Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour,
And sumless riches from affection’s deep,
To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!
Hemans.
As the summer wore on, the change in Weetano grew more and more apparent
to the watchful eye of Anna Temple, and awoke in her loving heart an
earnest anxiety for her safety. Her strength was no longer sufficient to
urge forward her canoe—and it rested like a bird on the water; and
though she still insisted on the daily ramble in the greenwood, she
followed her companion with faltering footsteps, and each day their
resting-place was some fallen trunk or mossy rock nearer home than on
the day preceding.
It was during these summer rambles that Anna had acceded to the earnest
entreaty of her friend to instruct her in the “Book of the Pale Face;”
and the avidity with which she gathered the words of instruction
betrayed an ardent thirst for wisdom. She was soon able to read with a
little assistance, and Anna presented her with a little Pocket-Bible,
that had been the companion of all her wanderings, with her own name in
gilt on the cover. It was her sole copy of the Scriptures—but the
family Bible lay on the shelf, at their cottage; and she wisely thought
her little volume would be of greater worth to Red-Bird than to
herself—and much cause had she afterward for joy that her gift of love
was thus bestowed.
As the season advanced, Weetano manifested an anxiety with regard to
their return, and evidently dreaded her father’s orders to depart—for
she had learned a little of the tastes and habits of her white friends,
and they seemed more congenial to her now delicate frame than the ruder
customs of her tribe. There seemed, moreover, some secret care weighing
down her spirits; and although she, Indian-like, buried it for a time in
her own bosom, and Anna forbore questioning, it at length found voice in
words. They were sitting by the lake-side one morning, and Anna plucked
a pretty blue flower just opening there, and gave it to Red-Bird.
“’Tis the first herald of autumn,” said Weetano. “The gentian opens for
the corn-dance, and Oliwibatuc will soon go to his tribe. Would that
Red-Bird might stay in the lodge with Pale-Lily until the feast of the
braves is over! She cannot dress the lodge of the chief—Weetano is
weary;” and the Indian girl burst into tears.
“You are sick, darling Red-Bird,” said Anna, taking her hand in a
caressing manner. “Tell me what is the matter, and I will nurse you, for
you are all the sister I have here in this distant home. You are not
afraid to trust _me_, Weetano?”
“No! Weetano love the pale face! Listen, she will whisper all! Next moon
the Mohawk chief will spread the corn-feast, and the Huron warriors will
come with their braves to smoke the pipe with our tribe, and bury the
bloody tomahawk! ’Tis a hundred moons since our fathers took it up, but
the young chief of the Hurons sent presents to the Mohawk’s wigwam, and
comes to seek his daughter; Oliwibatuc has sent back the belt of
friendship, and Weetano must go to the lodge of Owanaw, to make sure the
bonds of the warriors. She had sooner die, for the shadow of her pale
brother will go with her to the land of spirits; but it will not follow
her to a warrior’s wigwam—for he loves not the bow and tomahawk.”
“But your father will not force you to go, Weetano; why do you speak so
mournfully?”
“His word was pledged more than twenty moons ago. A warrior breaks not
his word! Weetano was a gay child then, and loved the feast and the
dance of the braves. But she has learned another life now—her new
brother has awakened it, and she reads it in Pale-Lily’s book; but
Oliwibatuc will shut his ears and be angry, and Weetano must go. She is
the last of his race, and must wed a warrior.”
There was a mournful look of despair depicted on the countenance of the
Indian maiden as she uttered these last words, that went to the heart of
Anna—and she sought to divert her from the unwelcome theme, by telling
her stories of her first home over the blue waters. After exhausting
many a topic, she told her of the beautiful peasant-boy who had been her
companion for years, and the story of his persecuted people, and of his
little sister, whose fate he had so often bewailed in her childish ears.
She then told her she would sing her a song he had learnt her of his own
wild hills; but before she had proceeded far, Weetano stopped her with
an exclamation of delight.
“My pale brother sings the Lily’s song at the silence of nightfall in
the lodge of Oliwibatuc! He, too, came over the great waters, but he
speaks the words of the French.”
A sudden thought flashed through the mind of Anna, flushing her cheek
with crimson at first, and then leaving it paler than before. “Could it
be possible!” she thought; “but no, the idea was preposterous! The
Canadians were all French—many of them would, doubtless, sing the songs
of their own mountain peasantry!” The object of her young imaginings had
probably gone back to his native valley, if, indeed, he had escaped the
hands of the new Stuart: and so the thought was dismissed with a sigh.
Weetano was right in her conjecture that Oliwibatuc would soon return to
his tribe, as his directions next morning proved; but the old chief read
plainly in his daughter’s countenance a reluctance to comply, which he
attributed to the parting from her white friend. “Red-Bird is the
daughter of warriors;” said the old chief, reprovingly! “Doth she carry
a faint heart in her breast?”
“No,” she replied; “but Weetano is weary, and her way is in the mist!
She can no longer lay the couch for the warriors, or spread the cup for
the braves! Let her stay until the feast is over, for she hears the
voice of spirits, and is no longer a mate for the young eagle of the
Hurons!”
There was stern pride in the look of the chief, but he only replied,
“The maiden will go to her lodge with Oliwibatuc! The Pale-Lily will
come thither to the corn-feast with her father!” No other word was
spoken—and the chief, with his party, went his way.
Lord Temple and his daughter were both highly pleased with the Mohawk’s
invitation to be present at the corn-dance, and witness the meeting of
tribes long hostile, at the feast of peace. Oliwibatuc had promised to
send a convoy of braves to conduct them thither, but the anticipated
pleasure could not remove from Anna’s mind the mournful tone of
Red-Bird, and the words still haunted her memory, “Weetano must dwell in
the Huron’s lodge to make sure the bonds of peace. She would sooner
die.” And she wondered much whether the poor girl would really undergo
so great a sacrifice. Could not her pale brother save her? Why had she
not counseled Weetano to make a confident of him?
From thoughts like these she was one day aroused by her father, who
observed, “There is something on the lake that appears like a canoe; but
it cannot be the Mohawks, for it wants nearly two weeks of the time
specified for our visit. They may be stragglers from some other tribe
come to fish in the Mohawks’ waters.”
“But is there no danger, father? In our long security I fancied I had
become a stranger to fear; but I find it revives upon the least
suspicion of evil. I am really less courageous than I imagined!”
“There is no cause for alarm, Anna. We have injured none—have defrauded
none. Moreover, an Indian will not harm a Quaker—and _our garb at least
is true_.”
They watched the boat, and half an hour afterward saw it approaching the
cottage, when they recognized the hawk’s-feathers—the well-known badge
of the Mohawks, and they strove in vain to conjecture the cause of their
sudden appearance. It gained the landing-place, and to their surprise,
there sprang on shore a gentleman, clad in the garb of their own nation.
He paused a moment, as if giving some directions to those he left
behind, and then advanced rapidly toward the abode of the emigrant. Lord
Temple went forth to meet him, and Anna stole a cautious peep at the
stranger whom her father had gone to welcome. There was something
mysteriously familiar in that stranger’s look, as her father’s greeting
fell on his ears, and a faint smile passed over his features; by that
smile he was recognized. She had never seen but one like it—it was the
same; and she sprang out, exclaiming, “Do you not know him, father! We
knew him well in dear old England, and I know him even here! ’Tis
Francois Waldo—my old playmate, and teacher, too;” and the next moment
they were clasped in each other’s arms—and Anna was shedding the
happiest tears that had ever dimmed her eyes, whilst her father looked
on in bewildered amazement, scarcely able to determine whether the scene
was real, or one of the strange phantasms of slumber.
After recovering a little from his astonishment, however, he said,
“Whence come you, my son, and how in the world did you discover our
hiding-place? Strange! that the first white face which has greeted us
since our flight, should be that of a dear old friend! But, tell me—how
came you here among the Quakers, as rigid a Puritan as you were educated
under our good Lord Protector?” And Lord Temple greeted the new comer
with a hearty shake of the hand, accompanied with a significant glance
at his own altered attire!
“I came hither, my lord, with your friends, the Mohawks, among whom I
have been for nearly a year captive. I have had suspicions that their
new pale face friends might possibly be yourselves, since Weetano showed
me the volume which she said the White Lily had given her—for on the
cover was the name of Anna Temple. Still, with all my inquiries, I could
ascertain nothing with certainty, for the old chief said you were ‘Blue
Jackets!’ meaning Quakers; and that ‘on the head of his new brother,
John Brown, had fallen much snow.’ I remembered you with raven locks,
and thought not of the changes a few years will sometimes occasion. But
tell me a little of your wanderings, for time urges me back. Let me
first, however, state the immediate cause of this visit. Weetano is ill,
and she has entreated her father to send for Anna to his lodge, that she
may hear her talk again before she goes to be the companion of spirits.
The old chief is sorely afflicted, for she is his only child, and he was
soon to have sealed with her hand an alliance with his warlike
neighbors, the Hurons. The young brave to whom she is betrothed will
soon be there; but, if I can read the Indian girl aright, she shrinks
from the coming of Owanaw, though in my hearing she has never spoken of
him. However, she has nothing to fear, for she will soon change her
dwelling for a long resting-place. Consumption is upon her. Will you
return with me, Anna? Can you undergo the privations of an Indian wigwam
for a few days?”
“O, gladly! gladly! May I not go, father, to nurse poor Weetano a
little, or will you feel too lonely in my absence?”
“I certainly should prefer to have Francois remain with us,” replied
Lord Temple, “but Oliwibatuc has been a faithful friend; if his daughter
is sick, you shall go if he desires it; I believe I can entrust you a
few days with your old companion. But how is the journey to be
performed, my child? You surely cannot walk from the opposite
lake-shore?”
“Oliwibatuc ordered his trusty warriors to bear her as they bore
Red-Bird on her return,” replied Francois. “I will see that she is not
overwearied, and secure from accident. Her carriage shall be made firm,
and I will be _her footman_—she shall be _the Lady Anna_ again!”
Her father proposed sending one of the old carriage-horses round by
Carle, but the young people would not listen to the plan, for it would
delay their journey at least a whole day; and so Nurse Judy was ordered
to put up some medicine for Red-Bird, with a few articles of necessary
clothing for Anna—and in a little time they were crossing the blue
water, Anna in a canoe with her father, who crossed the lake with them,
and Francois, with the dusky Mohawks, among whom he was a great
favorite, for many a deed of kindness and charity had this young
captive-minister done for their tribe.
The close of the second day found them approaching the Mohawk village,
and the journey had been performed with the greatest ease by
Anna—indeed, two pleasanter days she had not passed since the green
lawns of England had been exchanged for the western forest. Waldo had
been accompanied by eight young warriors, who, according to the fashion
of their nation, had constructed a light carriage of green boughs and
branches interwoven, which was alternately carried forward by four of
their number, without the least inconvenience or fatigue. Borne along
thus by her fantastic guides, she felt not the least emotion of fear. By
her side was one who watched her with the most unwearied care—who
plucked for her every flower in the wild pathway, and brought her water
from each cool spring. It was the living form of one whose image had
often been with her in dreams, when the spirit’s messengers link again
the parted in sweet companionship. They recounted to each other the
story of their wanderings, and each felt that time and absence and
sorrow had but strengthened the ties of youthful affection; and the dark
eye of Francois had not been so lit up with sunshine since the days long
gone by, when his simple mountain reed awoke a hundred echoes in the ear
of the happy peasant-boy of the Alps!
Anna, too, was happy. O, how happy! as she read in the earnest gaze ever
fixed upon her that it was her presence that had imparted unwonted color
to the pale cheek, and additional lustre to the dark eye—but mournful
memories would come flashing over her mind, and the low, confiding tones
of Red-Bird would sound again in her ears—“Weetano has looked on the
face of her pale brother, and the image of her brave has faded from her
heart”—and for the first time she felt in her spirit a rising of
selfishness. Poor Anna—there was a bitter struggle, but brief; and her
better nature was triumphant! No wonder, she thought, the forest-maiden
should love the fair-browed captive who had come to her father’s wigwam
and saved her life! No wonder her ardent, grateful heart should treasure
up the rich, low tones of her preserver, and turn with sickening disgust
from the stranger Huron! And, then she thought of Weetano, sick and
wasting away perhaps with an untold sorrow, and she wished in her heart
the love of her red friend had been requited, even though the bright
spark she had so long nursed in her own breast had gone out in another’s
joy. The daughter of the Indian chief was a fit mate for the gifted or
noble of any nation—one such had already shone with peerless lustre at
a royal court, and Weetano was as rich in beauty and intellect as the
far-famed daughter of Powhatten!
Such were the thoughts that rapidly coursed through Anna’s brain, and
when her companion announced to her that they were already in view of
the village, and that Weetano was coming forth to meet them, her heart
leaped only with gladness—not a trace of its tumultuous workings
remained! She soon descried her friend, supported by the old chief,
followed by a long train of warriors. She had been borne forth on a
couch to the outskirts of the village to await the Pale-Lily, and now,
weak and feeble as she was, at her earnest entreaty, had been permitted
to walk forward a few steps to meet and welcome her.
As they drew near Oliwibatuc stepped forward and courteously presented a
belt of wampum; and Anna, seeing her friend for the moment unsupported,
sprang forward, and clasping her in her arms, exclaimed—
“You, darling sick, Red-Bird! I have come to nurse you in your own
home.”
“Pale-Lily has come in time,” she calmly replied. “The summer is over,
and the song of Red-Bird will cease with the early frost. But you are
weary now—come to the feast of Oliwibatuc.”
The couch of Weetano was now brought forward, and she was laid gently
thereon, and supported by her father on one side, and on the other by
Francois and Anna, followed by those of her tribe who had come forth to
welcome the “Lily of the Pale face,” she was borne back to her father’s
wigwam. Here a feast had been spread in honor of the expected guest, of
every variety which river and forest afforded, and a soft, downy mat was
spread for her and Weetano beside the old chief, who seemed pleased to
see Anna smiling familiarly on the dusky warriors whom she recognized as
Oliwibatuc’s companions of the past summer.
The meal was taken in silence, and at its close Red-Bird took Anna by
the hand and led her to a soft couch of furs, tastefully spread over
with embroidered blankets, side by side with her own.
“The way was long for the weak Lily,” she said in pleasant accents, “she
must rest; Weetano will watch her first slumber—it will be secure in
the lodge of the Mohawk chief. She will not fear,” added she, in an
inquiring manner; and placing her hand at the same time in hers, Anna
was struck with its mortal coldness.
“Why, you are cold, Weetano,” said she, pressing the hand
affectionately, “it is _you_ who most need rest, and I came to watch
beside you—not _you_ with _me_.”
“Only to-night, white maiden; Red-Bird has spread your couch with her
own hands to-day, and when she has seen you sleep she will lie down on
her couch beside you happy, though her heart is frozen, and its streams
are fast wasting. Slumber will revive the weary Lily, and Weetano will
sing her a song of the Great Spirit. She has learned it of her white
brother.”
Thus prevailed on, Anna Temple lay down on the downy bed her friend had
spread for her, but she felt no disposition to sleep, for too many
thoughts came crowding thickly on her mind, and when, to her surprise,
the child of the dusky Mohawk half sung, half chanted the “Cradle Hymn
of the Shepherds,” in a voice wildly musical, it brought back with
overpowering force the hours of her childhood and the dimly remembered
tones of her mother’s voice, for that hymn had often been her lullaby.
She buried her face in the blankets, but in spite of her utmost efforts
her sobs reached the sharp ear of her companion, who paused quickly in
her hymn.
“Does the song of Red-Bird make the tired Lily weep? She meant it not
so—but the wounded bird has ever a mournful strain. She will sing no
more!”
“Nay, nay, dear Weetano, it is not that; but long years ago my mother
used to sing me that hymn, and it seemed so very strange that its echo
should come back to me far away in these dim old woods. Francois Waldo
must have heard it, too, among the Alpine hills.”
At the mention of that name Weetano started slightly, and looking
earnestly at Anna, said—“I remember those words—the Frenchman spoke
them—they mean my pale brother. You knew him, then, over the great
waters?”
“Yes, Weetano. I knew him there. His enemies burnt his home and murdered
his parents—then he fled to my country for shelter. Did I not tell you
once of the peasant-boy and his poor little sister Christine? He used to
be my tutor there, in my first home—that is all, Weetano.”
“Nay, maiden, doth thy heart whisper truly? Listen! When he read the
name on the beautiful book which the Lily gave to Red-Bird, his brow
grew whiter, and his eyelids quivered like the poplar before the storm.
’Tis not every breath that moves my brother!”
The shrewd girl’s artifice revealed a truth which the lips denied, and
the heart would fain have concealed; but those few words had called it
forth, and it was written on every lineament of her face too plainly for
an eye less penetrating than an Indian’s to have mistaken its import.
Weetano smiled meaningly on her confused and trembling companion, and
continued—
“Why would you hang mist before the eyes of Red-Bird? Did she not trust
the white maiden, and does she suppose the daughter of the Mohawk cannot
hold her tongue?”
“Nay, nay; you wrong me, Weetano. ’Tis but now I learned that my old
companion dwelt in the Mohawk’s lodge. Had not my sister already told me
before, ‘that she had looked on the face of her white brother and a new
life had been awakened in her heart.’ Should the Lily pluck the sweet
morsel from the taste of Red-Bird? No, she is not so selfish—she would
sooner feed her with her own heart’s food.”
“But the food is poison for Weetano, she will not eat it,” persisted
she, somewhat mournfully. “My brother loves the fair maiden of his own
land—why should he not! Oliwibatuc, too, would have given his daughter
to a dog sooner than to an idle ‘book man.’ When he brought the hatchet
and bow of my dead brother and gave them to his captive, he turned away
from them and spoke the words of peace, and the warrior sighed—‘Who
will hang the trophies of Olo in his father’s wigwam? By his true spirit
Weetano shall wed a brave, and he shall be the chief of the Mohawks
instead of Olo!’ He has spoken, but the Great Spirit loves Weetano, and
will not give her to the Huron, for he will soon lay her beside the
still waters to slumber, and the Lily shall bloom for my new brother.
Nay, do not weep so—the eye of Weetano can now see the path plainly,
and the way looks pleasant, but she was sorry to leave her new brother
alone, for though he toils hard to do the Mohawks good they are not his
own people, and I know he must sometimes be very sad and lonely. It was
for this I plead for him to bring you hither; I knew you were his
spirit-mate, and longed to see you both happy.”
Anna Temple gazed long and earnestly on the beautiful face that bent
over her couch, but was unable to trace thereon a shadow of emotion; its
expression was calm and unvarying, and though the clear, dark eyes
sparkled brightly, the light they shed was as the brightness of a silver
fountain that reflects the moonbeams from its surface soft and almost
holy. Her own heart beat wildly, and when she attempted to speak, her
voice was choked and broken with sobs.
“O, Weetano, do not speak so low and mournfully,” she at length uttered.
“You will still live and be happy, you are so good and true! Nurse Judy
has sent some medicine, and I know well how to administer it; then I
have something else to offer beside; so bend down your ear close to me,
Weetano, and I will whisper it.”
Weetano did as she was desired, and whatever the words of her companion
might have been, they had no effect on the Indian girl, for when she
raised her head the same serene smile rested on her features.
“The heart of Red-Bird would be weak, indeed, to listen to the words,”
she replied. “The white maiden has not read it rightly, for its pride is
as stern as the rock of her mountains, that may be broken but cannot be
bowed. It fears not the blast! Weetano’s heart is like it—it will bide
its lot.”
“And its lot may yet be happy—yea, I am persuaded it will be, only do
not indulge in dark fancies, Weetano.”
“Weetano has no dark fancies now! Sunshine has broken through the dim
future since the words of the Lily’s book fell on her ears. The shadowy
land has no fears now, and beautiful images beckon me there in slumber!
Weetano will come again with messages of good to the Lily and her pale
brother, for they taught her the way.”
The next morning Anna awoke early, and refreshed, although her slumber
had not been unbroken; for whenever she stirred the dark eyes of Weetano
were fixed upon her with the same placid smile that had greeted her
coming, and sorely, bitterly did her heart ache for the poor creature
who regarded her with an affection so earnest and grateful. She feigned
sleep at length, fearing her friend would become exhausted with care for
her, but when the low, soft breathing of Weetano assured her she had
relapsed from her watching, she turned away from her and wet her couch
with tears. When she awoke in the morning, Weetano still slept, and she
arose noiselessly, lest she might disturb her; but when some time passed
and she still betrayed no signs of waking, Anna seated herself beside
her couch, murmuring softly, “This sleep will do her good—she looks so
happy now.” Her dark, glossy locks had fallen over her forehead, and she
stroked them gently back, smiling on the beautiful picture before her,
for though the cheek of Weetano had lost its roundness, the outline was
still perfect, and still she was marvelously beautiful.
An hour or more passed on, and Anna had not left the side of the
sleeping maiden. Over her features brooded the same tranquil repose, so
hushed indeed, that she would often bend down her ear to catch the low
breathing, and satisfy her mind that there was nothing unnatural in a
repose so profound. Without she heard the murmur of voices, and cautious
footsteps, for only a hanging of skins separated them from the large,
open space where the feast had been spread the evening previous, and
where breakfast was now preparing. At length an old Indian woman peeped
cautiously from behind the curtain, and seeing Anna already dressed, she
came forward with a look of surprise that her companion was yet
sleeping.
“What!” said she, “is not the daughter of the chief risen? ’Tis her
custom to rise with the dawn; she must be weary with the labor of
yesterday. Oliwibatuc gave orders not to disturb you, thinking the white
maiden would need rest; but Red-Bird has slept long now, we will break
her slumber. Weetano, Weetano!” said the Indian woman, “the sun is high
in the east, ’tis time the Lily should eat something, Oliwibatuc has
called for his daughter.”
A smothered murmur escaped from her lips, like one half aroused to
consciousness, and the eyelids unclosed for a moment, but were soon
heavy with sleep again.
“Wake up, wake up, Weetano,” continued she, “the morning is fair, and
the air as fragrant as the month of flowers. The chief will take you
forth to sail on the river—wake up maiden.”
Weetano breathed a low sigh, and there was a struggle, like one who
strives to burst a charm. The effort seemed ineffectual, but she spoke
faintly, “Weetano is weary, Zohah—leave her to rest a little.”
“Yes, let her rest,” whispered Anna, “she will gain strength, and I will
watch beside her until she awakens.”
“The maiden sleeps strangely,” muttered the old woman, as she retreated
behind the curtain, leaving Anna to resume her watch.
Another hour passed by, and she ventured to lift the hand that had
fallen over the blankets of her couch—it was soft and warm as a
slumbering infant’s. She pressed it in her own, whispering, “Weetano,
Weetano!” and a happy smile passed over the features of her companion,
and the pressure of her hand was gently returned. “She must have watched
longer than I supposed,” thought Anna, “and is exhausted with the
effort; it would be wrong to disturb her.”
She arose and lifted the curtain, for it was growing late, and she began
to feel faint and weary herself; no one was to be seen, and she went
forward to the open air. Oliwibatuc was sitting on the ground, at a
little distance from the lodge, with a number of his warriors in an idle
manner, but when he saw Anna standing in the door of the wigwam, he came
forward with a smile on his dark, grim features, and said—“The Lily has
slumbered long; was she wearied with her journey through the woods?”
“No, chief, very little,” she replied. “’Tis Red-Bird who is fatigued,
and she still slumbers; I have watched her for hours, but her sleep was
so quiet I would not waken her.”
“Why, what aileth the maiden,” he exclaimed; “she was never last to
leave her couch, but her song has been sad of late, and her feet have
trod lightly in the wood-paths. She hath leaned on the strong for
support. I will rouse her myself, while Zohah helps you to break the
long fast of the morning.”
Anna partook lightly of some refreshments from the hand of Zohah, while
the chief went to Red-Bird; but he soon returned with a satisfied air,
saying, “She sleeps well; I will let her rest until we go forth with the
canoe on the river.”
The sun was high in the heaven and the daughter of the chief had not
awakened! Hour after hour had Anna Temple lingered by the low bed-side,
while her repose seemed only deepening, and an indefinite fear crept
over her—a mysterious sense of evil, and she felt sad and lonely. Near
the curtain sat the old chief, for he, too, seemed ill at ease, and Anna
put aside the skin hanging, and said—
“Shall not we rouse her now, chief; she must require nourishment, and
this long sleep alarms me!”
“Say you so, maiden; the slumber must then be broken, for I, too, have
fears! Wake up, Red-Bird!” said he, advancing toward her, “’tis noonday,
you must not sleep;” and he shook her gently by the shoulder.
She partially opened her eyes, murmuring as before—“Weetano is
weary—let her rest.”
“Take some food, first, Weetano,” said Anna, imploringly; “don’t go to
sleep again for I am very lonely.”
The sound of her voice seemed to reanimate her for a moment, and looking
round, she said, “Where is my brother?”
“Gone,” said the chief, “to his daily toil, (for every day he visited
the sick of the tribe,) but he will be here soon to go forth with us on
the river. Rouse up then.” But the head of Weetano was drooping again
like a sleeping flower.
“Drop the curtain, and let in more air and light,” said Anna in a
beseeching tone, “she is faint and languid; something must be done to
revive her. _What can we do!_”
“Send for the ‘medicine man,’” said old Zohah; “he will arouse her if
any one can.”
“Yes, send for Francois Waldo quickly,” exclaimed Anna Temple; “his
voice may have power to break this dreadful slumber.”
Oliwibatuc made a motion with his hand for some one to depart, but his
eyes were fixed earnestly on the prostrate form of his daughter. “Raise
her up, Zohah,” said he to the old woman, who was wetting her lips with
some beverage, “perhaps she will drink.”
They pillowed her up on her couch, and Anna knelt there beside her,
taking her hand in her own and supporting her head on her shoulder,
while she vainly endeavored to render her conscious by numerous
questions. The messenger soon returned, accompanied by the young
missionary, who had hastened at the first mention of Weetano’s illness.
“What has been the matter with Red-Bird?” asked he in a whisper, at the
same time regarding her closely. “She sleeps quietly now.”
“She has slept thus all day, and will not waken,” replied Anna, bursting
into tears. “O, Francois, can you not arouse her?”
“_Thus_, did you say—has she slept peacefully all day? ’Tis strange,”
added he, taking her hand, “her pulse beats well, and her breathing is
regular: has she spoken?”
“Two or three times,” replied Zohah. “Once she inquired for you. Let her
know you have come.”
“Weetano, Weetano!” said he, bending his lips close to her ear, “speak
to your brother, Weetano—he has come back from his toil. Will not his
sister welcome him?”
Those tones fell not unheeded; there was another struggle as if to burst
the leaden chain, and an expression of happiness spread like sunlight
over her features. Her dark eyes were again unsealed, and a momentary
brightness fell from beneath the long lashes, as she said faintly,
“Weetano heard her brother’s voice in her dream, but she cannot awaken
to its music—her slumber is not over;” and her voice died away in a
murmur, like the lingering pulsations of a harp, and her head hung
heavily.
All through the long afternoon did they labor to break that strange
lethargy, but no care or remedy proved successful, and her breath grew
shorter and fainter until evening, when she revived a little, and looked
consciously on all around. The old chief was near, gazing mournfully on
his drooping child, and beside her were Francois Waldo and Anna Temple,
upon whom she still leaned for support. She bestowed on each a look of
the most earnest affection, then said, in clear, unbroken accents—
“The Lily will brighten my brother’s pathway, but Oliwibatuc will be
alone! You will not forsake my father,” continued she, fixing her dark
eye on the pale youth before her, inquiringly.
“Never, Weetano, I promise in the sight of heaven, while I live he shall
find in me a son to lean upon; he has been as a father to his captive—I
will never desert him.”
“I believe you,” she said, pressing his hand to her lips—“Your words
are true.” Then placing the hand of Anna Temple in that of her white
brother, with a quiet smile she closed her eyes again for their last
slumber.
All night the spirit of Weetano clung to its earthly tenement, and the
morning found it still hovering around its beautiful abode, as if
unwilling to forsake its companionship. The lodge was filled with the
sorrowing faces of those who had gathered to obtain a last look of the
daughter of their chief, who lay there in their midst like a breathing
statue—but while the dew still lingered on the flower, the lips of the
sleeper parted gently, her eyelids quivered—a momentary shudder passed
over her frame, and the strife was over.
Captive Red-Bird had at last burst her prison bars, and unfolded her
wings in the sunnier bowers of the spirit-land. One by one those who had
gathered near to witness the last moments of the chief’s daughter went
forth, that Oliwibatuc might stand alone in the presence of his dead.
Francois and Anna withdrew to a little distance from the couch of the
dear departed, and gazed with tearful faces on the old warrior, who
stood with a mournful face gazing on the last of his household! He
stooped at length, and took the hand, scarcely yet cold, in his own,
and, pronounced in an unbroken tone an Indian farewell:
“The Great Spirit help thee on thy journey, my daughter—the way is long
and fearful! Thou art a tender bird to try the unseen path alone, but
let not thy wing falter in the misty valley, for the blue hills are
shining brightly beyond! Pass onward—thy mother hath spread her couch
there; thou art the last bird of our nest, and she waiteth for thee!
Tell her—her warrior hath dwelt alone in his wigwam since we laid her
by the quiet river! Tell her—that thou alone hast been the sunbeam of
his lodge, and hast spread the couch of the weary! O, Weetano! thy
father is lonely now—why didst thou go before him to the dwelling-place
of the happy? The hunter will come to his wigwam weary at evening, but
the torch will not be lighted, for Weetano will not be there! His cup
will be empty, and his board desolate! No song shall lull him to
slumber, for Red-Bird has gone to her mother!”
The old chief’s voice faltered here, for the first time; and he bowed
his head. They saw him brush a tear from his eye—then another rolled
down his dusky face, and Anna would have rushed to his side to pour
forth her sympathy, had not Francois withheld her—he knew, better than
her, the customs of the people among whom he dwelt, that they share with
none their woes, but bear their burden alone. The momentary struggle was
past, and Oliwibatuc spoke again, calmly, but with lower, sadder tone.
“Weetano, thou hast led us in all thy beauty! Thou hast gathered up the
flowers of a few summers—but the great snows have not fallen on thee! I
will lay thee gently by thy mother, and the braves shall rear the green
mound, where I will sit with my bow at evening, gazing on the bright
hills of the far south-west. Farewell! Weetano, I go to make thy grave
by the river-side!”
He drew himself up to his full height, and passed slowly out of his
wigwam, and Anna now went forward, and stood sobbing by the couch where
darling Red-Bird lay as in a peaceful slumber. How short to her the
period since she first beheld her a creature radiant with health and
beauty—the fleetest fawn of the wilderness—the gayest bird on the
wing! But how soon had all this glory and beauty departed. Weetano had
lived, loved, suffered, and died. Thus had she fulfilled her woman’s
lot; early indeed—but fully and truly. There remained but to lay her in
her last resting-place, according to the custom of her nation, without
coffin or shroud—but what matter? Beside her grave the clear tones of
the young Vaudois preacher pronounced—“_The dead shall be raised_,” and
as his voice went up in prayer, there, in the mighty forest, the red
warriors looked at him in wondering silence, and the captive “Book Man”
was a mystery.