Overcome with grief and weariness Nell unconsciously obeyed orders
ere many minutes had passed, and as the hours dragged on bringing no
new cause of alarm, very many followed her example, even Mrs. Barbour
at length succumbing to the spell of tired Nature's sweet restorer.
They had a rude awaking. With the first streak of dawn in the east,
the sudden, loud roll of the drum burst upon the startled air;--the
appointed signal of the near approach of their savage foe.
Women and children sprang up with wild shrieks and cries of terror
and despair. Kenneth, who had been pacing the hall, a self-appointed
sentry, stepped hastily in at the door of the room where the Lamars
were, his eyes turning anxiously toward their corner of it.
Mrs. Lamar sat on the side of the couch, trembling with agitation,
clasping her babe close to her breast and trying to soothe the older
ones, who were clinging about her, with the exception of Bertie whom
Nell, deathly pale, but calm and quiet, was sheltering in her arms.
Watching her with tell-tale eyes, Kenneth essayed to speak; but could
not make his voice heard amid the weeping and wailing.
"O doctor, save me, save me!" shrieked Mrs. Barbour, rushing toward
him with outstretched arms and streaming eyes. "I'll be the first
they'll attack; I know I will, and Tom isn't here to take care of
me."
"Yes, he is," shouted Mr. Barbour hurrying in, "yes, he is, Nancy;
though there's no great occasion, for it's a false alarm, all a
mistake. The Indians are as much scared as we are, and are running
the other way."
The excitement toned down rapidly while he spoke, and now the room
was nearly quiet, all who were old enough to understand being eager
to catch every word.
"God be praised," ejaculated Kenneth fervently. "But the signal, why
was it given?"
"Ah," said Barbour, smiling, "our old friend had gone back, in
feeling at least, to old revolutionary times and could not refrain
from sounding the reveille."
"'Twas just good sport for him, no doubt, to frighten a parcel of
poor women and children nearly out of their wits!" was Mrs. Barbour's
indignant comment.
"Not at all," said her husband; "he thought every body would
understand it."
Mothers caressed their little ones with murmured words of joy and
thankfulness, feeling as if they had been suddenly rescued from
impending horrible death, or captivity hardly less to be feared;
neighbors and friends shook hands or embraced with mingled smiles and
tears, congratulating each other that they were, after all, in no
immediate danger.
The party sent in search of Wolf returned without him; he had made
good his escape from that part of the country.
There was a large body of Indians at that time near Greenville, and
to them Chillicothe presently sent a deputation of her prominent
citizens.
The Indians, among whom was the celebrated chief, Tecumseh, gathered
in their council house, received the white men and listened to their
account of the late unfortunate occurrence, their detestation of
Wolf's bloody deed, their ineffectual efforts to catch him, and
determination to put him to death if ever they could secure his
person.
The Indians replied that they knew nothing of these matters and
desired to remain at peace with the whites, and finally Tecumseh
and some others of the chiefs were persuaded to return with the
deputation, and repeat these assurances to the people of Chillicothe
and its vicinity.
A day was appointed, and the people gathered, an immense throng, to
look upon and listen to the great Shawnee chief.
Major Lamar, his wife and sister were there; the older children too,
for the major said it would be something for them to remember all
their lives.
Captain Bernard and Lyttleton contrived to be near the Lamars, the
latter close at Nell's side, leaning over her now and then, with
an air of devotion and proprietorship exceedingly distasteful to
Kenneth, who furtively watched them from afar.
But when Tecumseh's tall, commanding figure stood before them, and he
began to speak, every eye turned toward him, every ear was intent to
listen to his voice and that of his interpreter, a white man who had
been a prisoner among the Indians.
Even as translated the speech was full of eloquent passages. He spoke
in the strongest terms of the friendly relations existing between
the whites and the Indians; said they were brothers, and that the
Indians would never violate their treaty. He hoped both parties would
abide by it forever, and the peace and brotherly love between them be
as lasting as time. A shaking of hands followed the speech, and the
throng quietly dispersed.