THE BRIDAL.
Swiftly and on noiseless wing sped on old Father Time, and they who
thought the summer would never pass, were surprised when o’er the wooded
hills the breath of autumn came, bearing the yellow leaf—the first white
hair in nature’s sunny locks. The golden harvests were gathered in, and
through the forest “the sound of dropping nuts was heard,” showing that
“The melancholy days had come,
The saddest of the year.”
It was the last day of October, and over the fading earth the autumnal
sun was shedding its rays as brightly as in the early summer. The long
shadows, stretching far to the eastward, betokened approach of night,
and when at last the sun sank to its western home, the full moon poured
a flood of soft, pale light over the scene, and looking in at a
half-opened window, shone upon a beautiful young girl, who, with the
love-light in her dark-blue eye, and woman’s holy trust in her heart,
was listening, or seeming to listen, while the words were said which
made her the wife of George Wilder.
Scarce was the ceremony completed, when the light from the window was
obscured, a shadow fell darkly upon Robert, and a voice, clear and
musical, uttered words which curdled the blood of the fair bride, and
made more than one heart stand still with fear. They were, “_The
Indians! the Indians!_—they are coming in less than an hour!”
The next moment a tall and graceful figure appeared in the doorway, and
laying its hand on Robert’s shoulder, exclaimed, “It is _your_ life they
seek, but Orianna will save you!”
Then away glided the maiden, so noiselessly that but for the tidings she
brought, the party would almost have doubted that she had been there.
For a time the company were mute with surprise, and involuntarily George
clasped closely to his side his Marian, as if to shield her from the
coming danger. At length, Mr. Gorton asked Robert for an explanation of
what the stranger had said.
Robert replied, “Two days since, I was hunting in the woods not far from
the house, when a rustling noise behind some bushes attracted my
attention. Without stopping to think, I levelled my gun and fired, when
behold! up sprang an Indian girl, and bounded away so swiftly that to
overtake her and apologize was impossible. This I suppose to be the
reason why my life is sought.”
His supposition was correct, and for the benefit of the reader we will
explain how Orianna became possessed of the secret. The night before,
when returning to her father’s wigwam, she was startled by the sound of
many voices within. Curiosity prompted her to listen, and she thus
learned that the Indians who lived east of Lexington had been insulted
by a white man, who had fired at one of their squaws. From the
description of the aggressor, she knew it to be Robert, and with fast
beating heart she listened to the plan of attacking Mr. Gorton’s
dwelling on the night of the wedding.
Owanno heard them to the end, and then, to Orianna’s great delight, he
refused to join them, saying he was too old to contend with the
pale-face unless himself or family were molested. The old chief would
not acknowledge how much this decision was owing to the influence of his
gentle daughter. He knew she liked the whites, and he knew, too, another
thing—but ’tis not time for that yet.
Orianna had now something to do. A life dearer far than her own was to
be saved, and Marian, too,—whose very name had a power to thrill each
nerve of that noble Indian girl,—she was in danger.
The next day Charlie waited in vain for his pupil, for she was away on
her mission of love, and the stern features of many an Indian relaxed as
he welcomed to his cabin the chieftain’s daughter. Ere the sun set, she
fully understood their plan of attack, and then, unmindful of the
twenty-five miles traversed since the dawn of day, she hied her back to
Lexington, to raise its inhabitants, and, as we have seen, to apprise
the bridal party of their danger.
Not a moment was to be lost, and while they were consulting as to their
best means of safety, the Indian girl again stood among them, saying,
“Let me advise you. It is not the town they wish to attack,—they will
hardly do that—it is _this_ house—it is _you_,” laying her hand
convulsively on Robert’s arm. “But there is yet time to escape; flee to
the town, and leave me here—”
“To be killed?” said Robert.
“To be killed!” she repeated, scornfully. “In all Kentucky there lives
not the red man who dares touch a hair of Orianna’s head.”
Her proposition seemed feasible enough, and after a little hesitation it
was resolved to adopt it. The negroes had already done so, for at the
first alarm they had taken to their heels, and were by this time half
way to Lexington. Thither the whites, with the exception of Robert, soon
followed. He resolutely refused to go, saying, in answer to his friends
entreaties, “No, never will I desert a helpless female. You remove the
ladies to a place of safety, and then with others return to my aid.”
So they were left alone, the white man and the Indian. Together, side by
side, they watched the coming of the foe. At Orianna’s direction the
doors had been barricaded, while the lights were left burning in order
to deceive the Indians into a belief that the inmates still were there.
A half hour went by, and then, in tones which sent the blood in icy
streams through Robert’s veins, Orianna whispered, “They come! Do you
see them? Look!”
He did look, and by the light of the moon he discerned the outlines of
many dusky forms, moving stealthily through the woods in the direction
of the house. The garden fence was passed, and then onward, slowly but
surely, they came. So intent was Robert in watching their movements,
that he noted not the band of armed men who, in an opposite direction,
were advancing to the rescue; neither did he observe in time to prevent
it the lightning spring with which Orianna bounded through the window,
and went forth to meet the enemy, who, mistaking her for some one else,
uttered a yell of savage exultation and pressed on more fiercely. Loud
and deafening was the war-cry which echoed through the woods, and louder
still was the shout of defiance which rent the air, as the whites came
suddenly face to face with the astonished Indians.
It was Orianna’s intention, when she leaped from the window, to reach
the leader of the savages, and by telling him the truth of the matter as
she had heard it from Robert, she hoped to dissuade him from his
murderous design. But her interference was not needed, for the savages
were surprised and intimidated by the unexpected resistance, and in the
fear and confusion of the moment they greatly magnified the number of
their assailants. Accordingly, after a few random shots, they
precipitately fled, leaving Orianna alone with those whose lives she had
saved.
Almost caressingly Robert wound his arm about her slight form, as he
said, “Twice have you saved my life. Now, name your reward, and if
money—”
There was bitterness in the tone with which Orianna interrupted him,
saying, “Money! Orianna never works for money. All she asks is that you
let her go, for the path is long which she must tread ere the sun’s
rising.”
“To-night! You will not leave us to-night!” said Robert.
“Urge me not,” answered Orianna, “for by the wigwam door at Grassy
Spring Narretta waits, and wonders why I linger.”
Remonstrance was useless; for even while Robert was speaking she moved
away, and the echo of her footfall was scarcely heard, so rapid and
cat-like was the tread with which she disappeared in the darkness of the
woods. Robert looked thoughtfully after her for a time, and then, with
something very like a half-smothered sigh, he turned away. Could that
sigh, faint as it was, have fallen on the ear of the lone Indian girl,
she would have felt fully repaid for her toil, but now a weight of
sorrow lay upon her young heart, crushing each flower of gladness, even
as she, with impatient tread, crushed beneath her feet the yellow leaves
of autumn.