"Where wild in woods the lordly savage ran."
--DRYDEN
The setting sun was casting long shadows of oak and weeping elm
athwart the waters of the river; the light dip of the paddle had
ceased on the water, the baying of hounds and life-like stirring
sounds from the lodges came softened to the listening ear. The hunters
had come in with the spoils of a successful chase; the wigwam tires
are flickering and crackling, sending up their light columns of thin
blue smoke among the trees; and now a goodly portion of venison is
roasting on the forked sticks before the fires. Each lodge has its own
cooking utensils. That jar embedded in the hot embers contains
sassafras tea, an aromatic beverage in which the squaws delight when
they are so fortunate as to procure a supply. This has been brought
from the Credit, far up in the west, by a family who have come down on
a special mission from some great chief to his brethren on the
Otonabee, and the squaws have cooked some in honour of the guests.
That pot that sends up such a savoury steam is venison-pottage, or
soup, or stew, or any name you choose to give the Indian mess that is
concocted of venison, wild rice, and herbs. Those tired hounds that
lie stretched before the fire have been out, and now they enjoy the
privilege of the fire, some praise from the hunters, and receive
withal an occasional reproof from the squaws, if they approach their
wishful noses too close to the tempting viands.
The elder boys are shooting at a mark on yonder birch-tree, the girls
are playing or rolling on the grass, the "Snow-Bird" is seated on the
floor of the wigwam braiding a necklace of sweet grass, which she
confines in links by means of little bands of coloured quills,
Catharine is working moccasins beside her. A dark shadow falls across
her work from the open tent door; an exclamation of surprise and
displeasure from one of the women makes Catharine raise her eyes to
the doorway. There, silent, pale, and motionless, the mere shadow of
her former self, stands Indiana; a gleam of joy lights for an instant
her large lustrous eyes. Amazement and delight at the sight of her
beloved friend for a moment deprive Catharine of the power of speech,
then terror for the safety of her friend takes the place of her joy at
seeing her. She rises regardless of the angry tones of the Indian
woman's voice, and throws her arms about Indiana, as if to shield her
from threatened danger, and sobs her welcome in her arms.
"Indiana, dear sister! how came you hither, and for what purpose?"
"To free you, and then die," was the soft, low, tremulous answer.
"Follow me."
Catharine, wondering at the calm and fearless manner with which the
young Mohawk waved back the dusky matron who approached as if with the
design of laying hands upon her unwelcome guest, followed with beating
heart till they stood in the entrance of the lodge of the Bald Eagle.
It was filled with the hunters, who were stretched on skins on the
floor, reposing in quiet after the excitement of the chase.
The young Mohawk bent her head down and crossed her arms over her
breast, an attitude of submission, as she stood in the opening of the
lodge; but she spoke no word till the old chief, waving back the men
who, starting to their feet, were gathering round him as if to shield
him from danger, and sternly regarding her, demanded from whence she
came and for what purpose.
"To submit myself to the will of my Ojebwa father," was the meek
reply. "May the daughter of the Bald Eagle's enemy speak to her great
father?"
"Say on," was the brief reply; "the Bald Eagle's ears are open."
"The Bald Eagle is a mighty chief, the conqueror of his enemies, and
the father of his people," replied the Mohawk girl, and again was
silent.
"The Mohawk squaw speaks well; let her say on."
"The heart of the Mohawk is an open flower; it can be looked upon by
the eye of the Great Spirit. She speaks the words of truth. The Ojebwa
chief slew his enemies: they had done his good heart wrong; he
punished them for the wrong they wrought; he left none living in the
lodges of his enemies save one young squaw, the daughter of a brave,
the grand-daughter of the Black Snake. The Bald Eagle loves even an
enemy that is not afraid to raise the war-whoop or fling the tomahawk
in battle. The young girl's mother was a brave." She paused, while her
proud eyes were fixed on the face of her aged auditor. He nodded
assent, and she resumed, while a flush of emotion kindled her pale
cheek and reddened her lips:--
"The Bald Eagle brought the lonely one to his lodge; he buried the
hatchet and the scalping-knife, he bade his squaws comfort her: but
her heart was lonely, she pined for the homes of her fathers. She
said, I will revenge my father, my mother, and my brothers and
sisters; and her heart burned within her. But her hand was not strong
to shed blood; the Great Spirit was about my Ojebwa father. She
failed, and would have fled, for an arrow was in her flesh. The people
of the Bald Eagle took her; they brought her down the great river to
the council hill; they bound her with thongs, and left her to die. She
prayed, and the Great Spirit heard her prayer and sent her help. The
white man came; his heart was soft: he unbound her, he gave water to
cool her hot lips, he led her to his lodge. The white squaw (and she
pointed to Catharine) was there; she bound up her wounds, she laid her
on her own bed, she gave her meat and drink, and tended her with love.
She taught her to pray to the Good Spirit, and told her to return good
for evil, to be true and just, kind and merciful. The hard heart of
the young girl became soft as clay when moulded for the pots, and she
loved her white sister and brothers, and was happy. The Bald Eagle's
people came when my white brothers were at peace; they found a
trembling fawn within the lodge; they led her away; they left tears
and loneliness where joy and peace had been. The Mohawk squaw could
not see the hearth of her white brothers desolate. She took the canoe;
she came to the lodge of the great father of his tribe, and she says
to him, Give back the white squaw to her home on the Rice Lake, and
take in her stead the rebellious daughter of the Ojebwa's enemy, to
die or be his servant; she fears not now the knife or the tomahawk,
the arrow or the spear: her life is in the hand of the great chief."
She sank on her knees as she spoke these last words, and bowing down
her head on her breast remained motionless as a statue.
There was silence for some minutes, and then the old man rose and
said:--
"Daughter of a brave woman, thou hast spoken long, and thou hast
spoken well; the ears of the Bald Eagle have been opened. The white
squaw shall be restored to her brother's lodge; but thou remainest. I
have spoken."
Catharine, in tears, cast her arms round her disinterested friend and
remained weeping: how could she accept this great sacrifice? She, in
her turn, pleaded for the life and liberty of the Mohawk, but the
chief turned a cold ear to her passionate and incoherent pleading. He
was weary--he was impatient of further excitement--he coldly motioned
to them to withdraw; and the friends in sadness retired to talk over
all that had taken place since that sad day when Catharine was taken
from her home. While her heart was joyful at the prospect of her own
release, it was clouded with fears for the uncertain fate of her
beloved friend.
"They will condemn me to a cruel death," said Indiana; "but I can
suffer and die for my white sister."
That night the Indian girl slept sweetly and tranquilly beside
Catharine. But Catharine could not sleep; she communed with her own
heart in the still watches of the night; it seemed as if a new life
had been infused within her. She no longer thought and felt as a
child; the energies of her mind had been awakened, ripened into
maturity, as it were, and suddenly expanded. When all the inmates of
the lodges were profoundly sleeping, Catharine arose: a sudden thought
had entered into her mind, and she hesitated not to put her design
into execution. There was no moon, but a bright arch of light spanned
the forest to the north; it was mild and soft as moonlight, but less
bright, and cast no shadow across her path; it showed her the sacred
tent of the widow of the murdered Mohawk. With noiseless step she
lifted aside the curtain of skins that guarded it, and stood at the
entrance. Light as was her step, it awakened the sleeper; she raised
herself on her arm, and looked up with a dreamy and abstracted air as
Catharine, stretching forth her hand, in tones low and tremulous, thus
addressed her in the Ojebwa tongue:--
"The Great Spirit sends me to thee, O woman of much sorrow; he asks of
thee a great deed of mercy and goodness. Thou hast shed blood, and he
is angry. He bids thee to save the life of an enemy--the blood of thy
murdered husband flows in her veins. See that thou disobey not the
words that he commands."
She dropped the curtain and retired as she had come, with noiseless
step, and lay down again in the tent beside Indiana. Her heart beat as
though it would burst its way through her bosom. What had she
done?--what dared? She had entered the presence of that terrible woman
alone, at the dead hour of night! she had spoken bold and presumptuous
words to that strange being whom even her own people hardly dared to
approach uncalled for! Sick with terror at the consequences of her
temerity, Catharine cast her trembling arms about the sleeping Indian
girl, and, hiding her head in her bosom, wept and prayed till sleep
came over her wearied spirit. It was late when she awoke. She was
alone; the lodge was empty. A vague fear seized her: she hastily arose
to seek her friend. It was evident that some great event was in
preparation. The Indian men had put on the war-paint, and strange and
ferocious eyes were glancing from beneath their shaggy locks. A stake
was driven in the centre of the cleared space in front of the chief's
lodge: there, bound, she beheld her devoted friend; pale as ashes, but
with a calm, unshaken countenance, she stood. There was no sign of
woman's fear in her fixed dark eye, which quailed not before the sight
of the death-dooming men who stood round her, armed with their
terrible weapons of destruction. Her thoughts seemed far away: perhaps
they were with her dead kindred, wandering in that happy land to which
the Indian hopes to go after life; or, inspired with the new hope
which had been opened to her, she was looking to Him who has promised
a crown of life to such as believe in his name. She saw not the look
of agony with which Catharine regarded her; and the poor girl, full of
grief, sunk down at the foot of a neighbouring tree, and, burying her
face between her knees, wept and prayed-oh, how fervently! A hope
crept to her heart--even while the doom of Indiana seemed
darkest--that some good might yet accrue from her visit to the wigwam
of the Great Medicine squaw. She knew that the Indians have great
belief in omens, and warnings, and spirits both good and evil; she
knew that her mysterious appearance at the tent of the Mohawk's widow
would be construed by her into spiritual agency; and her heart was
strengthened by this hope. Yet just now there seems little reason to
encourage hope: the war-whoop is given, the war-dance is begun--first
slow, and grave, and measured; now louder, and quicker, and more wild
become both sound and movement. But why is it hushed again? See, a
strange canoe appears on the river; anon an old weather-beaten man,
with firm step, appears on the greensward, and approaches the area of
the lodge.
The Bald Eagle greets him with friendly courtesy, the dance ceases and
the death-song is hushed; a treaty is begun. It is for the deliverance
of the captives. The chief points to Catharine--she is free; his white
brother may take her--she is his. But the Indian law of justice must
take its course: the condemned, who raised her hand against an Ojebwa
chief, must die. In vain are the tempting stores of scarlet cloth and
beads for the women, with powder and shot, laid before the chief: the
arrows of six warriors are fitted to the string, and again the dance
and song commence, as if, like the roll of the drum and, clangour of
the trumpet, they were necessary to the excitement of strong and
powerful feelings, and the suppression of all tenderer emotions.
And now a wild and solemn voice is heard, unearthly in its tones,
rising above the yells of those savage men. At the sound every cheek
becomes pale: it strikes upon the ear as some funeral wail. Is it the
death-song of the captive girl bound to that fearful stake? No; for
she stands unmoved, with eyes raised heavenward, and lips apart,--
"In still but brave despair."
Shrouded in a mantle of dark cloth, her long black hair unbound and
streaming over her shoulders, appears the Mohawk widow, the daughter
of the Ojebwa chief. The gathering throng fall back as she approaches,
awed by her sudden appearance among them. She stretches out a hand on
which dark stains are visible--it is the blood of her husband,
sacrificed by her on that day of fearful deeds: it has never been
effaced. In the name of the Great Spirit she claims the captive
girl--the last of that devoted tribe--to be delivered over to her
will. Her right to this remnant of her murdered husband's family is
acknowledged. A knife is placed in her hand, while a deafening yell of
triumph bursts from the excited squaws, as this their great high
priestess, as they deem her, advances to the criminal. But it is not
to shed the heart's blood of the Mohawk girl, but to sever the thong
that bind her to the deadly stake, for which that glittering blade is
drawn, and to bid her depart in peace whithersoever she would go.
Then, turning to the Bald Eagle, she thus addresses him: "At the dead
of night, when the path of light spanned the sky, a vision stood
before mine eyes. It came from the Great and Good Spirit, and bade me
to set free the last of a murdered race, whose sun had gone down in
blood shed by my hand and by the hands of my people. The vision told
me that if I did this my path should henceforth be peace, and that I
should go to the better land and be at rest if I did this good deed."
She then laid her hands on the head of the young Mohawk, blessed her,
and, enveloping herself in the dark mantle, slowly retired back to her
solitary tent once more.