"He sat her on a milk-white steed,
And himself upon a grey;
He never turned his face again,
But he bore her quite away."
_The Knight of the Burning Pestle._
"Oh, woe is me for Gerrard! I have brought
Confusion on the noblest gentleman
That ever truly loved."
_The Triumph of Love._
The night, though only starry, was scarce less lovely for the absence of
the moon. So bright indeed was the milky way, the white girdle, with
which the night adorns her azure robe, that you might almost imagine the
moon had not disappeared, but only melted and diffused itself in the
milder radiance of that fair circlet.
As was always the custom in the country, the family had retired at an
early hour, and Bernard quietly left the house to fulfil his engagement
with Mamalis. They stood, he and the Indian girl, beneath the shade of
the old oak, so often mentioned in the preceding pages. With his
handsome Spanish cloak of dark velvet plush, thrown gracefully over his
shoulders, his hat looped up and fastened in front with a gold button,
after the manner of the times, Alfred Bernard stood with folded arms,
irresolute as to how he should commence a conversation so important, and
requiring such delicate address. Mamalis stood before him, with that air
of nameless but matchless grace so peculiar to those, who unconstrained
by the arts and affectations of society, assume the attitude of ease and
beauty which nature can alone suggest. She watched him with a look of
eagerness, anxious on her part for the silence to be broken, that she
might learn the meaning and the object of this strange interview.
Alfred Bernard was too skillful an intriguer to broach abruptly the
subject which, most absorbed his thoughts, and which had made him seek
this interview, and when at last he spoke, Mamalis was at a loss to
guess what there was in the commonplaces which he used, that could be of
interest to him. But the wily hypocrite led her on step by step, until
gradually and almost unconsciously to herself he had fully developed his
wishes.
"You live here altogether, now, do you not?" he asked, kindly.
"Yes."
"Are they kind to you?"
"Oh yes, they are kind to all."
"And you are happy?"
"Yes, as happy as those can be who are left alone on earth."
"What! are there none of your family now living?"
"No, no!" she replied, bitterly; "the blood of Powhatan now runs in this
narrow channel," and she held out her graceful arms, as she spoke, with
an expressive gesture.
"Alas! I pity you," said Bernard, sighing. "We are alike in this--for my
blood is reduced to as narrow a channel as your own. But your family was
very numerous?"
"Yes, numerous as those stars--and bright and beautiful as they."
"Judging from the only Pleiad that remains," thought Bernard, "you may
well say so--and can you," he added, aloud, "forgive those who have thus
injured you?"
"Forgive, oh yes, or how shall I be forgiven! Look at those stars! They
shine the glory of the night. They vanish before the sun of the morning.
So faded my people before the arms of the white man--and yet I can
freely forgive them all!"
"What, even those who have quenched those stars!" said Bernard, with a
sinister meaning in his tone.
"You mistake," replied Mamalis, touchingly. "They are not quenched. The
stars we see to-night, though unseen on the morrow, are still in
heaven."
"Nay, Mamalis," said Bernard, "the creed of your fathers taught not
thus. I thought the Indian maxim was that blood alone could wipe out the
stain of blood."
"I love the Christian lesson better," said Mamalis, softly. "And you,
Mr. Bernard, should not try to shake my new born faith. 'Love your
enemies--bless them that curse you--pray for them that despitefully use
you and persecute you--that you may be the children of your Father which
is in heaven.' The orphan girl on earth would love to be the child of
her father in heaven."
The sweet simplicity with which the poor girl thus referred to the
precepts and promises of her new religion, derived more touching beauty
from the broken English with which she expressed them. An attempt to
describe her manner and accent would be futile, and would detract from
the simple dignity and sweetness with which she uttered the words. We
leave the reader from his own imagination to fill up the picture which
we can only draw in outline. Bernard saw and felt the power of religion
in the heart of this poor savage, and he hesitated what course he should
pursue. He knew that her strongest feeling in life had been her
affection for her brother. That had been the chord which earliest
vibrated in her heart, and which as her heart expanded only increased in
tension that added greater sweetness to its tone. It was on this broken
string, so rudely snapped asunder, that he resolved to play--hoping thus
to strike some harsh and discordant notes in her gentle heart.
"You had a brother, Mamalis," he said, abruptly; "the voice of your
brother's blood calls to you from the ground."
"My brother!" shrieked the girl, startled by the suddenness of the
allusion.
"Aye, your murdered brother," said Bernard, marking with pleasure the
effect he had produced, "and it is in your power to avenge his death.
Dare you do it?"
"Oh, my brother, my poor lost brother," she sobbed, the stoical
indifference of the savage, pressed out by the crushed heart of the
sister, "if by this hand thy death could be avenged."
"By your hand he can be avenged," said Bernard, seeing her pause. "It
has not yet been done. That stupid knave, in a moment of vanity, claimed
for himself the praise of having murdered a chieftain, but the brave
Manteo fell by more noble hands than his."
"In God's name, who do you mean?" asked Mamalis.
"I can only tell you that it is now in your power to surrender his
murderer to justice, and to his deserved fate."
Mamalis was silent. She guessed that it was Hansford to whom Bernard had
thus vaguely alluded. The struggle seemed to be a desperate one. There
in the clear starlight, with none to help, save Him, in whom she had
learned to trust, she wrestled with the tempter. But that dark scene of
her life, which still threw its shadow on her redeemed heart, again rose
up before her memory. The lesson was a blessed one. How often thus does
the recollection of a former sin guard the soul from error in the
future. Surely, in this, too, God has made the wrath of man to praise
him. With the aid thus given from on high, the trusting soul of Mamalis
triumphed over temptation.
"I know not why you tempt me thus, Mr. Bernard," she said, more calmly,
"nor why you have brought me here to-night. But this I know, that I
have learned that vengeance belongs to God. It were a crime for mortal
man, frail at best, to usurp the right of God. My brother is already
fearfully avenged."
Twice beaten in his attempt to besiege the strong heart of the poor
Indian, by stratagem, the wily Bernard determined to pursue a more
determined course, and to take the resisting citadel by a coup d'etat.
He argued, and argued rightly, that a sudden charge would surprise her
into betraying a knowledge of Hansford's movements. No sooner,
therefore, had the last words fallen from her lips, than he seized her
roughly by the arm, and exclaimed,
"So you, then, with all your religious cant, are the murderess of Thomas
Hansford!"
"The murderess! Of Hansford! Is he then dead," cried the girl,
bewildered by the sudden charge, "How did they find him?"
"Find him!" cried Bernard, triumphantly, "It is easy finding what we
hide ourselves. We have proven that you alone are aware of his hiding
place, and you alone, therefore, are responsible for his safety. It was
for this confession that I brought you here to-night."
"So help me Heaven," said the trembling girl, terrified by the web thus
woven around her, "If he be dead, I am innocent of his death."
"The assassin of Berkenhead may well be the murderess of Hansford," said
Bernard. "It is easier to deny than to prove. Come, my mistress, tell me
when you saw him."
"Oh, but this morning, safe and well," said Mamalis. "Indeed, my hand is
guiltless of his blood."
"Prove it, then, if you can," returned Bernard. "You must know our
English law presumes him guilty, who is last with the murdered person,
unless he can prove his innocence. Show me Hansford alive, and you are
safe. If I do not see him by sunrise, you go with me to answer for his
death, and to learn that your accursed race is not the only people who
demand blood for blood."
Overawed by his threats, and his stern manner, so different from the
mild and respectful tone in which he had hitherto addressed her, Mamalis
sank upon the ground in an agony of alarm. Bernard disregarded her meek
and silent appeal for mercy, and sternly menaced her when she attempted
to scream for assistance.
"Hush your savage shrieking, you bitch, or you'll wake the house; and
then, by God, I'll choke you before your time. I tell you, if the man is
alive, you need fear no danger; and if he be dead, you have only saved
the sheriff a piece of dirty work, or may be have given him another
victim."
"For God's sake, do me no harm," cried Mamalis, imploringly. "I am
innocent--indeed I am. Think you that I would hurt a hair of the head of
that man whom Virginia Temple loves?"
This last remark was by no means calculated to make her peace with
Bernard; but his only reply was by the shrill whistle which had been
agreed upon as a signal between Holliday and himself. True to his
promise, and obedient to the command of his superior, the soldier made
his appearance on the scene of action with a promptitude that could only
be explained by the fact that he had concealed himself behind a corner
of the house, and had heard every word of the conversation. Too much
excited to be suspicious, Bernard did not remark on his punctuality, but
said, in a low voice:
"Go wake Thompson, saddle the horses, and let's be off. We have work
before us. Go!" And Holliday, with habitual obedience, retired to
execute the order.
"And now," said Bernard, in an encouraging tone, to Mamalis, "you must
go with me. But you have nothing to fear, if Hansford be alive. If,
however, my suspicions be true, and he has been murdered by your hand, I
will still be your friend, if you be but faithful."
The horses were quickly brought, and Bernard, half leading, half
carrying the poor, weeping, trembling maiden, mounted his own powerful
charger, and placed her behind him. The order of march was soon given,
and the heavy sound of the horses' feet was heard upon the hard, crisp,
frozen ground. Mamalis, seeing her fate inevitable, whatever it might
be, awaited it patiently and without a murmur. Never suspecting the true
motive of Bernard, and fully believing that he was _bona fide_ engaged
in searching for the perpetrators of some foul deed, she readily
consented, for her own defence, to conduct the party to the hiding place
of the hapless Hansford. Surprised and shocked beyond measure at the
intelligence of his fate, she almost forgot her own situation in her
concern for him, and was happy in aiding to bring to justice those who,
as she feared, had murdered him. She was surprised, indeed, that she had
heard nothing of the circumstance from Virginia, as she would surely
have done, had Bernard mentioned it to the family. But in her ignorance
of the rules of civilized life, she attributed this to the forms of
procedure, to the necessity for secrecy--to anything rather than the
true cause. Nor could she help hoping that there might be still some
mistake, and that Hansford would be found alive and well, thus
establishing her own innocence, and ending the pursuit.
Arrived nearly at the wigwam, she mentioned the fact to Bernard, who in
a low voice commanded a halt, and dismounting with his men, he directed
Mamalis to guide them the remaining distance on foot. Leaving Thompson
in charge of the horses, until he might be called to their assistance,
Bernard and Holliday silently followed the unsuspecting Indian girl
along the narrow path. A short distance ahead, they could discern the
faint smoke, as it curled through the opening at the top of the wigwam
and floated towards the sky. This indication rendered it probable that
the object of their search was still watching, and thus warned them to
greater caution in their approach. Bernard's heart beat thick and loud,
and his cheek blanched with excitement, as he thus drew near the lurking
place of his enemy. He shook Holliday by the arm with impatient anger,
as the heavy-footed soldier jarred the silence by the crackling of
fallen leaves and branches. And now they are almost there, and Mamalis,
whose excitement was also intense, still in advance, saw through a
crevice in the door the kneeling form of the noble insurgent, as he
bowed himself by that lonely fire, and committed his weary soul to God.
"He is here! he lives!" she shouted. "I knew that he was safe!" and the
startled forest rang with the echoes of her voice.
"The murder is out," cried Bernard, as followed by Holliday, he rushed
forward to the door, which had been thrown open by their guide; but ere
he gained his entrance, the sharp report of a pistol was heard, and the
beautiful, the trusting Mamalis fell prostrate on the floor, a bleeding
martyr to her constancy and faith. Hansford, roused by the sudden sound
of her voice, had seized the pistol which, sleeping and waking, was by
his side, and hearing the voice of Bernard, he had fired. Had the ball
taken effect upon either of the men, he might yet have been saved, for
in an encounter with a single man he would have proved a formidable
adversary. But inscrutable are His ways, whose thoughts are not as our
thoughts, and all that the puzzled soul can do, is humbly to rely on the
hope that
"God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain."
And she, the last of her dispersed and ruined lineage, is gone. In the
lone forest, where the wintry blast swept unobstructed, the giant trees
moaned sadly and fitfully over their bleeding child; and the bright
stars, that saw the heavy deed, wept from their place in heaven, and
bathed her lovely form in night's pure dews. She did not long remain
unburied in that forest, for when Virginia heard the story of her faith
and loyalty from the rude lips of Holliday, the pure form of the Indian
girl, still fresh and free from the polluting touch of the destroyer,
was borne to her own home, and followed with due rites and fervent grief
to the quiet tomb. In after days, when her sad heart loved to dwell upon
these early scenes, Virginia placed above the sacred ashes of her friend
a simple marble tablet, long since itself a ruin; and there, engraven
with the record of her faith, her loyalty and her love, was the sweet
assurance, that in her almost latest words, the trusting Indian girl had
indeed become one of "the children of her Father which is in Heaven."