It was a sad and weary day to poor Walter Prevost, for he was without
his consolation. The time of his long imprisonment, indeed, had been
less burdensome than might have been supposed, although, during the
first two or three weeks, many a fruitless effort to escape had
wearied his spirits. He learned, however, that escape was impossible;
he was too closely and too continually watched. There was nothing to
prevent his quitting the hut; but the moment he did so, whether night
or day, he was met by two or three armed Indians. They were kind and
courteous to him, though they suffered him not to bend his steps in
the direction of their castle, or village, nor to approach the lake,
to the banks of which many a canoe was moored. Sometimes one of them
would take him to hunt; but two or three others followed, and never
separated from his side. They were not fond of speaking of his
probable fate, and generally avoided the subject with true Indian
skill; but once a young warrior, less experienced than the rest,
related to him the messages which the great chief had sent by the
runner Proctor, and Walter learned the decision regarding his own
fate, and the chances on which it hung. That young Indian was never
seen near him more. It was evident that he was looked upon as having
betrayed counsel, and that he had been removed.
But, about that time, the greatest solace and balm he could receive
was afforded him. Otaitsa suddenly appeared in the hut, and told him
that, by promising to make no personal effort for his rescue, and to
take no advantage of the freedom granted her to facilitate his escape
by his own efforts, she had obtained permission to visit him for two
hours each day. She had explained to him, however, that others, in
whom she trusted, were busy in his cause; and that the Grey Dove
herself, on whom all her people looked with the greatest reverence,
had positively assured her he should not die.
At first, their interviews were sad enough. Hope and fear kept up
their battle in the heart; but in time those emotions passed away, and
love and happiness were all that remained; or, if aught of fear
mingled with those blessings, it was but enough, as it were, to
sanctify their intercourse, to purify it of some portion of earthly
passion, so that, even while they sat twined in each other's arms,
their conversation would often be of death and future life, and
happiness unmingled. She often called him "husband" to her father; but
it was always "brother" when they were there alone.
Day after day, beneath the sunshine or the cloud, over the snow or the
green earth, Otaitsa visited the hut. But she had grown anxious as the
days rolled on. She had not calculated the time accurately; but she
knew the appointed day was near, and Walter was not delivered. She
accused herself of folly in having trusted to others; though she saw
not how, watched as he was, his deliverance could be effected by
herself. But she resolved now to bestir herself, and, if she lost her
life in the attempt, to make one last great effort to set him free.
Such was her resolution on the preceding day, when, on parting with
him, she whispered in his ear, lest any one should be listening
without,--
"I shall not come to you again, my brother, till I come to save you. I
know not how it will be; but, if I fail, Walter will not be long in
heaven ere Otaitsa seeks him there."
He hardly believed she could keep her resolution of abstaining from at
least one more interview. But the weary day passed by; the Indians who
brought him food and fire appeared and disappeared; the rain fell
heavily; the wind shook the hut; and Otaitsa did not come.
At length, the night began to fall, stern, gloomy, dark; a rayless
sunset, a brief twilight, and then utter blackness. His spirit sank
low indeed; his heart felt heavy and oppressed: he bent him down,
stirred up the embers of his fire, piled more wood upon it, and
kindled a bright, cheerful blaze. But it had no effect in raising his
spirits or warming his heart. All within him was cheerless.
He sat and gazed into the fire, and thought of his absent home, and of
the pleasant days of youth, and of the sweet dreams he had once
cherished--the hopes that hung like faded pictures upon the wall of
memory. A thousand little incidents, a thousand delightful
recollections, came back upon him, while he sat and meditated, as if
merely to make life more dear; when, suddenly, on the other side of
the hut, a dark figure crossed the firelight, and then another, and
another, and another, till they numbered six. They were all chiefs,
and men of lofty mien; but stern, and grave, and silent. They seated
themselves in a semicircle at the very further part of the hut, and
for several minutes remained profoundly still.
He understood at once what it meant. The last hour of life was come;
and the dead, heavy sinking of the heart which the aspect of death
suddenly presented to an unprepared and unexcited mind, was the first
sensation. True, the door stood at a little distance, on his right
hand, and they were at the other end of the hut, with no one between
him and the means of egress; but he knew their swiftness of foot and
deadly aim too well. It was better to stay and to meet the worst
there, than to fall by the thrown tomahawk in inglorious flight. He
rallied his spirits: he called all his courage to his aid: he
bethought him of how an Indian would die, and resolved to die boldly
and calmly likewise.
Sitting still in silence, he gazed over the countenances of the
chiefs, scanning their stern, hard features thoughtfully. Only two
were there whom he knew; Black Eagle himself, and an old man with a
white scalp-lock, whom he recollected having comforted and supported
once when he found him ill and exhausted near his father's house. The
others were all strangers to him: and nothing could be read upon their
faces but cold, rigid determination. No passion, no anger, no emotion,
could be traced; but there was something inexpressibly dreadful in
gazing on those still, quiet countenances, with a knowledge of the
bloody purpose of the men. To have died in battle--to have struggled
with them fiercely for life--would have been nothing; but to sit
there, coldly awaiting the moment of the ruthless blow, and to know
that they expected it to be borne with the same quiet, stoical apathy
with which it was dealt, was very, very terrible to the young
European.
Yet Walter tried to nerve himself to the utmost against any sign of
fear; and strove for resolution not to disgrace himself, his name, and
family, even in the opinion of those wild Indians. There must have
been apprehension in his eyes--in the straining eagerness with which
he scanned them; but there was no other mark of alarm: not a muscle
moved; the lip did not quiver; the brow was not contracted.
At length, after that long, solemn pause, the voice of Black Eagle was
heard speaking low and softly.
"My son, thou must die," he said. "Thou art dear to me as a child; thy
father is my brother; but thou hast drawn an evil lot, and thou must
die. The morning of thy days has been short and bright; the night
comes for thee before the day is well begun. The blood of our brother
who was slain must be atoned for by the blood of one of the race that
slew him--the white man for the red man. We have sought in vain for
the murderer of our brother, or for some one who might have been a
substitute for him whom we love. Each man here would have perilled his
own head to find another in thy place; but it could not be. The
pale-faces took fright at the news of what had been done, and none has
been found within our territory. We know that the man who did the deed
has been here. We fancied that he had come generously to pay the
penalty of his own act; but fear was in his heart, and twice he
escaped us. He is as cunning as the fox, and as swift to flee. Now, O
thou son of my brother! thou must die; for the time has gone by that
was given thee in the hope of some deliverance: the hours have run
swiftly and in vain; and the last has come. We know that it is the
custom of thy people to sing no war-song at their death; but to pray
to their Good Spirit to receive them speedily into the happy
hunting-grounds. We shall not think it want of courage if thou
prayest; for the son of our brother Prevost will not disgrace his name
at his death. Pray, therefore, to thy God; thy prayer shall be as it
were a war-song, and, strengthened by it, thou shalt die as a man and
a warrior."
Walter remained silent for a moment, while a terrible struggle went on
in his heart; but resolution conquered, and he rose from the ground on
which he was sitting, erect and firm; and, stretching forth his hand,
he said,--
"Chiefs of the Oneidas, you are unjust. At this hour of my death, I
tell you, you know not equity. Your laws are not of the Good Spirit,
but of the bad; for it is evil to kill an innocent man, black and
dastardly to slay a helpless man who trusted you and loved you; and,
if it is by your law you do it, your law is bad, and the Good Spirit
will condemn it. My father came and planted his tree amongst you; we
grew up,--my sister and myself,--loving and confiding in your people.
We made your tongue our tongue; and my heart became one with the heart
of the daughter of your chief. Lo, now, how ye repay kindness, and
love, and truth, with falsehood, cruelty, and death! You are great
warriors, but you are not good men. In this last hour, I reproach you;
and I tell you, with the voice of a dying man, as with the voice of
one from the land of spirits, that, sooner or later, the great God of
all men will make you feel that you have done an evil thing in my
death."
He paused suddenly; for his eyes, turning somewhat in the direction of
the door, saw a female figure enter, wrapped in the peculiar blanket
or mantle of the Indian women. Another and another entered; and one by
one the shadowy forms ranged themselves in line along the side of the
hut, their faces but faintly seen by the flickering firelight. They
were all as silent as death; and there they stood as solemn witnesses
of the dreadful scene about to be enacted.
The eyes of all the chiefs were turned in the same direction as his
own, and a moment or two of wonder and embarrassment passed; but then
the voice of Black Eagle was raised loudly and sternly, saying,--
"Get you home to the Castle, Oneida women. This is no place for you.
Meddle not with the business of warriors and of men. Dare not to
intrude upon the sacrifice of atonement for our brother's blood."
"Who is it that speaks?" said the clear, shrill voice of the Grey
Dove. "Is it the man of the black heart who slays the son of his
brother? Who is it that dares to speak thus to her who sees the Great
Spirit in her visions, and holds communion with the souls of the dead?
Is it a man pure in heart and hand--a man whose purposes are good in
the sight of the Great Spirit, and who is doing a deed pleasing in his
sight? Is he taking the life of an enemy in the battle? Is he scalping
a foe with whom he has fought and conquered? Lo, now, this is a brave
deed, to slay the son of a friend, and a boy who has no power to
resist. But the boy shall not die. If a pale-face has killed one of
the children of the Stone, this boy has saved the life of more than
one. His hand has been free, and his heart open to the Oneida, and his
good deeds are more than enough to atone for the evil deeds of
another. The ashes of thy pipe, Black Eagle, upon the hearth of
Prevost, call out shame upon the murderer of his son."
"Get you hence, woman!" vociferated another chief. "We are not soft as
water, to be turned in what course you will; we are the children of
the Stone, and our heart is the rock."
"Be it so, then," cried Black Eagle's sister. "Look upon us now, oh,
chiefs! We are here, your mothers, your sisters, your daughters, your
wives; those you love best, those who best love you. See now what we
are commanded to do by the voice of the Good Spirit. If you slay the
youth, you slay us. Every lodge shall be left desolate; there shall be
wailing through the village, and through the land. Now, my sisters, if
their heart be a stone, let our heart be soft, and let the knife find
it easily."
As she spoke, every mantle was thrown back, and every arm raised, and
in every hand was seen the gleam of a knife.
Black Eagle covered his eyes with his mantle, but sat still. Walter
sprang across, and cast himself at the feet of Otaitsa, exclaiming,--
"Hold, hold! for God's sake hold, my Blossom!"
"Back, back!" cried the girl, vehemently; "if thou diest, I die."
"All, all!" exclaimed the women, in the same determined tone.
At this moment, the old priest rose and stretched forth his hands.
"It is the voice of the Great Spirit," he ejaculated, in the tone of
one inspired. "He speaks to us by their tongue; he tells us to
forbear. The deed is evil in his sight; we must not do it. The blood
of our brother is atoned for. It is the voice of the Great Spirit!"
"It is the voice of the Great Spirit--it is the voice of the Great
Spirit!" exclaimed each of the chiefs. And Black Eagle, casting from
him the tomahawk, took Walter in his arms, saying, in a low voice,--
"My son, my son!"
Otaitsa advanced a step towards them; but, before she reached her
father, her sight grew dim, and she fell fainting at his feet.