The grave of the Indian is a temple, a sort of gateway to heaven. Around it linger the tenderest affection, the purest devotion of the surviving friend. The grass and flowers that grow over it are never suffered to wither. The snow and the rain are not permitted to remain upon it. The least profanation of that sacred place would be visited with a more terrible vengeance than an affront to the living. Nothing illustrates more clearly the cruel injustice we have done to our red brethren of the forest, by regarding and treating them only as savages, and delineating them always and every where, as destitute of all the refined sympathies of humanity—than this prevailing national characteristic, an affectionate reverence for the dead, and a religious regard for the sepulchres and bones of their ancestors. It touches one of the deepest cords in the human heart. It springs from the very fountain headof social and moral refinement. It links the visible and material, with the unseen and spiritual world; blending all that is tender, and pure, and subduing, in the one, with all that is bright, hopeful, and inviting, in the other. Its existence in any heart, or its prevalence among any people, is proof sufficient that that heart is not wholly hardened in selfishness, and that people not wholly given over to barbarism.
The infant child of an Itean mother lay dead in her tent. He was a beautiful boy, and already the fond mother had read in his brilliant eye, and the vigorous movements of his tiny limbs, the heroic deeds of the future chieftain. But her darling hope was nipped in the very germ. Her only son was shrouded for the grave, and the hour of burial had come. His shroud was a blanket, in which the head, as well as the body, was completely enveloped. His bier was a train, or Indian sled, in the form of a common snow-shoe, on which the body was laid, without a coffin, and secured by bandages from side to side. Into this train was harnessed a favorite dog of the family, when it was drawn with slow and solemn step, to the grave, preceded by the priest or medicine man of the village, in his gorgeous robes of office, and followed by the parents and sister of the child, with all the inmates of the neighboring wigwams.
Arriving at the grave, the procession stopped, and gathered round the bier, the women and children seating or prostrating themselves on the ground, the men standing in a grave and solemn circle around them. The dog, still remaining in his harness, was then shot, and the medicine man, standing over it, addressed it in the following strain, “Go on your journey to theSpirit land. Long and weary is the way you have to go. Linger not on the journey, for precious is the burden you carry. Swim swiftly over the river, lest the little one be lost in the stream, and never visit the camp of its fathers. When you come to the camp of the White-headed Eagle, bark, that they may know who it is you bring, and come out and welcome the little one among its kindred band.”
The body was then laid in the grave, on its little train. The dog was placed by its side, with a kettle of food at its head, to supply it on the journey. A cup, containing a portion of the mother’s milk, freshly drawn, was also put into the grave for the use of the child. The earth was laid gently over it, and covered with the fresh sod, the mother, and her female friends, chanting, the while, a plaintive dirge, designed to encourage the spirit of the departed on its dark and perilous journey. The mother held in her hand a roll of bark, elaborately decorated with feathers and bead-work, encompassed with a scarf of broadcloth, highly embroidered. This was intended as a memento of the deceased, to be sacredly preserved in the family lodge. Such mementoes are always seen there, after the death of a friend, and one may always know, by their number, how many of that household have gone to the spirit-land. It is usually placed upright in the spot where the departed was accustomed to sit, dressed in the same ornaments and bands that he wore while living. At every family meal, a portion of food is set before it. If it be a child who has died, the mother offers it a cup of milk, wraps it in the cradle bands of her lost infant, and bears it about with her wherever she goes.
An Indian grave is a protected spot. That which is described above, was surrounded by a small enclosure of logs, and covered with a roof of bark, to shield it from the rain. At its head, a small round post was set, painted with vermilion. Other decorations were displayed upon the wall of the enclosure, which were carefully guarded, and frequently replaced, as they were soiled by the rains, or torn and defaced by the violence of the winds. Day after day, the bereaved mother and sister visited that grave, taking their work with them, and sitting down by its side, chanted their plaintive lullaby to that sleeping infant, and cheered on that faithful dog in his wearisome journey, charging him not to lag or go astray in traversing the plain, nor suffer his precious burden to fall into the water, in crossing the deep dark rapid river to the spirit land.
Weeks and months had passed since that humble grave was made, and that precious treasure confided to its bosom. It was a calm glorious evening in mid-summer. The moon shone brightly on the Itean encampment. There was not, in the whole valley of the west, a more beautiful spot for a settlement. The smooth open green-sward was closely surrounded with trees on three sides. On the other, the land gradually sloped towards the river, which flowed quietly by, ever and anon sparkling in the moonbeams, or reflecting the dark forest and flowery banks in its azure depths.
The wigwams in the opening were all closed. Their inmates were at rest. Presently, the buffalo-skin, that served as a door to the principal cabin, was drawn aside, and the beautiful daughter of the chief emerged into the light, and passed swiftly on to the river. Followingits course a short distance, by the narrow path that threaded the woods on its bank, she came to the little grave, threw herself on the earth by its side, and wept. It was Monica, the sister of that buried infant, the same whom we saw at his grave when it was first opened, and who had daily, since that time, sung over it her simple song.
The grief and disappointment of the mother, in the loss of her only son, was not more deep or sincere, or enduring, than that of this affectionate and devoted sister. From the moment of his birth, he was the idol of her soul. She looked forward to the time, in her ardent imagination very near at hand, when, emulating the virtues and deeds of his father, he should become the noblest chief of his tribe. She had pictured to herself the many wonderful exploits he should achieve, and the love and veneration with which he would be regarded throughout the nation. But now, those hopes were blasted, those visions had all faded into darkness. Time had not soothed her disappointment, or softened the poignancy of her grief. Waking or sleeping, the image of her lost brother was before her. She longed to follow him, that she might overtake him on the way, and help him in his passage over that fearful stream.
She had laid down that night, as usual, and slept by the side of her mother. Her dreams were troubled. She thought that arid plain and dark river were before her. The faithful dog was struggling with the waves. The little ark which held that precious treasure, was buffeted about by the winds. Chilled with the cold, and terrified by the dark howling storm, the lone child sobbed bitterly, and looked imploringly round for hismother. In her distress and agitation, she awoke. Unable to sleep, or even to rest, she rose, and ran to the grave.
Having chanted her simple lay of love, Monica turned from the grave, stepped into a canoe, and paddled down the stream. Overcome with grief, she dropped her paddle, sat pensively down in her shallop, and left it to follow its course down the current. For several hours it glided silently on. She gave no heed to the hours, till morning broke in the east. Suddenly starting up from her long dream, she looked for her paddle. It was gone. Seeing a bough floating on the water near her, she leaned out to catch it, as the canoe passed on. It was decayed, and broke in her hand. Throwing it from her, she looked eagerly about for some other means of reaching the shore. At length, passing under the shadow of an immense tree, that overhung the stream, she seized a branch that almost dipped into the water, and drawing herself in to the bank, sprang on shore.
Slowly and doubtfully the timid girl threaded thethick forest, scarcely knowing which way to turn. Hoping to find some friendly wigwam near, she sounded the shrill call of her tribe. The call was instantly answered, but not by a friendly voice. Two stern and stalwart warriors of the Pawnee tribe, who were deadly enemies to the Iteans, chanced to be passing that way, and, recognizing the call as that of an enemy, sprang from the thicket, seized the trembling maiden, and bore her away in triumph. Many a weary league she travelled on by the side of her merciless captors, ere she reached their distant encampment. Worn, exhausted in strength and desponding in heart, she fell to the earth in the midst of the throng that gathered around her, and besought them to kill her at once, and let her go to her poor infant brother.
The Pawnees were not only hostile to the Iteans, but were, in some respects, the most savage tribe in the great valley. They alone, of the North American Indians, continued, down the present century, and far within it, to practice the savage rite of sacrificing human victims on the altar of their gods. With them it was a propitiatory sacrifice, offered to theGreat Star, or the planet Venus. This dreadful ceremony annually preceded the preparations for planting corn, and was supposed to be necessary to secure a fruitful season. The victim was always some prisoner, who had been captured in war, or otherwise; and there was never wanting an individual who coveted the honor of making a captive from some hostile tribe, and dedicating the spoils of his prowess to the national benefit.
The captors of Monica were in quest of a victim for this sacrifice, when they wandered away alone, andprowled for several days, about the encampment of her tribe. With this view, they bore her away in triumph, deaf to all her entreaties and tears, and gave her in charge to the priests, to be made ready against the return of the season.
The best wigwam in the village was assigned for her accommodation. Cheerful companions of her own age were given her. The most sedulous attention was paid to her wants. She was dressed in gay apparel, continually feasted on the choicest luxuries which their fields and hunting grounds afforded, and treated with the utmost tenderness by all about her. Every possible means was employed to allay her grief, and promote that cheerfulness of spirit, which is essential to health and comeliness, in order that she might thus be made a more suitable and acceptable offering.
The personal charms of Monica required no such system of treatment, in order to their full development. She was a rare specimen of native grace and loveliness, and would have been a fitting model, in every feature and limb, for a Phidias or a Praxitiles. The exceeding beauty and gentleness of their captive, while it won the admiration and regard of all her young companions, only made her, in the view of the priests and chiefs of the tribe, a more desirable victim for the altar.
For a long time, Monica was inconsolable. Deprived of that dearest privilege of visiting daily the grave of her brother, distracted in view of the anxiety which her mother would feel for her, she refused to be comforted, or to take any pleasure in the means employed to amuse her. Time and kindness, however, and the promise that she should, by and by, return to herfather-land, restored, in a degree, her serenity of mind. She was too affectionate and confiding, to reject the sympathy and kindness even of an enemy. Grateful for the unwearied efforts which her companions made to amuse and comfort her, she came, at last, to regard them as friends. Gratitude begat affection. Affection created confidence. She unburdened her heart of the sorrows that oppressed it. By that effort, the burden was lightened. Something of the elasticity and vivacity of youth returned. She sang and played, if not to amuse herself, yet to gratify others, whose assiduous kindness, and seemingly generous sympathy, she had no other means of repaying. Thus, entirely ignorant of the terrible doom that awaited her, Monica passed the winter of her captivity, looking ever forward to the opening spring as the period of her promised release, and return to the wigwam of her mother.
At length the fatal day arrived, and every thing was ready for the sacrifice. The whole Pawnee tribe was assembled to witness and take part in the solemnities. From every side, they were seen emerging from the thick forest, or gliding noiselessly over the bosom of the silver stream, leaping from cliff to cliff of the distant hills, or winding down their steep passes and narrow defiles, to meet in the great central village, around the grand council fire of the nation. The whole tribe was there—the chiefs in all their gaudy array of bead-work, feathers, and paint, their embroidered moccasins, their gaily wrought tunics and belts, their polished rifles, and glittering tomahawks—the women and children, and the rank and file of the people, in all the finery and gewgaws they could command. It was a brave sight tothose accustomed to the barbaric finery and wild sports of the Indian, but fearful and hideous to one unused to the rude painted visages and half naked forms of the warriors.
The awful hour of those dreadful orgies was announced by all those discordant shouts and hideous yells, which, with those primitive races, serve the purpose of trumpet, drum and bell. The stake was set, and the faggots made ready, in the centre of the great opening. The priests stood at their post, and the vast multitude of eager excited witnesses thronged around, waiting in terrible expectation for the consummation of that horrid rite, and kindling into phrenzy in view of the mad revelry that would follow. Presently, the outer ranks of that crowding circle made way, and opened a passage to the ring within. Through this living avenue, a company of chiefs marched in, singing, or rather shouting, a wild song, and dancing in fantastic measures. At their head was the captor of Monica, leading the timid girl by the hand. She was arrayed in the most showy and expensive style of Indian costume, the various decorations of her person comprising all that was beautiful and rare in ornament, according to the uncultivated taste of that people. Unconscious still of the doom that awaited her, and hoping, perhaps, that this was to be the festival of her freedom, when she would be sent away in peace to her home, she entered the circle with a cheerful face, and an elastic step, smiling on her young companions as she passed, and wondering at the cold look, or sometimes averted eye, with which her salutation was answered.
It was not until she was led quite up to the stake,and saw the fearful faggots piled around it, that she comprehended the meaning of these mysterious preparations. Her awful doom flashed upon her, like a bolt from heaven. With one loud, piercing, heart-rending shriek, she fell to the earth, and called upon her mother. She was lifted up by the stern priest, placed upon the pile, and bound to the stake. With wild incantations, and horrid yells, the dread orgies were commenced. The torch was lighted, and ready to be applied. At that instant, a shrill whoop burst from the adjoining wood. A brave young warrior, leaping into the midst of the circle, rushed to the stake, cut the cords that bound the helpless victim, tore her away from the pile, and, dashing back through the panic-struck crowd, flung her upon a fleet horse which he had prepared for the occasion, sprung himself upon another, and was soon lost in the distant windings of the wood.
It was the act of a moment. Even the Indian warriors, who are not easily surprised, or put off their guard, were confounded and paralysed. Before they could comprehend the object of this sudden phantom, this rash interruption of their festival, their victim was gone. The bare stake, and the useless heap of faggots were there. The proud chief, who furnished the victim, and the fierce-looking priests, who were to officiate in the dark rites of the sacrifice, stood in blank astonishment around, as if a bolt from the cloud had smitten them. A momentary silence prevailed among that mighty throng. A low murmur succeeded, like the distant moans of a coming storm: then, like the tempest, bursting in all its wrath, fierce cries of vengeance from a thousand flaming tongues, furious discordant yellsand shouts, accompanied with frantic gestures, and looks of rage, such as would distort the visage of a fiend. Some of the fleetest started off in hot but vain pursuit. Those who remained, promised themselves a day of terrible retribution. The mothers secretly rejoiced in the escape; while those of the young girls who had been the chosen companions of the captive, gave vent to their joy and gratitude in wild songs and dances.
In this manner, that turbulent assembly broke up. Without the usual feast and its accompanying games, they scattered to their several homes, coolly meditating revenge, and darkly foreboding the famine that should ensue from the absence of the accustomed sacrifice.
Meanwhile, the fugitives held on their way, with the speed of the wind. Not a word was spoken. It was a race of life and death, and every faculty of the rescuer as well as of the rescued was absorbed in the one idea and effort to escape. Over hill and plain, and shallow stream, those foaming steeds flew on, pausing not even to snuff the breeze, till they had cleared the territory of the Pawnees, and reached a sheltered nook within the precincts of a neutral tribe. Here, as among all the Indian tribes the woman is considered competent to take care of herself in all ordinary emergencies, her deliverer left her, giving her ample directions for the way, and cautioning her to use the utmost diligence to avoid pursuit.
“But, tell me first,” she cried, tears of grateful joy standing in her eyes, “tell me to whom I am indebted for this miraculous escape—that, in all my prayers to the Great Spirit, I may call down his blessing upon your head.”
“I am Petalesharro,” replied the youth, modestly. “My father is Latalashaw, the chief of my tribe. We do not believe, with our people, that the Great Spirit delights in the sacrifice. He loves all his red children, and they should all love one another.”
“But, will not your chiefs revenge upon your head this interference with their solemn rites? If any national calamities follow, will they not charge them all to your account? I could not bear that my generous deliverer should be struck down by those terrible hands, in the prime of his youth, as the reward of his heroic benevolence. Better that I should return and submit to the fate they had prepared for me.”
“Fear not for me, Monica. Petalesharro fears not to meet the assembled council of his nation. Not a brave among them all will raise a hand to hurt him. He will make them know that the Great Star needs not the blood of the captive. And never again shall the fires be kindled for that cruel sacrifice.”
Encouraged by the words of the young chief, Monica turned, with a strong heart, towards her home, still some four hundred miles distant. The same kind providence which had rescued her from the devouring flames, still guided and guarded her solitary way, and gave her strength and spirits for her toilsome journey.
On the second day of her pilgrimage, as she climbed the summit of a range of hills that ran athwart her path, she was alarmed by the appearance of a considerable body of armed men, just emerging from a distant ravine of the same range, in a direction that would lead them immediately across her path. They were too far off to enable her to discern, by their dress and accoutrements,to what tribe they belonged. She supposed they must be Pawnees in pursuit of their lost captive. If she attempted to pass on before them, they would discover her track, and soon overtake her flight. She had nothing to do, therefore, but wait till they had passed, in the hope of eluding their eager scent. Concealing herself in the thicket, in a position that overlooked the valley, she awaited with composure the coming of that fearful band. They descended into the valley, and, to the utter consternation of Monica, began to pitch their tents under the shade of a spreading oak, on the bank of a little stream. She watched the movement with an anxious heart, not knowing how she should escape, with a pursuing enemy so near. Her consternation and anxiety were soon, however, changed to joy, when one of the company, approaching the vicinity of her hiding place, to cut a pole for his tent, was recognized as a chief of her own tribe. Springing from the thicket with a scream of delight, which startled the whole encampment, and brought every brave to his feet, with his hand on the trigger of his rifle, she rushed into the midst of her astonished people, and was received with silent joy, as one restored from the dead. Under their protection, the remainder of her journey was safely and easily performed. Before the moon, which was then crescent, had reached her full, Monica had embraced her mother, and added a fresh flower to the grave of her brother.
The brave, the generous, the chivalrous Petalesharro returned to his father’s tent with the fearless port and composed dignity of one whose consciousness of rectitude placed him above fear. He was a young man,just entered upon manhood, and a general favorite of his tribe.[E]His countenance, as represented in Col. McKenney’s magnificent work upon the North American tribes, is one of uncommon beauty of feature. Inits mildness of expression, it is almost effeminate. But in heart and soul he was a man and a hero. His courage, and the power of his arm, were acknowledged by friend and foe; and on the death of his father, he was raised to the chieftaincy of his tribe. The season which followed his noble act of humane, may we not say religious chivalry, was one of uncommon fertility, health and prosperity. “The Great Star” had not demanded the victim. And the Pawnees never again polluted their altars with the blood of a human sacrifice.
[E]Major Long, in his “Expeditions to the Rocky Mountains,” thus describes Petalesharro, as he appeared in his native wilds, and among his own people, in the full costume which he wore on the occasion of some great festival of his tribe.“Almost from the beginning of this interesting fete, our attention had been attracted to a young man, who seemed to be the leader or partisan of the warriors. He was about twenty-three years of age, of the finest form, tall, muscular, exceedingly graceful, and of a most prepossessing countenance. His head-dress, of war-eagles’ feathers, descended in a double series upon his back, like wings, down to his saddle-croup; his shield was highly decorated, and his long lance by a plaited casing of red and blue cloth. On enquiring of the interpreter, our admiration was augmented by learning that he was no other than Petalesharro, with whose name and character we were already familiar. He is the most intrepid warrior of the nation, the eldest son of Letalashaw, and destined, as well by mental and physical qualifications, as by his distinguished birth, to be the future leader of his people.”Petalesharro visited Washington in 1821, where his fine figure and countenance, and his splendid costume attracted every eye. But there was that in his history and character, which had gone before him, that secured for him a worthier homage than that of the eye. His act of generous chivalry to the Itean captive was the theme of every tongue. The ladies of the city caused an appropriate medal to be prepared, commemorating the noble deed, and presented it to him, in the presence of a large assemblage of people, who took a lively interest in the ceremony. In reply to their complimentary address, the brave young warrior modestly said—“My heart is glad. The white woman has heard what I did for the captive maid, and they love me, and speak well of me, for doing it. I thought but little of it before. It came from my heart, as the breath from my body. I did not know that any one would think better of me for that. But now I am glad. For it is a good thing to be praised by those, who only praise that which is good.”
[E]Major Long, in his “Expeditions to the Rocky Mountains,” thus describes Petalesharro, as he appeared in his native wilds, and among his own people, in the full costume which he wore on the occasion of some great festival of his tribe.
“Almost from the beginning of this interesting fete, our attention had been attracted to a young man, who seemed to be the leader or partisan of the warriors. He was about twenty-three years of age, of the finest form, tall, muscular, exceedingly graceful, and of a most prepossessing countenance. His head-dress, of war-eagles’ feathers, descended in a double series upon his back, like wings, down to his saddle-croup; his shield was highly decorated, and his long lance by a plaited casing of red and blue cloth. On enquiring of the interpreter, our admiration was augmented by learning that he was no other than Petalesharro, with whose name and character we were already familiar. He is the most intrepid warrior of the nation, the eldest son of Letalashaw, and destined, as well by mental and physical qualifications, as by his distinguished birth, to be the future leader of his people.”
Petalesharro visited Washington in 1821, where his fine figure and countenance, and his splendid costume attracted every eye. But there was that in his history and character, which had gone before him, that secured for him a worthier homage than that of the eye. His act of generous chivalry to the Itean captive was the theme of every tongue. The ladies of the city caused an appropriate medal to be prepared, commemorating the noble deed, and presented it to him, in the presence of a large assemblage of people, who took a lively interest in the ceremony. In reply to their complimentary address, the brave young warrior modestly said—“My heart is glad. The white woman has heard what I did for the captive maid, and they love me, and speak well of me, for doing it. I thought but little of it before. It came from my heart, as the breath from my body. I did not know that any one would think better of me for that. But now I am glad. For it is a good thing to be praised by those, who only praise that which is good.”
That solitary wigwam, in the outskirts of the village, was the home of Kaf-ne-wah-go, an aged Chippeway warrior, who had weathered the storms, and outlived the wars, of three score and ten seasons, and was yet as fiery in the chase, and as mighty and terrible in battle, as any of the young chiefs of his tribe. His voice in the council was, like the solemn tones of an oracle, listened to with a reverence approaching to awe, and never disregarded. His sons all inherited the spirit of their father, and distinguished themselves among the braves in fight, and the sages in council. Three of them fell in battle. One was principal chief of the western division of the Chippeway family. Another, the brave Ish-ta-le-ó-wah, occupied the first in that group of wigwams in yonder grove, about a hundred yards from his father’s.
The only daughter of the good old sachem, the child of his old age, and “the light of his eyes,” was the fairest and loveliest wild-flower, that ever sprung upamid the interminable wildernesses of the Western World. Tula, the singing bird, was distinguished among the daughters of the forest, not only for those qualities of person and character which are recognized as graces among the Indians, but for some of those peculiar refinements of feeling and manner, which are supposed to be the exclusive product of a civilized state of society. She was remarkable for the depth and tenderness of her affection, and for her ingenuity, industry and taste. Her dress, and those of her father and brother, exhibited the traces of her delicate handiwork; while the neat and tasteful arrangement of the humble cabin, superior in all that makes home comfortable and pleasant to any in the village, bore testimony to her industry and skill.
Tula had many suitors. There was scarce a young brave in the tribe who did not seek or desire her. But O-ken-áh-ga, the only son of their great chief, won her heart. She became his bride, but she remained, with him and their first-born child, in the tent of her aged parents, who could not live, as they said, “when the singing bird, the light of their eyes was gone.”
It was mid-summer. The night was still, clear, and lovely. All nature seemed to breathe nothing but calmness and peace. But the heart of man—how often and how sadly is it at variance with nature! The inmates of that humble wigwam were all wrapped in a profound sleep, not dreaming of danger near. The infant, nestling in his mother’s bosom, by a sudden start rousedher to partial consciousness. A deep groan, as of one in expiring agonies, awakened all her faculties. She sprung up and called upon her husband—
“O-ken-áh-ga, what is the matter?”
Another deep groan, and a stifled yell of triumph, was the only answer.
Staring wildly round, what a scene of horror met her eyes! Her father, her mother, her husband, pierced with many wounds, and weltering in their yet warm blood, lay dead before her; while a band of fierce and terrible enemies, of the Athapuscow tribe, stood over them, with the reeking instruments of death in their hands, their eyes gleaming with savage delight, and their whole faces distorted with the most fiend-like expression of rage and triumph. With the true instinct of a mother, she clasped her infant to her breast, and bowed her head in silence, utterly unable to give any utterance to the bitterness of her wo. It was this silence that saved her and her child from an instant participation in the fate of the mangled ones around her. The first word spoken, would have brought down that reeking tomahawk upon their heads. The Athapuscows were few in number, and their only safety consisted in doing their work of revenge with secrecy and despatch, for the Chippeways were many and powerful, and to disturb the slumbers of one of them would be to rouse the whole tribe in a moment.
The work of death was done. The scalps of their victims hung dripping at the belts of the murderers, and the spoils of the cabin were secured. The spoilers turned to depart, and Tula, in obedience to their word, without complaint or remonstrance, rose and followedthem. Gathering up a few necessary articles, among which she contrived to conceal her babe, she took one farewell look upon the loved ones, whom death had so suddenly and fearfully claimed, and left them, and the home of her youth, for ever.
With cautious stealthy steps, the murderous band plunged into the deep forest, threading their way through its intricate mazes, with inconceivable skill and sagacity, till they reached an opening, on the bank of the Wapatoony river, where a considerable detachment of their tribe was temporarily encamped. Delivering their prisoner into the hands of the women, the braves proceeded at once to the council of the chiefs, to show their trophies, and relate the incidents of their scout.
When the Athapuscow women, in examining the contents of the poor captive’s bundle, discovered the still sleeping infant, they seized him as they would have done a viper, and dashed him on the ground. In vain did the fond mother plead for her child. In vain did the voice of nature, and a mother’s instinct in their own bosoms, plead for the innocent. It was an enemy’s child, a hated Chippeway, and that was enough to stifle every other feeling in their hearts, and make even “an infant of days” an object of intense and implacable hatred. With the Indian, the son of an enemy is an enemy, doomed only to death or torture. The daughter may be spared for slavery or sacrifice.
The morning dawned with uncommon brilliancy and beauty upon the Chippeway village, and warriors and children were astir with the earliest light, some to fish in the smooth stream, that, like a silver chain, bound their two beautiful lakes together—some to look after the traps they had set over-night—some to prepare for the hunt—and some for the merry games and athletic sports of the village. The quick eye of Ish-ta-le-ó-wah soon discovered that all was not right in the tent of his father. Kaf-ne-wah-go was not abroad, as usual, with his net in the stream. O-ken-áh-ga was not seen among the hunters with his bow, nor among the wrestlers on the green. No smoke was seen curling among the branches of the old tree that overshadowed his mother’s tent. All was still as the house of the dead.
“Why sleep the brave so long, when the light of day is already on the hill-top, and coming down upon the valley. Has the snake crept into the tent of Kaf-ne-wah-go, and charmed the father with the children? I must go and see.”
The loud and piercing yell of Ish-ta-le-ó-wah, as he looked in upon that desolate wigwam, roused the whole village, like the blast of a trumpet. The counsellors and braves of the nation were soon on the spot. The whole scene was understood in a moment, as clearly as if a written record of the whole had been left behind. Pursuit, and the recovery of the captive Tula and her child, were instantly resolved; and, ere the sun had surmounted the eastern barrier of their beautiful valley, Ish-ta-le-ó-wah, with a band of chosen braves, was on the trail of the foe.
With the keen eye and quick scent of a blood-hound,they followed the almost obliterated track, through forest and brake, through swamp and dingle, over hill and prairie, till it was lost on the border of the Athabasca lake. Though the party in retreat was large, so well were they all trained in the Indian tactics of flight and concealment, that it required a most experienced eye to keep on their track. They had marched, according to custom, in Indian file, each carefully walking in the steps of the other, so that, to an unpractised observer, there would appear to have been but one wayfarer in the path. Wherever it was practicable, the path was carried over rocks, or the soft elastic mosses, or through the bed of a running brook, with the hope of eluding the pursuer. But no artifice of the Athapuscow could elude the well-trained eye of the Chippeway. He would instantly detect the slightest trace of a footstep on the ground, or the passage of a human body through the thicket. In one place, the edges of the moss had been torn, or a blade of grass trampled in upon it; in another, the small stones of the surface had been displaced, showing sometimes the fresh earth, and sometimes the hole of a worm uncovered, with half the length of its astonished occupant protruded to the light, as if investigating the cause of the sudden unroofing of his cell. Here some dry stick broken, or the bark of a protruding root peeled off, would betray the step of the fugitive; and there a shrub slightly bent, or a leaf turned up and lapped over upon another, or a few petals of a wild flower torn off and scattered upon the ground, would reveal the rude touch of his foot, or arm, or the trailing of his blanket, as he passed. Even on the bare rock, if a few grains of earth had been carriedforward, or a pebble, a leaf, a dry stick, or a bit of moss, adhering to the foot had been deposited there, it was instantly noticed and understood. The rushing of the waters in the brook did not always replace, in a moment, every stone that had been disturbed in its bed, nor restore the broken limb, nor the bent weed, to its place. So quick and intuitive were these observations, that the march of the pursuer was as rapid and direct as that of the pursued. The one would seldom lose more time in hunting for the track, than the other had consumed in his various artifices of concealment.
On arriving at the lake, it was evident that a considerable number of the enemy had been encamped, and that they had just embarked. Their fires were still smoking, and the rocks were not yet dry, from which they had pushed off their canoes, in the haste of their departure.
The Chippeway was not easily diverted from his purpose. With the speed of a chamois, he climbed a tall cliff, which, jutting boldly out into the lake, concealed its great eastern basin from his view. Arrived at the summit, he discerned, dimly relieved in the distant horizon, a number of moving specks, which he knew to be the canoes of the retreating foe. In the double hope of avenging the dead, and recovering the living from captivity, he continued his course along the shores of the lake, and, early the next morning, fell once more upon the trail of his enemy. Pursuing it a short distance into the forest, it suddenly divided, one part continuing on to the east, and one striking off toward the south. In neither of them could he discover the track of his sister. Her captors had placed her,with their own women, in the middle of the march, so that the large and heavy track of the warriors who came after, should cover and obliterate the lighter traces of her foot.
Taking the eastern track, and moving on with accelerated speed, he overtook the flying party in the act of encamping for the night. Concealing himself carefully from view, and watching his opportunity when all were busily engaged in pitching their tents, he raised the terrible war-whoop, with a volley of well directed arrows, and rushed, with his whole band, upon his unarmed victims. Not one of them escaped; and, so sudden and complete was the retribution, that not one remained to tell where the captive Tula had been carried. The real murderers had escaped with their captives, and the vengeance intended forthemhad fallen upon the heads of their innocent comrades.
Tula was treated with kindness by the Athapuscow chief, who claimed her as his own. Every means was tried to reconcile her to her new lot, and to make her content to be the wife of her enemy. But her heart was bound up with the memories of the dead. Her parents, her husband, her child, filled all her thoughts. And the idea of being for ever bound to those whose hands were stained with the blood of these precious lost ones, was not to be endured for a moment. She was inconsolable, and her captors, for a time, respected her grief. Day after day, they travelled on, with long and weary marches, till the face of the country was changed,and the green forest gave way to the barren and rocky waste, that skirts the northern borders of the great valley of prairies. As they advanced, they grew more and more secure against pursuit, and less watchful of their captive. At length, she suddenly disappeared from their view.
They had pitched for the night, on the bank of the north branch of the Sascatchawan. The night was dark and tempestuous. The lightnings flashed vividly from the dark cloud, and threatened to “melt the very elements with fervent heat.” The hoarse thunders roared among the wildly careering clouds, and reverberated along the shores of the stream, and the cliffs of the distant mountains, as if those everlasting barriers were rent asunder, and nature were groaning from her utmost depths. The Indian feared not death, in whatever shape it might come. But he feared the angry voice of the Great Spirit. He shrunk with terror to the covert of his tent, and covered his eyes from the fearful glare of those incessant flashes, and prayed inwardly to his gods.
The poor disconsolate captive lay trembling under the side of the tent. She thought of the storm that had swept over her beautiful home, and desolated her heart in the spring time of its love. She looked at her savage captors, now writhing in the agonies of superstitious fear, which her more absorbing private grief alone prevented her from sharing to the full. They heeded her not. They scarcely remembered that she was among them. Something whispered to her heart—“No eye but that of the Great Spirit sees you. He bids you escape from your enemies.”
In the ten-fold darkness that follows the all-revealing flash from the storm-cloud, Tula slipped noiselessly under the edge of the robe that sheltered her from the beating rain, and plunging into the stream, swam with the current a few rods, till she was arrested by a thick covert of overhanging shrubs, which grew to the water’s edge. Thinking she might be able to cover her head with these bushes, while her body was hid by the water, she crept cautiously under, close to the bank, when, to her surprise and joy, she found that this shrubbery covered and curiously concealed a crevice in the jutting rock, sufficiently large to admit a free entrance to an ample cave within. Having carefully adjusted every limb and leaf without, and replaced with instinctive sagacity, the mosses that had been disturbed by her feet, she devoutly thanked the good spirit for her hope of deliverance, and anxiously watched for the morning.
The dark cloud of the night had passed over. The voice of the tempest was hushed. The day broke clear and cloudless, amid the singing of birds, and the quickened music of the swollen stream. The first thought of the Athapuscow chief, as he started from his troubled slumbers, was of his captive. But she was gone. With a shrill and angry whoop, he roused the whole band, and all started in pursuit. The old woods rung again with the whoop and yell of the pursuers, and were answered by the sullen echoes of the hills and cliffs around. But neither wood, nor hill, nor cliff, revealed the hiding-place of the captive. The heavy torrents of rain had obliterated every mark of her footsteps, and neither grass, nor sand, nor the yielding soilof the river-bank afforded any clue to the path she had taken.
Safe in the close covert of her new found retreat, the poor captive heard all the loud and angry threats of her disappointed pursuers. She even heard their frequent conjectures and animated discussions of the means to be adopted for her recovery, and often, they were so near to her place of refuge, that she could see their anxious and angry looks, as they passed, and almost feel their hands among the bushes that sheltered her, and the quick tramp of their feet over the roof of her cave. But there was no track or mark, on land or water, to guide them to that spot, and so naturally had every leaf been adjusted, that it had not attracted a single suspicion from any one of those sagacious and quick-sighted inquisitors.
Two hours of fruitless search for a hiding place, or a track that should reveal the course of her flight, brought them to the conclusion that the Great Spirit had taken her away, and that it was not for man to find her path again. With this conviction, they struck their tents, swam the stream, and resumed their march to the south.
Too cautious to leave her covert at once, and wearied with her anxious watchings, Tula composed herself to sleep, as soon as the last sound of the retiring party died on her ear. The sun had declined half way to his setting, when she awoke. She listened, with a suspicions ear for every sound without. The singing of birds, the rustling of the leaves, and the murmur of the waters, were all that disturbed the silence of the scene. She put her ear to the rock, but it brought nothing toher sense that revealed the presence of man. With extreme caution, she ventured to look out from her cave, and, by slow degrees, peering on every side for some concealed enemy, she emerged into the light, and dropping noiselessly into the stream, swam to a point on the opposite shore, from which she could obtain a good view of the recent encampment. It was deserted and still. Not a trace was left behind, except the trampled grass, and the blackened embers.
Recrossing the stream, she commenced, with a light step, and a hopeful spirit, the seemingly impossible task of finding her way back to her home and her people. The consciousness of freedom buoyed her up, and inspired her with a new hope, at almost every step. With a light heart, and an elastic step, she bounded away over the desolate waste, that lay between the river and the forest, having neither path, nor track, nor land-mark, to guide her way, and with nothing but the instinct of affection to point out the course she should take. She had been so absorbed with her many griefs, during the long and weary march hitherto, and so little did she dream of the possibility of escape, that she had scarcely taken any notice of the direction, or attempted to observe any land-marks to guide her return. The way by which she had been led was circuitous and irregular, and she had only the vague general ideas, that her home was near “the star that never moves,” and that she had been leaving her shadow behind, to aid her in her solitary wanderings. With a hopeful courageous heart, she sought only to widen the distance between her cruel captors and herself, trusting that her way would open as she went,and that her guardian angel, her tutelar divinity, would keep her from going astray.Hertutelar divinity was the moon, whose light and protection she invoked, with a devout, if not an enlightened faith. While she could enjoy her mild clear light, she was always happy and secure; but when those beams were withdrawn, a shadow came over her soul that was full of dark forebodings and anxious fears.
She had travelled several leagues, without seeing a track of any kind, and without the consciousness of fatigue or hunger. When night came on, she was just entering a deep forest, whose impenetrable shade made a sudden transition from twilight to utter darkness. With no star to guide her, and with no appearance of a path through thickets which seemed never to have been penetrated by a human footstep, she was soon bewildered, and felt that it was vain to proceed. With a few half-ripe nuts for a supper, and the soft moss which had gathered about the trunk of a fallen tree for a bed, she committed herself to sleep.
About midnight, her slumbers were disturbed by a heavy rustling among the bushes, at no great distance, accompanied by a constant crackling, as of some large animal, trying to penetrate the thicket. Perceiving that it approached nearer at every step, she seized a club, with which she had provided herself before entering the forest, and hastened to climb into the nearest tree. As she ascended, it began to grow lighter overhead. The stars looked smilingly down upon her, but it was darker than ever below. She breathed a silent prayer to the star of her faith—the bright orb where she supposed her guardian angel resided—and took courage.The mysterious step approached nearer and nearer. She soon perceived that it was a bear, and supposed he would follow her into the tree. She therefore seated herself upon a stout limb, a few feet from the main trunk, and prepared to give him a warm reception. Presently the heavy trampling ceased, and was followed by a silence vastly more oppressive than the previous noise.
In this condition, the remaining hours of the night passed away. With the first light of the morning, the shaggy intruder was discerned, quietly reposing near the foot of the tree, and showing no signs of being in haste to depart. That he was conscious of the presence of a stranger, was evident only from an occasional upward glance of his eye, and a significant turning of the nose in that direction, as if there was something agreeable in prospect.
Tula would have been no match for Bruin on level ground, but she felt confident of her power in the position she had chosen, and therefore quietly waited the movements of her adversary. For two or three hours, he behaved himself with the gravity of a true philosopher, coolly expecting to weary out the patience of his victim by a close siege, and so save himself the trouble of taking the tree by assault. But Tula was as patient and prudent as Bruin, and could endure hunger, and thirst, and wakefulness as well as he. Rousing at length from his inactivity, he travelled round and round the tree, as if taking its measure, and estimating the probable result of an encounter. Tula watched his motions with more interest than anxiety, hoping soon to be relieved from her imprisonment, and at liberty topursue her journey. It was near noon, when, having satisfied himself that offensive measures were necessary, he began to climb the tree. Having reached the leading branch, and embraced the trunk to raise himself to that on which Tula was seated, the brave girl rose suddenly to her feet, and brought down her club upon the enemy’s nose with such desperate and well directed force, as to send him, stunned and insensible, to the ground. Without allowing him a moment to recover, she leaped down to his side, and dealt a succession of heavy blows upon his head, till the blood flowed in torrents, and his struggles and his breathing ceased.
In this manner, many days and nights passed on, during which she encountered many imminent dangers, and severe conflicts, and made but little progress. Hunger, weariness, a continual sense of danger, and that sickness of the heart, which solitude and suspense beget, were her inseparable companions. Every day, her hope of ultimately reaching the home of her childhood grew fainter and fainter. But she had a woman’s endurance, and a woman’s fertility of resource. She never for a moment repented her flight. She would have preferred death in any form to a forced espousal with the murderer of her family. Sometimes with roots and herbs, sometimes with nutritious mosses, and sometimes with wild fruits and nuts, she continued to satisfy the cravings of appetite, and to sustain her severely tried fortitude, for the fatigues and perils that were yet before her.
The forest seemed interminable; and so indeed it might well have been regarded, for she was continually travelling round and round, in the same track, having only an occasional glimpse of the sun to direct her way, or a view of the stars, when she climbed some tall tree at night. She knew little of the direction in which she was going; but she was sure that that forest lay between her enemy and her home, and was therefore resolved, at any expense of labor and suffering, to find her way through it, or perish in the attempt.
After several weeks of incredible toil, fatigue, hardship and danger, the brave persevering Tula emerged into a wide opening, having a considerable mountain on one side, and a large sheet of water, and a stream from the mountain pouring into it, on the other. It was a beautiful spot, but the whole aspect of it was new and strange. She was confident she had not passed that way, while a captive in the hands of the Athapuscows. She was now wholly at a loss which way to turn. To retrace her steps through the intricacies of that dark forest, would be as vain as the thought of it was appalling. To go on, when she was absolutely certain she was out of her track, seemed little less than madness. To choose either the right hand or the left, was to leap in the dark, and involve herself in new doubts and difficulties. She needed rest. Her apparel was torn by her difficult passages through the tangled thickets, and her frequent contests with the enemies she found there. Pondering deeply on the difficulties before her, she began to think, that if there was any place of shelter near, she would make herself a new home, and live and die alone in the great wilderness.
“And why,” said she to herself, “why should I return to the wigwam of my father? Kaf-ne-wah-go is not there. My mother, she has gone with him to the spirit land. O-ken-áh-ga waits no longer for my return. I left my brave chief in his blood. His voice will no longer be heard in the valley, with the hunters, nor his shout in the battle. He fell in the glory of his strength, like the young oak that is full of sap, and whose roots have struck deep into the earth. And my child, the son of O-ken-áh-ga, alas! he has not even a grave to sleep in. He lies on the cold bosom of the earth, and I know not where. Why then should I return to a desolate home, only made more desolate by the memory of what it was?”
With such thoughts as these, she beguiled her inward yearnings for the spot where all her joys had been, and where all her hopes were buried. Wandering on the shores of the lake and the stream by day, and seeking such shelter as she could find in the clefts of the rocks at night, she sought for a place where she might provide a suitable protection against the cold and the storms of winter, which were not far distant. Wild berries and fruits afforded her only sustenance for a considerable time, until her own ingenuity provided her with the means of procuring a more certain substantial diet.
Having found a convenient spot in a deep ravine of the mountain, which opened towards the south, and was consequently always exposed to the sun, she immediately commenced the construction of a place to dwell in. The spot selected was romantic and beautiful in the extreme, and seemed to have been designed bynature “for some especial use.” It was sufficiently elevated to command a fine view of the opening, including all the meanderings of the river, and the whole extent of the lake, and yet it was not difficult of access, nor so high as to be too much exposed to the wintry storms. It was a little nook, chipped out from the solid rock, having a smooth slaty floor, about twelve feet square, with a semi-circular recess of about half that depth into the side of the mountain. A jutting rock, about ten feet above this floor, and overhanging it on every side, formed a natural ceiling. It only needed to be enclosed on two sides, to make a lodge that any of the great caciques of the wilderness might be proud of.
Fortunately Tula was not entirely destitute of tools to work with. A piece of an iron hoop, about six inches in length, and the shank of an arrow head, also of iron, both of which she had picked up while among the Athapuscows, constituted her whole stock. With these, which she sharpened upon the rocks, she contrived to cut down a number of young saplings, and shape them to her purpose. Planting two of them upright upon the outer line of the floor, and laying the end of one against the inside, and the end of the other against the outside of the cornice, or overhanging ceiling, she bound them firmly together with green withes. In this manner she went all round, leaving a space open for a door on the sunny side. This done, she wove it, inside and out, with willow boughs, stuffing the intervening spaces with moss, till it was entirely impervious to the weather. The door was of close basket-work hung at the top, and secured at the sides, in a storm, or during the night, by means of withes fastened roundthe door-posts. This served the double purpose of door and window, while a crevice in the rock above, performed the part of a chimney.
The work went on slowly and heavily at first, but patience and perseverance, which can conquer all but impossibilities, accomplished it before the cold weather set in. Meanwhile, the ingenuity of the fair builder had found means to make a fire upon the hearth. Her materials for that purpose were two hard sulphureous stones, which, by long friction, or hard knocking, produced a few sparks. These, communicated to touchwood, were soon formed into a blaze.
When fruits, berries and nuts failed, her ready ingenuity supplied her with other means of sustaining life. She had, among her scanty stock of furniture, a few deer-sinews, which, with the Indians, are a common substitute for thread. With the aid of these, she managed to snare partridges, rabbits and squirrels. She also killed several beavers and porcupines. The sinews of the rabbit’s legs and feet were twisted with great dexterity, to supply the place of deer-sinews, whentheywere gone. Their skins also, with those of the squirrels, served to replenish her exhausted wardrobe, supplying, under her skilful hand, a neat and warm suit of winter clothing. Her industry was as untiring as her ingenuity was fruitful of resources. Forlorn as her situation was, she was composed and resigned, if not contented, and seemed to find pleasure in employing every moment of her waking hours in some useful or ornamental contrivance.
Her dress evinced much taste, and exhibited no little variety of ornament. The materials, though rude, werevery curiously wrought, and so judiciously arranged, as to give to the whole a pleasing and romantic effect. Her tunic was composed of the skins of squirrels and rabbits, in alternate strips of grey and white. It was secured at the waist by a belt of skin, beautifully wrought with porcupine quills, colored pebbles, and strips of bark of various brilliant hues. Her mantle, which was large, was of the fairest and most delicate skins, arranged with a certain uniformity and harmony of design, which gave it all the grace and beauty, without the stiffness, of a regular pattern. It had a tasteful border, of brilliant feathers, and, like the belt before described, was fastened by a clasp of an unique and original contrivance, being made of the beaks and claws of her captives, arranged and secured so as to interlock with each other. Her head-dress, leggings and moccasins, were equally perfect in style and effect.
Besides accomplishing all this work, in her solitude, and even laying in a stock of provisions in advance, sufficient for her wants, in case of a long season of storms, sickness, or any other exigency, she had found time to make several hundred fathoms of net-twine, by twisting the inner rind, or bark, of willow boughs, into small lines. Of these, she intended to make a fishing-net, as soon as the spring should open, and thus enlarge her sources of subsistence and enjoyment.
It was past mid-winter. The snow lay deep and hard upon all the northern hills and valleys. The lakes and rivers were frozen. The fountains of naturewere sealed up, and verdure, and fruitfulness, and almost all the elements of life, seemed to have followed the sun in his journey to the far south. A company of English traders, under the guidance of a party of Indians, were traversing the country from Hudson’s Bay to the Northern Ocean, in quest of furs and peltries. Emerging from a deep forest into a broad open plain, they discovered the track of a strange snow-shoe, which, from its lightness, they judged to belong to a woman. Not knowing of any encampment in that vicinity, it excited the more curiosity. They followed it. It led them a considerable distance out of their way, across the valley, and into the gorge of the mountain on its southern side. Pursuing it still, as it ascended by a circuitous path, they came to a small cabin, perched like an eagle’s nest in the clefts of the rock. They entered, and found a young and beautiful woman sitting alone at her work. It was Tula, the hermitess of Athabasca. For more than seven moons she had not seen a human face, nor heard a human voice, nor did she ever expect again to see the one, or hear the other. She had become reconciled to her lot. She loved the solitude where her spirit could commune with the departed, undisturbed, and where only the sun, the moon, and the stars, and the Great Spirit that controlled and guided them all, could read her thoughts, and know the history of her griefs.
The first surprise being over, Tula offered the strangers a place by her fire, and such other hospitalities as her cabin afforded.
“How comes the dove alone in the eagle’s nest?” enquired the leader of the party.—And then, regardingher with a look of admiration, added—“does she not fear the hawk or the vulture, here in the cold cliffs of the mountain?”
Tula replied by relating the story of her life—her bereavement—her captivity—her escape—her weary wanderings—her hardships—and the repose she had found in her solitude; and concluded by saying, “If the eagle’s nest be lonely and cold, it is quiet and safe. It is not too high for the moon to smile upon. It is not too cold for Tula.”
“Would the ‘singing bird’ seek out her people, and let her song be heard again among the trees of the valley?”
“Tula is no longer the singing bird. Her song is shut up in her heart. Her heart is with her kindred in the spirit land. Her father’s cabin is more desolate than the wilderness, or the mountain top. Her tree is plucked up by the roots. It cannot live again.”
After some considerable persuasion, in which the voice of the humane Englishman—suggesting that, if the Ottawas had discovered her retreat, the Athapuscows might discover it also,—had its full share of weight, the fair hermitess consented to accompany the strangers; though she could not conceal her regret, in abandoning her snug little castle, to set off on a new pilgrimage, she knew not whither.
“It matters little to Tula where she goes, so that she does not meet the Athapuscow. His hands are red with the blood of her father, her husband, her child. Let her never see his face, or walk in his shadow.”
The singular romance of Tula’s story, the comeliness of her person, and her approved accomplishments, touched the hearts of some of the young braves of the party. They had not gone far on their way, before a contest arose between them, who, according to immemorial usage among the tribes, should claim the privilege of making her his wife. The dispute—to which she was no party, for her views were not so much as consulted in the matter—ran very high, and had nearly resulted in serious consequences. The poor girl was actually won and lost, at wrestling, by near half a score of different men, in the course of as many days. When, at length, a compromise was effected, and the prize awarded to Lak-in-aw, a young warrior of the Temiscamings, Tula refused to receive the pipe at his hands, or to listen in any way to his suit.
“Tula is buried in the grave of O-ken-áh-ga,” she said. “Tula will walk alone on the earth. Her heart is in the spirit land. It will never come back. It has nothing here to love.”
Onward—onward—over interminable fields of snow and ice, where scarce a green thing appeared to relieve the utter desolation, the party proceeded, with their prize, on their journey to the far north. She was treated with chivalric tenderness and respect, and her comfort and convenience consulted in all the arrangements of the way. She needed but little indulgence, and solicitednone. She was capable of enduring the fatigues and hardships of a man. She never flaggedin the march, nor lingered a moment, when the word was given to go forward.
In traversing a deep valley near the eastern extremity of the Great Slave Lake, their track was crossed by that of a considerable party of Indians, returning from an expedition to the fur regions of the north. Their course lay along the southern border of the lake. Perceiving their encampment at no great distance, on the other side of the valley, it was resolved to visit them, and, if they were found to be friendly, to join their camp for the night. On approaching the spot, they were met by the chief, who, with a few attendants, came out to bid them welcome to his tent. He was a fine specimen of a young Indian brave—one who, in his green youth, had gained laurels, which it usually requires a life-time to win. His costume, though adapted to the severity of the climate, was tasteful and picturesque, and so fitted and arranged as to develop, to the best advantage, the admirable proportions of his person.
The parley that ensued was a fine specimen of Indian courtesy and diplomacy. But it was suddenly and violently interrupted, when Tula, who had remained in the rear of her party, with the Englishmen, came up. At the first sight of the young chief, she uttered a loud and piercing shriek—for the extremes of joy and grief use similar tones and gestures—and rushing forward, pushed aside friend and stranger alike, and flung herself upon his neck, exclaiming—“Ish-ta-le-ó-wah!—my brother! my brother!”