The promise of the sunset was verified. The succeeding day dawned
bright and clear. The wind had shifted to the south-west; and, as
frequently happens in the American autumn, the cold and icy breath of
the north-east had been succeeded by a wind as soft and gentle as the
warmest sigh of spring. In large masses, the snow fell from the boughs
of the hemlock and the pine; the white surface of the earth's covering
glistened as if with shining scales, as the upper surface began to
melt; and, drop after drop, the water trickled from the extreme boughs
of the trees, till the fully-risen sun sent the snow away dissolved
into the streams and into the lake. It was like the recovery of the
mind from sorrow, under the bright influence of happier days.
Only here and there, a patch of snow was still seen upon the tops of
the hills, or in the more shady parts of the forest; only here and
there upon the sky lingered the fragment of a cloud; but, instead of
the dark, heavy, gray mass which had palled the heavens on the
preceding day, that cloud was as light and soft as the down of the
swan.
About two o'clock, several long lines of Indian chiefs and warriors
might be seen approaching the great Oneida village. Soon after, a
great fire was lighted before the door of the principal lodge; and, as
on the preceding evening, the warriors were ranged in a circle round,
and the women and children in another beyond.
The great chief, dressed in all the glittering finery of the Indian
peace-costume, with feathers, and red and white head-dress, and
crimson mantle, and embroidered shirt, and over-dress, and medals
innumerable hanging round his neck, took the seat of honour with a
grave dignity such as few civilized monarchs have ever, after the
greatest study, been able to attain. He wore no warlike weapons;
nothing but a single knife appeared in his girdle; and in his hand he
carried the richly-ornamented calumet, or pipe of peace.
Close behind her father sat Otaitsa, with her heart greatly troubled,
less perhaps with fear than with expectation. The Black Eagle had been
kind and tender with her when they were alone together. He had held
her to his heart with a display of fondness such as an Indian rarely
shows openly to his child. He had listened to the whole tale of her
love for Walter Prevost without a word of disapprobation or reproach;
and sometimes even a playful smile had come upon his dark stern
face as her words recalled the memory of feelings experienced in
youth--like a well-remembered song heard again after a long lapse of
years. Instead of reprehending her attempt to deliver Walter, he
commended it highly.
"It was thy part, my child," said he; "thou shouldst have been a boy,
Otaitsa; the warrior's spirit is in the maiden's bosom."
But when she came to speak of her lover's fate--to plead, to sue, to
entreat--the stern, grave coldness of the Indian chief returned; and
though she could see that he was full of fixed resolves, she could in
no degree discover what they were. The explanation of them she knew
was now to come; and it may be imagined, with what eager and intense
interest she listened for every word.
There was, of course, some little confusion as the multitude took
their places; but it was soon hushed, and then a deep silence ensued.
The great pipe was lighted, and sent from hand to hand till it had
passed all round the circle; and then, and not till then, Black Eagle
rose and spoke.
"Have my words been heard?" he asked; "have my warriors examined
whether any of the dark and infernal order of the Honontkoh are
amongst us."
He seated himself again as soon as he had made the inquiry; and, after
a moment's pause, two middle-aged warriors who had been with him on
the preceding day rose, and took a step forward, while one of them
said,--
"We have heard thy words, and examined. The brother of the Snake,
Apukwa the medicine-man, and the Flying Squirrel, are Honontkoh. The
stripe is upon them, and upon none else."
"It is well," said the chief, rising again. "Bring forward that man
who was taken at our Castle-door last night."
Half-a-dozen young men sprang upon their feet, and speedily brought
from the door of a neighbouring lodge the half-breed runner, Proctor,
whom we have seen with Brooks and Lord H----, at Albany. He had a
calumet in his hand, the sign of a peaceful mission; and he showed no
fear, for he knew that his life would be respected, although he had
learned by this time that the Oneidas had been greatly excited by some
acts referring to the very object of his mission.
Standing in the midst, then, as calm and collected as he had been in
the fort at Albany, he hardly gave a glance around the circle, but
looked straight, with a cold and inexpressive countenance, at the
chief before whom he was placed.
"What hast thou to say?" demanded Black Eagle.
The man remained silent, although there was an evident movement of his
lips as if to speak.
"Fear not," said Black Eagle, mistaking the ineffectual effort to
speak for a sign of apprehension, although it really proceeded from an
habitual unwillingness to hear the sound of his own voice; "thou shalt
go in safety, whatever be thy message. Art thou dumb, man? Is thy
tongue a stone?"
"I am not dumb--I am not afraid," said the runner, with a strong
effort. "Great chiefs in Albany send me to say, 'Give us the boy.'"
There he stopped, for it had cost him much to utter so many words.
"Were they war chiefs?" demanded Black Eagle, aloud.
The man nodded his head, and Black Eagle asked--
"Did they threaten the Oneidas? Did they say they would unbury the
hatchet?"
The runner shook his head; and the chief asked--
"What did they say, then, would befall us if we refused to comply?"
"Shame!" replied Proctor, aloud.
Black Eagle suddenly drew his mantle over his face.
A low murmur spread around, like the hum of a hive of bees. When it
had subsided, the chief again rose, and with an air of grave, sad
dignity, looked round upon his people.
"Ye have heard, O children of the Stone," he said, in a rich, clear,
deep-toned voice, "what the chiefs of the pale-faces say of the Oneida
nation; and there are warriors here who were with me yesterday, when
our brethren, the Mohawks, reproached me with treachery and
inhospitality towards our pale-face brother, Prevost; and the Black
Eagle had nothing to answer. Ye know the history. Why should I sing
again the song of yesterday? A man of our nation was slain by one of
the Yengees; and the brethren of the dead man seized upon the son of
Prevost, who is also _our_ son, without searching for him who had
spilt the blood. This was contrary to the custom of the Five Nations.
But they say the man was not to be found--he was already beyond our
territory; and we must take the first we can find to appease the
spirit of our brother. Now Prevost is a good man, loved by all the
Five Nations, a brother to the red man, a friend who trusted us. So
hard do the Mohawks and the Onondagas think this deed, that they have
dealt subtly with the Oneidas, and striven to rescue our captive from
our hands by the crooked ways of the serpent. The pale-face chiefs,
too, have sent men into our land, and think darkly of the Oneidas. But
the Black Eagle saw what they did, and spread his wings and drove them
forth. He had no answer for the reproaches of the Mohawks or of the
Yengees. He will give them both their answer this day by the
messenger; and the children of the Stone will thereby know his mind.
Let them say if it be good."
Then turning to Proctor, he stretched out his hand towards the south,
saying--
"When thou goest hence, two of my warriors shall go with thee to the
Castle of the Mohawk, and thou shalt say, 'Why hast thou dealt subtly
with the Oneida? If thou hadst aught against him, why didst thou not
send a messenger of peace to tell thy brother thy mind? or why didst
thou not appeal to the great council of the Five Nations to judge
between thee and him? If thou wilt unbury the hatchet, and cut down
the tree of peace, and bring trouble into the Five Nations, that the
pale-face may prevail and our Long House be pulled down to the ground,
paint thy face, and dance the war-dance, and come upon the battle-way;
but follow not the trail of the serpent, to steal unperceived into thy
brother's land.'"
A murmur of approbation followed this bold speech; but the next moment
the chief continued, still addressing Proctor, and saying--
"When thou hast thus spoken to the Mohawk, thou shalt go on to the
pale-face chiefs at Albany, and to them thou shalt say, 'The children
of the Stone have heard your message. They are the children of the
great King. He is their father and they love him; but the Oneidas have
their own laws, and are led by their own chiefs. They take the
war-path against your enemies as against their own; and ye are glad in
the day of battle when they fight the Frenchmen by your side. It is
sweet to them that you have used no threats; and they would not have
their white brother think darkly of them. They love, too, the chief,
Prevost. They love his son as a brother; but one of their own children
has been slain by one of yours, and their law must be fulfilled. His
spirit must not be shut out from the happy hunting-grounds. They will
mourn as a whole nation for Walter Prevost; but Walter Prevost must
die, unless the murderer be taken. Thus says the Black Eagle, the
great chief of the Oneida nation; he who has taken a hundred scalps of
his enemies, and fought in fifteen battles with your foes and his.
Give us up the murderer if ye would save the boy. He is in your land:
you can find him. Do justly by us in this matter, and walk not in the
trail of the fox to deceive us, and to save from us our captive.'"
Then pausing for an instant, he somewhat lowered his voice, but spoke
the succeeding words very slowly and distinctly, in order that every
syllable might not only be impressed upon the mind of the man he
addressed, but be clearly heard and comprehended by all the people
around.
"Thou shalt say, moreover, to our brethren, the pale-face chiefs at
Albany, 'The Black Eagle finds that Walter Prevost has fallen into the
hands of bad men, men who are not to be trusted, dealers in dark
things, vultures whose heads are bare, but whose hearts are covered.
The Black Eagle will take the boy from their hands, and will treat him
well, and keep him in safety till the hour come. As ye have said that
the Oneidas are hasty, that they do rashly, that they have not sought
as they ought to seek--for six moons will Black Eagle keep the lad in
peace, as his own son, to see whether ye will give him up the murderer
of an Oneida. But, as the chief would slay his own son, if the laws of
his people required it at his hands, so will he and the chiefs of his
nation slay Walter Prevost, if, in six moons, ye do not give him up
the murderer. He shall die the death of a warrior, with his hands
unbound, and, as Black Eagle knows the spirit that is in him, he is
sure he will die as a warrior should.' This thou shalt say to the
English chiefs; let them look to it; the fate of the boy depends upon
their counsel. Give him a roll of wampum for his reward, and let him
go in peace."
His commands were immediately obeyed, and the half-breed runner
removed from the circle.
Then, turning to the warriors without reseating himself, the chief
demanded--
"Have I said well?"
The usual words of approbation followed, repeated by almost every
voice present; and then Black Eagle resumed, in a sterner tone,
saying--
"And now, my children, what shall be done to the Honontkoh? I have
already removed the captive from their hands; for they are a people
without faith. They live in darkness, and they wrap themselves in a
shadow. They take their paths in deceit, and we see blood and
dissension follow them. Already have they raised against us the wrath
of our brethren of the Five Nations; they have brought the yellow
cloud of shame upon the Oneidas. They have well nigh severed the
threads which hold the roll of our league together. They have laid the
hatchet to the root of the tree which we and our English father
planted. I say, let them go forth from amongst us. The Totem of the
Tortoise casts them forth. We will not have our lodges near their
lodges. They shall not dwell within our palisade. Let them betake
themselves to the darkness of the forest, and to the secret holes of
the rock; for darkness and secrecy are the dwelling-places of their
hearts. Or let them go, if they will, to the deceitful Hurons, to the
people beyond Horicon, and fight beside the deceitful Frenchmen. With
us they shall not dwell; let them be seen no more amongst us.--Is my
judgment good?"
A general cry of approbation followed; the council broke up, and the
warriors commenced wandering about, those who came from a distance
seeking hospitality in the neighbouring lodges; for the great lodge
itself could not afford room for all.
To her own little chamber, Otaitsa retired at once; and, barring the
door, went down upon her knees, to offer up thanksgiving and
prayer--thanksgiving, for hope is ever a blessing--prayer, for danger
was still before her eyes. Safe for the next six months she knew
Walter would be, in the careful custody of her father; but she still
prayed earnestly that her mother's God would find some way of
deliverance, for the sake of Him who died to save mankind.