“It is Tamaque and another Indian,” she exclaimed, “and they are swimming for the empty canoe.” I cast a hasty glance behind me, and saw all the peril of our position; but I had no time for making observations. My business was to ply the paddle.
“Now,” continued Mary, “they have almost reached it; and now they have caught—but see! they have upset it in trying to climb in. No! it has come right again; and now Tamaque has got in safely, and is dragging his companion after him. But it is too late; they are almost at the falls, and they cannot stem the current. Look! Merciful Heaven, they will go over, and be drowned!”
Obeying the gentler impulses of her nature, she thought only of their danger, forgetting thatthatwas our only chance of escape.
“Oh! how they do struggle for their lives,” she continued; “and now they are standing still—no, they are moving—they are coming—faster and faster—they are coming toward us!”
I again looked back for a moment, and, truly, they were coming, and evidently gaining on us. Luten meanwhile sat in the bottom of the canoe in a fit of total abstraction.
“I will not leave them, nor return from following after them,” he muttered; “they have gone astray, but I will bring them back, and they shall yet be the instruments, under God, of regenerating the whole Indian race.”
But the state of things was now becoming critical, and Mary cried out in terror:
“Oh, father, help!—take that other paddle and help, or we are lost.”
The old man roused himself up, took the paddle, and went to work in the bow of the canoe. But he was unskilled in the business, and did more harm than good. I begged him to desist, but he only replied by increasing his well meant exertions. Atlength, however, he rocked the boat, and threw her out of her course so badly, that I was obliged to command him, peremptorily, to sit down; and he was soon again lost in meditation.
Meanwhile our pursuers were rapidly gaining on us. Under the guidance of her two powerful and well-trained workmen, their canoe bounded forward at every sweep of the paddles like a race-horse. I now saw that it was all over with us. We were still a long way from shore, and they were almost upon us. Nor could it avail us any thing even if we should succeed in landing first. They would capture us on the land if they did not on the water. My heart sickened at the thought. To me captivity would bring unutterable torments; and to my innocent and lovely companion a fate still more deplorable. Was there any alternative? I looked the whole subject steadily in the face for one minute, and then my resolution was taken. With a single dexterous sweep of the paddle I brought the head of the canoe directly down stream, and then urged her forward toward the roaring cataract. Tamaque uttered a loud yell of rage and disappointment; and, the same moment, his tomahawk whizzed by within an inch of my head. But the current now drew us on with fearful rapidity. Mary sat pale and silent, gazing anxiously in my face; whilst her father continued unconscious of all that was passing. Now and then I could hear his voice amid the tumult of the dashing breakers mournfully bewailing the apostacy of his neophytes.
We had now reached the very brink of the foaming precipice, when my eye caught a narrow streak of blue water, which evidently descended in a gradual slope. I directed the canoe toward it, and she went down, plunging, I thought, entirely under; but she rose again filled with water, but still afloat. I threw my hat to Mary; and, whilst I kept the canoe steady in her course with one hand, I seized my hat in the other and commenced bailing. In a few minutes all danger of sinking was removed. We had now a free course before us, and an impassible barrier (so it was deemed) between us and our pursuers. We felt that we were safe;—all but Luten; to whom our danger and our safety seemed equally indifferent. His thoughts were far away in the land of dreams, where he had so long dwelt, and from which he would not yet depart. We spoke to him, but he made no answer. At length his head began to sink slowly down, and Mary hastened to support it. An ashy paleness now came over his features; his breathing grew short and difficult, and his mutterings became inaudible; except once, when the name of Tamaque trembled on his lips. Then his eyes became fixed; his lips ceased to move; his hand dropped heavily down at his side; and now,—the hot tears that rain from the eyes of his dutiful child fall on the brow of death.
It was now near sundown; and when we reached the nearest white settlement it was near morning. There we buried Luten; and his daughter being now an orphan, and without a protector in the world, why, of course,—but I need not relate what followed. Suffice it to say that I was no longer jealous of Tamaque, but even felt a pang of regret when I heard, soon after, that he had fallen in battle.
THE RECONCILIATION.
———
BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.
———
The midnight shadows deepen on, the earth is still and lone,And starry lamps in heaven’s blue hall are fading one by one,For cold gray clouds wreathe o’er them like a dim and misty veil,And through their foldings peers the moon—a spirit wan and pale.As far away the gentle breeze is sighing mournfullyIt seems a murmur from the shore of olden memory,And while its cadence floats afarthy voiceI seem to hear—Like music in some troubled dream it steals upon my ear.My heart beats faster as the sound fades out upon the night,And pants to drink again that tone of rapture and delight;At such an hour it cannot deem that voice is cold and strange,In such an hour it will forget that hearts like thine can change.No—never, it shallnotbe so—the thought is burning pain,Which like the levin’s blighting fire comes crushing through my brain;It cannot be our friendship’s bright and glowing dream is o’er,It must not be that weshall meetas wehave metno more.Have I offended?—thenforgive—’twill be the nobler part—And oh,forgetthat I have wronged thy warm and generous heart,For careless words though lightly said come keenly to the mind,To chill its glowing depths with tones like winter’s frozen wind.Ah! “cast the shadow” from thy heart, and mine shall glow with thineIn purer flames, whose fairy gleams in rainbow beauty shine,Its thoughts of thee shall brighten then though all around be sad,Its every dream of thee be sweet—its every vision glad—
The midnight shadows deepen on, the earth is still and lone,And starry lamps in heaven’s blue hall are fading one by one,For cold gray clouds wreathe o’er them like a dim and misty veil,And through their foldings peers the moon—a spirit wan and pale.As far away the gentle breeze is sighing mournfullyIt seems a murmur from the shore of olden memory,And while its cadence floats afarthy voiceI seem to hear—Like music in some troubled dream it steals upon my ear.My heart beats faster as the sound fades out upon the night,And pants to drink again that tone of rapture and delight;At such an hour it cannot deem that voice is cold and strange,In such an hour it will forget that hearts like thine can change.No—never, it shallnotbe so—the thought is burning pain,Which like the levin’s blighting fire comes crushing through my brain;It cannot be our friendship’s bright and glowing dream is o’er,It must not be that weshall meetas wehave metno more.Have I offended?—thenforgive—’twill be the nobler part—And oh,forgetthat I have wronged thy warm and generous heart,For careless words though lightly said come keenly to the mind,To chill its glowing depths with tones like winter’s frozen wind.Ah! “cast the shadow” from thy heart, and mine shall glow with thineIn purer flames, whose fairy gleams in rainbow beauty shine,Its thoughts of thee shall brighten then though all around be sad,Its every dream of thee be sweet—its every vision glad—
The midnight shadows deepen on, the earth is still and lone,
And starry lamps in heaven’s blue hall are fading one by one,
For cold gray clouds wreathe o’er them like a dim and misty veil,
And through their foldings peers the moon—a spirit wan and pale.
As far away the gentle breeze is sighing mournfully
It seems a murmur from the shore of olden memory,
And while its cadence floats afarthy voiceI seem to hear—
Like music in some troubled dream it steals upon my ear.
My heart beats faster as the sound fades out upon the night,
And pants to drink again that tone of rapture and delight;
At such an hour it cannot deem that voice is cold and strange,
In such an hour it will forget that hearts like thine can change.
No—never, it shallnotbe so—the thought is burning pain,
Which like the levin’s blighting fire comes crushing through my brain;
It cannot be our friendship’s bright and glowing dream is o’er,
It must not be that weshall meetas wehave metno more.
Have I offended?—thenforgive—’twill be the nobler part—
And oh,forgetthat I have wronged thy warm and generous heart,
For careless words though lightly said come keenly to the mind,
To chill its glowing depths with tones like winter’s frozen wind.
Ah! “cast the shadow” from thy heart, and mine shall glow with thine
In purer flames, whose fairy gleams in rainbow beauty shine,
Its thoughts of thee shall brighten then though all around be sad,
Its every dream of thee be sweet—its every vision glad—
UNHAPPY LOVE.
———
BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.
———
’Tis vain, ’tis vain, these idle tears!Thou art far distant now;No more, oh never more my lipsMay press thy pale, sweet brow;And yet I cannot, cannot burstThe deep and holy spell that firstBade my strong spirit bowWith all of passion’s hopes and fearsBefore thee in our happier years.Those eves of love, those blessed eves—Their memory still comes backA glory and a benisonO’er life’s bewildering track,Their light has vanished from our lotLike meteor-gleams and left us—what?The sigh, the tear, the rack!And yet upon their visions blestStill love can turn and sink to rest.I know thou lovest me, I knowThine eyes with tears are dim,I know that stricken love still chantsTo thee its mournful hymn;I know the shadows of love’s dreamIn the deep waves of memory’s streamLike soft star-shadows swim;But oh! the fiend of wild unrestIs raging in my tortured breast.Forgive me, gentle one, forgiveMy burning dreams of thee;Forgive me that I dare to letForbidden thoughts go free;My torrent-passions madly sweepOn, darkly on, and will not sleepBut in death’s silent sea;And I—a mouldering wreck—am stillThe victim of their stormy will.Ah, dear one, suns will rise and set,And moons will wax and wane,The seasons come and go, but weMust never meet again;That thought, whene’er I hear thy name,Is like a wild and raging flameWithin my heart and brain;But none, save thee, shall ever knowThe secret of my living wo.Oft at the sunset’s holy time,Our spirits’ trysting hour,I wander to commune with theeBeneath the wildwood bower;And o’er me there thy tone of love,Like the low moaning of a dove,Steals with a soothing power;’Tis gone—my voice in anguish calls,But silence on the desert falls.I gaze on yon sweet moon as erstWe gazed on that dear nightWhen our deep, parting vows were saidBeneath its mournful light;And then with tones, low, sweet and clear,Thou breathest in my ravished earAnd risest on my sight—I call thee, but the woods aroundWith mocking voice repeat the sound.I look on each memento dear,The tress, the flower, the ring,And these thy sweet and gentle formBack to my spirit bring;I seem to live past raptures o’er,Our hands, our hearts, our lips once moreIn one wild pressure cling—It fades—I mourn the vision flownAnd start to find myself alone.I look upon thy pictured face’Till from my straining eyesMy soul steals out to animateThe sweet but lifeless dyes;The dark eyes wake, the dear lips speak,Their breath is warm upon my cheek—I clasp the living prize;Alas! I wake to cold despair,There’s but a painted mockery there.My youth is vanished from my life,And ah! I feel that nowThe lines of manhood’s fading primeAre deepening on my brow;My life is in its evening shade,And soon its last pale flowers will fadeUpon the withering bough,Alas! alas! that life should beSo fleeting and not passed with thee!Farewell, our dreams are idle now,And tears are idler yet,But oft beneath the midnight moonMy eyelids still are wet;Oh! I could bear life’s every grief,Its shade, its cloud, its withered leaf,Its sun’s last darkened set,Could I but know that we might loveAs now in that bright world above.Farewell—farewell—yon gentle starIs pure and bright like thee—But lo! a dark cloud near it moves,The type, alas, of me!From the blue heavens the cloud will go,But that unfading star will glowStill beautiful and free;And thus thy life, with fadeless ray,May shine when I am passed away.
’Tis vain, ’tis vain, these idle tears!Thou art far distant now;No more, oh never more my lipsMay press thy pale, sweet brow;And yet I cannot, cannot burstThe deep and holy spell that firstBade my strong spirit bowWith all of passion’s hopes and fearsBefore thee in our happier years.Those eves of love, those blessed eves—Their memory still comes backA glory and a benisonO’er life’s bewildering track,Their light has vanished from our lotLike meteor-gleams and left us—what?The sigh, the tear, the rack!And yet upon their visions blestStill love can turn and sink to rest.I know thou lovest me, I knowThine eyes with tears are dim,I know that stricken love still chantsTo thee its mournful hymn;I know the shadows of love’s dreamIn the deep waves of memory’s streamLike soft star-shadows swim;But oh! the fiend of wild unrestIs raging in my tortured breast.Forgive me, gentle one, forgiveMy burning dreams of thee;Forgive me that I dare to letForbidden thoughts go free;My torrent-passions madly sweepOn, darkly on, and will not sleepBut in death’s silent sea;And I—a mouldering wreck—am stillThe victim of their stormy will.Ah, dear one, suns will rise and set,And moons will wax and wane,The seasons come and go, but weMust never meet again;That thought, whene’er I hear thy name,Is like a wild and raging flameWithin my heart and brain;But none, save thee, shall ever knowThe secret of my living wo.Oft at the sunset’s holy time,Our spirits’ trysting hour,I wander to commune with theeBeneath the wildwood bower;And o’er me there thy tone of love,Like the low moaning of a dove,Steals with a soothing power;’Tis gone—my voice in anguish calls,But silence on the desert falls.I gaze on yon sweet moon as erstWe gazed on that dear nightWhen our deep, parting vows were saidBeneath its mournful light;And then with tones, low, sweet and clear,Thou breathest in my ravished earAnd risest on my sight—I call thee, but the woods aroundWith mocking voice repeat the sound.I look on each memento dear,The tress, the flower, the ring,And these thy sweet and gentle formBack to my spirit bring;I seem to live past raptures o’er,Our hands, our hearts, our lips once moreIn one wild pressure cling—It fades—I mourn the vision flownAnd start to find myself alone.I look upon thy pictured face’Till from my straining eyesMy soul steals out to animateThe sweet but lifeless dyes;The dark eyes wake, the dear lips speak,Their breath is warm upon my cheek—I clasp the living prize;Alas! I wake to cold despair,There’s but a painted mockery there.My youth is vanished from my life,And ah! I feel that nowThe lines of manhood’s fading primeAre deepening on my brow;My life is in its evening shade,And soon its last pale flowers will fadeUpon the withering bough,Alas! alas! that life should beSo fleeting and not passed with thee!Farewell, our dreams are idle now,And tears are idler yet,But oft beneath the midnight moonMy eyelids still are wet;Oh! I could bear life’s every grief,Its shade, its cloud, its withered leaf,Its sun’s last darkened set,Could I but know that we might loveAs now in that bright world above.Farewell—farewell—yon gentle starIs pure and bright like thee—But lo! a dark cloud near it moves,The type, alas, of me!From the blue heavens the cloud will go,But that unfading star will glowStill beautiful and free;And thus thy life, with fadeless ray,May shine when I am passed away.
’Tis vain, ’tis vain, these idle tears!
Thou art far distant now;
No more, oh never more my lips
May press thy pale, sweet brow;
And yet I cannot, cannot burst
The deep and holy spell that first
Bade my strong spirit bow
With all of passion’s hopes and fears
Before thee in our happier years.
Those eves of love, those blessed eves—
Their memory still comes back
A glory and a benison
O’er life’s bewildering track,
Their light has vanished from our lot
Like meteor-gleams and left us—what?
The sigh, the tear, the rack!
And yet upon their visions blest
Still love can turn and sink to rest.
I know thou lovest me, I know
Thine eyes with tears are dim,
I know that stricken love still chants
To thee its mournful hymn;
I know the shadows of love’s dream
In the deep waves of memory’s stream
Like soft star-shadows swim;
But oh! the fiend of wild unrest
Is raging in my tortured breast.
Forgive me, gentle one, forgive
My burning dreams of thee;
Forgive me that I dare to let
Forbidden thoughts go free;
My torrent-passions madly sweep
On, darkly on, and will not sleep
But in death’s silent sea;
And I—a mouldering wreck—am still
The victim of their stormy will.
Ah, dear one, suns will rise and set,
And moons will wax and wane,
The seasons come and go, but we
Must never meet again;
That thought, whene’er I hear thy name,
Is like a wild and raging flame
Within my heart and brain;
But none, save thee, shall ever know
The secret of my living wo.
Oft at the sunset’s holy time,
Our spirits’ trysting hour,
I wander to commune with thee
Beneath the wildwood bower;
And o’er me there thy tone of love,
Like the low moaning of a dove,
Steals with a soothing power;
’Tis gone—my voice in anguish calls,
But silence on the desert falls.
I gaze on yon sweet moon as erst
We gazed on that dear night
When our deep, parting vows were said
Beneath its mournful light;
And then with tones, low, sweet and clear,
Thou breathest in my ravished ear
And risest on my sight—
I call thee, but the woods around
With mocking voice repeat the sound.
I look on each memento dear,
The tress, the flower, the ring,
And these thy sweet and gentle form
Back to my spirit bring;
I seem to live past raptures o’er,
Our hands, our hearts, our lips once more
In one wild pressure cling—
It fades—I mourn the vision flown
And start to find myself alone.
I look upon thy pictured face
’Till from my straining eyes
My soul steals out to animate
The sweet but lifeless dyes;
The dark eyes wake, the dear lips speak,
Their breath is warm upon my cheek—
I clasp the living prize;
Alas! I wake to cold despair,
There’s but a painted mockery there.
My youth is vanished from my life,
And ah! I feel that now
The lines of manhood’s fading prime
Are deepening on my brow;
My life is in its evening shade,
And soon its last pale flowers will fade
Upon the withering bough,
Alas! alas! that life should be
So fleeting and not passed with thee!
Farewell, our dreams are idle now,
And tears are idler yet,
But oft beneath the midnight moon
My eyelids still are wet;
Oh! I could bear life’s every grief,
Its shade, its cloud, its withered leaf,
Its sun’s last darkened set,
Could I but know that we might love
As now in that bright world above.
Farewell—farewell—yon gentle star
Is pure and bright like thee—
But lo! a dark cloud near it moves,
The type, alas, of me!
From the blue heavens the cloud will go,
But that unfading star will glow
Still beautiful and free;
And thus thy life, with fadeless ray,
May shine when I am passed away.
THE SUNFLOWER.
A TRUE TALE OF THE NORTH-WEST.
———
BY MAJOR RICHARDSON.
———
Of all the tribes of Indians with whom it has been our lot to mix, and these have not been a few, we know of none who can surpass in the native dignity and nobleness of manhood the Saukie tribe. We, however, speak not of them as they exist at the present day. Many years have elapsed since fighting against Hull, Winchester, and Harrison, we numbered, as co-operating with the division of the army to which we were attached, three thousand fighting men of the élite of the warriors of the principal tribes, headed by the indomitable and ever lamented Tecumseh, whom, as a boy, then first attempting hiscoup d’essaiat arms, we ever loved and revered, and with whom half an hour before his fall, we shook the hand of cordiality, and separation—forever. We repeat, at that period there were, varying slightly in number at intervals, not less than three thousand with the eighth division of the British army—and these were the choice warriors of the following tribes: Shawanees, Delawares, Munsees, Hurons, Wyandots, Miamis, Chippewas, Ottowas, Kickapoos, Foxes, Minouminies, Pottowattamies, Winnebagoes, Loups, Sioux, and lastly, for we cannot recollect some two or three others—the Saukies. Each tribe had its peculiar and distinctive characteristics—but no one so markedly so as the last named people, and next to them the Winnebagoes. We have remarked that we do not know what the Indian tribes, even in their original hunting grounds have become since so long abstinence from the pursuits of war and adventure, butthen, the Saukies were the noblest looking men of all we have ever since beheld in any quarter of the globe we have visited. They were a collective impersonation of the dignity of man, as sent first upon earth by the will of God; nor were these characteristics of manly beauty peculiar only to a few, but general to all. A Saukie warrior, arrived at the full stage of manhood, was tall—generally from five feet eleven to six feet in height, and of proportionate symmetry of person. Their carriage was erect, dignified, graceful. Their look serene, imposing without sternness. Their features bore the Roman impress, and seldom did we look upon a Saukie, arrived at mature age, without the memory adverting at once to the dignified senators of the forum of which we had so recently been reading. There was a nobleness—a consciousness—a native dignity about these people that always inspired us with a certain degree of awe and respect; and so deeply was this sentiment implanted in us at that very early period of a somewhat adventurous life, that ourbeau idealof manly beauty has ever since continued to be a Saukie warrior of the commencement of the present century.
The period of occurrence of the incidents of our little tale was some four or five years prior to the American declaration of war against Great Britain, and when the North West Company of Canada, whose wealth, acquired in the pursuit of that trade, was at one time great, held various stockade forts in the heart of the Indian country. The ambulating village of the Saukies was then situated on a branch of one of those small streams on which the forts were usually built, and at a distance of about forty miles from that which will come more immediately under our notice.
White Bear was one of the most honored of the Saukie chiefs, and even among men whom we have just described as so eminently prepossessing, he was remarkable. He was forty years of age, and possessed a majesty of mien and carriage that won to him the respect of his tribe not more than did his wisdom in the council, and his daring in war. He had but one wife, and she was much younger than himself, but years had so little to do with the estimate in which he was generally held by the squaws of his tribe, and particularly by his wife, whose passion for him was ardent as his own for her, that this disparity had never even been noticed. Indeed, their friendship for each other was the remark of the whole tribe. For an Indian, he took great pride in her beauty, and spent with her many hours that ought to have been devoted to the chase. War for some years past there had been none.
Sunflower was tall and graceful. She had very black, soft, languishing eyes—marked, yet delicate eyebrows. Her nose, like that of her tribe, was Roman, but more delicately marked than that of the men, her teeth were white and even, her mouth small, and her hair glossy as the raven’s wing, and darker than the squirrel’s fur. The full and massive club into which it was tastefully rolled and placed behind the back of her neck, proved its fullness and redundance. She was elegantly formed. She had never been a mother, and her nut-brown bosom had all the roundness of contour of a Venus, and the smoothness of the Parian marble. Her hands and feet, like those of all her race, were small, and yet there was a development of her whole person that set all art to improve it at defiance. Late at night she always bathed in the sweet waters of the stream, and on its low banks combed the long and luxuriant hair that overshadowed her person, and with the chewed root of the grape-vine, added fragrance to her breath, even while she increased the dazzling whiteness of the teeth she rubbed with it. To crown all the fascinations of this Indian wife—this favored daughter of a race in which the interesting and the beautiful are so rarely found, she had a voice whose every note was laughing music.
There was one in that camp, and of that tribe, who saw the happiness of White Bear, not with envy, for his nature was too generous for so low a passion, but with regret that destiny had not given to him the beautiful, the enchanting Sunflower. He was consumed with the most ardent love. He lived only in and for her—hung upon her look, fed upon her glance, and yet he had never spoken to her. His soul melted away with love for her. To look at her alone was enjoyment the greatest he could taste. The chase was deserted, his very flute, in which he excelled, and on which he often played to the great delight of the admiring Indian girls, was neglected. Not so his dress. No young Saukie bestowed more pains in decorating his person than did the tall and gracefully formed Wawandah, and this not from any foolish love of display, as because he wished to appear favorably in her eyes, should she ever be induced to regard him. The savage equally with the civilized, tries to win a woman as much by dress as by address. But in vain Wawandah courted his toilet. The vermilion was applied to his cheek and lips without the desired result—the Sunflower never once caught his eye, or if she did, she was too much engaged in thinking of the White Bear, to be conscious that any other of her tribe sought to win her attention.
Days, weeks passed on, with the same unvarying result. Wawandah was sorely grieved at heart. He began to pine away. His soft and melancholy eye became dull. He had no pleasure in the chase which took him far from the encampment. Every step that he trod in pursuit led him farther from the spot trodden by her, the very soles of whose feet he worshiped, and he could not continue. Thus, when a stray buffalo would cross him, easy to be killed, and offering himself as an unerring mark to his rifle, his passion would so trouble his mind as to unnerve his arm. Then the ball would pass unwounding by, and the half sneers of his companions arise and bring the blush to his cheek; as they bade him tauntingly leave the rifle to be handled by men, and go and amuse himself with the women. In like manner he sought to avoid the war-dance, and the ball playing, and the foot-race, for his mind was too painfully interested to engage unrestrainedly in these amusements, and unless excellence was to be obtained in whatever he undertook, Wawandah cared not to be a competitor. Wawandah was beginning to lose caste not only with the elders of the tribe but with the young men who were jealous of his superiority, and so much was he talked of that the very women knew all that was said by the warriors, and the Sunflower like the rest. It was the first time Wawandah had ever come under the notice of her he so fondly loved, and as he knew the cause, he secretly blessed the fate which had, even under circumstances so humiliating to the pride of a warrior, been the cause of her bestowing even the slightest attention upon him.
The White Bear had been the friend of the father of Wawandah, who for ten long years, according to Indian computation, had slumbered in his grave with the red stained pole at its head. Since he had taken the Sunflower to his bosom, he had neglected the boy, for his own breast was full of the natural selfishness of love, and he had not found time to regard him as he would have done had he been free from the influence that now exclusively governed him in all things. But when the Sunflower told him that there was a youth in the village who, oppressed by some secret care, had so degenerated in the tastes and pursuits of the young warriors, as absolutely to have incurred their scorn, her husband recollected the name, and determined as far as he could to comfort him, and to restore to him the respect of his tribe; and straightway he sent a young boy to the wigwam of Wawandah, who was then lying on the skin of a grizzly bear, which he had killed before the spirit of guilty love had entered into his heart, and the recollection of his skill and prowess in obtaining which was the only circumstance that still preserved to him a certain consideration among the elders of the tribe. Astonished, almost dismayed at the message, Wawandah rose from his couch, and disguising his feelings, said to the young messenger, “That it was good. He would go to White Bear’s wigwam presently.” The boy departed, and Wawandah was torn with emotion. What was the meaning of this message? Since the death of his father, the Black Vulture, the White Bear had taken no other notice of him than he had of the young warriors generally; then how was it that he sent for him now, when almost shunned by the young men of his tribe; he bowed submissively and uncomplainingly to the effects of the passion that was preying upon his heart, rendering him regardless of all things else. Why, he again asked himself, was this? Or had the White Bear discovered his secret in the only way in which it could have transpired—through his eyes—and sent for him to reprove and to threaten. Still he was glad that he was sent for, no matter for what reason, for there was a faint hope at his heart that the Sunflower might be present at the interview in the wigwam, and he felt that it would be pleasant to be condemned in her hearing for that which she alone had, however innocently, occasioned.
Still, with slow, and timid, and undecided step, he approached the tent of the great chief. The latter motioned him to be seated. Wawandah, who, on entering, had seen in a corner of the tent a muffled figure, which his beating heart told him was the wife of the White Bear, silently obeyed, and waited until the chief had finished his pipe. Wawandah now and then turned his eyes furtively in the direction of the squaw who was embroidering moccasins with the dyed quills of the porcupine, and could perceive that she, too, occasionally glanced at him in the same furtive manner. The heart of Wawandah was troubled yet full of gladness. To be looked at with interest by the Sunflower had been the summit of his highest ambition.
“Wawandah,” said the White Bear, who had finished his pipe, and was now emptying the bowl of its ashes, “the chief, your father, was a great warrior in the tribe; and when, a year after his death, you slew the white bear that was about to kill ayoung girl, all the tribe thought that you too would become a great warrior. What says my son—why is this?”
“Ugh!” was the sole and assentient reply of the youth.
“The braves say you cannot shoot, and that your arm is wide as that of a squaw from the buffalo or the deer—that every papoose can beat you in the race—that you cannot wrestle, and that the ball never rebounds from your foot. Is this true? Are you no longer a warrior? Why is this, my son?”
Wawandah was silent for a moment, and then placing his palm over his heart, he said in so mournful a tone, that the Sunflower suddenly started and looked up. “Very sick here. Wawandah wishes only to encounter another bear. The victory would not be the same.”
As he uttered these words, his eyes beaming with melancholy tenderness were turned upon the wife of the White Bear. It was just at that moment she looked up. Their glances met. His dark and handsome features became flushed with crimson, as he traced in hers he thought, pity, sorrow, and a full understanding of his position. A thousand delicious thoughts possessed his being. That look of commiseration had repaid him for every insult he had endured. To be rewarded by another, he would have subjected himself to the same a thousand fold. As for the Sunflower, she could not tell wherefore, but it seemed to her as if a new light had dawned upon her being.
“My son,” said the chief, presenting his hand, “I pity you, for I see it all. You love a squaw, who does not love you—and that I know is enough to turn the rifle aside, and check the speed of the race. When the heart is sick the body is sick also. I am old, Wawandah, but I know it—
“See!” he continued, after a short pause, “there is one who ought to be your sister. The White Bear owes her life to you. Without your arm his wigwam would be as a desert. Taken from the fangs of one white bear, you have preserved her for the arms of another.”
The Sunflower and Wawandah looked this time fully, tenderly into each other’s eyes—a new affinity had been created—a new tie mutually acknowledged. It was the first time they had been made aware that she was the young girl thus saved. They both colored deeply, and with a consciousness that that information was fraught with good or evil, for the future, to themselves. Both awaited with interest and impatience what was to follow.
“Wawandah,” pursued the chief, “I feel that I have wronged you by neglect. But I will make amends for it. Once more you shall be a man—a hunter—a warrior. You shall abandon your tent and live in mine. It is large enough for us all. The Sunflower will be glad to receive him who saved her life in the most daring manner. Her smiles will make you forget your hopeless love, and when her hands have prepared the morning meal, we shall go forth to the chase, for I, too, feel that my pretty Sunflower too often dazzles my path with its brightness, and keeps me from the tracks of the deer and buffalo.”
“Oh, the friend of my father is too good,” replied Wawandah, with a manner changed, from despair to life and hope, which, although unheeded by the husband, was not lost upon his beautiful wife. “Wawandah is thankful. He will sleep in the wigwam of the White Bear, and gain from his goodness new courage to his heart, and strength to his arm, and skill to his eye. He will go forth to the chase as before. He will forget the love of the woman he cannot have, in the friendship of his sister—in the child the Good Spirit allowed him to save for the friend of his father. Wawandah will be happy, and the White Bear will make him so.”
The Sunflower rose from the spot where she was seated at her work, and moving in all her gracefulness and dignity of carriage to her husband’s side, leaned over him, and thanked him for his goodness in permitting her to aid in soothing him to whom she owed her life and happiness with him.
“Wawandah,” said the husband of the Sunflower, “you may go; I wished to give ease to your heart—not to pine away like a love-sick woman. You live here. I am not quite old enough to be your father, for five-and-twenty years have passed over your head, but I shall be every thing else to you; nor is Sunflower old enough to be your mother, but she shall be your sister, and her laughing eye shall make you glad. Go, then, part with your wigwam, and let it be known throughout the tribe the White Bear adopts you as his son.”
From that hour Wawandah became a changed man. He lived in the wigwam of the White Bear. The beautiful Sunflower was ever before his eyes. Her presence inspired, her soft eye turned in gratitude upon him who had preserved her life, infused animation, if not hope, into his being. He had no other thought, no other desire than to be loved by the Sunflower as by a sister, to be near her, to listen to her sweet voice, to mark the expression of her beautiful eyes, to follow the graceful movements of her tall form—all this he enjoyed, and he was happy. Sustained by her approval, once more the buffalo and the elk fell beneath his unerring rifle, and his honors graced the interior of the tent which the Sunflower decorated with her own hands. Again he was foremost in the race, and left his competitors behind when darting into the swollen stream theybuffeted against the strong current that essayed to check their upward progress. In the wrestling-ring no one could equal his dexterity and strength; and where once his foot touched the ball, no opponent could bear from him his prize until it had reached the desired goal. The women were often spectators of these sports, and approved the manliness and activity of the handsome and modest-looking Wawandah, but none more than his newly found sister, the peerless Sunflower of the White Bear.
“Strange!” she would muse to herself, as she saw him amidst the loud plaudits of the aged and the young of the warriors, of the matron and of the maid bear off every prize for which he contended—“strange,that before he came to dwell within our wigwam, he was as a child, and even now is a strong man, proud in his own power. It was disappointed love made him weak and uncertain of aim in the chase, he said to the White Bear. What, then, has made him strong, for no love warms him yet but the love of his sister.” The Sunflower sighed; she thought of the eloquent looks he had often cast upon herself, and she endeavored to give a new direction to her thoughts.
Often would the White Bear and Wawandah set out on a hunting excursion of a couple of days, and return so laden with the meat of the buffalo and the deer, that the horses they took with them for the purpose, could with difficulty walk under the heavy burdens. Then would the children, seeing them coming from a distance, clap their hands, and utter shouts of rejoicing, until the whole encampment attracted by their cries, would turn out and gathered together in small groups, await the arrival of the hunters, to whom the word and hand of greeting were cordially given. The Sunflower would watch all this from a distance, and in silence; and her heart would become glad, for well she knew where the choicest of the game killed by Wawandah’s hand would be laid—at his sister’s feet with a look of such touching eloquence of prayer for its acceptance that the very anticipation took from her loneliness in absence; and she was always right, for never on one occasion did Wawandah fail, and when he had given of the best to the wife of the White Bear, his soft and beautiful eyes rendered more lustrous by the deep hectic overspreading his brown cheek, would thank him with such expression of silent eloquence, that her own heart would invariably flutter, and her own cheek flush with as deep a crimson. And then, happy and contented and rewarded for all his toil, Wawandah would bear the remainder of his game to the tents of the chiefs, and distribute among the grateful wives of these the remainder of the proceeds of his unequalled skill. No one was now a greater favorite throughout the Saukie camp than the late despised Wawandah, the son of the Black Vulture.
Once in the middle of August the White Bear and Wawandah set out with two others on an excursion, which was to last five days. Time had so accustomed the Sunflower to the presence of her brother, and his absence on similar occasions had so seldom exceeded a couple of days, that when the fifth had arrived she was uneasy and unhappy; and her longing for Wawandah’s return became such that she now, for the first time, became aware of the full extent of her own feelings for him. She trembled to admit the truth to herself, but it was in vain to conceal it. Guilt was in her soul. She loved Wawandah. True, but she was resolved that while she sought not to change the character of their existing relations, she would allow them to go no further.
It has already been shown that the Sunflower was in the habit of bathing in the stream on which the encampment of the Saukies had been pitched. This was about a mile up, and in a secluded nook or narrow bay, the overhanging banks of which, closely studded with trees, formed a complete shelter from the observation of the passing stranger. The evening of the day previous to that on which the hunters were expected back was exceedingly sultry, and the Sunflower had gone with another Saukie—a daughter of one of the chiefs—to indulge in her favorite and refreshing bath. After disporting themselves for some time in the running and refreshing stream, they were preparing to resume their dress, when both were startled by a low and sudden growl from the top of the bank immediately above them. The Saukie maiden looked for a moment, and then trembling in every limb, and yet without daring to utter a word, pointed out to the Sunflower, on whose shoulder she leaned, two glaring eyes which, without seeing more of the animal, they at once felt to be those of a panther evidently fixed on themselves. The animal gave another low growl, and by the crashing of the underwood amid which it lay, they knew it was about to give its final spring. Filled with terror the Sunflower uttered a loud scream and even as the animal sprang downward from his lair the report of a rifle resounded, and the whizzing ball was distinctly heard as it passed their ears. The water around the gurgling spot where the panther leaped into the stream, was deeply tinged with his blood. He had been wounded, but not so severely as to prevent him from being an object of unabated terror. Not five seconds, however, had elapsed, before another form came from the very spot whence the panther had sprung. The beast, infuriated by its wound, was running or rather bounding rapidly toward the Sunflower, who, paralyzed at the danger, stood incapable of motion, and standing immersed up to her waist in the stream, and with her long dark hair floating over its surface. With a wild and savage cry, meant to divert his attention to himself, Wawandah, for it was he, pursued the animal as rapidly as he could through the interposing water. Startled by his unexpected appearance, the Sunflower became, for the first time, conscious of her position, when turning, she fled as fast as she could with a view to gain the beach and turn the ascent to the hill. This act saved her from severe laceration, if not death, for it afforded time for Wawandah to overtake the monster. Seeing itself closely pursued, the latter turned to defend itself, and before Wawandah could seize it by the back of the neck, with a force against which it vainly struggled, it had severely wounded him in the left shoulder. Infuriated with pain, and still more so at what he knew to be the exposed position of the Sunflower, the latter, even while the teeth of the panther were fastened in his shoulder, drew from his side his deadly knife, and burying it to the handle in its heart, while he worked furiously to enlarge the wound, at length contrived to leave it lifeless floating on the surface of the stream. This done, his first care was the safety of the Sunflower. He knew that while he continued there she would not return for her clothes, which were lying on the beach immediately under the point from which he had, on hearing the scream,leaped into the river, and therefore he had no alternative than to call out in clear and distinct tones that she might return without fear, as the panther was dead and he himself about to ascend the bank on the opposite side, to secure his rifle and await her coming, as, after the danger she had so barely escaped, he was determined not to allow her to be exposed, unprotected, to another.
That evening it was made known in every part of the Saukie encampment by the daughter of the chief, that but for the sudden appearance and prompt action of the brave Wawandah, both herself and the Sunflower would have been torn to pieces by an enormous and savage panther, whose eyes were balls of fire, and whose teeth were like the wild boar’s tusk. Again were the plaudits of the camp bestowed upon him, and the head chief ordered a war dance to be performed in honor of the exploit.
The dance was continued until late at night, but Wawandah did not mix in it. Thoughts were passing in his mind that little disposed him to join in festivities given in honor of himself. For the first time, that day he had seen enough of the symmetry of form of the Sunflower to know that she could no longer be as a mere sister to him. He felt that she must be to him as a wife or he must die. Giving as a reason, and it was a true one, that his arm pained him very much, he retired to his bear-skin couch long before the war dance had terminated.
The Sunflower sat at his side, and with a decoction of herbs which she had boiled down to a thick gelatinous matter, ever and anon bathed the wound, and with a look so eloquent with thankfulness for this second serious service which he had rendered her, that Wawandah felt an irrepressible fire kindling in his veins, while his eyes were absolutely riveted on her own.
“How came my brother so near me and so far away from the camp,” she asked, desirous of turning his thoughts from an admiration that pained, yet not displeased her, “and where has he left the White Bear and his companions. Was it well to come back without them?” she concluded, half reproachfully, for she began to feel the danger of her position.
“It was well that Wawandah came,” he said, with more animation than he had hitherto evinced. “But listen, my sister. An elk, with horns like the branches of a great tree, had fallen beneath my rifle, when suddenly a panther sprang from its lair. Determined to lay its skin at your feet, I followed it. The chase was long; it lasted from daybreak to the setting sun. I knew not where I was, or in what direction I was going. Suddenly the panther crouched in a small thicket. I heard a cry. Oh, who could mistake the birdlike voice of my sweet sister. The hair on the crown of my head seemed to move. I felt my cheek white as that of a pale face—my heart was sick. As the panther took his spring I fired. Oh, had I been myself, I should have killed him dead, but fear took away my skill and I was a woman, even as I had been for many moons before, until the sister that I loved without hope brought comfort to my soul by smiling upon me under the roof of her own wigwam.”
The eyes of the Sunflower bent beneath the ardor of his gaze,—her heaving bosom marked her emotion, and her hands dropped mechanically at her side. Now, for the first time, she knew that it was through his silent love for her that the generous and noble-hearted Wawandah had incurred the odium of his tribe.
“Yes,” pursued the youth, “now that the panther is dead, and the Sunflower is safe, Wawandah is glad of the wound received in saving her. His step had never dared to move toward the spot where she bathed, but the Good Spirit led him, even in the guise of a panther, to behold that which he had never seen but in his dreams.”
He paused; leaning on his elbow, he had taken the small hand of the Sunflower. He felt it tremble beneath the slight pressure of his. Then he continued:—
“The love that filled my heart like the devouring fire of the prairie, before the good White Bear adopted me as his son, was nothing to what it is now. The Sunflower must be Wawandah’s wife or she must see him die. He will not live without her.”
Never had the warrior awakened such interest in the bosom of the wife of the White Bear. His beautiful eyes spoke a language she could not resist. The deepening crimson of her cheek, the languor of her eye, and the heaving of her bosom, were her only answer.
“Then the Sunflower is Wawandah’s forever,” he exclaimed, as he caught and pressed her to his heart, and imprinted the first kiss of love upon her brow.
Still she replied not. She felt as if an inevitable fate was impelling both to their destruction; but there was sweetness in the thought. The enormity of the ingratitude to the White Bear did not at first occur to her.
“We must fly,” she at length murmured. “The Sunflower is now the wife of Wawandah, and she must seek another home. The White Bear will be here to-morrow, and never can the guilty one he loves bear to look upon his generous face again.”
“The Sunflower shall look upon him no more—no more dazzle the White Bear with the glare of her beauty,” answered the youth. “Far from this Wawandah shall erect his tent, and alone. No one but his wife shall know where he dwells, or share his solitude. He has no thought but of her. While she gladdens his sight with her presence, he will ask no more of the Spirit of Good. The camp is scarcely yet at rest. An hour before the dawn we will depart; and when the sun rises its fairest flower will have traveled far from the tent of the White Bear forever.”
“The heart of the Sunflower is full of gladness,” said the latter. “Never does she wish to behold the face of another warrior but Wawandah. She loves him because he has so long loved herself. Ah, how much must she love him, when she leaves the tent of the White Bear forever to fly with him. It isvery wicked this. The Good Spirit will punish her, but her love for Wawandah is too great. She has not power over herself. She would not stay if she could. And now it is too late.”
At an hour before dawn Wawandah went stealthily forth. All was stillness in the camp, and only here and there was to be seen the flickering of some expiring fire, while the low growl of the dog, too vigilant to be quite silent, and yet too lazy to bark outright, greeted him as he passed outside the skirt of his encampment. Presently he arrived at an open space or sort of oasis in the forest, where were tethered many horses with great blocks of wood fastened to one of the fore fetlocks. Selecting two of the best looking and best conditioned of these, he put bridles upon them, and removing the unwieldy clogs, led them back to the door of the wigwam of the White Bear. This time the dogs did not suffer themselves to be disturbed. They seemed to recognize the horses, and to know that he who led them was of the tribe to the masters of which they belonged, and that the doubt they had in the first instance entertained no longer had existence. Leaving the horses standing quietly at the entrance, Wawandah went in. The Sunflower had put together every thing that could be conveniently placed in two bundles, and then, having thrown the rude saddles on the horses, Wawandah now fastened one to each crupper. The Sunflower was dressed in leggings of blue and the moccasins she was making when first Wawandah entered the tent. A man’s black hat, with a white plume thrust through the band, was upon her head, and a mantle of blue cloth, fastened by a large silver brooch, upon her shoulders. Her linen was white as the snow, and altogether her great beauty was adorned with the richest articles of her limited wardrobe, and in a manner befitting the occasion. While Wawandah, too, decked himself in his best and secured his faithful weapons and companions of the chase, she cut from the long hair she loosened for the purpose, a large tress, which she tied near the root with a blue ribbon, and fastened it to a nail within the wigwam door. This was a token to the White Bear that she still regarded even while she had deserted him for ever.
Wawandah pressed her again fondly to his heart. He was not jealous, but glad that the heart of the Sunflower bled for what she knew the White Bear would suffer at her loss. He raised her in his arms to the saddle she had been accustomed to use. Then carefully closing the door, and putting a stick over the wooden latch to secure it, he vaulted into the other. He then turned his horse, followed by the Sunflower, in the direction of the bathing ground, beyond which the course he intended to take lay, and as they passed, a beam from the moon which had then risen, glanced upon the form of the dead panther floating nearly on the spot where he had killed it.
The Sunflower gazed upon it with deep interest, for she felt that to that hideous beast was to be ascribed the eventful step which she had taken, and which was to decide the future misery or happiness of her life. Presently the encircling arm of Wawandah, who had reined in her horse, influenced by a nearly similar feeling, clasping her to his heart, seemed to admonish her of the intensity of joy he, too, had derived from the same cause.
That embrace refreshed and invigorated them. Once more, at the gentle bidding of Wawandah, the Sunflower put her horse into a gallop, and ere the dawn of day the camp of the Saukies had been left far behind.
——
At the distance of fifteen miles from the encampment of the Saukies, and on the same stream, was a small post, belonging to the Canadian North-West Company of that day. As was usual in that region, it was surrounded with a stockade, as a protection against any sudden attack of the Indians. The force within consisted principally of voyageurs, trappers, hunters, and, in fine, of men of such avocations as were connected with the fur trade, then in its highest stage of prosperity. The gentleman in charge was a Mr. Hughes, for many years subsequently, and even at this day, one of the British superintendents of Indian affairs. Besides the buildings which composed the post, there was a good deal of spare ground, which had been alloted for the security of horses and cattle, embraced within the picketings. Around this place the ground was denuded of trees, and nothing but a mass of shapeless stumps was to be seen extending for nearly half a mile in every way, except toward the front, which was bounded by the stream which divides it from the woods on the opposite bank.
One evening, late at night, an Indian was seen approaching and driving before him a number of horses, tied by strings of bark, and so disposed as to keep up the order of what is called the Indian file. Three stout Canadians were sitting on a sort of elevated platform, which served as a look-out over the stockade, one cutting with a great clasp knife a piece of fat pork upon his bread, that served him as a substitute for a plate; a second puffing a cloud of smoke from a long handled black stone pipe; and the third lying on his back with his knees drawn up, and singing one of those plaintive boat songs which were peculiar to the Canadian voyageur of the commencement of the present century.
“I say, Baptiste, cease that refrain of yours and listen,” said the man who was eating his supper of pork, and who evidently was at that moment on duty as look-out. “I am sure I hear the tramp of horses—and sure enough it is them. See how they come, in file, like a string of dried peaches. I’ll bet the best beaver I shoot or trap to-morrow, that scoundrel Filou, the Chippewa, has been at his old work again and stolen a lot.”
Baptiste finished his singing, as directed, jumped to his feet, and looked in the direction in which his companions had turned their gaze. There was a mass of something moving, but whether men orhorses the night was too dark to enable him to distinguish with accuracy.
“Parbleu!” said the man who was smoking, “we had better tell the master. The Saukies are not over friendly to us, and it may be a party of them stealing upon us, in the hope of catching us napping.”
“Bah! Latour,” returned the man of the watch, “the Saukies don’t make so much noise when they move. It’s horses’ hoofs we hear, and not the feet of men. A bottle of whisky to a blanket it’s Filou with a fresh prize.”
“The odds are certainly long you give,” said Le Marie, after he had delivered himself of a prolonged puff; “but, sure enough, it is a gang of horses, and that’s devilish like the Chippewa, who rides the first and leads the remainder.”
All doubt was soon at rest, by the well-known voice of the Chippewa asking for admission for himself and horses into the stockade.
“Comment!” said Le Marie, “do you take me for a blancbec, to suppose I shall do any thing of the sort? You have stolen those horses, Filou, and no good will ever come to us if we let them in here.”
“Ask captin,” said the Chippewa, in a tone that denoted he expected his application to be made known to that responsible officer.
The moment was a critical one. The Saukie Indians, as has been before stated, had manifested a hostile feeling toward the inmates of the post, and the avoidance of offense had been strictly enjoined, as a matter of policy, upon the people of the establishment. Filou, more than all the others, knew of the position and means of defense of the stockade, and therefore it became particularly a matter of precaution not to offend him.
“Take the rascal’s message to the chief, Baptiste, and know if he is to be admitted or not.”
In a few minutes Captain Hughes, in no very good humor, made his appearance at the look-out, and seeing the large train of horses which the rascal had stolen, told him, decidedly, that he himself might come into the fort if he chose to leave his plunder behind him; but that the latter must remain without.
The Chippewa grumbled a good deal at this decision, told him that he had lost a good horse, and finally decided on remaining without himself and keeping watch over the animals.
The night passed away, and it was about an hour before dawn when the report of a rifle was heard, and soon afterward a second, from a greater distance. Aroused from their slumbers, Captain Hughes and his people instantly rose and repaired to the look-out, where the drowsy sentinel was just awakening from his sleep, and were accosted from without by the Chippewa, who told them, with an alarmed air, that the enemy were stealing upon them, and earnestly craved admittance for himself and horses. This request, after some little hesitation on the part of Captain Hughes, was granted. His people were kept on the alert during the remainder of the night, but nothing was to be seen that could justify an alarm. Toward morning, however, Captain Hughes resolved to go forth with a party and reconnoitre. He insisted that the Chippewa, who was extremely unwilling to move, should accompany them, and point out the direction whence the firing proceeded. In vain he pleaded that he was tired and wanted rest. They compelled him to lead the way.
Until the day began to dawn, every thing was dark in the extreme—so much so, indeed, that the undenuded stumps which, scorched and blackened by fire, had been left to complete their natural decay, were scarcely visible; but as the mists of night cleared away, the opening of the forest, about a mile distant from the stockade, was distinctly seen, and all eyes were turned toward it, as though to a place of danger.
“Hush!” said Le Marie, who the next after the Chippewa headed the party, making a sign for them at the time to stop. “There is no enemy there,” he said, “but one, and him I should very much like to put a bullet into. Look! don’t you see that white bear?”
The whole party looked attentively, and distinctly saw the skin of a white bear, but its actions were so erratic that none could account for the singular attitudes into which it appeared to throw itself.
“I’ll soon stop his dancing,” said Le Marie, as he raised his ride, “and if I don’t finish him, Baptiste, you can follow my shot on the instant.”
“Stop!” said Captain Hughes, striking down the leveled rifle; “pretty eyes for voyageurs and hunters, you have. Don’t you see that it is only the loose skin of a white bear, and that there is some one waving it toward us as a signal?”
“Parbleu, so it is!” said Le Marie, doggedly, for he was annoyed, priding himself, as he did, on his keenness of sight as a hunter, that the captain should have noticed his mistake.
As they drew nearer, they could make out, just within the skirt of the wood, an Indian, reclining against a tree, and waving toward them, as a signal, the skin of a grizzly bear. Close at his side, and leaning her head upon her hands, was a woman.
The party approached, still headed by the Chippewa. When they had arrived within a few yards, the stranger Indian drew up his body, seated as he was, to his full height, and looking indignantly at the Chippewa, said:
“That is the man who shot me. The eye of Wawandah is good, and he can tell his enemy even in the dark.”
“How is this?” asked Captain Hughes, turning to the horse stealer. “You, then, fired the shot which you pretended to me was that of an enemy approaching the fort.”
The Chippewa for a moment was confused, but soon he replied, sullenly:
“He came to steal my horses; he had taken two of them, and was going off when I fired. He fired again, but his ball went into a stump at my side. Was I right?”
“Never come near the fort again,” said Captain Hughes, angrily, for he was interested in the condition of the noble featured youth. “You are a black-hearted villain. You steal horses in droves; and becauseanother deprives you of one or two, you take his life.”
The eye of Wawandah brightened as he listened to the words of Captain Hughes, which were, of course, spoken in Indian. “Wah!” he exclaimed, “I did not steal—I only exchanged horses. Those I left were better than those I was going to take. They were fresher than my own—I wanted them. But,” he added, fiercely, “I am not going to die by his hand—he shall not dance over my scalp. Sunflower,” he asked, after a moment’s pause, “do you love me still, now that I am going to die and leave you without a home?”
Deep sobs came from the bosom of the unhappy and guilty woman. She bent her head over him, and said, gently:
“Oh, should I be here did I not love you, Wawandah?”
“Good!” he answered, pressing her vehemently to his heart. “It is sweet to me to hear the Sunflower say that she loves the dying Wawandah. The white chief will take care of you when I am dead.”
“If Wawandah dies, the Sunflower will die too. She cannot live without him. Her heart is too full to live alone.”
“No, no!” he replied. “The white chief will go with you to the White Bear. He will say that I am very sorry for the wrong I have done him, and that the last prayer of Wawandah, who has been so ungrateful to him, is, that he will take back his wife—the sweetest flower of the Saukie tribe.”
The Sunflower raised her drooping head, and looked Wawandah steadily in the face for some moments. She made no remark, but resumed the same desponding attitude.
Summoning all his remaining strength—for life was fast ebbing away—the Indian now stretched himself to the utmost tension of his body, and, shouting out the war-cry of his tribe, drew his knife and plunged it into his heart—then fell back and expired.
For some moments the Sunflower lay as one unconscious on the bleeding body of the ill fated Wawandah; then raising herself up, she revealed her face, the extreme paleness of which was visible even beneath the dark hue of her skin. She asked the Chippewa to come near her, that she might communicate to him a message for the White Bear, offering her silver arm bands as the price of his service.
The cupidity of the Chippewa, more than any remorse he felt, or desire to assist the Sunflower, induced him to approach and receive the trinkets and the message; but while he was busily engaged in securing that which was on her left arm, the Sunflower suddenly drew the knife from the body of her husband and plunged it into the heart of the Chippewa, to whom she owed all the bitterness of her fate. He fell dead at the feet of Wawandah, and before Captain Hughes, or any of his party, had time to prevent her, or even to understand her intention, she raised herself to her feet with the reeking knife in her hand, and killed herself with a single and unfaltering blow.
Deeply shocked and pained by this lamentable catastrophe, Captain Hughes caused his men to cut litters with their axes and carry the bodies to the fort. No one felt regret for the just punishment of the Chippewa; but the fate of the unhappy lovers created a deep sympathy in the hearts of all—the more so from the surpassing personal beauty of both. Two graves were dug—one inside and the other on the outside of the stockade. In the first was placed a rude coffin, lined with a buffalo skin, which Captain Hughes had substituted for that of the grizzly bear, were placed the bodies of Wawandah and the Sunflower. A sort of mound was then raised over it, and at the head was stuck a short pole, the top of which, for about twelve inches, was painted red. The Chippewa was thrown unceremoniously, and without coffin, into the grave that had been dug for him outside.
Some time afterward Captain Hughes, having occasion to visit the encampment of the Shawnees, on a subject connected with the differences then existing between them and the North-West Company, took the opportunity of communicating to the White Bear all that he knew relating to the flight and death of the unfortunate Sunflower and Wawandah; adding to the detail the account of the sepulchral rites he had caused to be accorded to them.
The chief, a good deal emaciated and of much sterner look than when last introduced to the reader, at first heard him with grave and imperturbable silence. But when he came to that part of his narrative which described the remorse of Wawandah for the injury he had done him, a tear, vainly sought to be hidden by a sudden motion of the head, stole down his cheek.
“Will my brother smoke?” he said abruptly, handing him his pipe, while he, with the disengaged hand, pressed that of Captain Hughes with the utmost cordiality.
“Listen, my brother,” he said, after a pause. “You have done well to the White Bear. His wigwam is empty without the Sunflower, who used to shed light upon his hearth. Joy no more can enter it. The White Bear is alone among the rest of his tribe, like a blasted pine in the midst of a green forest; but it does good to his heart to hear the son of his friend—the broken-hearted one that he took into his lodge to soothe and to heal—was sorry that he stole the flower of his heart, and left but a thorn in its place. The White Bear is sorry for them both; but they were young and foolish, and dearly have they been punished. I forgive them, brother,” again extending his hand, “and I love the white chief, who did not leave their bodies to be devoured by the wolves, but buried them as the White Bear would have them buried. I am glad too that you treated the Chippewa as a dog, without any sign to mark where he lays. I feel that many moons will not pass over me; but while they do, I will live less unhappy at my loss, and ever love the white chief.”
Thus terminated their interview; and Captain Hughes heard, not one month later, of the death of the White Bear.