In the chain of low cliffs which run at the distance of some four or
five miles from the Oneida village, and to which, probably, at one
time, the waters of the lake had extended, was a deep cleft or fissure
in the hard rock, some fourteen or fifteen yards in width at its
widest part, and narrower at the mouth than in the interior. One of
the rocks, at the time I speak of--though large masses have fallen
since, and a good deal altered the features of the scene--one of the
rocks near the entrance at the time I speak of beetled considerably
over its base, and projected so far as almost to touch the opposite
crag, giving the mouth of the fissure somewhat the appearance of a
cave. On either side the walls of this gloomy dell were perpendicular,
in some places even overhanging; and at the end, where it might have
been expected to slope gradually away to the upland, the general
character of the scene was merely diversified by a break, or step,
some fifteen or sixteen feet from the ground, dividing the face of the
crag into two nearly equal parts. Beneath this ledge was a hollow of
some four or five feet in depth, rendering ascent from that side
impracticable.
Underneath that ledge, at the time referred to, had been hastily
constructed a small hut, or Indian lodge, formed of stakes driven into
the ground, and covered over skilfully enough with bark branches and
other materials of the forest. A door had apparently been brought for
it from some distance, for it was evidently old, and had some strange
figures painted on it in red; and across this door was fixed a great
bar, which would, indeed, have been very useless, had not the stakes
forming the walls of the hut been placed close together, rendering it
in reality much stronger than an ordinary Indian lodge.
On the day after Otaitsa's expedition, mentioned in the preceding
chapter, some sixteen or eighteen Oneidas of different ages, but none
of them far advanced in life, gathered round the mouth of the cliff
and conversed together for several minutes in low tones, and with
their usual slow and deliberate manner. At the end of their conference
one seated himself on a stone near the entrance, two advanced into the
chasm, and the rest dispersed themselves in different directions
through the woods. The two who advanced approached the hut, following
each other so close that the foot of each trod in the step of the
other; and when they reached it the foremost took down the bar and
opened the door, suffering the light to enter the dark chamber within.
The sight which that light displayed was a very painful one.
There, seated on the ground, with his head almost bent down to his
knees, his beautiful brown hair falling wild and shaggy over his face,
his dress soiled and in some parts torn, and his hands thin and
sallow, sat poor Walter Prevost, the image of despair. All the bright
energies of his eager, impetuous nature seemed quelled; the look of
youthful, happy enjoyment was altogether gone, and with it the warm
hopes and glowing aspirations, the dreams of future happiness or
greatness, of love, and joy, and tenderness. The sunshine had
departed; the motes of existence no longer danced in the beam.
He lifted not his head when the Indians entered; still and impassive
as themselves, he sat without movement or word; the very senses seemed
dead in the living tomb where they had confined him; but the sight
touched them with no pity.
Gazing at him with a curious, cunning, serpent-like look, Apukwa
placed before him the wallet which he carried, containing some dried
deer's flesh and parched Indian corn; and, after having watched him
for a moment without a change of countenance, said in a cold tone:
"There is food. Take it and eat."
As if the sound of his hated voice had startled the youth from a
death-like sleep, Walter sprang suddenly on his feet, exclaiming: "Why
should I eat to prolong my misery? Slay me! Take thy tomahawk and dash
my brains out! Put an end to this torment, the most terrible that thy
fiend-like race have ever devised."
The two Indians laughed with a low, quiet, satisfied laugh. "We cannot
slay thee," said the brother of the Snake, "till we know that thy
paleface brother who killed our brother cannot be found to take thy
place."
"He is far beyond your power," cried Walter, vehemently. "He will
never be within your grasp. I helped him to escape. I delivered him
from you! Slay me! slay me! Dogs of Indians, your hearts are wolves'
hearts! You are not men; you are women, who dare not use a tomahawk!
You are the scoff of your enemies! They laugh at the Oneidas, they
spit at them! They say they are children, who dare not kill an enemy
till the old men say kill him! They fear the rod of their chief. They
are like hares and rabbits, that fear the sound of the wind!"
It was in vain that he tried to provoke them. They only seemed to
enjoy his agony and the bitter words that it called forth.
"Eat and drink," said Apukwa, coldly, as soon as he became silent,
"for we are going to tie thee. We must hunt the deer, we must grind
the corn; we cannot watch thee every day till the time of the
sacrifice comes. Eat and drink, then, for here are the thongs."
Walter glared at him for a moment, and then snatched up a gourd filled
with water, which the brother of the Snake had brought, draining it
with a long and eager draught. He then cast it from him, and stood
still and stern before them, saying: "I will disappoint you.
Henceforth I will eat no more. Tie me if you will. I can fast as well
as you Indians."
[Illustration: "My brother--my husband," she said. "Otaitsa has found
thee at length." Page 216. --_Ticonderoga_.]
The two men looked in each other's face, apparently puzzled how to
act, for if he kept his resolution their object would indeed be
frustrated. The death of their kinsman, according to their
superstition, required blood, and by starvation the prisoner would
escape from their hands. Still they dared not disobey the decision of
the chiefs. A slight sign seemed to pass between them, and taking hold
of the poor lad somewhat roughly, they bound both his hands and feet,
twining the strong thongs of deerskin round and round, and through and
through, in what seemed inextricable knots. He stood quite still and
impassive, and when they had done, cast himself down upon the ground
again, turning his face from them. The two men gazed at him for a
moment or two, and then leaving the hut in silence, replaced the bar.
For some time after they had gone, Walter lay just as he had fallen.
The dead apathy of despair had taken, possession of him. Life,
thought, feeling, was a burden. The many days which had passed in that
dull, dark, silent abode was rapidly producing on his mind that effect
which solitary confinement is said to occasion but too often.
He lay in that deathlike stillness for several hours; nor came there a
sound of any kind during all that time to relieve the black monotony
of the day. His ear, by suffering, had been rendered painfully acute,
but the snow fell noiselessly, the wild animals were in their coverts
or in their dens, the very wind had no breath.
Suddenly there was a sound. What was it? It seemed a cracking branch,
far up above his head. Then a stone rolled down and rattled over the
roof, making the snow slip before it. Another crashing branch, and
then a silence which seemed to him to last for hours. "Some panther or
catamount," he thought, "in the trees above," and he laid his
half-raised head down again upon the ground.
No! There were fingers on the bar. He heard it move! Had the Indians
come back to urge the food upon him? The touch upon the bar, however,
seemed feeble compared with theirs. It lifted the heavy bar of wood
slowly and with difficulty. Walter's heart beat--visions came before
his mind--hope flickered up, and he raised himself as well as he could
into a sitting posture. From the ground he could not rise, for his
hands were tied.
Slowly and quietly the door opened, the light rushed in, and in the
midst of the blaze stood the beautiful figure of the Blossom, with her
head partly turned away, as if in the act of listening. Her curly,
long, wavy hair, broken from its band, and spotted with the white
snow, fell almost to her feet. But little was the clothing that she
wore. No mantle, no overdress, nothing but the Indian woman's
embroidered skirt, gathered round her by a belt, and leaving the arms
and legs bare. Her hands were torn and bloody, her bright face and
brow scratched by the fangs of the bramble, but still to Walter
Prevost, as she stood listening there, it was the loveliest sight his
eyes had ever rested on.
But for a moment she listened, then gazed into the hut, sprang
forward, cast her arms around his neck, and wept as she had never wept
before.
"My brother--my husband," she said, leaning her forehead on his
shoulder, "Otaitsa has found thee at length!"
He would fain have cast his arms around her; he would fain have
pressed her to his heart; he would fain have told her that he could
bear death, or even life, or any fate, for such love as hers. But his
hands were tied, and his tongue was powerless with emotion.
A few moments passed in silence, and then Otaitsa said: "The cruel
wolves have tied thee, but Otaitsa will give thee freedom."
In an instant her small, delicate fingers were busy with the thongs,
and with the rapidity of thought they were all untied, and hands and
feet were both loose; but as she worked, the blood dropped from her
fingers on to his wrists, and while he held her to his heart he said:
"Thou bleedest, my Blossom. Oh, Otaitsa, what hast thou risked, what
hast thou encountered for Walter's sake?"
"But little, my beloved," she answered. "Would it were ten times more,
to prove my love! What! They have put meat within thy sight, and tied
thy hands to make thee die of famine, with food before thee! Out on
the cruel monsters!"
"No, no, my Otaitsa!" answered Walter. "I would not eat. I wished to
die. I knew not that an angel would come to cheer and help me."
"And to deliver thee, too, my Walter," answered Otaitsa, with a bright
smile. "I trust it is certain, my beloved. By the way I came, by that
way you can go."
"How came you?" asked Walter, seating her beside him, and pressing her
closer with his arm to the bosom on which she leaned. "I thought it
was impossible for anyone to reach me, so stern is this place, so
close the watch they kept. It must have been very perilous for thee,
my Blossom. Art thou not hurt?"
"Oh, no," she answered, "nor was the peril really great. God gave me
wings to fly to thee. Love bore me up; but let me tell thee how I
came. I have a friend, the wife of one of thine enemies, a young bride
to whom his heart is open as the lake. From her I heard of all their
plans; how they have filled the woods below the rocks with watchers,
how they have set guards on every trail. They never dreamed that from
the morning side a way could be found down over the rock into this
dell. I pondered over the tidings, and remembered that when I was a
little, happy child I clambered some way down, by the aid of shrubs
and crevices, in search of fruit; and I laid my plan against theirs. I
took two ropes which I had woven long ago, of the tough bark of the
moose plant, and making a wide circle round, I reached the upland
above the cliffs. My only trouble was to find the exact spot from that
side; for I knew that there was a cloud between me and your enemies,
and that I walked unseen. At length, however, I found the rock
overlooking the chasm. I cast off all burdens, all that the brambles
or branches might snatch at, and with the ropes wound round me, came
down as far as I could find safe footing. There was a tree, a small
tree, on the pinnacle, and I tried it before I trusted it. One branch
broke, but the root and stump stood firm, gripping the rock fast. To
them I fixed the end of one rope, and easily swung down to a point
below, where there was a larger, stronger tree. A stone, however,
slipped from under my feet, and fell rattling down. Round the strong
tree I twisted the rope again, and thus reached the very ledge
overhead; but there, as there had been noise and some crashing of the
branches, I stood for a while, hidden behind the bushes, to make sure
that I was not discovered. At length, however, I was satisfied, and
now the other rope was a friend to give me help. I fastened it to the
first, knotted it into tight loops, and thus aiding hands and feet,
with sometimes the aid of a projecting stone, and sometimes a small
shrub, came slowly down. By the same way I shall return, my love, and
by it, too, my Walter must go back this night to his own people."
"Why not with you now?" asked Walter, eagerly. "Let Otaitsa go with
me, and whenever we reach my father's house become my wife indeed. Oh,
how gladly will he fold her to his heart, how fondly will Edith call
her sister!"
"It cannot be, beloved," she answered. "I came to save him I love, to
save him who is the husband of my heart, but not to abandon my father
till he gives me to you; and besides, there would be none to help us.
This night you must climb by the ropes and boughs up to the top of the
cliff, when, as near as you can reckon, there has been six hours of
darkness. At the top you will find people waiting. They are but women,
yet they all love you and me likewise, and they have sworn by their
Great Spirit that if it costs their lives they will set you free. Each
will help you in some way. One has a canoe upon the creek, another
knows the deepest woods on the Mohawk side, and can guide you well.
Others will lead you down Ward Creek to Sir William Johnson's Castle,
where you are safe. Eat now, my beloved, for you must have strength,
and Otaitsa must leave you soon. Before she goes she must tie your
hands again, lest your enemies come ere the night; but she will tie
them in such a sort that with your teeth you can undraw the knot; and
she will loosen the fastening of the bar so that even a weak hand can
push it out."
She had hardly uttered the words, when a low, mocking laugh came upon
their ears, and two or three dark forms shadowed the doorway. Otaitsa
instantly started up and drew a knife from the belt around her waist.
"Stand back!" she cried aloud in the Iroquois tongue, as the men
glided in. "I am your great chief's daughter, and the blood of the
Black Eagle will not bear a touch."
"We touch thee not, Blossom," answered Apukwa. "Thou shalt go free,
for the Black Eagle is a mighty chief, a mighty warrior, reverenced by
his people; but our prisoner we keep, and though thou hast loosened
his hands we can fasten them again. Put thy tomahawk in thy belt,
brother of the Snake; it must taste no blood here, though it is
hungry, I know well. He shall die, but not now."
As he spoke he thrust his arm between the younger Indian and Walter,
who had cast himself before Otaitsa, as if for one desperate struggle
if he saw any violence offered to her. The words of the medicine man,
however, quieted him on that score, and it was but too plain that all
resistance on his part would be in vain. A few hours before he had
sought death as a boon, but the coming of the Blossom had changed all
his thoughts and feelings, had relighted hope and restored firmness
and constancy. He was willing to live, and for the chances of what
some other day might bring; for the love and self-devotion of that
beautiful creature made existence seem too valuable to cast away the
slightest chance of its preservation.
He suffered them to bind him then, while Otaitsa turned away her head
and struggled against the tears that sought to rise. It cost her a
great effort, but resolution triumphed, and with a lofty air, very
different from the tenderness of her demeanor a few moments before,
she waved her hand for the Indians to make way, saying: "Unworthy
Oneidas, I go to carry my own tale to my father's feet, to tell him
that with his own blood warm in my heart I came thither to save my
brother, my lover, my husband, and to warn him that the tomahawk which
falls on that beloved head severs the chain of Otaitsa's life. But
fear not, Walter," she continued, turning toward him; "fear not, my
beloved. Live, and laugh thine enemies to scorn. Thou shalt be
delivered yet, let these men do what they will. It is written on high
that thou shalt not perish by their hands," and thus saying, she left
the hut, and followed closely by two of the Oneidas, pursued her way
back toward the Castle.
When she reached the gate of the palisade she at once perceived a good
deal of commotion and activity within, though none but women, youths,
and children were to be seen.
"Where is the Black Eagle?" she asked of the first woman whom she met.
"Has he returned to the lodge?"
"He returned with forty warriors," replied the other, in a grave tone,
"painted himself for battle, and has gone forth upon the warpath,
taking with him every warrior he could find."
"Against whom?" asked Otaitsa, in as calm a tone as she could assume,
but with her heart beating fast.
"We do not know," replied the woman, sadly; "but a tale spread, coming
out of darkness throughout which none could see, that the Black Eagle
had gone against our brethren, the Mohawks and Onondagas. It was said
they had unburied the hatchet, and cut down the tree of peace before
the door of the Oneidas."
Otaitsa clasped her hands together, bent her head, and took some steps
toward the door of the lodge, and then, turning to the two men who had
followed her, she said, bitterly: "And ye were absent when the Black
Eagle called for warriors! Ye were right, for ye are women, and have
only courage to torment a captive."
Thus saying, she passed on with a quiet step into the lodge, and
there, when no eye could see her, gave way in tears to all the sad and
bitter feelings of her heart.