Meanwhile the beacon-fire had flamed far and wide, and wakened the
warriors to the anticipated work of destruction. The Terrentines, far
up at the great bend of the Androscoggin, were ready with blackened
faces, and armed with war-club, tomahawk and arrow, to wreak their
utmost vengeance upon the tribes of the Saco; and no sooner did the
gleam of the beacon-fire stream luridly up the moonless sky, than they
launched their canoes and descended the stream.
The Androscoggins also, with their little navy above Still-Water,
floated downward with the very flower of the tribe, and before the sun
should arise, the Sagamore of Saco, and his band of warriors, should be
no more known than the cloud which yesterday dimmed the horizon, or the
vapor which lost itself in the far-off ocean. Such was their thought.
With light and measured dip of paddle, onward came the airy fleet,
light as the spray, and buoyant with exultant hearts. The vast woods
swayed fitfully; the night-bird wheeled in ghostly circles, and went
screaming away to deeper solitudes. The bark of the fox and the howling
of the wolf mingled with the screeching of the owl, and the voices of a
thousand ill-omened echoes screamed from the recesses of rock, mountain
and river, and yet onward swept the fleet, unconscious of danger.
The scouts, whose duty it had been to light the beacon at Still-Water,
_above_ the falls, started to their feet with horror, as canoe
after canoe emerged from the shadow of the river-bank, and floated
onward--past the level stream, past the village lights, and were caught
in the descending flood.
Nearing the village above the falls, the women and children, suddenly
conscious of the danger, rushed with wild shouts and gestures of
warning.
Too late--too late! The rapid and insidious current could not be
resisted. As well might a straw be hoped to bridge Niagara, as the
stoutest arm of the warrior hope to stay the downward swoop of the
frail canoe, caught in the fierce tide of the roaring waters.
Ever and ever poured on the untiring flood, till one wondered it did
not pour itself out. The heart grew oppressed at the vastness of its
images, crowding and rolling and pressing, as did the tumultuous waves
over their rocky steep. Water--still water, till the nerves ached from
weariness at its perpetual flow, and the mind questioned if the sound
were not silence, so lonely was the spell--questioned, if the sound
ceased, whether the heart would not cease to beat, and life become
extinct.
The winds suddenly died away; the stars came out each upon his golden
throne and looked down upon the scene. John Bonyton and Hope stood not
far from the beacon-fire, which sent its jets of light far and wide.
Suddenly, a wild, unearthly yell filled the air. It rose loud and
piercing, and the roar of the waters was lost in one vast, terrible cry
of agony.
The chiefs of the Sacos gathered about their sagamore. Hope pointed
to the white foam of the falls; her eyes dilated with delight; her
form expanded, and in that moment of exultation she looked like some
beautiful, but avenging spirit.
“Look, John Bonyton! Behold the handiwork of Hope Vines!”
A black mass gleamed amid the white foam; another and another; and yet
a wild yell of horror--a black, descending mass, poised one moment upon
the verge--a fearful plunge, and the old river took up its ancient
song, and went its way to the far-off deep, to be lost in the vast
ocean.
“Tell me, what is this?” cried John Bonyton, seizing the hand of Hope,
and conscious of an undefined horror at a nameless deed.
Hope saw the changed look--saw the fierce eye of the sagamore, and her
high spirit quailed before it. Exultation gave place to defiance, for
one brief space, and then she waved her hand and would have darted
away, had he not detained her.
“Tell me, Hope, I beseech thee--tell me the meaning of this dreadful
scene--more terrible than the fiercest struggle, foot to foot, of armed
men!”
“I have saved thee, John Bonyton,” whispered Hope.
“Tell me all, Hope--what it all means.”
She lifted her head proudly--she fixed her deep, dark eyes upon his,
and spoke with a clear voice, that reverberated fearfully upon the
silence.
“Hear me, John Bonyton. For years and years I have had but one
thought--one desire--one aim--to see thee once more. I will not tell
thee of the long, long, weary-years--winters of hoary frost and snow,
summers of brief beauty--which went and came, and I saw them not--I saw
nothing but thee, John Bonyton. I was moody and silent, but a power
was born of solitude, of waiting, of longing, and I could go and come
beneath yonder falls. When all slept, I went forth to look upon the
moon, because it lighted thee. When the sun came forth, it rejoiced me
only that its rays were life and light to thee.
“No one knew I could find my way out of the cave--no one knew of the
one burning thought that consumed my whole life. At length I heard thy
name; I heard of the approach of the Sacos, led by John Bonyton; I
listened to the council of the chiefs, and learned that a beacon-fire
was to be kindled _above_ the falls, and then the tribes would descend
the bank of the river, and carry death and destruction to the camp of
John Bonyton.
“I kindled the beacon-light _below_ the falls!”
She turned away proudly.
“Do not go, Hope. Where _will_ you go?” cried the sagamore.
“Where, but to death and the grave?” she responded, bitterly.
“Hope, my _only_ hope, come to me; all is black, desolate--do not leave
me.”
She looked up with so pale a face, so hopeless, so mournfully tender,
it was affecting to behold.
“I will go under the falls, and there sleep--oh! so long will I sleep,
John Bonyton. The wounded doe seeks the deepest covert in which to die.”
She turned away, but the sagamore, rushing forward, folded her in his
arms, saying:
“You must not leave me, Hope; do you not love me?”
She answered by a low wail, more eloquent than words, and it was long
before her sobs allowed her utterance. At length, she looked up with a
wistful, earnest gaze, and answered:
“I see it all now, John Bonyton. I see that Hope is a child, you are
man. Hear me say it all--I am a child such as I was years ago; you
are not the John Bonyton who played with pebbles upon the beach.
Look at the eagle-plume! Look at the eye so dark and terrible! My
heart, my brain, has been filled with but one thought, and that is
John Bonyton. Look into my soul, it has but one record--only one
record--John Bonyton; but you--you are great, powerful, beautiful. Hope
is nothing--nothing!”
Her voice was lost in tears, and if the strong man felt the truth of
what she said, he was not the less tender, nor the less fervent in his
protestations of unchanged and unchanging love.