CHAPTER XI.

STRAITNESS OF THE FAMINE--THE FINAL CONFLICT--FLIGHT AND

CAPTURE OF GUATIMOZIN--DESTINY FULFILLED.

~Death opens every door,

And sits in every chamber by himself.

If what might feed a sparrow should suffice

For soldiers' meals, ye have not wherewithal

To linger out three days. For corn, there's none;

A mouse, imprisoned in your granaries,

Were starved to death.~

This shameful defeat was a tremendous blow to the ardent anticipations

of the conqueror. Many of the timid and the discontented in his own

ranks availed themselves of the opportunity to create divisions, and

withdraw from the doubtful contest. The Mexicans, strengthened by the

spoils of their assailants, and yet more by the new courage which their

late success infused into every heart among them, immediately commenced

repairing their works, clearing their canals, and making the most

vigorous preparations for maintaining the siege. Their priests,

infuriated with the number of sacrifices which they had been enabled to

offer to the gods, from the captives of high and low degree taken in the

conflict, declared with authoritative solemnity, that the anger of the

gods was now appeased, and that they had promised unequivocally, the

speedy annihilation of their invading foes. This oracular declaration

was, by the order of Guatimozin, published in the hearing of the Indian

allies of his adversary. It was a politic stroke, and, if the oracle had

not imprudently fixed too early a day for the execution of the predicted

vengeance, its effect might have been such as to break for ever the

bonds of that unnatural alliance, and leave the little handful of white

men, with all their boasted pretensions to immortality, to perish by the

hands of their own friends.

But why dwell longer upon the appalling details of this miserable siege.

The day of predicted vengeance arrived, and the Spaniards survived it.

Their superstitious terror-stricken allies returned to their allegiance.

By a judicious administration of reward and discipline, of promise and

threatening, all disaffection was hushed. New measures of offence were

concerted, with a determination, on the part of the besiegers, to press

into the city by degrees, securing every step, as they advanced, by

levelling every building, and filling up every ditch, in their progress,

till not one stone should be left upon another in Tenochtitlan. This

terrible resolution was carried into effect. Every building, whether

public or private, palace, temple, or Teocalli, from which they could be

annoyed by the indomitable Aztec, was laid waste. The canals were filled

up and levelled, so as to give free scope for the movements of the

cavalry and artillery. The beautiful suburbs were reduced to a level

plain, a dry arid waste, covered with the ruins of all that was dear and

sacred in the eyes of the Aztec. Slowly, but surely, the Spaniard

pressed on towards the heart of the city, in which the heroic monarch,

with his miserable remnant of starving subjects and skeleton soldiers

were pent up, dying by thousands of famine and pestilence, and yet ready

to suffer a thousand deaths, rather than yield themselves up to the

mercy of the foe.

There was now absolutely nothing left, in earth or air, to sustain for

another day the poor remains of life in the camp of the besieged. Every

foot of ground had been dug over many times, in quest of roots, and even

of worms. The leaves and bark had been stripped from every tree and

shrub, till there was not a green thing on all those terraces, which

were once like the gardens of Elysium. The dead and the dying lay in

heaps together, for there was neither life nor spirit in any that

breathed, to do the last office for the departed. Pestilence was in all

the air, so that many even of the besieging army snuffed it in the

breeze that swept over the city, and fell victims to the very fate which

their cruel rapacity was inflicting on the besieged.

Famine, cruel, gnawing famine, was in the palace of the Emperor, as well

as in the hovel of his meanest subject. That noble prince quailed not

before the fate that awaited himself. Had he stood alone in that

citadel, with power in his single arm to keep out the foe, he would have

stood till death, in whatever form, released him from his post, and

spurned every suggestion of compromise or quarter. But the scenes of

utter distress which every where met his eye--the haggard ghosts of his

friends, flitting restlessly before him, or crawling feebly and with

convulsive moans among the upturned earth, in the forlorn hope of

finding another root--the dead--the dying--the more miserable living

longing for death, and glaring with their horribly prominent, but glazed

and expressionless eye-balls on each other--this, this was too much for

the heart of Guatimozin.

"What!" he exclaimed, "shall I submit to see my last friend die before

my eyes, and my own sweet wife perish of hunger, only to retain for

another hour the empty name of king. No. I will endure it no longer. I

will go to Malinche, alone, and unaccompanied, and offer my life for

yours. He only wants our gold. Let him find that if he can. He will

spare _you_, and wreak all his vengeance on my head."

A faint murmur ran through the crowd, and then a feeble expiring "No,

never," burst feebly from many lips. One, a little stronger than the

rest, arose and said--

"Most gracious sovereign, think not of us. We only ask to live and die

with and for you. And the more cruel the death, the more glorious the

martyrdom for our country and our gods. Trust not Malinche."

The speaker fainted and fell, with his fist clenched, and his teeth set,

as if he felt that he held the last foe in mortal conflict.

"No, never--trust not Malinche--let us die together," was echoed by many

sepulchral voices, that seemed more like the groans of the dead, than

the remonstrances of the living.

"Trust not Malinche, remember my father," whispered the fond, devoted,

faithful, affectionate wife, now the shadow of her former self,

beautiful in her queenly sorrow, sublime in her womanly composure.

Guatimozin, the proud, the lofty chief, whose heart had never known

fear, whose soul had never been subdued, bowed his head upon the bosom

of his wife, and wept. The strong heart, the lion spirit melted.

"Who, who will care for Tecuichpo? Who will cherish the last daughter of

Montezuma?"

"Think not of me, Guatimozin, think of yourself and your people, I am

resigned to my fate. If I may but die with you, it is all I desire--for

how could I live without you. But think not of trusting Malinche. Let us

remain as we are. Another day, and we shall all be at rest from our

sufferings. And surely it were better to die together by our altars,

than to fall into the hands of the treacherous stranger."

"Trust not Malinche," added Karee. "Was it not trust in him that brought

all this evil upon us? Think not of submission. You shall see that women

can die as well as men. Let Malinche come, and take possession of the

remains of these mutilated walls and desolated gardens, but let him not

claim one living Aztec, to be his slave, or his subject."

A murmur of approbation followed, and then a long pause ensued. It was

like the silence of death. The whole scene would have made an admirable

picture. At length the silence was broken by the voice of the young

Cacique of Tlacopan.

"My sovereign," said he, in a faint voice, but with something of the

energy of despair, "there is yet hope. Let us muster what force we can,

of men who are able to stand, and sally out upon the enemy. We cannot do

him much harm. But, while he is occupied with us, you and your family,

with a few attendants can escape by a canoe over the lake. As many of

us as have life and strength to do it, will follow you, under cover of

the coming night. Your old subjects will flock around you there, and we

may yet, when we shall have tasted food, and become men again, make a

stand somewhere against the foe, and drive him out."

"It is well! it is well!" was the feeble response on every side.

"I cannot leave you," replied the monarch. "What! shall your king fly,

like a coward, while his people rush upon the enemy only to cover his

retreat? No, that were worse than death--worse than captivity!"

"It is not flight, my beloved sovereign," responded the Cacique, "it is

an honorable stratagem of war, for the good of the nation, not less than

your own. When _you_ are gone, we have no head, and we fall at once into

the captivity we so much dread. Leave us but the name and person of

Guatimozin to rally around, and it will be a tower of strength, which

can never fail us."

"Yes, yes, it is right," was whispered on every side--"Go, noble

monarch, go at once. It is a voice from heaven to save us."

To this counsel the priests added their earnest advice, and even

Tecuichpo ventured to say, "it whispered of hope to her heart."

Guatimozin suffered himself to be overruled. The canoes were made ready

in the grand canal, which yet remained open on the eastern side. All

that could be safely taken of treasure, and of convenient apparel, was

carefully stowed. The Queen and other ladies of the court, with her

faithful Karee, all wasted to skeletons, and moving painfully, like

phantoms of beauty in a sickly dream, were conveyed to the barges. The

Emperor and his attendants followed, and all was in readiness for the

departure. At that moment the martial horn was sounded from the great

Teocalli, and the shadowy host of the Aztec army staggered forth to

offer battle to the enemy. It was a fearful sight. It seemed as if the

armies of the dead, the mighty warriors of the past, had risen from

their graves, to fight for their desecrated altars, and to defend those

very graves from profanation. Feebly, but fearfully, with glaring eyes

and hideous grin, they rushed upon the serried ranks of the besiegers. A

kind of superstitious terror seized them, as if these shapes were

something more than mortal. For a moment they gave way to panic, and

fell back without striking a blow. Roused by the stentorian voice of

Cortez, they rallied instantly, and discharging their heavy fire arms,

swept away whole ranks of their frenzied assailants. It was a brief

conflict. Many of the Aztecs fell by the swords of the Spaniards, and

the spears of their merciless allies. Some fell, faint with their own

exertions, and died without a wound. Some grappled desperately with the

foe, content to die by his hand, if they could first quench their

burning thirst with one drop of his blood.

At length, a long blast from the horn sounded a retreat. The poor

remnant turned towards the city, and were suffered to escape unmolested

to their desolate homes.

Meanwhile, the little fleet of Guatimozin had put forth upon the lake.

The canoes separated, as they left the basin of the canal, taking

different directions, the better to escape the observation of the

brigantines. The precaution was a wise one, but unavailing. The watchful

eye of the besieging general was there. The brigantines gave chase to

the fugitives. Bending to their paddles with the utmost strength of

their feeble emaciated arms, they found their pursuers gaining upon

them. Casting their gold into the lake, Guatimozin directed them to

cease their exertions, and wait the approach of the enemy.

"Not without one little effort more, I beseech you," exclaimed Karee.

"See, my chinampa is close at hand. Let us try to gain that. It has food

on its trees for many days, and I have there a place of concealment,

curiously contrived beneath the water, where you and the queen may

remain without fear of detection, till we can effect your escape to the

shore."

In an instant the paddles were in the water, and the canoe shot ahead

with unusual speed. The combined energy of hope and despair nerved every

arm, and fired every heart. They neared the beautiful chinampa. Their

eyes feasted on its fresh and cooling verdure, and its ripe fruits

hanging luxuriantly on every bough. Their ears were ravished with the

music of the birds, who had long since deserted their wonted haunts in

the capital.

While the chase was gaining rapidly upon them, another of those fearful

brigantines, which had hitherto been concealed by the thick foliage of

the chinampa, rounded its little promontory, and appeared suddenly

before them. Instantly, every paddle dropped, every arm was paralyzed.

Not a word was spoken. In passive silence each one waited for his doom,

which was now inevitable. When the Spaniard had approached within

hailing distance, the Emperor rose in his little shallop, and, waving

his hand proudly, said, "I am Guatimozin."

The royal prisoners were treated with the utmost deference and respect.

Being brought into the presence of Cortez, the monarch, pale, emaciated,

the shadow of what he had been, approached with an air of imperial

dignity, and said--

"Malinche, I have done what I could to defend myself and protect my

people. Now I am your prisoner. Do what you will with me, but spare my

poor people, who have shown a fidelity and an endurance worthy of a

better fate."

Cortez, filled with admiration at the proud bearing of the young

monarch, assured him that not only his family and his people, but

himself should be treated with all respect and tenderness. "Better,"

said Guatimozin, laying his hand on the hilt of the general's poignard,

"better rid me of life at once, and put an end to my cares and

sufferings together."

"No," replied Cortez, "you have defended your capital like a brave

warrior. I respect your patriotism, I honor you valor, and your firm

endurance of suffering. You shall be my friend and the friend of my

sovereign, and live in honor among your own people."

The keen eye of the monarch flashed with something like indignation,

when allusion was made to the king of Castile, and to himself as his

vassal.

"In honor I _cannot_ live," he said proudly, "for I am defeated. A king

I _cannot_ be, for he is no king who is subject to another. I am your

prisoner. The gods have willed it, and I submit."

Renewing his politic assurances of friendship and favor, the conqueror

sent for the wife and family of his captive, first ordering a royal

banquet to be prepared for them. Supported by Karee, leaning on the arm

of the devoted Nahuitla, the lord of Tlacopan, the queen was ushered

into the presence of the conqueror. Her appearance struck the general

and his officers with admiration. Timid as she was by nature, she had

the air and port of inborn royalty; and, in deference to her husband,

she would not have allowed herself to quail before the assembled host of

Castile, dreaded as they were, and had long been. With a becoming

courtesy, she returned the respectful salutations of Malinche and his

cavaliers, and asked no other favor than to share the fate of her lord.

What that fate was, and how the Castilian knight redeemed his pledges to

his unfortunate and noble captives, is matter of historical record. It

is the darkest page in the memoir of that wonderful chief--a foul blot

upon the name even of _that_ man, who was capable of requiting the

superstitious reverence and confidence of a Montezuma, with a

treacherous and inglorious captivity in his own palace, and a yet more

inglorious death at the hands of his own subjects. History must needs

record it, dark and painful as it is. Romance would throw a veil over

it.

* * * * *

Years of intense suffering, of harrowing bereavement, of insult,

humiliation, and every species of mental and social distress, were yet

appointed to the daughter of Montezuma, the bride of Guatimozin. Her

predicted destiny was fulfilled to the letter. She bowed meekly to her

fate, sustaining every reverse with a fortitude and composure of soul,

that indicated a mind of uncommon resources. It was a long, dark, stormy

day, "but in the evening time there was light." It was the light of

faith. She abandoned the false gods of her fathers, and found true and

lasting peace in the cross of Jesus Christ.

THE FLIGHT

OF

THE KATAHBA CHIEF.

Go now to Greece,

Or Rome--to Albion's sea-girt isle--to Gaul,

Ancient or modern--to the fiery realm

Of Turk or Arab--to the ice-bound holds

Of Alaric and Attila--and find,

If find thou canst, a nobler race of men--

More firm, more brave, more true--swifter of foot,

Or readier in action.

THE FLIGHT OF THE KATAHBA CHIEF.

Go not to the chase, my brave hunter, to-day,

There's a mist o'er the sun--there's a snare in the way;

Manitto revealed last night in my dream

A deep dark shadow o'erhanging the stream;

The deer, from his thicket, sprung out in thy path--

Then he changed to a tiger, and roared in his wrath--

Then the warrior hunter, so fearless and brave,

Was driven away, like a captive slave;

Then the smoke rolled up, and the flames curled high,

And the forest rung with the foeman's cry;

Then the wind swept by with a desolate wail--

The avenger of blood was on thy trail;--

Minaree looked out at the cabin door,

But her bold brave hunter returned no more.

Go not to the chase, my brave hunter, to-day,

There's a mist o'er the sun--there's a snare in the way.

So, in sweetly plaintive strains, chanted the beautiful young bride of a

Katahba chief, as she prepared his frugal morning meal, while he was

busying himself in examining the string of his bow, replenishing his

quiver with straight polished shafts, and renewing the edge of his

trusty hatchet.

In all the forest homes of the native tribes, there was not a fairer

flower than Minaree, the loved and devoted wife of the brave

Ash-te-o-lah. The only daughter of a chief of the Wateree tribe, which

was one branch of the great family of the Katahbas, she inherited the

spirit and pride of her father, with all the simple beauty, and

unsophisticated womanly tenderness of her mother. She was the idol of

Ash-te-o-lah's heart; for, savage as the world would call him, and

ignorant of the codes of chivalry and of the courtly phrase of love, he

was as true to all the warmer and purer affections, which constitute the

bliss of domestic life, as to the lofty sentiments of heroic virtue,

which made him early conspicuous in the councils of his people. Though

fearless as the lion, fleet as the roe, and adventurous, sagacious and

powerful as any that ever sounded the war-whoop, or startled the deer,

in those interminable wilds--he was noble, generous, warm-hearted, and

devotedly tender to the objects of his love.

The winning tones, and the affectionate glances of Minaree, as she

chanted her simple prophetic lay, had almost won Ash-te-o-lah from his

purpose. But, half doubting whether her oracular dream was any thing

more than a little artifice of affection, and always superior to that

prevailing superstition of his people, which gave to dreams all the

sanctity and force of divine revelation, and excited by the preparations

he had been making, he flung his rattling quiver to his back, whispered

a gentle intimation that Ash-te-o-lah feared neither tiger nor foeman,

and returning the affectionate glance of his bride, left the wigwam.

It was a clear bright summer morning. There was a balmy sweetness in the

air, and melody in all the groves; but they won not the ear, they

regaled not the sense of Minaree, whose heart sunk within her, as she

saw her beloved Ash-te-o-lah launch his canoe into the stream, and dash

away over its glassy surface, like a swallow on the wing. Ere he dipped

his paddle in the water, he turned and gracefully waved her a parting

salute, the affectionate desire to stay and soothe the troubled spirit

of her dream, still struggling with that lofty pride which told him that

he had never yet shrunk from any form of danger, or known the name of

fear.

The lands bordering on the Katahba, were covered, for many a league,

with a dense and thriving population. More than twenty tribes were

clustered there into one powerful fraternity, capable of bringing two

thousand warriors into the field. Their grounds were extensively

cultivated, their forests abounded with the choicest game, and their

rivers with fish, and they regarded themselves as the most prosperous of

the nations.

Nothing could exceed the romantic beauty and loveliness of some of their

villages. Stretching along the banks of the rivers, and embowered deeply

in the luxurious forests of that favored clime, the numerous wigwams,

simple enough in their construction, but adorned here and there with the

trophies of war or the chase, and often alive with the athletic sports

of the young Indians, formed a scene as animated and picturesque as ever

glowed on the bosom of the earth--a scene of patriarchal life, such as

cannot now be found among all the families of men.

Conspicuous among them all was the wigwam of Ash-te-o-lah. The hand of

Minaree was visible in the tasteful arrangement of a few simple

ornaments about the door, and the trailing of a white flowering vine

over its walls, which fell in luxuriant festoons, or floated in feathery

pensiles on every side.

Minaree stood in the door of the wigwam, watching the retreating form of

her lord, as his light canoe swept down with the current of the river,

till it was lost in the distance, and then pensively, and as if

unconsciously to herself, resumed her solemn chant, weaving the while a

wreath of her wild flowering vine.

He has gone to the chase, my brave hunter has gone--

He will not return in the moonlight, or morn;

Minaree shall look out at the cabin door,

But her bold brave hunter shall come no more;

There's a cloud in her wigwam--a fire in her brain,

For her warrior hunter shall ne'er come again.

Gently and placidly flowed the Katahba--every tree and shrub mirrored in

its beautiful waters. Not a sound disturbed the perfect stillness; not

even the hum of the cricket, or the song of the bird. It seemed an utter

solitude. Then a light canoe was seen slowly gliding down the stream. A

noble looking Indian was standing in it, erect and tall, with his paddle

poised, as if wrapped in meditation, or unwilling to disturb the quiet

and charm of the silence. It was a scene to awaken a sense of poetic

beauty, even in the mind of an untutored savage. It thrilled the soul of

Ash-te-o-lah, and held him some moments in admiring contemplation.

Suddenly starting from his unwonted reverie, he rounded a jutting

promontory, and moored his skiff, carefully concealing it amid the

overhanging shrubs.

There was something surpassingly graceful and majestic in the figure of

this noble son of the forest. Formed by nature in her most perfect

mould, tall, sinewy, athletic, yet with every feature and every limb

rounded to absolute grace, he was a fine subject for a painter or

sculptor. His dress consisted of a beautiful robe, gracefully flung over

one shoulder, and confined at the waist by a richly ornamented belt. His

hair was wrought into a kind of crown, and ornamented with a tuft of

feathers. Equipped with bow and quiver, he seemed intent on game; and

yet one might have imagined, from his keen glance and cautious manner,

that he expected a foe in ambush.

Ash-te-o-lah was soon on the track of the deer, which, starting from the

thicket, bounded away with the speed of the wind. Pursuing with equal

pace, the bold hunter dashed into the depths of the forest, watching for

a favorable moment to take the deadly aim. The arrow was on the string,

and about to be raised to fly at his panting victim, when the shrill

war-whoop burst suddenly on his ear. It arrested his step, for a moment,

but not his arm; for the arrow sped as if nothing had occurred to divert

its course, and buried itself in the heart of the flying deer.

Perceiving, at a glance, that a party of the Senecas, the old and deadly

enemies of the Katahbas, were down upon him, and had cut off his retreat

to the river, he held on his course, as before, but with redoubled

speed, intending, if possible, to secure a refuge from his pursuers, in

a cavern about five miles distant. Fleet as the wind, he would have

gained his purpose, if the course had been direct, for there was not a

red man in the wide forests of America, who could outrun Ash-te-o-lah.

Dividing themselves into several parties, and taking different courses

to intercept his flight, his enemies gave instant chase to the fugitive.

One party followed close on his trail, but he was soon lost to their

view. Another struck off northwardly, towards a bend in the West Branch,

where the rapids afforded an opportunity for crossing the stream without

impeding his flight. A third made for a deep cut, or ravine, about a

mile further down, where a fallen tree, extending from bank to bank,

served the purpose of a bridge.

Ash-te-o-lah soon perceived that his enemies were divided, and resolved

that, if they _did_ intercept or overtake him, it should cost them dear.

Halting a little in his flight, and taking to the covert of a tree, he

drew upon the foremost of his pursuers, and laid him dead in the path.

The next in the pursuit, pausing a moment over his fallen brother,

shared the same fate. Knowing, as by instinct, that the other parties

would endeavor to cut him off at the rapids and the bridge, he dashed

forward, in a straight line for the stream, plunged into the water, and

holding his bow aloft, struggled with a powerful arm to reach the other

side. He gained the bank, just as his pursuers made their appearance on

the opposite shore. Turning suddenly upon them, he levelled another

shaft with such unerring aim, that one of their number fell bleeding

into the stream. Another and another, in the act of leaping over the

bank, received the fatal shaft into his heart. Hearing the distant

whoop, which indicated that the other party had reached the bridge,

Ash-te-o-lah waited not for another victim, but bounded away for his

mountain fastness. The little delay which had been necessary to cut off

five of his pursuers, had given an advantage to the other parties, who

were now on the same side of the stream with himself, and gaining upon

his steps. No sooner was this perceived, than the heroic fugitive turned

upon the nearest of them, and, with the same infallible aim, laid him

dead in the path. Still another had fallen before his sure aim, and his

bow was strained for another shot, when one of the other party, who had

made a circuit, and come up behind him unperceived, leaped upon, and

held him pinioned in his powerful grasp. His struggles were terrible;

but he was immediately surrounded, overpowered and disarmed.

Though seven of their number had fallen in this brief chase, the brave

Senecas were so struck with admiration at the wonderful skill and noble

bearing of their captive, that they did not, as usual, instantly avenge

the slain, by taking the life of the slayer; but resolved to take him

along with them, and to lead him in triumph into the midst of the

council of their nation, there to be disposed of by the united voices of

their chiefs.

It was a sad triumph, for they were filled with grief and mortification

for the loss of so many of their brave kindred, all fallen by the hand

of one of the hated Katahbas, and he now completely in their power.

Though stung with shame, and thirsting for a worthy revenge, yet such

was their love of martial virtue, that, during all their long journey

homeward, they treated their haughty captive with far greater respect

and kindness than if he had acted the part of a coward, and suffered

himself to fall into their hands without any attempt at resistance. As

for him, with an unsubdued spirit, and an air of proud superiority, he

marched in the midst of his enemies, as if defying their power, and

scorning the vengeance from which it was impossible to escape. To one

unaccustomed to the modes of Indian warfare, and the code of Indian

etiquette, who might have witnessed that triumphant procession,

Ash-te-o-lah would have appeared the proud and absolute prince,

surrounded by his admiring and subservient life-guard, rather than the

subdued and helpless captive, escorted by his enemies to an ignominious

execution.

Arrived within the territories of their own tribe, the triumph of the

captors began. The whole nation was roused to revenge the death of their

lost heroes. In every village, as they passed along, the women and

children were permitted to beat and insult the unresisting captive, who

bore every indignity with stoical indifference, and proud disdain, never

indicating by word or look, the slightest sense of mortification or

pain, nor bating one jot of his lofty and scornful bearing.

Before the great council of assembled chiefs, he maintained the same

tone of fearless dignity and self-respect. His very look was defiance,

that quailed not before the proudest glance of his enemy, nor showed the

slightest symptom of disquietude, when the decision of the council was

announced, condemning him to die by the fiery torture. It might

reasonably be imagined that his past sufferings, his tedious marches,

his scanty fare, lying at night on the bare ground, exposed to the

changes of the weather, with his arms and legs extended and cramped in a

pair of rough stocks, the insulting treatment, and cruel scourgings of

the exasperated women and children, who were taught to consider it a

virtue to torment an enemy, along with the anticipation of those more

bitter sufferings which he was yet to endure, would have impaired his

health, and subdued his hitherto proud and unyielding spirit. Such would

have been the effect of similar circumstances upon the physical frame,

and stout-hearted fortitude of the great majority of the heroes of that

pale-faced race, who boast of a proud superiority over the unlettered

children of the forest. There are few so hardy, that they could endure,

not only without a murmur, but without shrinking, what Ash-te-o-lah had

already suffered--few so courageous, that they could hear, with an

unmoved countenance, the terrible doom which his enemies had prepared

for him, or witness undisturbed the fearful arrangements, and horrid

ceremonies, that were designed to give intensity and effect to its

infliction.

Ash-te-o-lah was insensible to fear, and would sooner have undergone a

thousand torturing deaths, than permit his enemies to see that he was

conscious even of suffering. So nobly did he sustain his courage amid

the trial, so well did he act his heroic part, that his enemies, who

admired and inculcated the same unflinching fortitude, were surprised

and vexed at his lofty superiority, and resolved, by every possible

aggravation of his sufferings, to break down and subdue his proud

indomitable spirit.

The hour of execution had arrived. The pile was ready for its victim.

Every engine of torture, which savage ingenuity could invent, was

exhibited in dreadful array, within the area selected for the trying

scene. The whole nation was assembled to witness, and take part in the

ceremony, which had, in their view, all the solemnity and sacredness of

a religious rite. Ash-te-o-lah was led forth, unpinioned, into the

midst--for the red man would scorn the weakness of leading a victim in

chains to the altar.

The place of sacrifice was an open space near the bank of the river, the

dark forest frowning over it on every side, the entire foreground being

filled and crowded with an eager, angry multitude, to whom a sacrifice

was a feast, and revenge the sweetest luxury that could be offered to

their taste. Their wild parade, their savage dances, their hideous yells

and demoniacal looks and gestures, designed to terrify, only fired the

soul of Ash-te-o-lah to a yet prouder and more majestic bearing. His

firm step, his unblenching eye, his fearless and lofty port, touched

even his executioners with admiration, and struck his guards with a

momentary awe.

Suddenly, as with a bolt from the cloud, he dashed down those who stood

in his way, sprung out, and plunged into the water, swimming underneath,

like an otter, only rising occasionally to take breath, till he reached

the opposite shore. He ascended the steep bank at a bound; and then,

though the arrows had been flying thick as hail about him from the time

that he took to the water, and though many of the fleetest of his

enemies were, like very blood-hounds, close in pursuit of him, he turned

deliberately around, and with a graceful and becoming dignity, took a

formal leave of them, as if he would acknowledge the extraordinary

favors they had shown him. Then, raising the shrill war-whoop of

defiance, as his last salute, till some more convenient opportunity

should be afforded him to do them a warrior's homage, he darted off,

like a beast broke loose from its torturing enemies. Inspired with new

strength by his sudden release, and the returning hope of life, he flew

with a winged speed, so as entirely to distance the fleetest of his

eager pursuers. Confident in his speed, and assured that his enemies

could neither overtake nor surprise him, he rested nearly a whole day,

to recruit his wasted strength, and watch an opportunity to gain, if

possible, some further advantage over those who were scenting his track,

and thirsting for his blood.

Passing a considerable distance beyond a spot, which his well-trained

sagacity told him would be the natural resting place of his pursuers, he

retraced his steps, walking carefully backwards, and planting each step

with great precision, in the very tracks he had just made, so as

effectually to conceal the artifice of his return. In this way, he came

to a high rock, in which there was a considerable fissure, very narrow

at the top, but widening toward the ground, and so concealed by the

dense shrubbery that grew around, that it could only be discovered by

the most careful scrutiny. Into this fissure he thrust himself,

scrupulously replacing every leaf that had been disturbed by his

entrance, and adjusting the whole so as not to excite the slightest

suspicion in his keen-sighted enemies. Here he awaited their approach.

It was near night of the second day, when the Senecas reached the spring

where Ash-te-o-lah lay concealed, and where he had already rested nearly

a whole day. Following his track some distance beyond, and not doubting

he was yet in advance, they returned without suspicion to the spring,

lighted their fires, partook hastily of their simple meal, and laid

themselves down to sleep, in perfect security. They were five in number,

powerful men, and thoroughly armed, after their own peculiar fashion.

Ash-te-o-lah, from his narrow cavern, had watched all their movements.

He well knew that they slept soundly, for they had satisfied themselves

that no danger was near. But he also knew equally well how wakeful is

the sleep of an Indian, and how almost impossible it is to surprise him,

even in his soundest sleep. Every circumstance of his situation occurred

to him, to inspire him with heroism, and urge him to attempt an

impossibility, though his life was the certain forfeit of a failure. He

was naked, torn, and hungry. His enraged enemies, who had so recently

held him in their toils, and made him ready for a sacrifice, were now

come up with him. In their little camp was every thing to relieve his

wants. He would not only save his own life, but get great honor and

sweet revenge, if he should succeed in cutting them off.

Resolution, a convenient spot, and a sudden surprise, might effect this

main object of all his wishes and hopes. Creeping cautiously out from

his covert, and approaching the sleepers with the noiseless and stealthy

cunning of a fox, he seized one of their tomahawks, and wielding it with

inconceivable power and rapidity, left four of them in an eternal sleep,

before the fifth had time to awake and spring to his feet. The struggle

that ensued was terrible; but Ash-te-o-lah had the advantage in every

respect, and the conflict ended in a very few minutes, by leaving him

alone in the camp of his enemies.

Selecting from the spoils of the fallen a suitable dress for himself,

with the choicest of their bows, a well-stored quiver, a tomahawk, and

an ample pouch of provisions, and securing to his belt the scalps of his

yet breathing victims, Ash-te-o-lah set off afresh, with a light heart,

and a bounding step, for the sunny vales of the Katahba. Resolved not to

hazard any of the advantage he had gained, he did not allow himself any

sleep, for several successive nights, only as he reclined, for a few

moments, a little before day, with his back to a tree, and a clear space

about him, where he could not be taken by surprise. Growing more secure,

as he approached his home, and discovered no sign of his pursuing enemy,

he sought out the spot where he had killed seven of the chase, in the

first day of his flight, opened their yet fresh graves, added their

scalps to the five then hanging to his belt, burnt their bodies to

ashes, and returned in safety, laden with his hard earned trophies, to

gladden his humble wigwam, and thrill the council of his people with the

story of his singular adventures.

Her prophetic dream had made so deep an impression upon the mind of

Minaree, that, from the first, she did not expect "the bold hunter's

return." His lengthened absence troubled, but did not surprise her. She

yielded him to a stern fate, from which there was no escape; and with a

calmness which we, of another race, too often regard as coldness and

insensibility, prepared to follow him to the spirit land. His return was

to her soul like a visit from that land--a gift from the Great

Spirit--and ever after, to the deep devotion of her early love, was

added that peculiar reverence, that tender, holy affection, which the

Indians every where cherish for the departed.

When the second party of the Senecas, in the course of the third day of

the pursuit, arrived at the camp of their slaughtered people, the sight

gave them a greater shock than they had ever known before. In their

chilled war council they concluded, that he who had performed such

surprising feats in his defence, before he was captured, and since that

in his naked and unarmed condition, would, now that he was well armed

and free, be a match for them all, if they should continue the pursuit.

They regarded him as a wizard enemy, whose charmed life it was vain and

wicked to attempt. They, accordingly, buried their comrades, and

returned, with heavy hearts, to their homes.

MONICA,

OR

THE ITEAN CAPTIVE.

What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears

Have sunk beneath time's noiseless tide!--

The red man at his horrid rite,

Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,--

His bark canoe, its track of light

Left on the wave beneath the moon;--

His dance, his yell, his council fire,

The altar where his victim lay,

His death song, and his funeral pyre,

That still, strong tide hath borne away.

MONICA.

~"Speak not, but fly--

There are a thousand winged deaths behind,

Thirsting for blood. Hope, life, and liberty

Are all before; and this good arm is pledged

To guide thee."~

The grave of the Indian is a temple, a sort of gateway to heaven. Around

it linger the tenderest affection, the purest devotion of the surviving

friend. The grass and flowers that grow over it are never suffered to

wither. The snow and the rain are not permitted to remain upon it. The

least profanation of that sacred place would be visited with a more

terrible vengeance than an affront to the living. Nothing illustrates

more clearly the cruel injustice we have done to our red brethren of the

forest, by regarding and treating them only as savages, and delineating

them always and every where, as destitute of all the refined sympathies

of humanity--than this prevailing national characteristic, an

affectionate reverence for the dead, and a religious regard for the

sepulchres and bones of their ancestors. It touches one of the deepest

cords in the human heart. It springs from the very fountain head of

social and moral refinement. It links the visible and material, with the

unseen and spiritual world; blending all that is tender, and pure, and

subduing, in the one, with all that is bright, hopeful, and inviting, in

the other. Its existence in any heart, or its prevalence among any

people, is proof sufficient that that heart is not wholly hardened in

selfishness, and that people not wholly given over to barbarism.

The infant child of an Itean mother lay dead in her tent. He was a

beautiful boy, and already the fond mother had read in his brilliant

eye, and the vigorous movements of his tiny limbs, the heroic deeds of

the future chieftain. But her darling hope was nipped in the very germ.

Her only son was shrouded for the grave, and the hour of burial had

come. His shroud was a blanket, in which the head, as well as the body,

was completely enveloped. His bier was a train, or Indian sled, in the

form of a common snow-shoe, on which the body was laid, without a

coffin, and secured by bandages from side to side. Into this train was

harnessed a favorite dog of the family, when it was drawn with slow and

solemn step, to the grave, preceded by the priest or medicine man of the

village, in his gorgeous robes of office, and followed by the parents

and sister of the child, with all the inmates of the neighboring

wigwams.

Arriving at the grave, the procession stopped, and gathered round the

bier, the women and children seating or prostrating themselves on the

ground, the men standing in a grave and solemn circle around them. The

dog, still remaining in his harness, was then shot, and the medicine

man, standing over it, addressed it in the following strain, "Go on your

journey to the Spirit land. Long and weary is the way you have to go.

Linger not on the journey, for precious is the burden you carry. Swim

swiftly over the river, lest the little one be lost in the stream, and

never visit the camp of its fathers. When you come to the camp of the

White-headed Eagle, bark, that they may know who it is you bring, and

come out and welcome the little one among its kindred band."

The body was then laid in the grave, on its little train. The dog was

placed by its side, with a kettle of food at its head, to supply it on

the journey. A cup, containing a portion of the mother's milk, freshly

drawn, was also put into the grave for the use of the child. The earth

was laid gently over it, and covered with the fresh sod, the mother, and

her female friends, chanting, the while, a plaintive dirge, designed to

encourage the spirit of the departed on its dark and perilous journey.

The mother held in her hand a roll of bark, elaborately decorated with

feathers and bead-work, encompassed with a scarf of broadcloth, highly

embroidered. This was intended as a memento of the deceased, to be

sacredly preserved in the family lodge. Such mementoes are always seen

there, after the death of a friend, and one may always know, by their

number, how many of that household have gone to the spirit-land. It is

usually placed upright in the spot where the departed was accustomed to

sit, dressed in the same ornaments and bands that he wore while living.

At every family meal, a portion of food is set before it. If it be a

child who has died, the mother offers it a cup of milk, wraps it in the

cradle bands of her lost infant, and bears it about with her wherever

she goes.

An Indian grave is a protected spot. That which is described above, was

surrounded by a small enclosure of logs, and covered with a roof of

bark, to shield it from the rain. At its head, a small round post was

set, painted with vermilion. Other decorations were displayed upon the

wall of the enclosure, which were carefully guarded, and frequently

replaced, as they were soiled by the rains, or torn and defaced by the

violence of the winds. Day after day, the bereaved mother and sister

visited that grave, taking their work with them, and sitting down by its

side, chanted their plaintive lullaby to that sleeping infant, and

cheered on that faithful dog in his wearisome journey, charging him not

to lag or go astray in traversing the plain, nor suffer his precious

burden to fall into the water, in crossing the deep dark rapid river to

the spirit land.

Weeks and months had passed since that humble grave was made, and that

precious treasure confided to its bosom. It was a calm glorious evening

in mid-summer. The moon shone brightly on the Itean encampment. There

was not, in the whole valley of the west, a more beautiful spot for a

settlement. The smooth open green-sward was closely surrounded with

trees on three sides. On the other, the land gradually sloped towards

the river, which flowed quietly by, ever and anon sparkling in the

moonbeams, or reflecting the dark forest and flowery banks in its azure

depths.

The wigwams in the opening were all closed. Their inmates were at rest.

Presently, the buffalo-skin, that served as a door to the principal

cabin, was drawn aside, and the beautiful daughter of the chief emerged

into the light, and passed swiftly on to the river. Following its

course a short distance, by the narrow path that threaded the woods on

its bank, she came to the little grave, threw herself on the earth by

its side, and wept. It was Monica, the sister of that buried infant, the

same whom we saw at his grave when it was first opened, and who had

daily, since that time, sung over it her simple song.

The grief and disappointment of the mother, in the loss of her only son,

was not more deep or sincere, or enduring, than that of this

affectionate and devoted sister. From the moment of his birth, he was

the idol of her soul. She looked forward to the time, in her ardent

imagination very near at hand, when, emulating the virtues and deeds of

his father, he should become the noblest chief of his tribe. She had

pictured to herself the many wonderful exploits he should achieve, and

the love and veneration with which he would be regarded throughout the

nation. But now, those hopes were blasted, those visions had all faded

into darkness. Time had not soothed her disappointment, or softened the

poignancy of her grief. Waking or sleeping, the image of her lost

brother was before her. She longed to follow him, that she might

overtake him on the way, and help him in his passage over that fearful

stream.

She had laid down that night, as usual, and slept by the side of her

mother. Her dreams were troubled. She thought that arid plain and dark

river were before her. The faithful dog was struggling with the waves.

The little ark which held that precious treasure, was buffeted about by

the winds. Chilled with the cold, and terrified by the dark howling

storm, the lone child sobbed bitterly, and looked imploringly round for

his mother. In her distress and agitation, she awoke. Unable to sleep,

or even to rest, she rose, and ran to the grave.

"I come, I come, my precious one,

I am ever by your side--

Fear not, your voyage is almost done

Over that dismal tide;

The winds shall hush, the storm pass o'er,

And a friendly band shall come

To meet you on the spirit shore,

And bid you welcome home.

Fear not, for love that never sleeps

Shall guard you o'er that wave;

And mother her constant vigil keep

Beside your quiet grave."

Having chanted her simple lay of love, Monica turned from the grave,

stepped into a canoe, and paddled down the stream. Overcome with grief,

she dropped her paddle, sat pensively down in her shallop, and left it

to follow its course down the current. For several hours it glided

silently on. She gave no heed to the hours, till morning broke in the

east. Suddenly starting up from her long dream, she looked for her

paddle. It was gone. Seeing a bough floating on the water near her, she

leaned out to catch it, as the canoe passed on. It was decayed, and

broke in her hand. Throwing it from her, she looked eagerly about for

some other means of reaching the shore. At length, passing under the

shadow of an immense tree, that overhung the stream, she seized a branch

that almost dipped into the water, and drawing herself in to the bank,

sprang on shore.

Slowly and doubtfully the timid girl threaded the thick forest,

scarcely knowing which way to turn. Hoping to find some friendly wigwam

near, she sounded the shrill call of her tribe. The call was instantly

answered, but not by a friendly voice. Two stern and stalwart warriors

of the Pawnee tribe, who were deadly enemies to the Iteans, chanced to

be passing that way, and, recognizing the call as that of an enemy,

sprang from the thicket, seized the trembling maiden, and bore her away

in triumph. Many a weary league she travelled on by the side of her

merciless captors, ere she reached their distant encampment. Worn,

exhausted in strength and desponding in heart, she fell to the earth in

the midst of the throng that gathered around her, and besought them to

kill her at once, and let her go to her poor infant brother.

The Pawnees were not only hostile to the Iteans, but were, in some

respects, the most savage tribe in the great valley. They alone, of the

North American Indians, continued, down the present century, and far

within it, to practice the savage rite of sacrificing human victims on

the altar of their gods. With them it was a propitiatory sacrifice,

offered to the _Great Star_, or the planet Venus. This dreadful ceremony

annually preceded the preparations for planting corn, and was supposed

to be necessary to secure a fruitful season. The victim was always some

prisoner, who had been captured in war, or otherwise; and there was

never wanting an individual who coveted the honor of making a captive

from some hostile tribe, and dedicating the spoils of his prowess to the

national benefit.

The captors of Monica were in quest of a victim for this sacrifice, when

they wandered away alone, and prowled for several days, about the

encampment of her tribe. With this view, they bore her away in triumph,

deaf to all her entreaties and tears, and gave her in charge to the

priests, to be made ready against the return of the season.

The best wigwam in the village was assigned for her accommodation.

Cheerful companions of her own age were given her. The most sedulous

attention was paid to her wants. She was dressed in gay apparel,

continually feasted on the choicest luxuries which their fields and

hunting grounds afforded, and treated with the utmost tenderness by all

about her. Every possible means was employed to allay her grief, and

promote that cheerfulness of spirit, which is essential to health and

comeliness, in order that she might thus be made a more suitable and

acceptable offering.

The personal charms of Monica required no such system of treatment, in

order to their full development. She was a rare specimen of native grace

and loveliness, and would have been a fitting model, in every feature

and limb, for a Phidias or a Praxitiles. The exceeding beauty and

gentleness of their captive, while it won the admiration and regard of

all her young companions, only made her, in the view of the priests and

chiefs of the tribe, a more desirable victim for the altar.

For a long time, Monica was inconsolable. Deprived of that dearest

privilege of visiting daily the grave of her brother, distracted in view

of the anxiety which her mother would feel for her, she refused to be

comforted, or to take any pleasure in the means employed to amuse her.

Time and kindness, however, and the promise that she should, by and by,

return to her father-land, restored, in a degree, her serenity of mind.

She was too affectionate and confiding, to reject the sympathy and

kindness even of an enemy. Grateful for the unwearied efforts which her

companions made to amuse and comfort her, she came, at last, to regard

them as friends. Gratitude begat affection. Affection created

confidence. She unburdened her heart of the sorrows that oppressed it.

By that effort, the burden was lightened. Something of the elasticity

and vivacity of youth returned. She sang and played, if not to amuse

herself, yet to gratify others, whose assiduous kindness, and seemingly

generous sympathy, she had no other means of repaying. Thus, entirely

ignorant of the terrible doom that awaited her, Monica passed the winter

of her captivity, looking ever forward to the opening spring as the

period of her promised release, and return to the wigwam of her mother.

At length the fatal day arrived, and every thing was ready for the

sacrifice. The whole Pawnee tribe was assembled to witness and take part

in the solemnities. From every side, they were seen emerging from the

thick forest, or gliding noiselessly over the bosom of the silver

stream, leaping from cliff to cliff of the distant hills, or winding

down their steep passes and narrow defiles, to meet in the great central

village, around the grand council fire of the nation. The whole tribe

was there--the chiefs in all their gaudy array of bead-work, feathers,

and paint, their embroidered moccasins, their gaily wrought tunics and

belts, their polished rifles, and glittering tomahawks--the women and

children, and the rank and file of the people, in all the finery and

gewgaws they could command. It was a brave sight to those accustomed to

the barbaric finery and wild sports of the Indian, but fearful and

hideous to one unused to the rude painted visages and half naked forms

of the warriors.

The awful hour of those dreadful orgies was announced by all those

discordant shouts and hideous yells, which, with those primitive races,

serve the purpose of trumpet, drum and bell. The stake was set, and the

faggots made ready, in the centre of the great opening. The priests

stood at their post, and the vast multitude of eager excited witnesses

thronged around, waiting in terrible expectation for the consummation of

that horrid rite, and kindling into phrenzy in view of the mad revelry

that would follow. Presently, the outer ranks of that crowding circle

made way, and opened a passage to the ring within. Through this living

avenue, a company of chiefs marched in, singing, or rather shouting, a

wild song, and dancing in fantastic measures. At their head was the

captor of Monica, leading the timid girl by the hand. She was arrayed in

the most showy and expensive style of Indian costume, the various

decorations of her person comprising all that was beautiful and rare in

ornament, according to the uncultivated taste of that people.

Unconscious still of the doom that awaited her, and hoping, perhaps,

that this was to be the festival of her freedom, when she would be sent

away in peace to her home, she entered the circle with a cheerful face,

and an elastic step, smiling on her young companions as she passed, and

wondering at the cold look, or sometimes averted eye, with which her

salutation was answered.

It was not until she was led quite up to the stake, and saw the fearful

faggots piled around it, that she comprehended the meaning of these

mysterious preparations. Her awful doom flashed upon her, like a bolt

from heaven. With one loud, piercing, heart-rending shriek, she fell to

the earth, and called upon her mother. She was lifted up by the stern

priest, placed upon the pile, and bound to the stake. With wild

incantations, and horrid yells, the dread orgies were commenced. The

torch was lighted, and ready to be applied. At that instant, a shrill

whoop burst from the adjoining wood. A brave young warrior, leaping into

the midst of the circle, rushed to the stake, cut the cords that bound

the helpless victim, tore her away from the pile, and, dashing back

through the panic-struck crowd, flung her upon a fleet horse which he

had prepared for the occasion, sprung himself upon another, and was soon

lost in the distant windings of the wood.

It was the act of a moment. Even the Indian warriors, who are not easily

surprised, or put off their guard, were confounded and paralysed. Before

they could comprehend the object of this sudden phantom, this rash

interruption of their festival, their victim was gone. The bare stake,

and the useless heap of faggots were there. The proud chief, who

furnished the victim, and the fierce-looking priests, who were to

officiate in the dark rites of the sacrifice, stood in blank

astonishment around, as if a bolt from the cloud had smitten them. A

momentary silence prevailed among that mighty throng. A low murmur

succeeded, like the distant moans of a coming storm: then, like the

tempest, bursting in all its wrath, fierce cries of vengeance from a

thousand flaming tongues, furious discordant yells and shouts,

accompanied with frantic gestures, and looks of rage, such as would

distort the visage of a fiend. Some of the fleetest started off in hot

but vain pursuit. Those who remained, promised themselves a day of

terrible retribution. The mothers secretly rejoiced in the escape; while

those of the young girls who had been the chosen companions of the

captive, gave vent to their joy and gratitude in wild songs and dances.

In this manner, that turbulent assembly broke up. Without the usual

feast and its accompanying games, they scattered to their several homes,

coolly meditating revenge, and darkly foreboding the famine that should

ensue from the absence of the accustomed sacrifice.

Meanwhile, the fugitives held on their way, with the speed of the wind.

Not a word was spoken. It was a race of life and death, and every

faculty of the rescuer as well as of the rescued was absorbed in the one

idea and effort to escape. Over hill and plain, and shallow stream,

those foaming steeds flew on, pausing not even to snuff the breeze, till

they had cleared the territory of the Pawnees, and reached a sheltered

nook within the precincts of a neutral tribe. Here, as among all the

Indian tribes the woman is considered competent to take care of herself

in all ordinary emergencies, her deliverer left her, giving her ample

directions for the way, and cautioning her to use the utmost diligence

to avoid pursuit.

"But, tell me first," she cried, tears of grateful joy standing in her

eyes, "tell me to whom I am indebted for this miraculous escape--that,

in all my prayers to the Great Spirit, I may call down his blessing upon

your head."

"I am Petalesharro," replied the youth, modestly. "My father is

Latalashaw, the chief of my tribe. We do not believe, with our people,

that the Great Spirit delights in the sacrifice. He loves all his red

children, and they should all love one another."

"But, will not your chiefs revenge upon your head this interference with

their solemn rites? If any national calamities follow, will they not

charge them all to your account? I could not bear that my generous

deliverer should be struck down by those terrible hands, in the prime of

his youth, as the reward of his heroic benevolence. Better that I should

return and submit to the fate they had prepared for me."

"Fear not for me, Monica. Petalesharro fears not to meet the assembled

council of his nation. Not a brave among them all will raise a hand to

hurt him. He will make them know that the Great Star needs not the blood

of the captive. And never again shall the fires be kindled for that

cruel sacrifice."

Encouraged by the words of the young chief, Monica turned, with a strong

heart, towards her home, still some four hundred miles distant. The same

kind providence which had rescued her from the devouring flames, still

guided and guarded her solitary way, and gave her strength and spirits

for her toilsome journey.

On the second day of her pilgrimage, as she climbed the summit of a

range of hills that ran athwart her path, she was alarmed by the

appearance of a considerable body of armed men, just emerging from a

distant ravine of the same range, in a direction that would lead them

immediately across her path. They were too far off to enable her to

discern, by their dress and accoutrements, to what tribe they belonged.

She supposed they must be Pawnees in pursuit of their lost captive. If

she attempted to pass on before them, they would discover her track, and

soon overtake her flight. She had nothing to do, therefore, but wait

till they had passed, in the hope of eluding their eager scent.

Concealing herself in the thicket, in a position that overlooked the

valley, she awaited with composure the coming of that fearful band. They

descended into the valley, and, to the utter consternation of Monica,

began to pitch their tents under the shade of a spreading oak, on the

bank of a little stream. She watched the movement with an anxious heart,

not knowing how she should escape, with a pursuing enemy so near. Her

consternation and anxiety were soon, however, changed to joy, when one

of the company, approaching the vicinity of her hiding place, to cut a

pole for his tent, was recognized as a chief of her own tribe. Springing

from the thicket with a scream of delight, which startled the whole

encampment, and brought every brave to his feet, with his hand on the

trigger of his rifle, she rushed into the midst of her astonished

people, and was received with silent joy, as one restored from the dead.

Under their protection, the remainder of her journey was safely and

easily performed. Before the moon, which was then crescent, had reached

her full, Monica had embraced her mother, and added a fresh flower to

the grave of her brother.

The brave, the generous, the chivalrous Petalesharro returned to his

father's tent with the fearless port and composed dignity of one whose

consciousness of rectitude placed him above fear. He was a young man,

just entered upon manhood, and a general favorite of his tribe.[E] His

countenance, as represented in Col. McKenney's magnificent work upon the

North American tribes, is one of uncommon beauty of feature. In its

mildness of expression, it is almost effeminate. But in heart and soul

he was a man and a hero. His courage, and the power of his arm, were

acknowledged by friend and foe; and on the death of his father, he was

raised to the chieftaincy of his tribe. The season which followed his

noble act of humane, may we not say religious chivalry, was one of

uncommon fertility, health and prosperity. "_The Great Star_" had not

demanded the victim. And the Pawnees never again polluted their altars

with the blood of a human sacrifice.

[E] Major Long, in his "Expeditions to the Rocky Mountains,"

thus describes Petalesharro, as he appeared in his native

wilds, and among his own people, in the full costume which he

wore on the occasion of some great festival of his tribe.

"Almost from the beginning of this interesting fete, our

attention had been attracted to a young man, who seemed to be

the leader or partisan of the warriors. He was about

twenty-three years of age, of the finest form, tall, muscular,

exceedingly graceful, and of a most prepossessing countenance.

His head-dress, of war-eagles' feathers, descended in a double

series upon his back, like wings, down to his saddle-croup; his

shield was highly decorated, and his long lance by a plaited

casing of red and blue cloth. On enquiring of the interpreter,

our admiration was augmented by learning that he was no other

than Petalesharro, with whose name and character we were

already familiar. He is the most intrepid warrior of the

nation, the eldest son of Letalashaw, and destined, as well by

mental and physical qualifications, as by his distinguished

birth, to be the future leader of his people."

Petalesharro visited Washington in 1821, where his fine figure

and countenance, and his splendid costume attracted every eye.

But there was that in his history and character, which had gone

before him, that secured for him a worthier homage than that of

the eye. His act of generous chivalry to the Itean captive was

the theme of every tongue. The ladies of the city caused an

appropriate medal to be prepared, commemorating the noble deed,

and presented it to him, in the presence of a large assemblage

of people, who took a lively interest in the ceremony. In reply

to their complimentary address, the brave young warrior

modestly said--"My heart is glad. The white woman has heard

what I did for the captive maid, and they love me, and speak

well of me, for doing it. I thought but little of it before. It

came from my heart, as the breath from my body. I did not know

that any one would think better of me for that. But now I am

glad. For it is a good thing to be praised by those, who only

praise that which is good."

TULA,

OR

THE HERMITESS OF ATHABASCA.

I thought to be alone. It might not be!

There is no solitude in thy domains,

Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast,

He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief.

TULA.

~Death is not all--

Not half the agony we suffer here:

The cup of life has drugs, more bitter far,

That must be drained.~

That solitary wigwam, in the outskirts of the village, was the home of

Kaf-ne-wah-go, an aged Chippeway warrior, who had weathered the storms,

and outlived the wars, of three score and ten seasons, and was yet as

fiery in the chase, and as mighty and terrible in battle, as any of the

young chiefs of his tribe. His voice in the council was, like the solemn

tones of an oracle, listened to with a reverence approaching to awe, and

never disregarded. His sons all inherited the spirit of their father,

and distinguished themselves among the braves in fight, and the sages in

council. Three of them fell in battle. One was principal chief of the

western division of the Chippeway family. Another, the brave

Ish-ta-le-o-wah, occupied the first in that group of wigwams in yonder

grove, about a hundred yards from his father's.

The only daughter of the good old sachem, the child of his old age, and

"the light of his eyes," was the fairest and loveliest wild-flower, that

ever sprung up amid the interminable wildernesses of the Western World.

Tula, the singing bird, was distinguished among the daughters of the

forest, not only for those qualities of person and character which are

recognized as graces among the Indians, but for some of those peculiar

refinements of feeling and manner, which are supposed to be the

exclusive product of a civilized state of society. She was remarkable

for the depth and tenderness of her affection, and for her ingenuity,

industry and taste. Her dress, and those of her father and brother,

exhibited the traces of her delicate handiwork; while the neat and

tasteful arrangement of the humble cabin, superior in all that makes

home comfortable and pleasant to any in the village, bore testimony to

her industry and skill.

Tula had many suitors. There was scarce a young brave in the tribe who

did not seek or desire her. But O-ken-ah-ga, the only son of their great

chief, won her heart. She became his bride, but she remained, with him

and their first-born child, in the tent of her aged parents, who could

not live, as they said, "when the singing bird, the light of their eyes

was gone."

* * * * *

It was mid-summer. The night was still, clear, and lovely. All nature

seemed to breathe nothing but calmness and peace. But the heart of

man--how often and how sadly is it at variance with nature! The inmates

of that humble wigwam were all wrapped in a profound sleep, not dreaming

of danger near. The infant, nestling in his mother's bosom, by a sudden

start roused her to partial consciousness. A deep groan, as of one in

expiring agonies, awakened all her faculties. She sprung up and called

upon her husband--

"O-ken-ah-ga, what is the matter?"

Another deep groan, and a stifled yell of triumph, was the only answer.

Staring wildly round, what a scene of horror met her eyes! Her father,

her mother, her husband, pierced with many wounds, and weltering in

their yet warm blood, lay dead before her; while a band of fierce and

terrible enemies, of the Athapuscow tribe, stood over them, with the

reeking instruments of death in their hands, their eyes gleaming with

savage delight, and their whole faces distorted with the most fiend-like

expression of rage and triumph. With the true instinct of a mother, she

clasped her infant to her breast, and bowed her head in silence, utterly

unable to give any utterance to the bitterness of her wo. It was this

silence that saved her and her child from an instant participation in

the fate of the mangled ones around her. The first word spoken, would

have brought down that reeking tomahawk upon their heads. The

Athapuscows were few in number, and their only safety consisted in doing

their work of revenge with secrecy and despatch, for the Chippeways were

many and powerful, and to disturb the slumbers of one of them would be

to rouse the whole tribe in a moment.

The work of death was done. The scalps of their victims hung dripping at

the belts of the murderers, and the spoils of the cabin were secured.

The spoilers turned to depart, and Tula, in obedience to their word,

without complaint or remonstrance, rose and followed them. Gathering up

a few necessary articles, among which she contrived to conceal her babe,

she took one farewell look upon the loved ones, whom death had so

suddenly and fearfully claimed, and left them, and the home of her

youth, for ever.

With cautious stealthy steps, the murderous band plunged into the deep

forest, threading their way through its intricate mazes, with

inconceivable skill and sagacity, till they reached an opening, on the

bank of the Wapatoony river, where a considerable detachment of their

tribe was temporarily encamped. Delivering their prisoner into the hands

of the women, the braves proceeded at once to the council of the chiefs,

to show their trophies, and relate the incidents of their scout.

When the Athapuscow women, in examining the contents of the poor

captive's bundle, discovered the still sleeping infant, they seized him

as they would have done a viper, and dashed him on the ground. In vain

did the fond mother plead for her child. In vain did the voice of

nature, and a mother's instinct in their own bosoms, plead for the

innocent. It was an enemy's child, a hated Chippeway, and that was

enough to stifle every other feeling in their hearts, and make even "an

infant of days" an object of intense and implacable hatred. With the

Indian, the son of an enemy is an enemy, doomed only to death or

torture. The daughter may be spared for slavery or sacrifice.

* * * * *

The morning dawned with uncommon brilliancy and beauty upon the

Chippeway village, and warriors and children were astir with the

earliest light, some to fish in the smooth stream, that, like a silver

chain, bound their two beautiful lakes together--some to look after the

traps they had set over-night--some to prepare for the hunt--and some

for the merry games and athletic sports of the village. The quick eye of

Ish-ta-le-o-wah soon discovered that all was not right in the tent of

his father. Kaf-ne-wah-go was not abroad, as usual, with his net in the

stream. O-ken-ah-ga was not seen among the hunters with his bow, nor

among the wrestlers on the green. No smoke was seen curling among the

branches of the old tree that overshadowed his mother's tent. All was

still as the house of the dead.

"Why sleep the brave so long, when the light of day is already on the

hill-top, and coming down upon the valley. Has the snake crept into the

tent of Kaf-ne-wah-go, and charmed the father with the children? I must

go and see."

The loud and piercing yell of Ish-ta-le-o-wah, as he looked in upon that

desolate wigwam, roused the whole village, like the blast of a trumpet.

The counsellors and braves of the nation were soon on the spot. The

whole scene was understood in a moment, as clearly as if a written

record of the whole had been left behind. Pursuit, and the recovery of

the captive Tula and her child, were instantly resolved; and, ere the

sun had surmounted the eastern barrier of their beautiful valley,

Ish-ta-le-o-wah, with a band of chosen braves, was on the trail of the

foe.

With the keen eye and quick scent of a blood-hound, they followed the

almost obliterated track, through forest and brake, through swamp and

dingle, over hill and prairie, till it was lost on the border of the

Athabasca lake. Though the party in retreat was large, so well were they

all trained in the Indian tactics of flight and concealment, that it

required a most experienced eye to keep on their track. They had

marched, according to custom, in Indian file, each carefully walking in

the steps of the other, so that, to an unpractised observer, there would

appear to have been but one wayfarer in the path. Wherever it was

practicable, the path was carried over rocks, or the soft elastic

mosses, or through the bed of a running brook, with the hope of eluding

the pursuer. But no artifice of the Athapuscow could elude the

well-trained eye of the Chippeway. He would instantly detect the

slightest trace of a footstep on the ground, or the passage of a human

body through the thicket. In one place, the edges of the moss had been

torn, or a blade of grass trampled in upon it; in another, the small

stones of the surface had been displaced, showing sometimes the fresh

earth, and sometimes the hole of a worm uncovered, with half the length

of its astonished occupant protruded to the light, as if investigating

the cause of the sudden unroofing of his cell. Here some dry stick

broken, or the bark of a protruding root peeled off, would betray the

step of the fugitive; and there a shrub slightly bent, or a leaf turned

up and lapped over upon another, or a few petals of a wild flower torn

off and scattered upon the ground, would reveal the rude touch of his

foot, or arm, or the trailing of his blanket, as he passed. Even on the

bare rock, if a few grains of earth had been carried forward, or a

pebble, a leaf, a dry stick, or a bit of moss, adhering to the foot had

been deposited there, it was instantly noticed and understood. The

rushing of the waters in the brook did not always replace, in a moment,

every stone that had been disturbed in its bed, nor restore the broken

limb, nor the bent weed, to its place. So quick and intuitive were these

observations, that the march of the pursuer was as rapid and direct as

that of the pursued. The one would seldom lose more time in hunting for

the track, than the other had consumed in his various artifices of

concealment.

On arriving at the lake, it was evident that a considerable number of

the enemy had been encamped, and that they had just embarked. Their

fires were still smoking, and the rocks were not yet dry, from which

they had pushed off their canoes, in the haste of their departure.

The Chippeway was not easily diverted from his purpose. With the speed

of a chamois, he climbed a tall cliff, which, jutting boldly out into

the lake, concealed its great eastern basin from his view. Arrived at

the summit, he discerned, dimly relieved in the distant horizon, a

number of moving specks, which he knew to be the canoes of the

retreating foe. In the double hope of avenging the dead, and recovering

the living from captivity, he continued his course along the shores of

the lake, and, early the next morning, fell once more upon the trail of

his enemy. Pursuing it a short distance into the forest, it suddenly

divided, one part continuing on to the east, and one striking off toward

the south. In neither of them could he discover the track of his sister.

Her captors had placed her, with their own women, in the middle of the

march, so that the large and heavy track of the warriors who came after,

should cover and obliterate the lighter traces of her foot.

Taking the eastern track, and moving on with accelerated speed, he

overtook the flying party in the act of encamping for the night.

Concealing himself carefully from view, and watching his opportunity

when all were busily engaged in pitching their tents, he raised the

terrible war-whoop, with a volley of well directed arrows, and rushed,

with his whole band, upon his unarmed victims. Not one of them escaped;

and, so sudden and complete was the retribution, that not one remained

to tell where the captive Tula had been carried. The real murderers had

escaped with their captives, and the vengeance intended for _them_ had

fallen upon the heads of their innocent comrades.

* * * * *

Tula was treated with kindness by the Athapuscow chief, who claimed her

as his own. Every means was tried to reconcile her to her new lot, and

to make her content to be the wife of her enemy. But her heart was bound

up with the memories of the dead. Her parents, her husband, her child,

filled all her thoughts. And the idea of being for ever bound to those

whose hands were stained with the blood of these precious lost ones, was

not to be endured for a moment. She was inconsolable, and her captors,

for a time, respected her grief. Day after day, they travelled on, with

long and weary marches, till the face of the country was changed, and

the green forest gave way to the barren and rocky waste, that skirts the

northern borders of the great valley of prairies. As they advanced, they

grew more and more secure against pursuit, and less watchful of their

captive. At length, she suddenly disappeared from their view.

They had pitched for the night, on the bank of the north branch of the

Sascatchawan. The night was dark and tempestuous. The lightnings flashed

vividly from the dark cloud, and threatened to "melt the very elements

with fervent heat." The hoarse thunders roared among the wildly

careering clouds, and reverberated along the shores of the stream, and

the cliffs of the distant mountains, as if those everlasting barriers

were rent asunder, and nature were groaning from her utmost depths. The

Indian feared not death, in whatever shape it might come. But he feared

the angry voice of the Great Spirit. He shrunk with terror to the covert

of his tent, and covered his eyes from the fearful glare of those

incessant flashes, and prayed inwardly to his gods.

The poor disconsolate captive lay trembling under the side of the tent.

She thought of the storm that had swept over her beautiful home, and

desolated her heart in the spring time of its love. She looked at her

savage captors, now writhing in the agonies of superstitious fear, which

her more absorbing private grief alone prevented her from sharing to the

full. They heeded her not. They scarcely remembered that she was among

them. Something whispered to her heart--"No eye but that of the Great

Spirit sees you. He bids you escape from your enemies."

In the ten-fold darkness that follows the all-revealing flash from the

storm-cloud, Tula slipped noiselessly under the edge of the robe that

sheltered her from the beating rain, and plunging into the stream, swam

with the current a few rods, till she was arrested by a thick covert of

overhanging shrubs, which grew to the water's edge. Thinking she might

be able to cover her head with these bushes, while her body was hid by

the water, she crept cautiously under, close to the bank, when, to her

surprise and joy, she found that this shrubbery covered and curiously

concealed a crevice in the jutting rock, sufficiently large to admit a

free entrance to an ample cave within. Having carefully adjusted every

limb and leaf without, and replaced with instinctive sagacity, the

mosses that had been disturbed by her feet, she devoutly thanked the

good spirit for her hope of deliverance, and anxiously watched for the

morning.

The dark cloud of the night had passed over. The voice of the tempest

was hushed. The day broke clear and cloudless, amid the singing of

birds, and the quickened music of the swollen stream. The first thought

of the Athapuscow chief, as he started from his troubled slumbers, was

of his captive. But she was gone. With a shrill and angry whoop, he

roused the whole band, and all started in pursuit. The old woods rung

again with the whoop and yell of the pursuers, and were answered by the

sullen echoes of the hills and cliffs around. But neither wood, nor

hill, nor cliff, revealed the hiding-place of the captive. The heavy

torrents of rain had obliterated every mark of her footsteps, and

neither grass, nor sand, nor the yielding soil of the river-bank

afforded any clue to the path she had taken.

Safe in the close covert of her new found retreat, the poor captive

heard all the loud and angry threats of her disappointed pursuers. She

even heard their frequent conjectures and animated discussions of the

means to be adopted for her recovery, and often, they were so near to

her place of refuge, that she could see their anxious and angry looks,

as they passed, and almost feel their hands among the bushes that

sheltered her, and the quick tramp of their feet over the roof of her

cave. But there was no track or mark, on land or water, to guide them to

that spot, and so naturally had every leaf been adjusted, that it had

not attracted a single suspicion from any one of those sagacious and

quick-sighted inquisitors.

Two hours of fruitless search for a hiding place, or a track that should

reveal the course of her flight, brought them to the conclusion that the

Great Spirit had taken her away, and that it was not for man to find her

path again. With this conviction, they struck their tents, swam the

stream, and resumed their march to the south.

Too cautious to leave her covert at once, and wearied with her anxious

watchings, Tula composed herself to sleep, as soon as the last sound of

the retiring party died on her ear. The sun had declined half way to his

setting, when she awoke. She listened, with a suspicions ear for every

sound without. The singing of birds, the rustling of the leaves, and the

murmur of the waters, were all that disturbed the silence of the scene.

She put her ear to the rock, but it brought nothing to her sense that

revealed the presence of man. With extreme caution, she ventured to look

out from her cave, and, by slow degrees, peering on every side for some

concealed enemy, she emerged into the light, and dropping noiselessly

into the stream, swam to a point on the opposite shore, from which she

could obtain a good view of the recent encampment. It was deserted and

still. Not a trace was left behind, except the trampled grass, and the

blackened embers.

Recrossing the stream, she commenced, with a light step, and a hopeful

spirit, the seemingly impossible task of finding her way back to her

home and her people. The consciousness of freedom buoyed her up, and

inspired her with a new hope, at almost every step. With a light heart,

and an elastic step, she bounded away over the desolate waste, that lay

between the river and the forest, having neither path, nor track, nor

land-mark, to guide her way, and with nothing but the instinct of

affection to point out the course she should take. She had been so

absorbed with her many griefs, during the long and weary march hitherto,

and so little did she dream of the possibility of escape, that she had

scarcely taken any notice of the direction, or attempted to observe any

land-marks to guide her return. The way by which she had been led was

circuitous and irregular, and she had only the vague general ideas, that

her home was near "the star that never moves," and that she had been

leaving her shadow behind, to aid her in her solitary wanderings. With a

hopeful courageous heart, she sought only to widen the distance between

her cruel captors and herself, trusting that her way would open as she

went, and that her guardian angel, her tutelar divinity, would keep her

from going astray. _Her_ tutelar divinity was the moon, whose light and

protection she invoked, with a devout, if not an enlightened faith.

While she could enjoy her mild clear light, she was always happy and

secure; but when those beams were withdrawn, a shadow came over her soul

that was full of dark forebodings and anxious fears.

She had travelled several leagues, without seeing a track of any kind,

and without the consciousness of fatigue or hunger. When night came on,

she was just entering a deep forest, whose impenetrable shade made a

sudden transition from twilight to utter darkness. With no star to guide

her, and with no appearance of a path through thickets which seemed

never to have been penetrated by a human footstep, she was soon

bewildered, and felt that it was vain to proceed. With a few half-ripe

nuts for a supper, and the soft moss which had gathered about the trunk

of a fallen tree for a bed, she committed herself to sleep.

About midnight, her slumbers were disturbed by a heavy rustling among

the bushes, at no great distance, accompanied by a constant crackling,

as of some large animal, trying to penetrate the thicket. Perceiving

that it approached nearer at every step, she seized a club, with which

she had provided herself before entering the forest, and hastened to

climb into the nearest tree. As she ascended, it began to grow lighter

overhead. The stars looked smilingly down upon her, but it was darker

than ever below. She breathed a silent prayer to the star of her

faith--the bright orb where she supposed her guardian angel resided--and

took courage. The mysterious step approached nearer and nearer. She

soon perceived that it was a bear, and supposed he would follow her into

the tree. She therefore seated herself upon a stout limb, a few feet

from the main trunk, and prepared to give him a warm reception.

Presently the heavy trampling ceased, and was followed by a silence

vastly more oppressive than the previous noise.

In this condition, the remaining hours of the night passed away. With

the first light of the morning, the shaggy intruder was discerned,

quietly reposing near the foot of the tree, and showing no signs of

being in haste to depart. That he was conscious of the presence of a

stranger, was evident only from an occasional upward glance of his eye,

and a significant turning of the nose in that direction, as if there was

something agreeable in prospect.

Tula would have been no match for Bruin on level ground, but she felt

confident of her power in the position she had chosen, and therefore

quietly waited the movements of her adversary. For two or three hours,

he behaved himself with the gravity of a true philosopher, coolly

expecting to weary out the patience of his victim by a close siege, and

so save himself the trouble of taking the tree by assault. But Tula was

as patient and prudent as Bruin, and could endure hunger, and thirst,

and wakefulness as well as he. Rousing at length from his inactivity, he

travelled round and round the tree, as if taking its measure, and

estimating the probable result of an encounter. Tula watched his motions

with more interest than anxiety, hoping soon to be relieved from her

imprisonment, and at liberty to pursue her journey. It was near noon,

when, having satisfied himself that offensive measures were necessary,

he began to climb the tree. Having reached the leading branch, and

embraced the trunk to raise himself to that on which Tula was seated,

the brave girl rose suddenly to her feet, and brought down her club upon

the enemy's nose with such desperate and well directed force, as to send

him, stunned and insensible, to the ground. Without allowing him a

moment to recover, she leaped down to his side, and dealt a succession

of heavy blows upon his head, till the blood flowed in torrents, and his

struggles and his breathing ceased.

* * * * *

In this manner, many days and nights passed on, during which she

encountered many imminent dangers, and severe conflicts, and made but

little progress. Hunger, weariness, a continual sense of danger, and

that sickness of the heart, which solitude and suspense beget, were her

inseparable companions. Every day, her hope of ultimately reaching the

home of her childhood grew fainter and fainter. But she had a woman's

endurance, and a woman's fertility of resource. She never for a moment

repented her flight. She would have preferred death in any form to a

forced espousal with the murderer of her family. Sometimes with roots

and herbs, sometimes with nutritious mosses, and sometimes with wild

fruits and nuts, she continued to satisfy the cravings of appetite, and

to sustain her severely tried fortitude, for the fatigues and perils

that were yet before her.

The forest seemed interminable; and so indeed it might well have been

regarded, for she was continually travelling round and round, in the

same track, having only an occasional glimpse of the sun to direct her

way, or a view of the stars, when she climbed some tall tree at night.

She knew little of the direction in which she was going; but she was

sure that that forest lay between her enemy and her home, and was

therefore resolved, at any expense of labor and suffering, to find her

way through it, or perish in the attempt.

After several weeks of incredible toil, fatigue, hardship and danger,

the brave persevering Tula emerged into a wide opening, having a

considerable mountain on one side, and a large sheet of water, and a

stream from the mountain pouring into it, on the other. It was a

beautiful spot, but the whole aspect of it was new and strange. She was

confident she had not passed that way, while a captive in the hands of

the Athapuscows. She was now wholly at a loss which way to turn. To

retrace her steps through the intricacies of that dark forest, would be

as vain as the thought of it was appalling. To go on, when she was

absolutely certain she was out of her track, seemed little less than

madness. To choose either the right hand or the left, was to leap in the

dark, and involve herself in new doubts and difficulties. She needed

rest. Her apparel was torn by her difficult passages through the tangled

thickets, and her frequent contests with the enemies she found there.

Pondering deeply on the difficulties before her, she began to think,

that if there was any place of shelter near, she would make herself a

new home, and live and die alone in the great wilderness.

"And why," said she to herself, "why should I return to the wigwam of my

father? Kaf-ne-wah-go is not there. My mother, she has gone with him to

the spirit land. O-ken-ah-ga waits no longer for my return. I left my

brave chief in his blood. His voice will no longer be heard in the

valley, with the hunters, nor his shout in the battle. He fell in the

glory of his strength, like the young oak that is full of sap, and whose

roots have struck deep into the earth. And my child, the son of

O-ken-ah-ga, alas! he has not even a grave to sleep in. He lies on the

cold bosom of the earth, and I know not where. Why then should I return

to a desolate home, only made more desolate by the memory of what it

was?"

With such thoughts as these, she beguiled her inward yearnings for the

spot where all her joys had been, and where all her hopes were buried.

Wandering on the shores of the lake and the stream by day, and seeking

such shelter as she could find in the clefts of the rocks at night, she

sought for a place where she might provide a suitable protection against

the cold and the storms of winter, which were not far distant. Wild

berries and fruits afforded her only sustenance for a considerable time,

until her own ingenuity provided her with the means of procuring a more

certain substantial diet.

Having found a convenient spot in a deep ravine of the mountain, which

opened towards the south, and was consequently always exposed to the

sun, she immediately commenced the construction of a place to dwell in.

The spot selected was romantic and beautiful in the extreme, and seemed

to have been designed by nature "for some especial use." It was

sufficiently elevated to command a fine view of the opening, including

all the meanderings of the river, and the whole extent of the lake, and

yet it was not difficult of access, nor so high as to be too much

exposed to the wintry storms. It was a little nook, chipped out from the

solid rock, having a smooth slaty floor, about twelve feet square, with

a semi-circular recess of about half that depth into the side of the

mountain. A jutting rock, about ten feet above this floor, and

overhanging it on every side, formed a natural ceiling. It only needed

to be enclosed on two sides, to make a lodge that any of the great

caciques of the wilderness might be proud of.

Fortunately Tula was not entirely destitute of tools to work with. A

piece of an iron hoop, about six inches in length, and the shank of an

arrow head, also of iron, both of which she had picked up while among

the Athapuscows, constituted her whole stock. With these, which she

sharpened upon the rocks, she contrived to cut down a number of young

saplings, and shape them to her purpose. Planting two of them upright

upon the outer line of the floor, and laying the end of one against the

inside, and the end of the other against the outside of the cornice, or

overhanging ceiling, she bound them firmly together with green withes.

In this manner she went all round, leaving a space open for a door on

the sunny side. This done, she wove it, inside and out, with willow

boughs, stuffing the intervening spaces with moss, till it was entirely

impervious to the weather. The door was of close basket-work hung at the

top, and secured at the sides, in a storm, or during the night, by means

of withes fastened round the door-posts. This served the double purpose

of door and window, while a crevice in the rock above, performed the

part of a chimney.

The work went on slowly and heavily at first, but patience and

perseverance, which can conquer all but impossibilities, accomplished it

before the cold weather set in. Meanwhile, the ingenuity of the fair

builder had found means to make a fire upon the hearth. Her materials

for that purpose were two hard sulphureous stones, which, by long

friction, or hard knocking, produced a few sparks. These, communicated

to touchwood, were soon formed into a blaze.

When fruits, berries and nuts failed, her ready ingenuity supplied her

with other means of sustaining life. She had, among her scanty stock of

furniture, a few deer-sinews, which, with the Indians, are a common

substitute for thread. With the aid of these, she managed to snare

partridges, rabbits and squirrels. She also killed several beavers and

porcupines. The sinews of the rabbit's legs and feet were twisted with

great dexterity, to supply the place of deer-sinews, when _they_ were

gone. Their skins also, with those of the squirrels, served to replenish

her exhausted wardrobe, supplying, under her skilful hand, a neat and

warm suit of winter clothing. Her industry was as untiring as her

ingenuity was fruitful of resources. Forlorn as her situation was, she

was composed and resigned, if not contented, and seemed to find pleasure

in employing every moment of her waking hours in some useful or

ornamental contrivance.

Her dress evinced much taste, and exhibited no little variety of

ornament. The materials, though rude, were very curiously wrought, and

so judiciously arranged, as to give to the whole a pleasing and romantic

effect. Her tunic was composed of the skins of squirrels and rabbits, in

alternate strips of grey and white. It was secured at the waist by a

belt of skin, beautifully wrought with porcupine quills, colored

pebbles, and strips of bark of various brilliant hues. Her mantle, which

was large, was of the fairest and most delicate skins, arranged with a

certain uniformity and harmony of design, which gave it all the grace

and beauty, without the stiffness, of a regular pattern. It had a

tasteful border, of brilliant feathers, and, like the belt before

described, was fastened by a clasp of an unique and original

contrivance, being made of the beaks and claws of her captives, arranged

and secured so as to interlock with each other. Her head-dress, leggings

and moccasins, were equally perfect in style and effect.

Besides accomplishing all this work, in her solitude, and even laying in

a stock of provisions in advance, sufficient for her wants, in case of a

long season of storms, sickness, or any other exigency, she had found

time to make several hundred fathoms of net-twine, by twisting the inner

rind, or bark, of willow boughs, into small lines. Of these, she

intended to make a fishing-net, as soon as the spring should open, and

thus enlarge her sources of subsistence and enjoyment.

* * * * *

It was past mid-winter. The snow lay deep and hard upon all the northern

hills and valleys. The lakes and rivers were frozen. The fountains of

nature were sealed up, and verdure, and fruitfulness, and almost all

the elements of life, seemed to have followed the sun in his journey to

the far south. A company of English traders, under the guidance of a

party of Indians, were traversing the country from Hudson's Bay to the

Northern Ocean, in quest of furs and peltries. Emerging from a deep

forest into a broad open plain, they discovered the track of a strange

snow-shoe, which, from its lightness, they judged to belong to a woman.

Not knowing of any encampment in that vicinity, it excited the more

curiosity. They followed it. It led them a considerable distance out of

their way, across the valley, and into the gorge of the mountain on its

southern side. Pursuing it still, as it ascended by a circuitous path,

they came to a small cabin, perched like an eagle's nest in the clefts

of the rock. They entered, and found a young and beautiful woman sitting

alone at her work. It was Tula, the hermitess of Athabasca. For more

than seven moons she had not seen a human face, nor heard a human voice,

nor did she ever expect again to see the one, or hear the other. She had

become reconciled to her lot. She loved the solitude where her spirit

could commune with the departed, undisturbed, and where only the sun,

the moon, and the stars, and the Great Spirit that controlled and guided

them all, could read her thoughts, and know the history of her griefs.

The first surprise being over, Tula offered the strangers a place by her

fire, and such other hospitalities as her cabin afforded.

"How comes the dove alone in the eagle's nest?" enquired the leader of

the party.--And then, regarding her with a look of admiration,

added--"does she not fear the hawk or the vulture, here in the cold

cliffs of the mountain?"

Tula replied by relating the story of her life--her bereavement--her

captivity--her escape--her weary wanderings--her hardships--and the

repose she had found in her solitude; and concluded by saying, "If the

eagle's nest be lonely and cold, it is quiet and safe. It is not too

high for the moon to smile upon. It is not too cold for Tula."

"Would the 'singing bird' seek out her people, and let her song be heard

again among the trees of the valley?"

"Tula is no longer the singing bird. Her song is shut up in her heart.

Her heart is with her kindred in the spirit land. Her father's cabin is

more desolate than the wilderness, or the mountain top. Her tree is

plucked up by the roots. It cannot live again."

After some considerable persuasion, in which the voice of the humane

Englishman--suggesting that, if the Ottawas had discovered her retreat,

the Athapuscows might discover it also,--had its full share of weight,

the fair hermitess consented to accompany the strangers; though she

could not conceal her regret, in abandoning her snug little castle, to

set off on a new pilgrimage, she knew not whither.

"It matters little to Tula where she goes, so that she does not meet the

Athapuscow. His hands are red with the blood of her father, her husband,

her child. Let her never see his face, or walk in his shadow."

* * * * *

The singular romance of Tula's story, the comeliness of her person, and

her approved accomplishments, touched the hearts of some of the young

braves of the party. They had not gone far on their way, before a

contest arose between them, who, according to immemorial usage among the

tribes, should claim the privilege of making her his wife. The

dispute--to which she was no party, for her views were not so much as

consulted in the matter--ran very high, and had nearly resulted in

serious consequences. The poor girl was actually won and lost, at

wrestling, by near half a score of different men, in the course of as

many days. When, at length, a compromise was effected, and the prize

awarded to Lak-in-aw, a young warrior of the Temiscamings, Tula refused

to receive the pipe at his hands, or to listen in any way to his suit.

"Tula is buried in the grave of O-ken-ah-ga," she said. "Tula will walk

alone on the earth. Her heart is in the spirit land. It will never come

back. It has nothing here to love."

* * * * *

Onward--onward--over interminable fields of snow and ice, where scarce a

green thing appeared to relieve the utter desolation, the party

proceeded, with their prize, on their journey to the far north. She was

treated with chivalric tenderness and respect, and her comfort and

convenience consulted in all the arrangements of the way. She needed but

little indulgence, and solicited _none_. She was capable of enduring the

fatigues and hardships of a man. She never flagged in the march, nor

lingered a moment, when the word was given to go forward.

In traversing a deep valley near the eastern extremity of the Great

Slave Lake, their track was crossed by that of a considerable party of

Indians, returning from an expedition to the fur regions of the north.

Their course lay along the southern border of the lake. Perceiving their

encampment at no great distance, on the other side of the valley, it was

resolved to visit them, and, if they were found to be friendly, to join

their camp for the night. On approaching the spot, they were met by the

chief, who, with a few attendants, came out to bid them welcome to his

tent. He was a fine specimen of a young Indian brave--one who, in his

green youth, had gained laurels, which it usually requires a life-time

to win. His costume, though adapted to the severity of the climate, was

tasteful and picturesque, and so fitted and arranged as to develop, to

the best advantage, the admirable proportions of his person.

The parley that ensued was a fine specimen of Indian courtesy and

diplomacy. But it was suddenly and violently interrupted, when Tula, who

had remained in the rear of her party, with the Englishmen, came up. At

the first sight of the young chief, she uttered a loud and

piercing shriek--for the extremes of joy and grief use similar tones and

gestures--and rushing forward, pushed aside friend and stranger alike,

and flung herself upon his neck, exclaiming--"Ish-ta-le-o-wah!--my

brother! my brother!"

* * * * *

Transcriber's Note

The following changes were made to the original text:

Accents were restored to the Table of Contents.

Page 5, "Ka-ree-o-than" changed to "Karee-o-than"

(Tezcuco--Karee-o-than)

Page 12, "Kaf-na-wa-go" changed to "Kaf-ne-wah-go"

(wigwam of Kaf-ne-wah-go)

Page 20, "skillfully" changed to "skilfully"

(craftily and skilfully worked)

Page 35, "paralasis" changed to "paralysis"

(struck with instant paralysis)

Page 40, "acknowledgements" changed to "acknowledgments"

(ample acknowledgments)

Page 50, "terrestial" changed to "terrestrial"

(paradise of terrestrial sweets)

Page 53, "harrass" changed to "harass"

(harass his soul)

Page 58, "anything" changed to "any thing"

(his position any thing but)

Page 60, "discomfitted" changed to "discomfited"

(among the discomfited Cholulans)

Page 66, "unappeaseable" changed to "unappeasable"

(an unappeasable fate)

Page 67, "suprised" changed to "surprised"

(continually surprised and delighted)

Page 73, "cortege" changed to "cortege"

(the royal cortege)

Page 78, "mein" changed to "mien"

(proud and haughty mien)

Page 102, "chastly" changed to "chastely"

(chastely decorated)

Page 121, "it's" changed to "its"

(Oozing its bitterness)

Page 125, "beseiged" changed to "besieged"

(heads of the besieged)

Page 193, "to day" changed to "to-day"

(my brave hunter, to-day) [First instance on page]

Page 205, "calmess" changed to "calmness"

(a calmness which we)

Page 227, "Kaf-ne-wa-go" changed to "Kaf-ne-wah-go"

(home of Kaf-ne-wah-go)

Page 227, "Ish-ta-le-ah" changed to "Ish-ta-le-o-wah"

(the brave Ish-ta-le-o-wah)

Page 245, "patridge" changed to "partridge"

(to snare partridges)

Page 247, "controled" changed to "controlled"

(controlled and guided)

Page 250, "grief" was typeset on the incorrect line and

was repositioned accordingly

(joy and grief use)

All other inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation were

retained as printed in the original text.

End of Project Gutenberg's Sketches of Aboriginal Life, by V. V. Vide