Thus passed away many a night and day. Hope waited and watched and
hoped, but in vain. Her companion never relaxed her vigilance, but
her cold irony, her malignant sneer, had given place to a deference
amounting to awe. Hope was calm, grave and taciturn; her old
freakishness had all gone, and in its place was that quiet, burning
look, allied only to subdued passion.
At length Hope divined, from the preparations made by her keepers, that
some important event was about to transpire. As midnight approached,
a group of the chief men of the tribe emerged from amid the spray at
the entrance of the grotto, and seated themselves in front of the
council-fire. Burning torches were placed under the arches, and the
cave glowed with the ruddy light of a crackling fire in the center.
Acashee, blessed or cursed with an almost sleepless vitality, paced the
solitary and echoless void in a tumult of contending passions. She was
dressed with care, and had, since her return, assumed the air and tone
of one who had a right to command.
Hope slept, or affected to sleep, in front of the stone of sacrifice,
couched amid snowy furs gorgeously ornamented with wampum, and branches
of evergreen, cool and aromatic, spread at her feet. Several familiar
pets slumbered around the fair and mystic-enshrouded form, while the
panther had placed his broad head upon her shoulder.
As Acashee paced back and forth, she sometimes paused in front of this
dainty couch, and eyed the recumbent Hope with a malignant scowl that
showed the envy and rage that contended within, but, as Hope had said,
she dared not lift a finger against her; and as Hope was now doomed to
perpetual imprisonment, separated forever, as she deemed, from John
Bonyton, her revenge grew like honey under the tongue, because of the
protracted misery of its object.
More than once, as Acashee thus paused in front of Hope, the panther
raised himself into a couchant attitude, and eyed her with a sidelong
glance, as a cat will watch a mouse, which she is sure is within reach,
and therefore may be allowed to gambol with impunity.
At length Acashee stopped her weary pacing to and fro, and leaned with
folded arms against a massive stalactite, and eyed the consulting
chiefs in silence; but as they planned, discussed and advised, she was
called upon to participate in their deliberations, and her suggestions
were often hailed with tokens of approval; for the woman was of a keen
and penetrating mind, stimulated by passions at once powerful and
malevolent.
Had the party observed the white occupant of the sumptuous couch, they
would have been aware of a pair of dark, bright eyes peering through
those snowy locks, and red lips parted in the eagerness of the intent
ear.
“Has the scout arrived?” asked Acashee.
“Fleet-foot has returned, and the Sacos are coming to reclaim tribute
of the Androscoggins.”
“When will the Sacos be upon the trail?”
“They are already on their way; they have landed at the meeting of the
waters.”
“Why await their coming? Why sit here and invite the tomahawk and the
brand? Give me the war-club of a chief, and I will teach them what it
is to follow the trail of the Androscoggin!”
The fierce fervor of the woman was not lost upon the council of chiefs,
but they replied, gravely:
“Listen, daughter of Samoset! Thou shalt wear the eagle-plume, for thy
courage and thy wisdom are becoming to a chief.”
“When arrived the Sacos at the meeting of the rivers?” asked Acashee.
“As the sun went down.”
“Where is the Sagamore of Saco?”
“He leads the expedition.”
Acashee walked back and forth, and then stooped over the couch of
Hope, and listened. Apparently she slept, for she returned to the
council-fire.
It may be that the effort at concealment had been too great for the
nerves of Hope, for hardly had the woman turned away when a low sound,
like a human wail, escaped from the couch. Acashee again bent over the
recumbent form, but there was no sign of consciousness, no winking of
the eye, no perturbation. The panther rolled himself over, stretched
out his claws, and threw back his head, showing his long, red tongue
and glittering teeth, and uttered a yawn so nearly a howl, that the
woman believed the sounds identical, and the warriors resumed their
discussion.
“In an hour the moon will set,” said Acashee.
“Our young warriors lean upon their arms. When the moon is down we
light a fire _above the falls, at Still-Water_. This will be the signal
for the Terrentines to join us. They will there leave their canoes in
the hands of the women, and join our warriors on the bank below. The
fire will warn our people how near to approach the falls, for the night
will be dark.”
“It is well planned,” said Acashee.
“Has Wa-ain (White Spirit) spoken?” asked an old chief.
“She has had a vision of battle.”
“How went it with the Androscoggins?”
“There is nothing but victory to the brave,” she answered, evading the
truth.
The old chief was not deceived. He eyed her with a keen, penetrating
look, but said not a word.
Presently the group dispersed themselves to rest till the moon should
set. The guardians of the cave inverted the torches, and a dim,
sepulchral light played over the features of the sleeping warriors.
Acashee retired into a distant recess, and there practiced those
incantations supposed to augur success in any contemplated enterprise.
Waiting till all was silent, Hope gathered her little figure closely
to the floor of the cave, and slowly made her way to the entrance,
nearing which, the roar of the waters made her movements less
perceptible. In breathless silence she passed the council-fire, and
threaded her way amid the group around it. She was cautious but
fearless. A chief turned in his sleep; she stood erect with flashing
eye. Her hand grasped the war-club beside him; had he moved again there
was no mistaking the deadly purpose of the girl; but he slept on.
Her step was now firm, her air determined. She cast back a hurried
glance--all was silent. With a bound she plunged amid the world of
waters. A moment more and she stood upon the rocky plateau at the foot
of the falls.
The moon was nearly down, and a thick mist hung over the river, of
which the slight form of Hope seemed only a part. She stood for a few
seconds and gave a soft but hurried glance at the majestic scenery--the
starry sky, over which rushed the hurrying clouds, which herald the
coming storm, and the mass of waters, pouring itself forever over its
shelving steep.
Then she gathered her long hair into a knot, and with rapid feet
ascended the bank. She hurried onward until she found the heap of dry
wood and torches at Still-Water, and with eager haste she filled her
arms and redescended.
She heaped these into a pile _below_ the falls. She gathered the broken
wood always to be found in juxtaposition with river-banks--wrecked
canoes, cast down the stream; riven branches scattered by the
whirlwind; and torches left by the women in their wanderings and
toils. She had secured the dry pieces reserved for kindling, and she
was skilled in the Indian method of producing a blaze by rubbing two
sections of dry wood together.
She then seated herself and watched the descent of the moon; with eager
eyes she waited till the last faint rim sunk beneath the horizon--till
the last quivering ray shot upward, and then left the sky only to the
watchful stars.
_Then_ she arose and lighted _the beacon-fire_.
Quick as lightning shot up the lurid flame, towering in the night sky,
gleaming, and flashing, and lightening the old woods far and wide.