Mary—Her meditations—Her capture—Her sad condition—Her mental
sufferings—Her escape—Her recapture.
When the men departed for the island in quest of the wolves, Mary was
singing over her neglected flowers, at her father’s house in the
valley, and her clear ringing notes were distinctly heard by the whole
party. After they were gone she continued her song, and lingered long
over every faded leaf and withered blossom, with no thought of danger
whatever, and none of pain, save the regret that her long cherished
plants had been forgotten in the consternation of the previous day, and
had fallen victims to the frost-king. But nothing had been touched by
the savages. The domestic fowls clustered about her, and received their
food from her hands as usual. The fawn was with her, and evinced the
delight afforded by the occasional caress bestowed upon it, by
frequently skipping sportively around her. Mary was happy. Her wants
were few, and she knew not that there was such a thing as a malicious
enemy in the world, save the wild savage. Her thoughts were as pure as
the morning dew, and all her delights were the results of innocence.
She had never harmed any one, and her guileless heart never conceived
the possibility of suffering ill at the hands of others. She smiled
when the beautiful fawn touched her hand with its velvet tongue, and a
tear dimmed her eye for an instant when she looked upon her stricken
rose.
While looking at one of the homely shelves in a corner of the deserted
house, Mary accidentally espied a small volume of poems, the gift of
Glenn, that had been neglected. She seized it eagerly, and after
turning over the pages the fiftieth time, and humming over many of the
songs, she paused suddenly, and lifting her eyes to the bright
sun-beams that streamed through the window, long remained in a listless
attitude. Something unusual had startled her simple meditations. At
first a shade of painful concern seemed to pass across her brow, and
then glancing quickly at the book she still held in her hand, a sweet
smile animated her lips. But again and again, ever and anon, the
abstracted gaze was repeated, and as often succeeded by the smile when
her eyes fell upon the volume. Did her thoughts dwell upon the giver of
that book? Undoubtedly. Did she love Glenn? This she knew not herself,
but she would have died for him! She was ignorant of the terms
courtship, love, and marriage. But nature had given her a heart
abounding with noble and generous impulses.
At length she drew her shawl closely round her shoulders, and, closing
the door of the hut, was in the act of returning up the hill, when she
was startled by the furious and sudden barking of the hounds, which she
had left confined in the inclosure on the cliff. She paused, and looked
steadily in every direction, and was not able to discover, or even
conjecture, what it was that had roused the hounds. Yet an undefinable
fear seized upon her. The fawn at her side likewise partook of the
agitation, for the hair stood upright on its back, and it often snuffed
the air with great violence, producing, at each time, a shrill,
unnatural sound.
Mary started briskly up the path, determined to shut herself up in
Glenn’s house until her father returned from the island. When she had
proceeded about twenty paces, and was just passing a dense thicket of
hazel that bordered the narrow path, she heard a slight rustling on the
left, and the next moment she was clasped in the arms of a brawny
savage!
“Oh me! who are you?” demanded she, struggling to disengage herself,
and unable to see the swarthy features of her captor, who stood behind
her. No answer being made, she cast her eyes downwards, and beheld the
colour of the arms that encircled her. “Father! Mr. Glenn! Mr. Boone!”
she exclaimed, struggling violently. Her efforts were unavailing, and,
overcome with exhaustion and affright, she fainted on the Indian’s
breast. The savage then lifted her on his shoulder, ran down to the
rivulet that flowed through the valley, and fled outwards to the
prairie. When he reached the cave-spring, a confederate, who had been
waiting for him, seized the burden and bore it onwards, in a westerly
direction, with increased rapidity. Thus they continued the retreat,
bearing the insensible maiden alternately, until they came to a small
grove some distance out in the prairie, when they slackened their pace,
and, after creeping a short time under the pendent boughs of the trees,
halted in the camp of the war-party.
The Indians gathered round the pale captive, some with rage and deadly
passions marked upon their faces, and others with expressions of
triumph and satisfaction. They now made preparations for departing.
Mary was wrapped in a large buffalo robe, enveloping her body and face,
and placed in the snow-canoe. The party then deposited their tomahawks
and other cumbersome articles at the feet of their captive, and,
grasping the leather rope attached to the canoe, set off rapidly in a
southerly direction.
Ere long, Mary partially awoke from her state of insensibility, when
all was dark and strange to her confused senses. She pulled aside the
long hair of the buffalo skin that obscured her face, and looked out
from her narrow place of confinement. The blue heavens alone met her
view above. The incident of the seizure was indistinct in her memory,
and she could not surmise the nature of her present condition. She
turned hastily on her side, and the occasional bush she espied in the
vicinity indicated that she was rushing along by some means with an
almost inconceivable rapidity. She could scarce believe it was reality.
How she came thither, and how she was propelled over the snow, for
several moments were matters of incomprehensible mystery to the
trembling girl. At first, she endeavoured to persuade herself that it
was a dream; but, having a consciousness that some terrible thing had
actually occurred, all the painful fears of which the mind is capable
were put in active operation. The suspense was soon dispelled. Hearing
human voices ahead, and not readily comprehending the language, she
hastily rose on her elbow. The party of Indians dragging her fleetly
over the smooth prairie met her chilled view. But she was now
comparatively collected and calm. Instantly her true condition was
apparent. She watched the swarthy forms some moments in silence,
meditating the means of escape. Presently one of the savages turned
partly round, and she sank back to escape his observation. Again she
rose up a few inches, and their faces were all turned away from her.
She gradually acquired resolution to encounter any hardship or peril
that might be the means of effecting her escape. But what plan was she
to adopt? The almost interminable plain of which she was in the midst
afforded no hiding-place. Then, the speed of the flying snow-canoe,
were she to leap out, would not only produce a hurtful collision with
the hard snow-crust, but certainly cause her detection. The poor girl’s
heart sank within her, and, for a time, she reclined submissively in
the canoe, and gave way to a flood of tears. She thought of her
gray-haired father, and a piercing agony thrilled through her breast.
And she thought, too, of others—of Boone, of _Glenn_, and her pangs
were hopelessly poignant. Thus she lay for several long hours, a prey
to grief and despair. But some pitying angel hovered over her, and
kindly lessened her sufferings. By degrees, her mind became possessed
of the power of deliberate and rational reflection; and she was
inspired with the belief that the savages only designed to exact a
heavy contribution from the whites by her capture, and would then
surrender her up without outrage or injury. Another hope, likewise,
sprang up in her breast: it was, that the Indian she had been
instrumental in releasing from captivity might protect her person, and,
perhaps restore her to her father. She also felt convinced that Boone
and Glenn would join her father in the pursuit, and she entertained a
lively hope that they would overtake her. But, again, when she looked
out on the surface of the snow, and beheld the rapidity of the savages’
pace, this hope was entertained but for a moment. She then resolved to
make an effort herself to escape. If she was not successful, it would,
at all events, retard the progress of her captors, and she might also
ascertain, with some degree of certainty, their purposes with regard to
her fate. She rose as softly as possible and sprang upon the snow. The
Indians, as she feared, instantly felt the diminution of weight, and
halted so abruptly that every one of them was prostrated on the
slippery snow-crust. Mary endeavoured to take advantage of this
occurrence, and, springing quickly to her feet, fled rapidly in the
opposite direction. But before she had run many minutes, she heard the
savages in close pursuit and gaining upon her at every step. It was
useless to fly. She turned her head, and beheld the whole party within
a few paces of her. The foremost was a tall athletic savage, bearing in
his hand a tomahawk he had snatched from the snow-canoe, and wearing a
demoniac scowl on his lip. Mary scanned his face and then turned her
eyes to heaven. She felt that her end was near, and she breathed a
prayer taught her by her buried mother. The savage rushed upon her,
entwining his left hand in her flowing hair, and waving his tomahawk
aloft with the other, was in the act of sinking the steel in the fair
forehead before him, when the blow was arrested by a mere stripling,
who came up at the head of the rest of the Indians. The Herculean
savage whirled round and scowled passionately at the youth. The young
Indian (the chief just elected in the place of Raven) regarded him a
moment with gleaming eyes, and a determined expression of feature, and
then with much dignity motioned him away. The huge savage was strangely
submissive in a moment, and obeyed without a murmur. Mary was conducted
back to the snow-canoe by the young chief, who led her by the hand,
while the rest walked behind. Once the young warrior turned and looked
searchingly in the face of his fair prize, and she returned the gaze
with an instantaneous conviction that no personal harm was intended
her. The chief was not half so dark as the rest of his tribe, and his
countenance was open, generous, and noble. (It may seem improbable to
the unthinking reader that a timid and alarmed maiden should be able to
read the character of a foe by his features under such circumstances.
But those very circumstances tended to produce such acuteness. And this
is not only the case with human beings, but even with dumb brutes—for,
at the moment they are about to be assailed, they invariably and
instinctively look the assailant in the eye, mercy being the only
remaining hope.) Again the young warrior turned to behold his captive’s
face, and Mary was in tears. He paused abruptly, and, after gazing some
moments in silence and deep thought, resumed his pace. When they
reached the snow-canoe, and while in the act of lifting his captive
into her couch, the young chief observed for the first time a massive
ring of curious workmanship on her finger (the glove she had hitherto
worn being partially torn from her hand in the recent struggle,) and
seemed to regard it with much interest. Mary saw that his eyes were
riveted on the jewel, and notwithstanding it possessed a hallowed value
in having been worn by her mother, yet she felt that she could resign
it to the one who had saved her life, and whose noble bearing, so
different from that of the rest, promised to shield her from future
harm. But he neither asked it as a gift nor tore it from her, but
turned away in silence, and ordered the party to proceed. The command
was instantly obeyed.
There was another Indian that had attracted the notice of Mary—one who
studiously avoided her glance by constantly enveloping his face in his
hairy robe whenever she turned towards him. This he continued to do
until she was again seated in the snow-canoe, and the order was given
to proceed on the journey. He then lingered behind the rest, and
throwing aside his mask, she saw before her the savage that had been
thrown within the inclosure by the explosion. He pointed to the north,
the direction of her home, and, by sundry signs and grimaces, made Mary
understand that he had not been a party to her capture, and that he
would endeavour to effect her escape. He then joined the others, and
the poor girl was once more coursing over the prairie more rapidly than
ever.
The savage rushed upon her.
The savage rushed upon her, entwined his left hand in her flowing hair,
and, waving his tomahawk aloft with the other, was in the act of
sinking the steel in the fair forehead before him, when the blow was
arrested by a mere stripling, who came up at the head of the rest of
the Indians.
There was now mingled with the captive maiden’s thoughts another
subject of contemplation. It was the young chief. His image seemed to
be familiar to her dreamy visions, and she often thought that they had
really met before. But when or where, her memory failed to designate.
She was glad to find herself so unexpectedly under the protection of
one so brave and generous, and she hoped when her father and his
friends should overtake them, he might not be hurt in the conflict that
must inevitably ensue.
The Indians long continued their flight in silence. Scarce a word was
uttered, until the sun was sinking low in the west. And then Mary heard
them speaking about the place of encampment; for her frequent
intercourse With the savages, before the arrival of Glenn in the
vicinity, had enabled her, as well as her father, to acquire an
imperfect knowledge of their language. But they still swept onward,
without any diminution of speed. The chief had probably objected to
their making, a halt by a shake of the head, for Mary did not hear him
reply to those who desired to stop.
When the shades of night fell around, and the broad red face of the
moon peeped over the eastern horizon, the party still careered over the
prairie. More than thirty miles had been traversed. The Indian is more
distinguished for bottom than speed, and has been known to pursue a
victim, or fly in the retreat, more than twenty-four hours without
resting. But this band had suffered much from fatigue before they set
out with their captive. The attempt to surprise the fort had cost them
both blood and labour, and when the moon had risen midway up in the
heavens, they again became clamorous for food and rest. The chief then
told them to turn from their course, and in a few minutes Mary saw that
they were approaching a grove of towering trees. Ere long they halted
under an enormous beech, whose spreading and clustering branches not
only greatly obscured the light from above, but had in a great measure
prevented the snow from covering the earth at its roots. It was not
long before a fire was struck, and the savages having scattered in
every direction in quest of dry wood and bark, in a very short space of
time a large bright blaze flashed up in their midst, around which they
spread their buffalo robes and commenced preparing their venison. Each
one cooked for himself, save the chief, who was provided proportionably
by all. He offered Mary a part of his food, but she declined it. He
then proffered to lift her from the snow-canoe, and place her nearer
the fire. This too she declined, stating that she was warm enough. She
was likewise influenced in this determination by the gestures of the
Indian whom she had befriended the preceding night, who sat by in
apparent unconcern, but at every opportunity, by looks and signs,
endeavoured to cheer and encourage the captive maiden.
After a hearty repast the savages, with the exception of the chief,
rolled themselves in their warm, hairy robes before the glowing fire,
and were soon steeped in profound slumber. The chief long reclined in a
half-recumbent attitude on the couch that had been prepared for him,
and fixing his eyes on the glaring flame, and sometimes on the pale sad
features of Mary, seemed to be under the influence of deep and painful
meditations. At times his features assumed a ferocity that caused Mary
to start and tremble; but at others they wore a mournful expression,
and ever and anon a tear rose up and glistened in his eye. Thus he sat
for more than an hour after all the rest were sunk in motionless
slumber. Finally his bedecked head, adorned with a profusion of rich
and rare feathers, sunk by degrees on the rude pillow, and he too was
soon wandering in the land of dreams.
But sleep brooded not upon the watchful lids of Mary. She gazed in
silence at the wild savage scene before her. The uncouth beings who had
so recently hooted and yelled like sanguinary demons, with intent to
slay and pillage, around her father, her friends and herself, now lay
motionless, though free and still hostile, within a few feet of her,
and she was their captive! She thought of her humble but peaceful home,
and sighed bitterly. And she thought, too, of her distressed friends,
and she was the more distressed from the consciousness that they
sympathized with her sufferings. Poor girl! She looked at the dark
brows and compressed lips of her captors as the fitful flashes of the
flames threw a bright ray upon them, and, in despite of the many hopes
she had entertained, she was horror-stricken to contemplate the reality
of her sad predicament.
At a late and solemn hour, the Indian who had been the captive the
night before, suddenly ceased his snoring, which had been heard without
intermission for a great length of time; and when Mary instinctively
cast her eyes towards him, she was surprised to see him gently and
slowly raise his head. He enjoined silence by placing his hand upon his
mouth. After carefully disengaging himself from his comrades, he crept
quietly away, and soon vanished entirely from sight on the northern
side of the spreading beech. Mary expected he would soon return and
assist her to escape. Although she was aware of the hardships and
perils that would attend her flight, yet the thought of again meeting
her friends was enough to nerve her for the undertaking, and she waited
with anxious impatience the coming of her rescuer. But he came not. She
could attribute no other design in his conduct but that of effecting
her escape, and yet he neither came for her nor beckoned her away. She
had reposed confidence in his promise, for she knew that the Indian,
savage as he was, rarely forfeited his word; but when gratitude
inspired a pledge, she could not believe that he would use deceit. The
fire was now burning quite low, and its waning light scarce cast a beam
upon the branches over head. It was evidently not far from morning, and
every hope of present escape entirely fled from her bosom. But just as
she was yielding to despair, she saw the Indian returning in a stealthy
pace, bearing some dark object in his arms. He glided to her side, and
beckoned her to leave the snow-canoe, and also to take with her all the
robes with which she had been enveloped. She did his bidding, and then
he carefully deposited the burden he bore in the place she had just
occupied. A portion of the object becoming unwrapped, Mary discovered
it to be a huge mass of snow, resembling, in some respects, a human
form, and the Indian’s stratagem was at once apparent to her.
Relinquishing herself to his guidance, she was led noiselessly through
the bushes about a hundred paces distant from the fire, to a large
fallen tree that had yielded to some furious storm, when her conductor
paused. He pointed to a spot where a curve caused the huge trunk to
rise about a foot from the present surface, under which was a round
hole cut through the drifted snow down to the earth, and in which were
deposited several buffalo robes, and so arranged that a person could
repose within without coming in contact with the frozen element around.
Mary looked down, and then at her companion, to ascertain his
intentions. He spoke to her in a low tone, enough of which she
comprehended to understand that he desired her to descend into the pit
without delay. She obeyed, and when he had carefully folded the robes
and divers furs about her body, he stepped a few paces to one side, and
gently lifting up a round lid of snow-crust, placed it over the
aperture. It had been so smoothly cut, and fitted with such precision
when replaced, that no one would have been able to discover that an
incision had been made. He then bade Mary a “Dud by” in bad English,
and set off in a run in a northern direction for the purpose of joining
the whites.
Long and interminable seemed Mary’s confinement to her, but she was
entirely comfortable in her hiding-place, as respected her body. Yet
many dreadful apprehensions oppressed her still. She feared that the
Indians would soon ascertain that she had left the canoe, and return
and discover her place of concealment. At times she thought of the wild
beasts prowling around, and feared they would devour her before
assistance came. But the most harrowing fear was that the friendly
Indian would abandon her to her fate or perhaps be _killed_, without
making known her locality and helpless condition! Thus was she a prey
to painful apprehensions and worrying reflections, until from
exhaustion she sank into an unquiet and troubled slumber.
With the first light of morning, the war-party sprang to their feet,
and hastily dispatching a slight repast, they set out on their journey
with renewed animation and increased rapidity. Before starting, the
chief called to Mary, and again offered some food; but no reply being
returned, or motion discovered under the robe which he imagined
enveloped her, he supposed she was sleeping, and directed the party to
select the most even route when they emerged in the prairie, that she
might as much as possible enjoy her repose.
The Indian who had planned and executed the escape of Mary, with the
well-devised cunning for which the race is proverbial, had told his
companions that he would rise before day and pursue the same direction
they were going in advance of them, and endeavour to kill a deer for
their next night’s meal. Thus his absence created no suspicion, and the
party continued their precipitate retreat.
But, about noon, after casting many glances back at the supposed form
of the captive reclining peacefully in the snow-canoe, the chief, with
much excitement, betrayed by his looks, which seemed to be mingled with
an apprehension that she was dead, abruptly ordered the party to halt.
He sprang to the canoe, and convulsively tearing away the skins
discovered only the roll of snow! He at first compressed his lips in
momentary rage, and then burst into a fit of irrepressible laughter.
But the rest raved and stamped, and uttered direful imprecations and
threats of vengeance. Immediately they were aware of the treachery of
the absent Indian, and resolved with one voice that his blood should be
an atonement for the act. Their thoughts had dwelt too fondly on the
shining gold they were to get in exchange for the maiden, for them ever
to forgive the recreant brother who had snatched the prize from them.
The chief soon recovered his usual grave expression, and partook in
some measure the general disappointment and chagrin. His motives were
not of the same mercenary cast which actuated his tribe, nor did he
condemn the conduct of the one who had rescued the maid, being aware of
the clemency extended him when in the power of the enemy; but the
thought of being outwitted and thwarted roused his anger, and he
determined to recover the lost captive, if possible.
The snow was quickly thrown out, and the war-party adjusted their
weapon’s, with the expectation of encountering the whites; and then
whirling about they retraced their steps even more swiftly than they
had been advancing. Just as the night was setting in, they came in
sight of the grove where they had encamped. They slackened their pace,
and looking eagerly forward, seemed to think it not improbable that the
whites had arrived in the vicinity, and might be lying in ambush
awaiting their return in search of the maid. They then abandoned the
canoe, after having concealed it under some low bushes, and entered the
grove in a stooping and watchful posture. Ere long the chief attained
the immediate neighbourhood of the spreading tree, and with an arrow
drawn to its head, crept within a few paces of the spot where he had
lain the preceding night. His party were mostly a few feet in the rear,
while a few were approaching in the same manner from the opposite
direction. Hearing no sound whatever, he rose up slowly, and with an
“Ugh” of disappointment, strode carelessly across the silent and
untenanted place of encampment.
Vexation and anger were expressed by the savages in being thus
disappointed. They hoped to wreak their vengeance on the whites, and
had resolved to recapture the maiden. Where they expected to find them,
the scene was silent and desolate. And they now sauntered about under
the trees in the partial light of the moon that struggled through the
matted branches, threatening in the most horrid manner the one who had
thus baffled them. Some struck their tomahawks into the trunks of
trees, while others brandished their knives, and uttered direful yells.
The young chief stood in silence, with his arms folded on his breast. A
small ray of light that fell upon his face exhibited a meditative brow,
and features expressing both firmness and determination. He had said
that the captive should be regained, and his followers ever and anon
regarded his thoughtful attitude with the confidence that his decision
would accelerate the accomplishment of their desires. Long he remained
thus, motionless and dignified, and no one dared to address him. [He
had been elected chief by acclamation, after the death of Raven. He was
not an Osage by birth, but had been captured from one of the
neighbouring tribes (the Pawnee) when only six years old. His bravery,
as he grew up, had elicited the admiration of the whole tribe, and it
had long been settled that he should succeed Raven. His complexion was
many degrees lighter than that of the Osages, or even that of the
Pawnees, and had it not been for the paint and stains with which the
warriors decorate their faces, he might have passed, if properly
attired, for an American. When taken in battle he was saved from the
torture by a young Indian maiden. She procured his release and he
refused to return to his own nation. He said that he was no Pawnee, and
when asked to what nation he belonged, he either could not or would not
reply, but said he was satisfied to hunt and fight with any tribe, and
if the chief would give him his daughter (the one that saved his life,)
he would be an Osage. It was done, and his brave exploits soon won for
him the title of the “Young Eagle.”]
The young chief called one of the oldest of the party, who was standing
a few paces distant absorbed in thought, to his side, and after a short
conference the old savage prostrated himself on the snow, and
endeavoured like a hound to scent the tracks of his recreant brother.
At first he met with no success, but when making a wide circuit round
the premises, still applying his nose to the ground occasionally, and
minutely examining the bushes, he paused abruptly, and announced to the
party that he had found the precise direction taken by the maid and her
deliverer. Instantly they all clustered round him, evincing the most
intense interest. Some smelt the surface of the snow, and others
examined the bushes. Small twigs, not larger than pins, were picked up
and closely scrutinized. They well knew that any one passing through
the frozen and clustered bushes must inevitably sever some of the twigs
and buds. Their progress was slow, but unerring. The course they
pursued was the direction taken by Mary and her rescuer. It was not
long before they arrived within a few feet of the place of the maiden’s
concealment. But now they were at fault. There were no bushes
immediately around the fallen tree. They paused, the chief in the van,
with their bows and arrows and tomahawks in readiness for instant use.
They knew that the maiden could not return to her friends on foot, or
the treacherous savage be able to bear her far on his shoulder. They
thought that one or both must be concealed somewhere in the
neighbourhood, and the fallen tree, were it hollow, was the place most
likely to be selected for that purpose. After scanning the fallen trunk
a few minutes in silence, and discovering nothing to realize their
hopes, they uttered a terrific yell, and commenced striking their
tomahawks in the wood, and ripping up the bark in quest of some
hiding-place. But their search was in vain. The fallen trunk was sound
and solid throughout, and the young chief sat down on it within three
paces of Mary! Others, in passing about, frequently trod on the very
verge of the concealed pit.
Mary was awakened by the yell but knew not that the sound came from her
enemies. The Indian had told her that he would soon return, and her
heart now fluttered with the hope that her father and her friends were
at hand. Yet she prudently determined not to rush from her concealment
until she was better assured of the fact. She did not think the savages
would suspect that she was hid under the snow, but yet she thought it
very strange that her father did not come to her at once. Several
minutes had elapsed since she had been startled by the sounds in the
immediate vicinity. She heard the tramp of men almost directly over her
head, and the strokes against the fallen trunk. She was several times
on the eve of rising up, but was as often withheld by some mysterious
impulse. She endeavoured to reflect calmly, but still she could not, by
any mode of conjecture realize the probability of her foes having
returned and traced her thither. Yet an undefinable fear still
possessed her, and she endeavoured with patience to await the pleasure
of her friends. But when the chief seated himself in her vicinity, and
fell into one of his fits of abstraction, and the whole party became
comparatively still and hushed, the poor girl’s suspense was almost
insufferable. She knew that human beings were all around her, and yet
her situation was truly pitiable and lonely. She felt assured that if
the war-party had returned in pursuit of her, the same means which
enabled them to trace their victim to the fallen trunk would likewise
have sufficed to indicate her hiding-place. Then why should she
hesitate? The yells that awakened her had not been heard distinctly,
and under the circumstances she could not believe that she was
surrounded by savages. On the other hand, if they were her friends, why
did they not relieve her? Now a sudden, but, alas! erroneous thought
occurred to her. She was persuaded that they were her friends, but that
the friendly Indian was not with them—he had perhaps directed them
where she could be found, and then returned to his home. Might not her
friends, at that moment, be anxiously searching for her? Would not one
word suffice to dispel their solicitude, and restore the lost one to
their arms? She resolved to speak. Bowing down her head slightly, so
that her precise location might not instantly be ascertained, she
uttered in a soft voice the word “FATHER!” The chief sprang from his
seat, and the party was instantly in commotion. Some of the savages
looked above, among the twining branches, and some shot their arrows in
the snow, but fortunately not in the direction of Mary, while others
ran about in every direction, examining all the large trees in the
vicinity. The chief was amazed and utterly confounded. He drew not
forth an arrow, nor brandished a tomahawk. While he thus stood, and the
rest of the party were moving hurriedly about a few paces distant, Mary
again repeated the word “FATHER!” As suddenly as if by enchantment
every savage was paralyzed. Each stood as devoid of animation as a
statue. For many moments an intense silence reigned, as if naught
existed there but the cheerless forest trees. Slowly, at length, the
tomahawk was returned to the belt, and the arrow to the quiver. No
longer was a desire to spill blood manifested. The dusky children of
the forest attributed to the mysterious sound a supernatural agency.
They believed it was a voice from the perennial hunting-grounds. Humbly
they bowed their heads, and whispered devotions to the Great Spirit.
The young chief alone stood erect. He gazed at the round moon above
him, and sighs burst from his breast, and burning tears ran down his
stained cheek. Impatiently, by a motion of the hand, he directed the
savages to leave him, and when they withdrew he resumed his seat on the
fallen trunk, and reclined his brow upon his hand. One of the long
feathers that decked his head waved forward, after he had been seated
thus a few minutes, and when his eye rested upon it he started up
wildly, and tearing it away, trampled it under his feet. At that
instant the same “FATHER!” was again heard. The young chief fell upon
his knees, and, while he panted convulsively, said, in ENGLISH,
“_Father! Mother! I’m your poor William—you loved me much—where are
you? Oh tell me—I will come to you—I want to see you!_” He then fell
prostrate and groaned piteously. “Father! oh! where are you? Whose
voice was that?” said Mary, breaking through the slight incrustation
that obscured her, and leaping from her covert.
The young chief sprang from the earth—gazed a moment at the maid—spoke
rapidly and loudly in the language of his tribe to his party, who were
now at the place of encampment, seated by the fire they had kindled—and
then, seizing his tomahawk, was in the act of hurling it at Mary, when
the yells of the war-party and the ringing discharges of firearms
arrested his steel when brandished in the air. The white men had
arrived! The young, chief seized Mary by her long flowing hair—again
prepared to level the fatal blow—when she turned her face upwards, and
he again hesitated. Discharges in quick succession, and nearer than
before, still rang in his ears. Mary strove not to escape. Nor did the
Indian strike. The whites were heard rushing through the bushes—the
chief seized the trembling girl in his arms—a bullet whizzed by his
head—but, unmindful of danger, he vanished among the dark bushes with
his burden.