Beyond doubt, the dark form was that of a woman--a young one too, as
evinced by her erect bearing, and a light agile movement, made at the
moment of our first beholding her. Her attire was odd. It consisted of
a brownish-coloured tunic--apparently of doeskin leather--reaching from
the neck to the knees; underneath which appeared leggings of like
material, ending in mocassins that covered the feet. The arms, neck,
and head were entirely bare; and the colour of the skin, as seen in the
moonlight, differed from that of the outer garments only in being a
shade or two darker! The woman, therefore, was not white, but an
_Indian_: as was made further manifest by the sparkling of beads and
bangles around her neck, rings in her ears, and metal circlets upon her
arms--all reflecting the light of the moon in copious coruscations. As
I brought my horse to a halt, I perceived that the figure was advancing
towards us, and with rapid step. My steed set his ears, and snorted
with affright. The jade of the hunter had already given the example--
each, no doubt, acting under the impulse of the rider. Mine was a
feeling of simple astonishment. Such an apparition in that place, and
at that hour, was sufficient cause for surprise; but a more definite
reason was, my observing that a different emotion had been roused in the
breast of the young hunter. His looks betrayed fear, rather than
surprise! "Fear of what?" I asked myself, as the figure advanced; and
still more emphatically as it came near enough to enable me to make out
the face. As far as the moonlight would permit me to judge, there was
nothing in that face to fray either man or horse: certainly nothing to
create an emotion, such as was depicted in the countenance of my
companion.
The complexion was brown, as already observed; but the features, if not
of the finest type, were yet comely enough to attract admiration; and
they were lit up by a pair of eyes, whose liquid glance rivalled the
sheen of the golden pendants sparkling on each side of them. I should
have been truly astonished at the behaviour of my guide, but for the
natural reflection, that there was some cause for it, yet unknown to me.
Evidently, it was not his first interview with the forest maiden: for I
could now perceive that the person who approached was not exactly a
woman, but rather a well-grown girl on the eve of womanhood. She was of
large stature, nevertheless, with bold outline of breast, and arms that
gave token of something more than feminine strength. In truth, she
appeared possessed of a _physique_ sufficiently formidable to inspire a
cowardly man with fear--had such been her object--but I could perceive
no signs of menace in her manner. Neither could cowardice be an
attribute of my travelling-companion. There was an unexplained
something, therefore, to account for his present display of emotion.
On arriving within six paces of the heads of our horses, the Indian
paused, as if hesitating to advance. Up to this time, she had not
spoken a word. Neither had my companion--beyond a phrase or two that
had involuntarily escaped him, on first discovering her presence in the
glade. "She here? an' at this time o' night!" I had heard him mutter
to himself; but nothing more, until the girl had stopped, as described.
Then, in a low voice, and with a slightly trembling accent, he
pronounced interrogatively, the words "Su-wa-nee?" It was the name of
the Indian maiden; but there was no reply.
"Su-wa-nee!" repeated he, in a louder tone, "is it you?"
The answer was also given interrogatively, "Has the White Eagle lost his
eyes, by gazing too long on the pale-faced fair ones of Swampville?
There is light in the sky, and the face of Su-wa-nee is turned to it.
Let him look on it: it is not lovely like that of the _half-blood_, but
the White Eagle will never see that face again."
This declaration had a visible effect on the young hunter: the shade of
sadness deepened upon his features: and I could hear a sigh, with
difficulty suppressed--while, at the same time, he appeared desirous of
terminating the interview.
"It's late, girl," rejoined he, after a pause: "what for are ye here?"
"Su-wa-nee is here for a purpose. For hours she has been waiting to see
the White Eagle. The soft hands of the pale-faced maidens have held him
long."
"Waitin' to see me! What do you want wi' me?"
"Let the White Eagle send the stranger aside. Su-wa-nee must speak to
him alone."
"Thar's no need o' that: it's a friend that's wi' me."
"Would the White Eagle have his secrets known? There are some he may
not wish even a friend to hear. Su-wa-nee can tell him one that will
crimson his cheeks like the flowers of the red maple."
"I have no saycrets, girl--none as I'm afraid o' bein' heerd by
anybody."
"What of the half-blood?"
"I don't care to hear o' her."
"The White Eagle speaks falsely! He does care to hear. He longs to
know what has become of his lost Marian. Su-wa-nee can tell him."
The last words produced an instantaneous change in the bearing of the
young hunter. Instead of the repelling attitude, he had hitherto
observed towards the Indian girl, I saw him bend eagerly forward--as if
desirous of hearing what she had to say. Seeing that she had drawn his
attention, the Indian again pointed to me, and inquired: "Is the
pale-faced stranger to know the love-secrets of the White Eagle?"
I saw that my companion no longer desired me to be a listener. Without
waiting for his reply, I drew my horse's head in the opposite direction,
and was riding away. In the turning, I came face to face with him; and
by the moonlight shining full over his countenance, I fancied I could
detect some traces of mistrust still lingering upon it. My fancy was
not at fault: for, on brushing close past him, he leaned over towards
me, and, in an earnest manner, muttered: "Please, stranger! don't go
fur--thar's danger in this girl. She's been arter me before." I nodded
assent to his request; and, turning back into the little bay, that
formed the embouchure of the path, I pulled up under the shadow of the
trees.
At this point I was not ten paces from the hunter, and could see him;
but a little clump of white magnolias prevented me from seeing the
girl--at the same time that it hid both myself and horse from her sight.
The chirrup of the cicadas alone hindered me from hearing all of what
was said; but many words reached my ear, and with sufficient
distinctness, to give me a clue to the subject of the promised
revelation. Delicacy would have prompted me to retire a little farther
off; but the singular caution I had received from my companion,
prevented me from obeying its impulse.
I could make out that a certain Marian was the subject of the
conversation; and then more distinctively, that it was Marian Holt.
Just as I expected, the daughter of my squatter: that other and older
one, of whom mention had been already made. This part of the revelation
was easily understood: since I was already better than half prepared for
it. Equally easy of comprehension was the fact, that this Marian was
the sweetheart of my travelling companion--_had been_, I should rather
say; for, from what followed, I could gather that she was no longer in
the neighbourhood; that some months before she had left it, or been
carried away--spirited off in some mysterious manner, leaving no traces
of the why or whither she had gone. Nearly all this I had conjectured
before: since the young hunter had half revealed it to me by his manner,
if not by words. Now, however, a point or two was added to my previous
information relating to the fair Marian. _She was married_. Married--
and to some odd sort of man, of whom the Indian appeared to speak
slightingly. His name I could make out to be Steevens, or Steebins, or
something of the sort--not very intelligible by the Indian's mode of
pronouncing it--and, furthermore, that he had been a schoolmaster in
Swampville.
During the progress of the dialogue, I had my eye fixed on the young
hunter. I could perceive that the announcement of the marriage was
quite new to him; and its effect was as that of a sudden blow. Of
course, equally unknown to him had been the name of the husband; though
from the exclamatory phrase that followed, he had no doubt had his
conjectures.
"O God!" he exclaimed, "I thort so--the very man to a' done it. Lord
ha' mercy on her!" All this was uttered with a voice hoarse with
emotion. "Tell me!" continued he, "whar are they gone? Ye say ye
know!"
The shrill screech of a tree-cricket, breaking forth at that moment,
hindered me from hearing the reply. The more emphatic words only
reached me, and these appeared to be "Utah" and "Great Salt Lake." They
were enough to fix the whereabouts of Marian Holt and her husband.
"One question more!" said the rejected lover hesitatingly, as if afraid
to ask it. "Can ye tell me--whether--she went _willingly_, or whether--
thar wan't some force used?--by her father, or some un else? Can ye
tell me that, girl?"
I listened eagerly for the response. Its importance can be easily
understood by one who has _sued_ in vain--one who has _wooed_ without
_winning_. The silence of the cicada favoured me; but a long interval
passed, and there came not a word from the lips of the Indian.
"Answer me, Su-wa-nee!" repeated the young man in a more appealing tone.
"Tell me that, and I promise--"
"Will the White Eagle promise to forget his lost love? Will he
promise--"
"No, Su-wa-nee; I cannot promise that: I can _niver_ forget her."
"The heart can _hate_ without forgetting."
"Hate _her_? hate Marian? No! no!"
"Not if she be false?"
"How do I know that she war false? You haven't told me whether she went
willin'ly or agin her consent."
"The White Eagle shall know then. His gentle doe went willingly to the
covert of the wolf--_willingly_, I repeat. Su-wa-nee can give proof of
her words."
This was the most terrible stroke of all. I could see the hunter shrink
in his saddle, a death-like pallor over-spreading his cheeks, while his
eyes presented the glassy aspect of despair.
"Now!" continued the Indian, as if taking advantage of the blow she had
struck, "will the White Eagle promise to sigh no more after his false
mistress? Will he promise to love _one_ that can be true?"
There was an earnestness in the tone in which these interrogatories were
uttered--an appealing earnestness--evidently prompted by a burning
headlong passion. It was now the turn of her who uttered them, to wait
with anxiety for a response. It came at length--perhaps to the
laceration of that proud heart: for it was a negative to its dearest
desire.
"No, no!" exclaimed the hunter confusedly. "Impossible eyther to hate
or forget her. She may a been false, an' no doubt are so; but it's too
late for me: _I can niver love agin_."
A half-suppressed scream followed this declaration, succeeded by some
words that appeared to be uttered in a tone of menace or reproach. But
the words were in the Chicasaw tongue, and I could not comprehend their
import.
Almost at the same instant, I saw the young hunter hurriedly draw back
his horse--as if to get out of the way. I fancied that the crisis had
arrived, when my presence might be required. Under this belief, I
touched my steed with the spur, and trotted out into the open ground.
To my astonishment, I perceived that the hunter was alone. Su-wa-nee
had disappeared from the glade!