From the bloody field of Ticonderoga, Abercrombie retreated, as is
well known, after having in vain attempted to take the inner _abattis_
without cannon, and sacrificed the lives of many hundred gallant men
to his own want of self-reliance.
I need dwell no more upon this painful subject; but it was a sad day
for the whole army, a sad day for the whole province, and a sadder day
still for one small domestic circle, when the bodies of the gallant
Lord H---- and his promised bride were brought to rest for a night at
the house of Mr. Prevost, before they were carried down to Albany. A
party of the young nobleman's own regiment carried the coffins by
turns, another party followed with arms reversed; but between the
biers and the escort walked four men, with hearts as sad as any upon
earth.
It may seem strange, but neither of the four shed a tear. The tall
Indian warrior, though he grieved as much as if he had lost a child,
had no tears for any earthly sorrow. The fountain in the heart of Mr.
Prevost had been dried up by the fiery intensity of his grief. Walter
had wept long and secretly, but the pride of manhood would not let him
stain his cheeks in the presence of soldiers. Woodchuck's eyes were
dry, too; for, during six long months, he had disciplined his heart to
look upon the things of earth so lightly, that, although he grieved
for Edith's fate, it was with the sort of sorrow he might have felt to
see a beautiful flower trampled down by a rough foot; and bright hope
mingled with the shadow of his woe--for he said to himself,
frequently, "They have but parted for to-day, to meet in a happier
place to-morrow."
As the procession approached the house, the servants came forth to
meet it, with a young and comely girl at their head, clad in the
Indian costume. She bore two little wreaths in her hand, one woven of
bright spring flowers, the other of dark evergreens; and, when the
soldiers halted for a moment with their burden, she laid the flowers
upon the coffin of Edith, the evergreens upon the soldier's bier. Then
turning, with the tears dropping from her eyes, but with no clamorous
grief, she walked before them back into the house.
Some four years after, another kind of scene might be beheld at the
house of Mr. Prevost. He himself sat in a great chair under the
verandah, with his hair become as white as snow, and his head a good
deal bowed. Seated on the ground near him was a tall Indian chief,
very little changed in appearance; grave, calm, and still severe. On
the step of the verandah sat two young people; a tall, handsome,
powerful man of about one-and-twenty years of age, and a graceful
girl, whose brown cheek displayed some mixture of the Indian blood. On
the green grass before them, with a black nurse sitting by, was as
lovely a child of about two years old as ever the sun shone upon. They
had gathered for her a number of pretty flowers, and she was sporting
with them, with the grace and happiness that only childhood can
display or know. The eyes of all were fixed upon her, and they called
her Edith.
One was wanting to that party, out of those who had assembled at the
door four years previously. Woodchuck was no longer there. He had gone
where he longed to be. When he felt sickness coming upon him some two
years after the death of Lord H----, he had left the house of Mr.
Prevost, which he had lately made his home; and had gone, as he said,
to wander in the mountains. There he became worse. An Indian runner
came down to tell his friends that he was dying; and when Mr. Prevost
went up to see him, he found him in a Seneca lodge with but a few
hours of life before him.
He was glad to see the friendly face near him; and as his visitor bent
over him, he said, "I am very much obliged to you for coming, Prevost,
for I want to ask you one thing, and that is to have me buried in the
churchyard at Albany, just beside your dear girl. I know this is all
nonsense; I know that the flesh sees corruption; still I've a fancy
that I shall rest quieter there than anywhere else. If ever there was
an angel, she was one, and I think her dust must sanctify the ground."
It was his only request, and it was not forgotten.
THE END.
---------------------------------------
COX AND WYMAN, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Black Eagle, by George Payne Rainsford James