The First of June._ By Rev. H. C. Adams.
_Rosa_: A Story for Girls.
_May Dundas_; or, The Force of Example. By Mrs. Geldart.
_Glimpses of Our Island Home._ By Mrs. Geldart.
_The Indian Boy._ By Rev. H. C. Adams.
_Ernie Elton at Home._
_The Standard Poetry Book for Schools._
_Try and Trust._ By Author of “Arthur Morland.”
_Swiss Family Robinson._
_Evenings at Home._
_Sandford and Merton._
_Ernie Elton at School._
_John Hartley._
_Jack of all Trades._ By T. Miller.
_The Wonder Book._
_Tanglewood Tales._
_Archie Blake._
_Inez and Emmeline._
_The Orphan of Waterloo._
_Maum Guinea._
_Adventures of Joseph Hawsepipe._
_Todd’s Lectures to Children._
_Marooner’s Island._
_The Mayflower._ By Mrs. Stowe.
_Anecdotes of Dogs._
_Mr. Rutherford’s Children._
_The Play-Day Book._ By Fanny Fern. With Coloured Plates.
_Emma._ By Jane Austen.
_Mansfield Park._ By Austen.
_Northanger Abbey._ By Jane Austen.
_Pride and Prejudice._ By Jane Austen.
_Sense and Sensibility._ By Jane Austen.
_Village Sketches._ By the Rev. C. T. Whitehead.
_The Boy’s Reader._
_The Girl’s Reader._
_Spider Spinnings._
_Stories for Sundays._ By the Rev. H. C. Adams, 1st series.
_Stories for Sundays._ By Rev. H. C. Adams. 2nd series.
_Adventures among the Indians._
_Cousin Aleck._
_The Doctor’s Birthday._ By the Rev. H. C. Adams.
_Walter’s Friend._ By the Rev. H. C. Adams.
_Little Women._ 1st series.
_Little Women._ 2nd series.
=The Hans Andersen Library.=
In 13 Books, fcap. 8vo, gilt, 1s. 6d. each.
[Sidenote: =1 6=]
_The Red Shoes._
_The Silver Shilling._
_The Little Match-Girl._
_The Darning Needle._
_The Tinder Box._
_The Goloshes of Fortune._
_The Marsh King’s Daughter._
_The Wild Swans._
_Everything in its Right Place._
_Under the Willow Tree._
_The Old Church Bell._
_The Ice Maiden._
_The Will o’ the Wisp._
_Poultry Meg’s Family._
_Put Off is Not Done with._
Each Volume contains a variety of Tales, a Frontispiece in colours, and
an average of 16 other Pictures, engraved by the Brothers DALZIEL.
=Routledge’s Eighteenpenny Juveniles.=
In square 16mo, cloth, with Illustrations by GILBERT, ABSOLON, &c.
[Sidenote: _s. d._
=1 6=]
_Peasant and Prince._ By Harriet Martineau.
_Crofton Boys._ By ditto.
_Feats on the Fiord._ By do.
_Settlers at Home._ By ditto.
_Holiday Rambles_; or, The School Vacation.
_Little Drummer_: A Tale of the Russian War.
_Frank._ By Maria Edgeworth.
_Rosamond._ By Maria Edgeworth.
_Harry and Lucy, Little Dog Trusty, The Cherry Orchard, &c._
_A Hero_; or, Philip’s Book. By the Author of “John Halifax.”
_Story of an Apple._ By Lady Campbell.
_The Cabin by the Wayside._
_Memoirs of a Doll._ By Mrs. Bisset.
_Black Princess._
_Laura and Ellen_; or, Time Works Wonders.
_Emigrant’s Lost Son._ By G. H. Hall.
_Runaways (The) and the Gipsies._
_Daddy Dacre’s School._ By Mrs. Hall.
_British Wolf Hunters._ By Thomas Miller.
_Bow of Faith (The)_; or, Old Testament Lessons. By Maria Wright.
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_Mrs. Loudon’s Young Naturalist._
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_Lucy Elton_; or, Home and School. By the Author of “The Twins.”
_Daily Thoughts for Children._ By Mrs. Geldart.
_Emilie the Peacemaker._ By Mrs. Geldart.
_Truth is Everything._ By Mrs. Geldart.
_Christmas Holidays._ By Miss Jane Strickland.
_Rose and Kate_; or, The Little Howards.
_Aunt Emma._ By the Author of “Rose and Kate.”
_The Island of the Rainbow._ By Mrs. Newton Crossland.
_Max Frere_; or, Return Good for Evil.
_Rainbows in Springtide._
_The Child’s First Book of Natural History._ By A. L. Bond.
_Florence the Orphan._
_The Castle and Cottage._ By Perring.
_Fabulous Histories._ By Mrs. Trimmer.
_School Days at Harrow._
_Mrs. Barbauld’s Lessons._
_Holidays at Limewood._
_Traditions of Palestine._ By Martineau.
_On the Sea._ By Miss Campbell.
_Games and Sports._
_The Young Angler._
_Athletic Sports._
_Games of Skill._
_Scientific Amusements._
_Miriam and Rosette._
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_The Picture Book of Animals and Birds._
_Boy Life on the Water._
_Original Poems._ Complete. By A. and J. Taylor.
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EDITED AND COMPILED BY J. E. CARPENTER.
Fcap. 24mo, boards, with fancy covers.
[Sidenote: =1 0=]
_Modern._
_Popular._
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_New Standard._
_The Entertainer’s._
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_The Moral._
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=The Master Jack Series.=
In small 4to, fancy cover, each with 48 pages of Plates.
[Sidenote: =1 0=]
_Master Jack._
_Mamma’s Return._
_Nellie and Bertha._
_The Cousins._
_Tales of the Genii._
_Sindbad the Voyager._
_Robin Hood._
_Prince Hempseed._
_The Enchanted Horse._
_Dame Mitchell and her Cat._
_Nursery Rhymes._
_The Tiger Lily._
_The Lent Jewels._
_Bible Stories._
_My Best Frock._
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=Routledge’s One-Shilling Juveniles.=
In post 8vo, price 1s., well printed, with Illustrations.
[Sidenote: _s. d._
=1
0=]
_Grace Greenwood’s Stories for her Nephews and Nieces._
_Helen’s Fault._ By the Author of “Adelaide Lindsay.”
_The Cousins._ By Miss M’Intosh.
_Ben Howard_; or, Truth and Honesty. By C. Adams.
_Bessie and Tom_: A Book for Boys and Girls.
_Beechnut_: A Franconian Story. By Jacob Abbott.
_Wallace_: A Franconian Story. By Jacob Abbott.
_Madeline._ By Jacob Abbott.
_Mary Erskine._ By Jacob Abbott.
_Mary Bell._ By Jacob Abbott.
_Visit to my Birth-place._ By Miss Bunbury.
_Carl Krinken_; or, The Christmas Stocking. By Miss Wetherell.
_Mr. Rutherford’s Children._ By Miss Wetherell.
_Mr. Rutherford’s Children._ 2nd series. By Miss Wetherell.
_Emily Herbert._ By Miss M’Intosh.
_Rose and Lillie Stanhope._ By Miss M’Intosh.
_Casper._ By Miss Wetherell.
_The Brave Boy_; or, Christian Heroism.
_Magdalene and Raphael._
_The Story of a Mouse._ By Mrs. Perring.
_Our Charlie._ By Mrs. Stowe.
_Village School-feast._ By Mrs. Perring.
_Nelly, the Gipsy Girl._
_The Birthday Visit._ By Miss Wetherell.
_Stories for Week Days and Sundays._
_Maggie and Emma._ By Miss M’Intosh.
_Charley and Georgie_; or, The Children at Gibraltar.
_Story of a Penny._ By Mrs. Perring.
_Aunt Maddy’s Diamonds._ By Harriet Myrtle.
_Two School Girls._ By Miss Wetherell.
_The Widow and her Daughter._ By Miss Wetherell.
_Gertrude and her Bible._ By Miss Wetherell.
_The Rose in the Desert._ By Miss Wetherell.
_The Little Black Hen._ By Miss Wetherell.
_Martha and Rachel._ By Miss Wetherell.
_The Carpenter’s Daughter._ By Miss Wetherell.
_The Prince in Disguise._ By Miss Wetherell.
_The Story of a Cat._ By Mrs. Perring.
_Easy Poetry for Children._ With a Coloured Frontispiece and Vignette.
_The Basket of Flowers._ With a Coloured Frontispiece and Vignette.
_Ashgrove Farm._ By Mrs. Myrtle.
_The Story of a Dog._ By Mrs. Perring.
_Rills from the Fountain_: A Lesson for the Young. By Rev. Richard
Newton.
_The Angel of the Iceberg._ By the Rev. John Todd.
_Todd’s Lectures for Children._ 1st series.
—— —— —— —— 2nd series.
_Little Poems for Little Readers._
_Minnie’s Legacy._
_Neighbourly Love._
_Kitty’s Victory._
_Elise and her Rabbits._
_Happy Charlie._
_Annie Price._
_The Little Oxleys._ By Mrs. W. Denzey Burton.
_Book of One Syllable._ With Coloured Plates.
_Little Helps._ With Coloured Plates.
_Uncle Tom’s Cabin, for Children._
_Aunt Margaret’s Visit._
_Keeper’s Travels in Search of his Master._
_Richmond’s Annals of the Poor._
_Child’s Illustrated Poetry Book._
_The New Book of One Syllable._
_Blanche and Agnes._
_The Lost Chamois Hunter._
_The Gates Ajar._
_The Sunday Book of One Syllable._
_Mrs. Sedgwick’s Pleasant Tales._
_Uncle Frank’s Home Stories._
_Village Sketches._ 1st series.
—— —— 2nd series.
_Our Poor Neighbours._
_Tales in Short Words._
_Watts’s Songs._
_Æsop’s Fables._
_Language and Poetry of Flowers._
_Stuyvesant._
_Susan Gray._
_Original Poems._ 1st Series.
—— —— 2nd series.
_Nursery Rhymes._
Price 1s. each.
[Sidenote: =1 0=]
_Dance Album._ With Rules and Music. Cloth, gilt edges.
_The Nursery Library._ 12 Books in a Packet, 1st and 2d series.
_Stories for Sundays._ By Rev. H. C. Adams. Two series. 12 Books in
Packet.
_Routledge’s British Reading-Book._ Plate on every page, demy 8vo,
cloth.
_Routledge’s British Spelling-Book._ Demy 8vo, cloth.
_A Coloured Picture-Book for the Little Ones._ Small 4to, fancy cover.
_Routledge’s Comic Reciter._ Fcap. 8vo, boards.
—— _Popular Reciter._ Fcap. 8vo, boards.
_Ready-Made Speeches._ Fcap. 8vo, boards.
_The Nursery Library._ 12 Books in a Packet.
BEADLE’S
AMERICAN LIBRARY.
_NOW READY_:
SETH JONES.
ALICE WILDE.
THE FRONTIER ANGEL.
MALAESKA.
UNCLE EZEKIEL.
MASSASOIT’S DAUGHTER.
BILL BIDDON.
THE BACKWOODS’ BRIDE.
NAT TODD.
SYBIL CHASE.
MONOWANO.
THE BRETHREN OF THE COAST.
KING BARNABY.
THE FOREST SPY.
THE FAR WEST.
THE RIFLEMEN OF THE MIAMI.
ALICIA NEWCOMBE.
THE HUNTERS CABIN.
THE BLOCK HOUSE.
THE ALLENS.
ESTHER; OR THE OREGON TRAIL.
RUTH MARGERIE.
OONOMOO, THE HURON.
THE GOLD HUNTERS.
THE SLAVE SCULPTOR.
MABEL MEREDITH.
KENT THE RANGER.
MYRTLE.
MAHASKA.
THE TWO GUARDS.
SINGLE EYE.
THE SCOUT.
THE PEON PRINCE.
THE KING’S MAN.
LAUGHING EYES.
AHMO’S PLOT.
THE HUNTER’S ESCAPE.
INDIAN JIM.
THE WRECKERS’ PRIZE.
THE BRIGANTINE.
THE CUBAN HEIRESS.
THE LOST TRAIL.
THE MOOSE HUNTER.
JOE DAVIES’S CLIENT.
THE INDIAN QUEEN.
THE WRECK OF THE ALBION.
THE SILVER BUGLE.
THE CAVE CHILD.
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
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