"The soul of the wicked desireth evil: his neighbour findeth no favour
in his eyes."--_Proverbs._
For several days they abstained from lighting a fire, lest the smoke
should be seen; but this the great height of the bank would have
effectually prevented. They suffered much cold at night from the
copious dew, which, even on sultry summer evenings, is productive of
much chilling. They could not account for the fact that the air at
night was much warmer on the high hills than in the low valleys; they
were even sensible of a rush of heat as they ascended to the higher
ground. These simple children had not been taught that it is the
nature of the heated air to ascend, and its place to be supplied by
the colder and denser particles. They noticed the effects, but
understood nothing of the causes that ruled them.
The following days they procured several partridges, but feared to
cook them; however, they plucked them, split them open, and dried the
flesh for a future day. A fox or raccoon, attracted by the smell of
the birds, came one night and carried them off, for in the morning
they were gone. They saw several herd of deer crossing the plain, and
one day Wolfe tracked a wounded doe to a covert under the poplars,
near a hidden spring, where she had lain herself down to die in peace,
far from the haunts of her fellows. The arrow was in her throat; it
was of white flint, and had evidently been sent from an Indian bow. It
was almost with fear and trembling that they availed themselves of the
venison thus providentially thrown in their way, lest the Indians
should track the blood of the doe, and take vengeance on them for
appropriating it for their own use. Not having seen anything of the
Indians, who seemed to confine themselves to the neighbourhood of the
lake, after many days had passed they began to take courage, and even
ventured to light an evening fire, at which they cooked as much of the
venison as would last them for several days, and hung the remaining
portions above the smoke to preserve it from injury.
One morning Hector proclaimed his intention of ascending the hills in
the direction of the Indian camp. "I am tired of remaining shut up in
this dull place, where we can see nothing but this dead-flat, bounded
by those melancholy pines in the distance that seem to shut us in."
Little did Hector know that beyond that dark ridge of pine hills lay
the home of their childhood, and but a few miles of forest intervened
to hide it from their sight. Had he known it, how eagerly would his
feet have pressed onward in the direction of that dark barrier of
evergreens!
Thus is it often in this life: we wander on, sad and perplexed, our
path beset with thorns and briers. We cannot see our way clear; doubts
and apprehensions assail us. We know not how near we are to the
fulfilment of our wishes; we see only the insurmountable barriers, the
dark thickets and thorns of our way; and we know not how near we are
to our Father's home, where he is waiting to welcome the wanderers of
the flock back to the everlasting home, the fold of the Good Shepherd.
Hector became impatient of the restraint that the dread of the Indians
imposed upon his movements; he wanted to see the lake again, and to
roam abroad free and uncontrolled.
"After all," said he, "we never met with any ill-treatment from the
Indians that used to visit us at Cold Springs; we may even find old
friends and acquaintances among them."
"The thing is possible, but not very likely," replied Louis.
"Nevertheless, Hector, I would not willingly put myself in their
power. The Indian has his own notion of things, and might think
himself quite justified in killing us if he found us on his
hunting-grounds. I have heard my father say--and he knows a great deal
about these people--that their chiefs are very strict in punishing any
strangers that they find killing game on their bounds uninvited. They
are both merciless and treacherous when angered, and we could not even
speak to them in their own language, to explain by what evil chance we
came here."
This was very prudent of Louis, uncommonly so, for one who was
naturally rash and headstrong; but unfortunately Hector was inflexible
and wilful. When once he had made up his mind upon any point, he had
too good an opinion of his own judgment to give it up. At last he
declared his intention, rather than remain a slave to such cowardly
fears as he now deemed them, to go forth boldly, and endeavour to
ascertain what the Indians were about, how many there were of them,
and what real danger was to be apprehended from facing them.
"Depend upon it," he added, "cowards are never safer than brave men.
The Indians despise cowards, and would be more likely to kill us if
they found us cowering here in this hole like a parcel of wolf-cubs,
than if we openly faced them and showed that we neither feared them
nor cared for them."
"Hector, dear Hector, be not so rash!" cried his sister, passionately
weeping. "Ah! if we were to lose you, what would become of us?"
"Never fear, Kate; I will run into no needless danger. I know how to
take care of myself. I am of opinion that the Indian camp is broken
up; they seldom stay long in one place. I will go over the hills and
examine the camp at a distance and the lake shore. You and Louis may
keep watch for my return from the big pine that we halted under on our
way hither."
"But, Hector, if the savages should see you, and take you prisoner,"
said Catharine, "what would you do?"
"I will tell you what I would do. Instead of running away, I would
boldly walk up to them, and by signs make them understand that I am no
scout, but a friend in need of nothing but kindness and friendship. I
never yet heard of the Indian that would tomahawk the defenceless
stranger that sought his camp openly in peace and goodwill."
"If you do not return by sunset, Hector, we shall believe that you
have fallen into the hands of the savages," said Catharine, mournfully
regarding her brother.
"If it were not for Catharine," said Louis, "you should not go alone;
but if evil were to befall this helpless one, her blood would be upon
my head, who led her out with us, tempting her with false words."
"Never mind that now, dearest cousin," said Catharine, tenderly laying
her hand on his arm. "It is much better that we should have been all
three together; I should never have been happy again if I had lost
both Hec and you. It is better as it is; you and Hec would not have
been so well off if I had not been with you to help you, and keep up
your spirits by my songs and stories."
"It is true; ma chere; but that is the reason that I am bound to take
care of my little cousin, and I could not consent to exposing you to
danger, or leaving you alone; so, if Hec will be so headstrong, I will
abide by you."
Hector was so confident that he should return in safety, that at last
Louis and Catharine became more reconciled to his leaving them, and
soon busied themselves in preparing some squirrels that Louis had
brought in that morning.
The day wore away slowly, and many were the anxious glances that
Catharine cast over the crest of the high bank to watch for her
brother's return. At last, unable to endure the suspense, she with
Louis left the shelter of the valley; they ascended the high ground,
and bent their steps to the trysting-tree, which commanded all the
country within a wide sweep.
A painful and oppressive sense of loneliness and desolation came over
the minds of the cousins as they sat together at the foot of the pine,
which cast its lengthened shadow upon the ground before them. The
shades of evening were shrouding them, wrapping the lonely forest in
gloom. The full moon had not yet risen, and they watched for the first
gleam that should break above the eastern hills to cheer them as for
the coming of a friend.
Sadly these two poor lonely ones sat hand in hand, talking of the
happy days of childhood, of the perplexing present and the uncertain
future. At last, wearied out with watching and anxiety, Catharine
leaned her head upon the neck of old Wolfe and fell asleep, while
Louis restlessly paced to and fro in front of the sleeper; now
straining his eyes to penetrate the surrounding gloom, now straining
his ears to catch the first sound that might indicate the approach of
his absent cousin.
It was almost with a feeling of irritability that he heard the quick
sharp note of the wakeful "whip-poor-will," as it flew from bough to
bough of an old withered tree beside him. Another, and again another
of these midnight watchers took up the monotonous never-varying cry of
"Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will;" and then came forth, from many a
hollow oak and birch, the spectral night-hawk from hidden dens, where
it had lain hushed in silence all day from dawn till sunset. Sometimes
their sharp hard wings almost swept his cheek as they wheeled round
and round in circles, first narrow, then wide, and wider extending,
till at last they soared far above the tallest tree-tops, and
launching out in the high regions of the air, uttered from time to
time a wild shrill scream, or hollow booming sound, as they suddenly
descended to pounce with wide-extended throat upon some hapless moth
or insect that sported all unheeding in mid-air, happily unconscious
of the approach of so unerring a foe.
Petulantly Louis chid these discordant minstrels of the night, and
joyfully he hailed the first gush of moonlight that rose broad and
full and red over the Oak Hills to the eastward.
Louis envied the condition of the unconscious sleeper, who lay in
happy forgetfulness of all her sorrows, her fair curls spread in
unbound luxuriance over the dark shaggy neck of the faithful Wolfe,
who seemed as if proud of the beloved burden that rested so trustingly
upon him. Sometimes the careful dog just unclosed his large eyes,
raised his nose from his shaggy paws, snuffed the night air, growled
in a sort of undertone, and then dozed again, but watchfully.
It would be no easy task to tell the painful feelings that agitated
young Louis's breast. He was angry with Hector for having thus madly,
as he thought, rushed into danger. "It was wilful and almost cruel,"
he thought, "to leave them the prey of such tormenting fears on his
account;" and then the most painful fears for the safety of his
beloved companion took the place of less kindly thoughts, and sorrow
filled his heart. The broad moon now flooded the hills and vales with
light, casting broad checkering shadows of the old oaks' gray branches
and now reddened foliage across the ground.
Suddenly the old dog raises his head, and utters a short half-angry
note: slowly and carefully he rises, disengaging himself gently from
the form of the sleeping girl, and stands forth in the full light of
the moon. It is an open cleared space, that mound beneath the
pine-tree; a few low shrubs and seedling pines, with the slender
waving branches of the late-flowering pearly-tinted asters, the
elegant fringed gentian with open bells of azure blue, the last and
loveliest of autumn flowers and winter-greens, brighten the ground
with wreaths of shining leaves and red berries.
Louis is on the alert, though as yet he sees nothing. It is not a full
free note of welcome that Wolfe gives; there is something uneasy and
half angry in his tone. Yet it is not fierce, like the bark of angry
defiance he gives when wolf, or bear, or wolverine is near.
Louis steps forward from the shadow of the pine branches to the edge
of the inclined plane in the foreground. The slow tread of approaching
steps is now distinctly heard advancing; it may be a deer.
Two figures approach, and Louis moves a little within the shadow
again. A clear shrill whistle meets his ear. It is Hector's whistle,
he knows that, and assured by its cheerful tone, he springs forward,
and in an instant is at his side, but starts at the strange companion
that he half leads, half carries. The moonlight streams broad and
bright upon the shrinking figure of an Indian girl apparently about
the same age as Catharine: her ashy face is concealed by the long mass
of raven black hair which falls like a dark veil over her features;
her step is weak and unsteady, and she seems ready to sink to the
earth with sickness or fatigue. Hector, too, seems weary. The first
words that Hector said were, "Help me, Louis, to lead this poor girl
to the foot of the pine: I am so tired I can hardly walk another
step."
Louis and his cousin together carried the Indian girl to the foot of
the pine. Catharine was just rousing herself from sleep, and she gazed
with a bewildered air on the strange companion that Hector had brought
with him. The stranger lay down, and in a few minutes sank into a
sleep so profound it seemed to resemble that of death itself. Pity and
deep interest soon took the place of curiosity and dread in the heart
of the gentle Catharine, and she watched the young stranger's slumber
as tenderly as though she had been a sister or beloved friend, while
Hector proceeded to relate in what manner he had encountered the
Indian girl.
"When I struck the high slope near the little birch grove we called
the '_Birken Skaw_,' I paused to examine if the council-fires
were still burning on Bare Hill; but there was no smoke visible,
neither was there a canoe to be seen at the lake shore where Louis had
described their landing-place at the mouth of the creek. All seemed as
silent and still as if no human footstep had trodden the shore. I sat
down and watched for nearly an hour, till my attention was attracted
by a noble eagle, which was sailing in wide circles over the tall
pine-trees on Bare Hill. Assured that the Indian camp was broken up,
and feeling some curiosity to examine the spot more closely, I crossed
the thicket of cranberries and cedars and small underwood that fringed
the borders of the little stream, and found myself, after a little
pushing and scrambling, among the bushes at the foot of the hill.
"I thoughts it not impossible I might find something to repay me for
my trouble, flint arrowheads, a knife, or a tomahawk; but I little
thought of what these cruel savages had left there,--a miserable
wounded captive, bound by the long locks of her hair to the stem of a
small tree! Her hands and feet were fastened by thongs of deer-skin to
branches of the tree, which had been bent downward for that purpose.
Her position was a most painful one. She had evidently been thus left
to perish by a miserable death of hunger and thirst; for these
savages, with a fiendish cruelty, had placed within sight of their
victim an earthen jar of water, some dried deers' flesh, and a cob
[Footnote: A head of the maize, or Indian corn, is called a "cob."] of
Indian corn. I have the corn here," he added, putting his hand in his
breast and displaying it to view.
"Wounded she was, for I drew this arrow from her shoulder," and he
showed the flint head as he spoke, "and fettered. With food and drink
in sight the poor girl was to perish, perhaps to become a living prey
to the eagle that I saw wheeling above the hill-top. The poor thing's
lips were black and parched with pain and thirst. She turned her eyes
piteously from my face to the water-jar, as if to implore a draught.
This I gave her; and then having cooled the festering wound, and cut
the thongs that bound her, I wondered that she still kept the same
immovable attitude, and thinking she was stiff and cramped with
remaining so long bound in one position, I took her two hands and
tried to induce her to move. I then for the first time noticed that
she was tied by the hair of her head to the tree against which her
back was placed. I was obliged to cut the hair with my knife; and this
I did not do without giving her pain, as she moaned impatiently. She
sank her head on her breast, and large tears fell over my hands as I
bathed her face and neck with the water from the jar. She then seated
herself on the ground, and remained silent and still for the space of
an hour; nor could I prevail upon her to speak, or quit the seat she
had taken. Fearing that the Indians might return, I watched in all
directions, and at last I began to think it would be best to carry her
in my arms; but this I found no easy task, for she seemed greatly
distressed at any attempt I made to lift her, and by her gestures I
fancied she thought I was going to kill her. At least my patience
began to be exhausted, but I did not like to annoy her. I spoke to her
as gently and soothingly as I could. By degrees she seemed to listen
with more composure to me, though she evidently knew not a word of
what I said to her. She rose at last, and taking my hands, placed them
above her head, stooping low as she did so; and this seemed to mean
she was willing at last to submit to my wishes. I lifted her from the
ground and carried her for some little way; but she was too heavy for
me. She then suffered me to lead her along whithersoever I would take
her; but her steps were so slow and feeble through weakness, that many
times I was compelled to rest while she recovered herself. She seems
quite subdued now, and as quiet as a lamb."
Catharine listened, not without tears of genuine sympathy, to the
recital of her brother's adventures. She seemed to think he had been
inspired by God to go forth that day to the Indian camp to rescue the
poor forlorn one from so dreadful a death.
Louis's sympathy was also warmly aroused for the young savage, and he
commended Hector for his bravery and humanity.
He then set to work to light a good fire, which was a great addition
to their comfort as well as cheerfulness. They did not go back to
their cave beneath the upturned trees to sleep, preferring lying, with
their feet to the fire, under the shade of the pine. Louis, however,
was despatched for water and venison for supper.
The following morning, by break of day, they collected their stores,
and conveyed them back to the shanty. The boys were thus employed
while Catharine watched beside the wounded Indian girl, whom she
tended with the greatest care. She bathed the inflamed arm with water,
and bound, the cool healing leaves of the _tacamahac_ [Footnote:
Indian balsam.] about it with the last fragment of her apron; she
steeped dried berries in water, and gave the cooling drink to quench
the fever-thirst that burned in her veins and glittered in her full
soft melancholy dark eyes, which were raised at intervals to the race
of her youthful nurse with a timid hurried glance, as if she longed
yet feared to say, "Who are you that thus tenderly bathe my aching
head, and strive to soothe my wounded limbs, and cool my fevered
blood? Are you a creature like myself, or a being sent by the Great
Spirit from the far-off happy land to which my fathers have gone, to
smooth my path of pain, and lead me to those blessed fields of
sunbeams and flowers where the cruelty of the enemies of my people
will no more have power to torment me?"