Years, as we have said, had passed away since the disappearance of Hope
Vines, and her memory was lost to all but the Sagamore of Saco, in
whose breast it burned a perpetual and yearning reminiscence, branded
into the very fiber of his life and being.
A council of the Sacos had been called among the upper waters of the
river, for the tribe had determined upon a grand expedition against the
Terrentines and Androscoggins.
The moon was at full, and the sky balmy with the aromas of wood and
water, for the brief Indian summer had renewed the youth and revived
the beauty of the waning season. The young braves had brought to
the council a captive, taken in a recent attack upon a Terrentine
village, and she now was before them bound to a tree, the light of
the moon conflicting with the ruddy light of the torch-flame of the
council-fire, playing in weird contrast over her dark, motionless
features.
As chief after chief arose and gave, in a clear, solemn voice, his
views regarding the campaign, it was observed that the sagamore cast
stern and frequent glances upon the captive. At length he seized a
torch and flashed it full upon her face. The eyes of the two met, but
not a word passed the lips of either. Returning to the council, the
sagamore asked:
“Has the captive heard our proceedings?”
“No; the wind bears the sound away. The sapling to which she is bound
is beyond earshot.”
“It is Acashee, the daughter of Samoset.”
The younger chiefs sprung to their feet, and would have buried their
tomahawks in her brain, for they knew of the story of Hope Vines, and
the grief of the sagamore.
The captive witnessed the outburst with exultant pride, and began to
chant her death-song, with head erect and eyes flashing skyward, in
words like the following:
“Break out into laughter,
Ye thunder-bolts loud,
Wildly thereafter
Scream from your storm-cloud,
Oh, eagles undaunted!
“By the warrior’s hand
The maiden shall fall.
Light up the torch brand!
The torturers call
With pangs they have vaunted.”
Thus far, and the women from the camp, unwilling that one of their
kind and a captive should emulate the hardihood of warriors, rushed
out and threw water from their gourds upon her, and in derision tossed
bean-pods and corn-husks about her, and jeeringly clapped the paddles
of the canoe, and the pokers of the fire in her face. For awhile the
proud woman held her head high, but, fearful of falling beneath these
feminine weapons, her head fell upon her bosom, and she was silent.
In the mean while, the chiefs around the council-fire sat long in
solemn conclave. At one time, the debate had been of more than usual
animation, but at length a solemn silence prevailed, and the sagamore
approached the captive, tomahawk in hand. She lifted her head proudly
and looked him in the face while he cut the bonds and set her free.
“Go, Acashee; go, Spider; we need you not.”
The woman looked imploringly up, and even dashed her hands into his
face, as he held her by the hair of her head, and cut away the long,
heavy braids that depended therefrom. A shout of derision burst from
the women, and they followed her with loud and contemptuous jeers
far into the forest. Weary at length of their malignant sport, they
returned to the camp, leaving the disgraced woman to make her way as
best she could, through almost impenetrable forests, to her own people.
John Bonyton, having cut away the black locks of Acashee, retired from
the council. A scout had been appointed to follow the woman, never to
lose sight of her, to succor her if needed, and after having seen her
safely within her own tribe, to return to the camp, and report all he
could learn.
When Acashee had departed, John Bonyton, impelled by an irresistible
desire to learn something of Hope Vines, whose fate he believed was
known to the Indian girl, followed in her path till he saw her throw
herself upon the fallen leaves, and give utterance to a fierce, low
cry, not unlike that of the hungry panther. She tore at her dishonored
locks, and gnashed her teeth in impotent fury.
The sagamore, tall, calm and silent, stood before her. Instantly she
sprung to her feet, and throwing back her head, cried:
“Pale-faced coward! I spit upon you, and will work a spell that shall
consume all your bones, and--”
“Silence, girl. You will not provoke me to kill you. Live, the scorn of
your people.”
“I will live, but only to work your destruction! No, no, no, John
Bonyton,” and she covered her face with her hands, to hide her
relenting tears.
The sagamore was softened, and laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“Tell me what became of Hope Vines, Acashee, and I will forget all the
past.”
“She was called away by the Great Spirit.” And her look and tone
softened.
“Acashee, I know your falsehood and your thousand wiles. You do not
speak truth. Tell me, I beseech you, where you have put her, for I feel
in my very soul that she lives. She comes to me in my dreams, she walks
by my side in the forest-path--there is no spot to me where Hope is
not.”
“Hear me, John Bonyton: if I knew, I would not tell. Hear me! She is
dead--dead, a thousand times dead to you, and I rejoice to know it! The
daughters of the morning star have taken her to their arms; why then
should you scorn Acashee?”
Her dark eyes were fixed tenderly upon his face as she spoke, while
her rich, clear voice wooed the echoes to melody. She had laid her
wrist upon his arm in her old seductive way, but the sagamore shook her
off, and turned his eyes from her face, as he replied:
“Go, then, Acashee, go. I had hoped there might be some touch of
goodness in that cruel heart. Go.”
“Touch of goodness! proud sagamore! Is it nothing to spurn my kind only
for such as you? Nothing to live one long thought of you?”
While she spoke, a wood-pigeon alighted upon a branch near by, and with
singular dexterity she caught it, and held it fondly to her bosom,
smoothing and caressing its ruffled plumage.
John Bonyton waved his hand and turned away, while the treacherous
girl stood watching his tall, receding form, till the trees concealed
it; then, dashing the bird to the ground, she placed her foot upon its
beautiful breast, exclaiming:
“This, and this, be the fate of Hope Vines!” and she ground its
innocent blood into the moss-grown soil.
The sagamore plunged into the recesses of the forest, and at length
emerged upon the river-bank, where, as boy and youth, he had idled his
days in that ecstatic dream of love and youth, which so fills up the
soul that the past is forgotten, the future hung with rainbow clouds,
pavilioned with golden vaults and silvery sheen, thus exalting the glow
of the present by an onward gorgeous perspective.
“Lost! lost! all is lost!” he exclaimed.
Unconsciously he had cast himself down by the wigwam of the prophet of
the tribe. It was the custom of the Indians to build the tent or wigwam
of those whose duty it was to watch all omens bearing upon the welfare
of the people, in some secluded spot within the sound of great falls,
or in proximity to some natural cave or grotto, where they might,
undisturbed, exercise their spells and incantations. A hand, cold, and
wasted by fastings nearly to the bone, was laid upon the shoulder of
the sagamore.
“Listen, my son! Turn thy steps to the east. Go!”
Before the sagamore could reply, he was gone. He entered the wigwam;
it was empty. He searched upon every side; no one was visible; and
he began to doubt if his senses might not have deceived him, when he
observed a clear crystal glittering in the moonlight. It was one of
those peculiar stones which the common people believed came from the
top of the vast White Mountains lying a hundred miles to the north, and
hence popularly called the “White Mountain Carbuncle.”
He knew this was a part of the paraphernalia of the wizard’s wigwam,
and that on momentous occasions the chiefs called upon their oracle to
look into this crystal stone and announce the augury. Remembering this,
he raised it to his eyes, looked and started back with surprise. What
did he behold?
One look more! There, throned in the center of the crystal, was a
miniature image of Hope!
He fell headlong to the earth, he knew not how or why; a feeling of
exultation--a something by which he felt as if all sense of weight, of
obstacle had been removed. It was but a moment, and the same cold, bony
hand wrenched the crystal from his grasp, and was no more seen.
The impressions, whatever it might be, remained, and without trying
to account for what he had seen, a new and abiding conviction that he
should once more behold the dear object of his lifelong thoughts took
possession of his soul. He returned to the camp, buoyed up by brighter
thoughts than he had experienced for long and dreary years.
It is well known that the images to be read in the “crystal stone”
was a popular belief with the Indians, though only a few persons
were gifted with power of sight. They believed the magician must be
originally endowed with the power of prescience, and he must educate
and develop this power by a long course of fasting and incantation.
They believed, also, that a person upon whom had fallen any great
calamity became spontaneously endowed with this gift.
The mad-dog stone is a different species, used medicinally for the cure
of hydrophobia, and the bite of venomous serpents. This latter is of
oriental origin.
The sagamore would gladly have left all, and followed the oracle of
the wizard, traveling toward the rising sun, where he now felt sure
he should find Hope; but, as chief of the tribe he could not cast off
the duties it involved, or forget the grave decorums of the office. He
must await the return of the scout, and then follow the Terrentines and
Androscoggins to their villages or hunting-grounds. Accordingly, he
made ready for the eastern campaign.