In the chain of low cliffs which ran at the distance of four or five
miles from the Oneida village, and to which, probably, at one time the
waters of the lake had extended, was a deep cleft or fissure in the
hard rock, fourteen or fifteen yards in width at its widest part, and
narrower at the mouth than in the interior. One of the rocks, at the
time I speak of, though large masses have fallen since, and a good
deal altered the features of the scene, abutted considerably over its
base, and projected so far as almost to touch the opposite crag,
giving the mouth of the fissure somewhat the appearance of a cave. On
either side, the walls of this gloomy dell were perpendicular--in some
places even overhanging; and at the end, where it might have been
expected to slope gradually away to the upland, the general character
of the scene was merely diversified by a break fifteen or sixteen feet
from the ground, dividing the face of the crag nearly into two equal
parts. Beneath this ledge was a hollow of four or five feet in depth,
rendering ascent from that side impracticable.
It is probable that at some time in the long, unknown past of America
a river poured here over the edge of the cliff, wearing away the solid
rock by its continued action; and, as in the case of Niagara, carrying
the cataract further and further back with each succeeding year, but
without diminishing the precipitancy of the fall. The stone was of a
loose and friable nature, breaking, by all the various accidents of
the seasons, into strange and uncouth forms; and altogether the place,
rarely if ever visited by the sun, would have been one of the most dim
and gloomy that can be conceived, had not some light feathery shrubs
and trees perched themselves upon several prominent points, especially
where the ledge I have mentioned marked out the former site of the
cascade.
Underneath that ledge, at the time referred to, had been hastily
constructed a small hut or Indian lodge, formed of stakes driven into
the ground, and covered over skilfully enough with bark, branches, and
other materials of the forest. A door had apparently been brought for
it from some distance; for it was evidently old, and had strange
figures painted on it in red. Across this door was fixed a great bar,
which would indeed have been very useless, had not the stakes forming
the walls of the hut been placed close together, rendering it in
reality much stronger than an ordinary Indian lodge.
On the day after Otaitsa's expedition, mentioned in the preceding
chapter, sixteen or eighteen Oneidas of different ages, but none of
them far advanced in life, gathered round the mouth of the cleft, and
conversed together for several minutes, in low tones, and with their
usual slow and deliberate manner. At the end of their conference, one
seated himself on a stone near the entrance, two advanced into the
chasm, and the rest dispersed themselves in different directions
through the woods.
The two who advanced approached the hut, following each other so
closely that the foot of each trod in the step of the other; and when
they reached the lodge, the foremost took down the bar and opened the
door, suffering the light to enter the dark chamber within. The
spectacle which that light displayed was a very painful one.
There, seated on the ground, with his head almost bent down to his
knees, his brown hair falling wild and shaggy over his face, his dress
soiled, and in some parts torn, and his hands thin and sallow, sat
poor Walter Prevost, the image of despair. All the bright energies of
his eager, impetuous nature seemed quelled; the look of happy,
youthful enjoyment was altogether gone; and with it the warm hopes and
glowing aspirations, the dreams of future happiness or greatness, of
love, and joy, and tenderness. The sunshine had departed; the motes of
existence no longer danced in the beam.
He lifted not his head when the Indians entered; still and impassible
as themselves, he sat without movement or word; the very senses seemed
dead in the living tomb where they had confined him. But the sight
touched them with no pity.
Grazing at him with a curious, cunning, serpent-like look, Apukwa
placed before him a wallet which he carried, containing some dried
deer's-flesh and parched Indian corn; and, after having watched him
for a moment without a change of countenance, he said, in a cold
tone--"There is food--take it and eat."
As if the sound of his hated voice had startled the youth from a
death-like sleep, Walter sprang suddenly to his feet, exclaiming,--
"Why should I eat, to prolong my misery? Slay me! Take thy tomahawk
and dash my brains out! Put an end to this torment, the most terrible
that thy fiend-like race have ever devised!"
The two Indians laughed with a low, quiet, satisfied laugh.
"We cannot slay thee," said the brother of the Snake, "till we know
that thy pale-face brother who killed our brother, cannot be found to
take thy place."
"He is far beyond your power," cried Walter vehemently; "he will never
be within your grasp. I helped him to escape; I delivered him from
you. Slay me, slay me, dogs of Indians! Your hearts are wolves'
hearts; you are not men, you are women who dare not use a tomahawk.
You are the scoff of your enemies. They laugh at the Oneidas; they
spit at them. They say they are children, who dare not kill an enemy
till the old men say, 'Kill him.' They fear the rod of their chief.
They are like hares and rabbits, that tremble at the sound of the
wind."
It was in vain that he tried to provoke them. They only seemed to
enjoy his agony, and the bitter words that it called forth.
"Eat and drink," said Apukwa coldly, as soon as Walter became silent;
"for we are going to tie thee. We must hunt the deer, we must grind
the corn--we cannot watch thee every day, till the time of the
sacrifice comes. Eat and drink, then; for here are the thongs."
Walter glared at him for a moment, and then snatched up a gourd filled
with water, which the brother of the Snake had brought, and drained it
with a long and eager draught. He then cast it from him, and stood
still and stern before them, saying,--
"I will disappoint you. Henceforth I will eat no more. Tie me if you
will. I can fast as well as you Indians."
The two men looked in each other's faces, apparently puzzled how to
act; for, if he kept his resolution, their object would, indeed, be
frustrated. The death of their kinsman, according to their
superstition, required blood; and by starvation the prisoner would
escape from their hands. Still, they dared not disobey the decision of
the chiefs.
A slight sign seemed to pass between them; and, taking hold of the
poor lad somewhat roughly, they bound both his hands and feet, twining
the stout thongs of deer-skin round and round, and through and
through, in what seemed inextricable knots. He stood quite still and
passive; and, when they had done, cast himself down upon the ground
again, turning his face from them. The two men gazed at him for a
moment or two, and then, leaving the hut in silence, replaced the bar.
For some time after they were gone, Walter lay just as he had fallen.
The dead apathy of despair had taken possession of him; life, thought,
feeling, were a burden. The many days which had passed in that dull,
dark, silent abode were rapidly producing on his mind that effect
which solitary confinement is said too often to occasion. The
transition is easy from anxiety, grief, fear, through melancholy and
gloom, to despair and madness. Oh, man, never shut out hope from thy
fellow-creature! or, if it must be so--if crime requires relentless
punishment--then, whatever a false philanthropy would say, give thou
death when thou takest away this world's hope, for then thou openest
the gate of the grave to a brighter light than that which is
extinguished. The All-seeing Eye beams with mercy as well as light.
He lay in that death-like stillness for several hours; and there came
not a sound of any kind during all that time, to relieve the black
monotony of the day. His ear, by suffering, had been rendered
painfully acute; but the snow fell noiselessly; the wild animals were
in their coverts or in their dens; the very wind had no breath.
Suddenly there was a sound. What was it? It seemed like a cracking
branch far up above his head. Then a stone rolled down and rattled
over the bark roof, making the snow slip before it. Another crashing
branch, and then a silence, which seemed to him to last for hours.
"Some panther or catamount," he thought, "in the trees above." And he
laid his half-raised head down again upon the ground.
No! There were fingers on the bar. He heard it move. Had the Indians
come back to urge the food upon him? The touch upon the bar, however,
seemed feeble, compared with theirs. It lifted the heavy log of wood
slowly, and with difficulty. Walter's heart beat--visions came over
his mind--hope flickered up; and he raised himself as well as he could
into a sitting posture. From the ground he could not rise, for his
hands were tied.
Slowly and quietly the door opened; the light rushed in, and, in the
midst of its blaze, stood the beautiful figure of the Blossom, with
her head partly turned away, as if in the act of listening. Her long
wavy hair, broken from its band, and spotted with the white snow, fell
almost to her feet. But little was the clothing that she wore: no
mantle, no over-dress, nothing but the Indian woman's embroidered
shirt, gathered round her by a belt, and leaving the arms and legs
bare. Her hands were torn and bloody; her bright face and brow
scratched by the fangs of the bramble; but still to Walter Prevost, as
she stood listening there, it was the loveliest sight his eyes had
ever rested on.
Thus, for a moment, she listened; then gazed into the hut, sprang
forward, cast her arms around his neck, and wept as she had never wept
before.
"My brother--my husband!" she exclaimed, leaning her forehead on his
shoulder, "Otaitsa has found thee at length!"
He would fain have cast his arms around her; he would fain have
pressed her to his heart; he would fain have told her that he could
bear death, or even life, or any fate, for such love as hers. But his
hands were tied, and his tongue was powerless with emotion.
A few moments passed in silence; and then Otaitsa said,--
"The cruel wolves have tied thee; but Otaitsa will give thee freedom."
In an instant, her small, delicate fingers were busy with the thongs;
and with the rapidity of thought they were all untied, and hands and
feet were both loose; but, as she worked, the blood dropped from her
fingers on his wrists, and while he held her to his heart with--oh,
how fond, how warm an embrace! he said,--
"Thou bleedest, my Blossom. Oh! Otaitsa, what hast thou risked, what
hast thou encountered for Walter's sake?"
"But little, my beloved," she answered; "would it were ten times more,
to prove my love. What! they have put meat within thy sight, and tied
thy hands to make thee die of famine, with food before thee! Out on
the cruel monsters!"
"No, no, my Otaitsa," returned Walter, "I would not eat. I wished to
die. I knew not that an angel would come to cheer and help me."
"And to deliver thee too, my Walter," answered Otaitsa, with a bright
smile. "I trust it is certain, my beloved. By the way _I_ came, by
that way _you_ can go."
"How came you?" asked Walter, seating her beside him, and pressing her
closer with his arm to the bosom on which she leaned. "I thought it
was impossible for any one to reach me, so hidden is this place, so
close the watch they kept. It must have been very perilous for thee,
my Blossom. Art thou not hurt?"
"Oh, no," she answered; "nor was the peril really great. God gave me
wings to fly to thee. Love bore me up. But let me tell thee how I
came. I have a friend, the wife of one of thine enemies, a young bride
to whom his heart is open as the lake. From her I heard of all their
plans; how they have filled the wood below the rocks with watchers;
how they have set guards on every trail. They never dreamed that from
the morning-side a way could be found down over the rock into this
dell. I pondered over the tidings, and remembered that, when I was a
little happy child, I clambered some way down by the aid of shrubs and
crevices in search of fruit; and I laid my plan against theirs. I took
two ropes, which I had woven long ago, of the tough bark of the
moose-plant; and, making a wide circle round, I reached the upland
above the cliffs. My only trouble was to find the exact spot from that
side; for I knew that there was a cloud between me and thy enemies,
and that I walked unseen. At length, however, I found the rock
overlooking the chasm. I cast off all burdens, all that the brambles
or branches might snatch at; and, with the ropes wound round me, came
down as far as I could find safe footing. There was a tree, a small
tree, on the pinnacle; and I tried it before I trusted it. One branch
broke; but the root and stump stood firm, griping the rock fast. To
them I fixed the end of one rope, and easily swung down to a point
below where there was a larger, stronger tree. A stone, however,
slipped from under my foot, and fell rattling down. Round the strong
tree I twisted the rope again, and thus reached the very ledge
overhead; but there, as there had been noise and some crashing of the
branches, I stood for a while hidden behind the bushes, to make sure
that I was not discovered. At length, however, I was satisfied; and
now the other rope was a friend to give me help. I fastened it to the
first, knotted it into tight loops, and thus, aiding hands and feet
with sometimes the aid of a projecting stone, and sometimes a small
shrub, came slowly down. By the same way I shall return, my love; and
by it, too, my Walter must go back this night to his own people."
"Why not with you now?" asked Walter eagerly. "Let Otaitsa go with me,
and, whenever we reach my father's house, become my wife indeed. Oh,
how gladly will he fold her to his heart! how fondly will Edith call
her sister!"
"It cannot be, beloved," she answered. "I came to save him I love--to
save him who is the husband of my heart, but not to abandon my father
till he gives me to you; and, besides, there would be none to help us.
This night you must climb by the ropes and boughs up to the top of the
cliff, when, as near as you can reckon, there have been six hours of
darkness. At the top you will find people waiting. They are but women,
yet they all love you, and me likewise; and they have sworn by their
Great Spirit, that if it cost their lives they will set you free. Each
will help you in some way. One has a canoe upon the creek--another
knows the deepest woods on the Mohawk side, and can guide you well.
Others will lead you down Wood Creek to Sir William Johnson's Castle,
where you are safe. Eat now, my beloved; for you must have strength,
and Otaitsa must leave you soon. Before she goes, she must tie your
hands again, lest your enemies come ere the night; but she will tie
them in such a sort, that with your teeth you can undraw the knot; and
she will loosen the fastening of the bar, so that even a weak hand can
push it out."
She had hardly uttered the words, when a low, mocking laugh came upon
their ears, and two or three dark forms shadowed the doorway. Otaitsa
instantly started to her feet, and drew a knife from the belt around
her waist.
"Stand back," she cried aloud, in the Iroquois tongue, as the men
glided in. "I am your great chief's daughter; and the blood of the
Black Eagle will not bear a touch."
"We touch thee not, Blossom," answered Apukwa. "Thou shalt go free;
for the Black Eagle is a great chief, a mighty warrior, reverenced by
his people. But our prisoner we keep; and though thou hast loosened
his bands, we can fasten them again. Put thy tomahawk in thy belt,
brother of the Snake. It must taste no blood here, though it is
hungry, I know well. He shall die; but not now."
As he spoke, he thrust his arm between the younger Indian and Walter,
who had cast himself before Otaitsa as if for one desperate struggle,
if he saw any violence offered to her. The words of the medicine-man,
however, quieted him on that score; and it was but too plain that all
resistance on his part would be in vain. A few hours before, he had
sought death as a boon; but the coming of the Blossom had changed all
his thoughts and feelings, had relighted hope, and restored firmness
and constancy. He was willing to live on for the chances of what some
other day might bring; the love and self-devotion of that beautiful
creature made existence seem too valuable to cast away the slightest
chance of its preservation. He suffered them to bind him then, while
Otaitsa turned away her head, and struggled against the tears that
sought to rise. It cost her a great effort; but resolution triumphed;
and, with a lofty air very different from the tenderness of her
demeanour a few moments before, she waved her hand for the Indians to
make way, saying--
"Unworthy Oneidas! I go to carry my own tale to my father's feet; to
tell him that, with his own blood warm in my heart, I came hither to
save my brother, my lover, my husband; and to warn him that the
tomahawk which falls on that beloved head severs the chain of
Otaitsa's life. But fear not, Walter," she continued, turning towards
him, "fear not, my beloved. Live, and laugh thine enemies to scorn.
Thou shalt be delivered yet, let these men do what they will. It is
written on high, that thou shalt not perish by their hands."
Thus saying, she left the hut; and, followed closely by two of the
Oneidas, pursued her way back towards the Castle.
When she reached the gate of the palisade, she at once perceived a
good deal of commotion and activity within, though none but women,
youths, and children were to be seen.
"Where is the Black Eagle?" she asked of the first woman whom she met.
"Has he returned to the lodge?"
"He returned with forty warriors," replied the other, in a grave tone;
"painted himself for battle, and has gone forth upon the war-path,
taking with him every warrior he could find."
"Against whom?" asked Otaitsa in as calm a tone as she could assume,
but with her heart beating fast.
"We do not know," replied the woman sadly; "but a tale spread, coming
out of darkness through which none could see, that the Black Eagle had
gone against our brethren the Mohawks and Onondagas. It was said they
had unburied the hatchet, and cut down the tree of peace, before the
door of the Oneidas."
Otaitsa clasped her hands together, bent her head, and took some steps
towards the door of the lodge. Then, turning to the two men who had
followed her, she said, bitterly--"And ye were absent when the Black
Eagle called for warriors? Ye were right; for ye are women, and have
only courage to torment a captive."
Thus saying, she passed on with a quiet step into the lodge; and
there, where no eye could see her, gave way in tears to all the sad
and bitter feelings of her heart.