In a small room, under a roof which slanted not in one straight line,
but made an obtuse angle in the midst of its descent, lighted alone by
a horn lantern, such as was used on board the river-boats at night,
sat the stout man whom we have described under the name of Woodchuck.
The furniture of the chamber was of the meanest kind; a small
half-tester bed, with its dull curtains of a broad red and white
checked stuff; a little table jammed close against the wall; a
solitary chair; a wash-stand, with the basin and its ewer both
somewhat maimed; and a little looking-glass, hanging from a nail
driven into the wall, with its narrow, badly-gilt frame, and its plate
so distorted that, when one looked in it, the reflection seemed to be
making faces at the original. Dull, with imbibing many a year's loaded
atmosphere, were those faded walls; and many a guest had written upon
them in pencil his own name, or the name of his sweetheart--permanent
memorials of transitory tenants, like the long-cherished memories of
affections gone to the grave. There were two or three rude distiches,
too, and a quatrain somewhat more polished.
But the man who sat there noted none of these things. The dim light,
the gloomy aspect of the apartment, might sink in upon his spirit, and
render the darkness within more dark: the strange, ill-looking, double
slant of the ceiling--the obtrusive two straight lines instead of one,
with the blunt, unmeaning angle between them, giving an aspect of
brokenness to the roof, as if it were ready to bulge out, and then
crash down--might irritate without his knowing why. Still he noted
them not with anything like observation. His mind was busy with
things of its own--things in which feeling took a share as well as
thought--and he was, if not dead, sleeping to the external world. Even
his beloved woods, and streams, and fresh air, and open skies, were
forgotten for the time.
He argued with himself a case of conscience hard to solve.
He was as brave a man as ever lived--had been habituated all his life
to perils of many kinds, and had met them all fearlessly. Wake him in
the woods at midnight, you would find him ready. Deafen his ear with
the drum or the war-whoop, you could not make him start. He blinked
not at the cannon's flash or the blaze of the lightning, and would
have faced the fiery-mouthed platoon without a wavering step.
And yet the love of life was strong in him. He had so many joys in the
bright treasury of nature; to his simple--nay, wild--tastes, there
were so many pleasures in the wide world, that to part with them was
hard, very hard.
He had never known how valuable earthly existence was to him till that
hour, or how different a thing it is to hazard it in bold daring, or
to contemplate the throwing it away in reckless passion, or
disappointment, or despair, to calmly and deliberately laying it down
as a sacrifice, whatever be the end, the inducement, or the duty.
What was the case of conscience he proposed to himself? Simply this:
Whether he should suffer another to die for his act, or place himself
not only in the peril from which he had lately escaped, but in the
actual grasp of death.
Some men, of enthusiastic spirit and great constitutional
fearlessness, might have decided the matter at a dash, and, with the
first impulse of a furious nature, have cast themselves under the
uplifted tomahawk to save their innocent friend. But he was not such;
and I do not intend so to represent him. He was not a man to do
anything without deliberation--without calculating all things--though
he was generous as most men, as this world goes. All his habits--the
very course of his previous life--disposed him to careful forethought.
Every day had had its watchfulness, every hour its precaution. The
life of the woods in those days was a life of peril and preparation,
where forethought might be very rapid, but was always needful.
And now he debated the question with himself:--
"Could he live on and suffer Walter Prevost to die in his place?"
There were strenuous advocates on both sides. But the love of life was
the most subtle, if generosity was the most eloquent.
"Poor boy!" he thought, "why should he die for what I have done? Why
should he be cut off so soon from all life's hopes and blessings? Why
should his father's eyes be drowned in tears, and his sister's heart
wrung with grief, when I can save them all? And he so frank and noble,
too--so full of every kindly feeling and generous quality--so
brave--so honest--so frank--so true-hearted! Innocent, too--innocent
of every offence--quite innocent in this case!"
But then spoke self, and he reflected,--
"Am not I innocent, too?--as innocent as he is? Did I ever harm the
man? Did I provoke the savage? Did I not slay him in pure
self-defence? And shall I lay down the life I then justly protected at
the cost of that of another human being, because a race of fierce
Indians, unreasoning, blood-thirsty savages, choose to offer a cruel
sacrifice to their God of revenge, and have found a victim?
"Still," he continued, taking the other side, "it is for my act the
sacrifice is offered, and, if there must be a sacrifice, ought not the
victim to be myself? Besides, were it that any worthless life was in
jeopardy--were it that of some desperate rover--some criminal--some
man without ties, or friendships, or affections--one might leave him
to his fate, perhaps, without remorse. But this poor lad, how many
hopes are centred in him? what will not his family lose--what will not
the world? And I--what am I, that my life should be weighed against
his? Is he not my friend, too, and the son of my friend--one who has
always overflowed with kindness and regard towards me?"
His resolution was almost taken; but then the cunning pleader,
vanquished in direct argument, suggested a self-deceit.
"It is strange," he thought, "that these Indians, and especially
their chief, should fix upon one with whom they have ever been so
friendly--should choose a youth whom they have looked upon as a
brother, when they might surely have found some other victim. Can this
be a piece of their savage cunning? They know how well I love the lad,
and how much friendship has been shown me by his father. Can they have
taken him only as a bait to their trap, without any real intention of
sacrificing him, and only in the hope of luring me into their power?"
At first sight the supposition seemed reasonable; and he was inclined
to congratulate himself that he had not precipitately fallen into the
snare.
"How they would have yelled with triumph," he thought "when they found
me bringing my head to the hatchet!"
But speedily his knowledge of the Indian character and habits
undeceived him. He knew that in such cases they always made sure of
some victim, and that the more near and dear he was to the offender,
the better for their purpose--the offender himself first--a relation
next--a friend next; and he cast the self-fraud away from him.
But the love of life had not yet done, though obliged to take another
course, and suggest modifications. Was there no middle course to be
taken? Was it absolutely necessary that he should sacrifice his own
life to save that of Walter Prevost? Could not the object be effected
without his giving himself up to the savages? Might not some one else
fall into their hands? Might not the lad be rescued by some daring
effort? This was the most plausible suggestion of all; but it was the
one that troubled him most. He had detected so many attempts in his
own heart to cheat himself, that he suspected he might be deceiving
himself still; and his mind got puzzled and confused with doubts.
He went to the bed, and lay down in his clothes; but he could not
sleep without taking some resolution; and, rising again, he pressed
his hands upon his aching temples, and determined to cast away self
from the question altogether--to look upon it as if it affected some
other person than Walter Prevost, and to judge accordingly.
This plan succeeded. He separated the truth from the falsehood, and
came to the conclusion that it would be folly to go and give himself
up to certain death, so long as there was a chance of saving his young
friend by other means; but that it was right to do so if other means
failed; and that neither by delay nor by rash and uncertain efforts
must he risk the chance of saving him, even by the ultimate sacrifice.
He accordingly made up his mind to re-enter the Indian territory in
spite of every peril; to conceal himself as best he could; to watch
the Indians as he would watch a wild beast; and to be ready for any
opportunity, or for any decision.
Now that his resolution was finally taken, he lay down and slept
profoundly.