A calm, quiet evening, with the wind at south, the sun setting red in clouds, and a gray vapour stealing over the sky, with every prospect of a coming storm, and yet everything still and sober in solemn tranquillity, often puts me in mind of those pauses in the busy course of life which precede some great and decisive event. It is very strange, too, but I have remarked that it not unfrequently happens that such an aspect of external nature comes, as it, were, to harmonize with our feelings when we take a brief pause upon the brink of great events, destined to bring fruition or disappointment to all the hopes of life.
Such an evening was that which Lord H---- and Edith and Mr. Prevost spent together at the house where so many of these scenes have been laid, after quitting Fort Edward in the morning. Their journey had passed quite peaceably; they had encountered no human being but a few bands of friendly Indians, going to join the army; and the ride, as every one knows, was, and still is, a very beautiful one. It had occupied hardly four hours, and thus the principal part of the day had been spent in tranquillity in a scene endeared to all.
Mr. Prevost had retired to his room to write, and Lord H---- and Edith sat together in front of the house gazing out towards the setting sun. There are few things really sublime on earth; but amongst the most sublime are those moments when we sit beside a fellow-being so linked to us by love that our existence seems but as a part of his or hers, our hopes, our fears, our happiness, our joy, identified; and yet, in the course of mortal fate, the approach of some dark hour of parting keeps ever whispering in our ear, "Ye are not truly one. Though mingling every thought and feeling; though heart beat with heart, and mind walk with mind; though each breast is open to the other, as to the eyes of conscience and of God; though linked and bound by every aspiration and by every sentiment, ye are two, and ye must sever." The sensation is very painful, but it is sublime in its intensity; and such were the sensations of Edith and her lover as they sat there and watched the setting sun.
They talked of many things, some not at all connected with the circumstances of the present or the future; they feared to dwell upon them too long, and they often sought relief in indifferent topics; still the coming hour was vaguely present to the mind of each. It was like sitting near a waterfall, with the quiet, melancholy murmur of the cataract mingling harmoniously, but sadly, with every other sound.
"I trust, dear Edith, that we shall see it together," said Lord H----, speaking of the distant land where they both had birth. "Many a lovely thing is to be met with in the old world, both in nature and in art; and though I love these beautiful scenes well, and enjoy as much as any one the magnificence of unadorned Nature, yet methinks that is no reason why we should not appreciate to the full all that is fine or lovely, though of a different kind and character. It is the narrow-minded man--the man of an uncapacious soul, who suffers one sort of excellence alone to take possession of his taste or heart. Beauty and goodness are infinitely varied; and though I may love some aspects best, yet I trust ever to be capable of deriving pleasure from each and all."
"But you have seen all these things, George," she answered; "will it not weary you to go over them all again, with so untutored a companion as myself?"
He gazed at her for a moment, with a look of earnest affection, and gently pressed the hand he held in his.
"I take a new light with me, Edith," he replied; "a light that will give new loveliness to everything that is beautiful. I have often thought, my beloved, that to see our own sensations,--I mean happy ones, enjoyment, admiration, satisfaction,--reflected from the mind of one so dear as you are to me, must be like beholding a lovely scene reflected from the bosom of a calm lake, where every fair feature and bright hue acquires a magic lustre, and a brightness greater in the borrowed image than even in the tangible reality. These are happy dreams, Edith; let us trust to renew them some few weeks hence; and then, whenever this campaign is over, I will quit this busy, perilous game of war, if Edith will then be mine, and realize the visions we love so well. In the meanwhile, dear one, as every one who goes into battle encounters certainly some peril, let us speak a word of the future, in case the worst should befall. You will remember me, Edith, I am sure, if I should not return. I do not think you will ever love any other so well; but, remember, I am not so selfish in my love as to wish you to sacrifice the whole comfort and happiness of a life to the memory of one departed. Be happy when and in what way you can; consult your own feelings solely. And I do believe that, if spirits can look down on earth when parted from this frail body, your happiness, however it is attained, will add to mine; for I cannot think, that, when we quit this earth, we carry the selfishness of clay along with us."
The tears swam in Edith's eyes, and gemmed the long black lashes round them; but they ran not over.
"I have but one wish on earth, George," she answered, "when I think of the chances that you mention. It is, that I may not survive you even an hour. If I had not known it could not be, I would have asked to go with you, in the hope that, if you are to fall, one hour might take us both."
Lord H---- smiled sadly, and shook his head.
"That might entail greater sorrows still," he rejoined, "and in no sense could it be, my Edith. No soldier should have his wife with him. While in the field, he should be detached as much as possible from every thought but that of duty. I doubt, indeed, that he should have any tie to earth whatever, except those which God imposed upon him at birth. This is one reason why I shall quit the army. I am less fit to be a soldier than I was; but I should be utterly unfit if I thought you were in peril. From all apprehension on that score I go free. I felt some uneasiness, indeed, while I thought that you were to remain alone here with none but the servants round you. As matters are arranged at present, however, you would be quite safe with Colonel Schneider and his wife. Besides, his servants, and the host of workmen employed in finishing his house and all the other works he has going on, will prove a little body-guard in itself."
"I should have felt myself perfectly secure here," returned Edith; "for the familiar aspect of all things round gives a sort of confidence which I could feel nowhere else. These Schneiders I hardly know; but, if you and my father are better satisfied, I am content to be with them. What hour are we to set out to-morrow?"
"Between one and two o'clock," replied Lord H----, "will be quite time enough. The distance is but six miles, and your father and I can very well escort you thither, and reach Fort Edward before night."
"I am glad of that," answered Edith. "To-morrow is the day that poor Captain Brooks is to be here. I should much like to see him once more, and I hope that he will arrive before we go. If not, I must tell the servants to provide for him well, and show him every kindness. Oh, George, is it not terrible to think of his encountering such a fate? The very idea of providing his last meals for him when going to a voluntary death, makes my heart sink with horror and regret."
"The only choice is between him and poor Walter," answered Lord H----; "and we must not forget that this act of Woodchuck's has not been pressed, or even asked, by us. He judges, and judges rightly, I think, that it would be ungenerous to allow Walter to suffer for his acts; and, though I would not urge him to adopt the course he has chosen, I certainly would say nothing to dissuade him."
"His self-devotion only makes it more terrible," returned Edith, "at least in my eyes; and yet I cannot help hoping," she continued, looking up inquiringly in her lover's face, "that something may occur--why should I not say that something will be provided?--to rescue them both, without this awful sacrifice."
Lord H---- would say nothing to quell a hope which he thought would give comfort; yet he did not share it, for his faith was less than Edith's--man's faith always is less than woman's.
Not many minutes more passed before Mr. Prevost rejoined them, speaking to one of the servants, as he entered, in a calm but rapid tone, and giving various orders and directions for the morrow. Although not likely to be exposed so much as if entrusted with a military command, some danger, of course, attended the mere fact of his accompanying the army; and he had spent the last hour or two in making many arrangements in view of probable death. Though a man of a quick imagination and susceptible temperament, death had never had any great terrors for him. He was personally, constitutionally, courageous; and in whatever aspect or under whatever circumstances he contemplated the mere passing from one life to another, he could not bring his mind to fear it. Yet, strange to say, he was in some respects of an apprehensive turn of mind. He feared difficulty, he feared disgrace, he feared the slightest imputation on his honour or his character; he was exceedingly apprehensive when any danger menaced those he loved. Thus, as far as he himself was concerned, he had sat down that day to contemplate his own death as calmly as any other event inseparable from life; but when the thought of Edith and Walter, and their future fate, mingled with his reflections, his courage was shaken, and he felt much agitated. He had pursued his task steadily, however; had arranged all things so as to leave neither obscurity nor difficulty in his affairs; and then, casting all sombre thoughts from him, came down and joined his daughter and his friend below, with a tranquil, nay, a cheerful face.
All the proceedings of the following day were then definitely arranged. After an early and hasty dinner, he and Lord H----, with the four mounted men who accompanied them, and Edith's old travelling companion, Chando, were to escort her to the dwelling of Colonel Schneider, the new house built that spring even further in the wild than that of Mr. Prevost, and of which the Indians on the hill had spoken. There, leaving her at once, the two gentlemen were to return to the camp, which they calculated upon reaching before nightfall. Vain arrangements,--vain preparations! How continually are we frustrated, even in the smallest and most insignificant plans, by that obdurate, over-ruling will of Fate!
The night passed quietly, day dawned, and, while Edith was dressing, she saw from her window the expected figure of Woodchuck, walking towards the door with a firmer tread and more resolute and easy bearing than he displayed when he had last appeared. On descending, she found him talking with her father and Lord H---- with perfect calmness and ease. His look was firm and self-possessed; his air was bold, though tranquil; and he seemed to have gained health since she saw him. Edith was almost tempted to believe that some happy change of circumstances had taken place; but his first words dispelled the illusion.
"No, I thank you, Mr. Prevost," he said, "I must go on. I'll just take some breakfast with you, and then begin my march. I have calculated well my time, and I should like to have a day or two to come and go upon. It doesn't do to push things to the last. I guess I shall reach Johnson Castle to-night. Then, mayhap, I shall get a lift up the river in a canoe; but, at all events, even if I am obliged to foot it all the way, I shall be in time."
Mr. Prevost looked down, and fell into thought, while Woodchuck advanced to Edith, shook hands with her, and spoke upon indifferent subjects. She now remarked that he was dressed in different guise from that which he had assumed during the winter. A light brown hunting-shirt, loose in the body and the sleeves, seemed to be his principal garment; and in the belt which bound it round him was stuck the tomahawk and scalping-knife of an Indian. His rifle stood in one corner of the room. On his head he wore a fur cap as usual; a pouch and powder-horn, with moccassins on his feet, completed his equipment.
"Well, general," he said, turning to Lord H----; "I saw some of your people as I came up the river. There had been a fuss about bateaux, but I showed them how they could find some; for a set of knaves, more French than English at their hearts, had drawn a crowd of them up the creek. So Abercrombie and the rest are all up at Fort Edward by this time."
Lord H---- looked towards Mr. Prevost; but he was still in thought, and only roused himself to lead the way into the hall to breakfast. Woodchuck ate heartily; but to touch a single mouthful was a hard task for each of the other three. While still at the table, however, the sound of horses' feet galloping up to the door was heard; and Lord H----, starting up, looked out of the window. A young officer and a trooper of dragoons were at the door; and the moment the former saw Lord H----, he handed him a letter in at the window, dismounting and entering soon after. By this time, the despatch had been read both by the young nobleman and Mr. Prevost; and the latter exclaimed, "This is most unfortunate! An immediate recall, Edith. We must not delay a moment, for the march commences to-morrow at daybreak. Get ready as fast as possible, my love; we will see you safely to Colonel Schneider's and then gallop back to the Fort."
"Excuse me for observing," said the young officer, "that the order is peremptory. Of course, his lordship will judge for himself; but I only follow General Abercrombie's commands, in saying that he wishes not a moment's delay."
"But, my daughter, sir, my daughter," said Mr. Prevost.
The young gentleman bowed stiffly, but made no answer; and the countenance of Lord H---- was very grave.
"Surely," said Mr. Prevost, "'twould be no great disobedience of orders to see my daughter safely to the house of my friend, Colonel Schneider, a distance of not more than six miles."
"Which would take nearly two hours to go and come," said the young officer drily; "at least over roads such as these. But you and his lordship are the best judges. I do not presume to dictate; I only convey to you the commander-in-chief's orders."
"Leave her to my care, Prevost," said Woodchuck, starting up. "I will see her safe. It's all in my way. Some of the servants can go with us, and there is no danger."
"I am in no fear, indeed, my dear father," said Edith; "do not risk a censure. I shall be quite safe with our friend here."
"I believe, indeed, you will," said Lord H----; "otherwise, I myself should be tempted to disobey. But the terms of this despatch are so pressing, that, unless there were immediate and positive peril, I think we are bound to return to camp at once."
He spoke aloud, and very gravely; but then, advancing to Edith's side, he added a few words in a lower tone. Mr. Prevost walked up and joined in their consultation--a sufficient indication, it might have seemed, that they wished, for a few moments' privacy. Woodchuck understood, and walked quietly to the door; for natural delicacy of feeling is but the reality of that of which politeness is the shadow. But the young officer, who was of that coarse, common stuff of which martinets are ultimately made, still kept his ground, till Lord H----, somewhat provoked, turned round and said,--
"Captain Lumley, you will have the goodness to return to head-quarters, and inform the commander-in-chief that his orders shall be punctually obeyed."
The young man paused a moment with a look of surprise and discontent; and a moment or two after, when he passed Woodchuck at the door of the house, he was muttering,--
"Without asking me to take any refreshment!"
His murmurs were, perhaps, natural; for those who concede least to the feelings of others invariably exact most for their own.
It is true, Lord H----, occupied with thoughts that engrossed him altogether, dismissed theaide-de-campwithout remembrance of his needs as well as without any feeling of resentment, and omitted a courtesy which no resentment assuredly would have curtailed. But the young man, swelling with indignation and offended dignity, mounted sullenly, and proceeded but slowly on his way. He had not gone one-half the distance, however, between Mr. Prevost's house and Fort Edward, when Lord H---- and the commissary passed him at great speed; and he did not reach head-quarters till half an hour after they had announced their own return.
The storm, prognosticated from the red aspect of the setting sun on the night before, had not descended when Edith Prevost left the door of her father's house. No raindrops fell, no wind even stirred the trees; and it was only a sort of misty obscurity to the westward which gave token, to eyes well acquainted with the forest, that the promise of the preceding sunset would yet be fulfilled. Overhead, all was clear and blue; and the sun, though some white haze hung round its broad disk, was powerful for the season of the year.
Edith's companions were only Chando the negro, the good woman Sister Bab, whose kindness, faithfulness, and intelligence had all been tried, and Woodchuck, who refused to take a horse from the stable, but set out on foot by Edith's side.
"You can't canter a step of the way, Miss Edith," he said; "so I can keep up with you, I guess; for the road, such as it is, is better fitted for two feet than four."
As she turned from the door, tears were in Edith's eyes, arising from many a mingled source. She had seen her father and him whom she loved as well, though differently, depart suddenly to danger and to battle. Her brother was far away, and she could not help thinking him still in peril. Not only was the future of all uncertain--for so the future of every one is--but the uncertainty was dark, and, as it were, more tangible than is generally the case with the dim, misty approach of the coming time. There was not only a cloud, but the cloud was threatening.
Nor was this all. There are times in the course of almost every life, when some little event, some marking point in the journey of existence, causes the mind to pause and review the past--to compare the present state with a state gone by. It is rarely that the contemplation has not something painful in it, both on account of the heart's self-deceit and waywardness, which teaches us always to estimate gains less than losses; and, also, because in our warfare with the world (except in very early youth) the gains, however highly we may estimate them, are, as in all other warfares, really less than the losses. We may have attained that which we desire; but, nine times out of ten, we find that we have over-appreciated the object; and, when we come to sum up the cost in health, happiness, purity of mind, exertion, care, anxiety, and all the pieces of coin with which man purchases success, we frequently find that we have bought the victory too dear--that that which we have obtained was not worth all we have exchanged for it.
The moment of departure from her father's door was one of those pausing-places of the mind for Edith Prevost. She did not cast her thoughts far back: she took in but a little range; six months was the limit. But she remembered how calmly happy she had been in that dwelling six months before. Her father, her brother, were both there with her; sweet natural affections had garlanded the doorposts, and tranquil hours of unagitated enjoyment had been the sunshine of her path. All that was necessary, much that was superfluous, she had possessed; and if she, as all other mortal beings, had not been absolutely content--if she, like every other girl, had felt a want, a vacancy of the heart, a capability of love unexercised, which neither filial nor fraternal affection could supply,--still it had been but a vague, indefinite feeling that there was something more in life than she had yet known--one crowning blessing not yet possessed. She had been very happy, though there had been the one thing wanting.
Now, that one thing had been attained--Heaven knows without her seeking it. She loved, and was beloved. But, oh! how sadly changed was all the rest! Her brother afar, with a dark fate hanging over him--her father gone upon a path of peril. And love, what had love left her? Anxiety, keen, terrible anxiety, which might well counterbalance for some portion, at least, of all the sweetness of the bright blessing.
She mused sadly, gazing down upon the horse's neck, and hardly seeing or thinking of the way she took. In the mean time, Woodchuck trudged on by her side, with his head erect, his face lifted towards the sky, his pace steady and assured. Edith suddenly and almost unconsciously turned her eyes towards him. There was a tranquil elevation in his countenance, a lofty resolution in his look, which gave her thoughts, in a moment, another direction. She was parting from a well-loved home and cherished associations, with some clouds hanging over her, with some anxieties dogging her path, but with a probability of soon returning, and with many a sweet promise of future happiness. Yet she was sad and downcast. Woodchuck was marching onward, wittingly and voluntarily, to a certain and terrible death; and yet his march was tranquil, firm, and resolute. She felt ashamed of her tears. Nay more, as thought ran on, she said to herself,--
"There is something more in life, something higher, nobler, grander than any human passion, than any mortal enjoyment, than any mere earthly peace, can give--something that comes from Heaven to aid and support us in our struggles here below. My poor companion knows and feels that he is doing his duty, that he is acting according to the commandment of his God; and he is calm and firm in the presence of death, and in the separation from all earthly things. And I--what have I to suffer, what have I to fear, in comparison with him?"
She made a great effort; she shook off her sadness; she wiped the tears from her eyes, and said a few words to Woodchuck in a quiet tone. He answered briefly to her actual words, but then turned at once to the feelings which he believed to be in her heart.
"Ah, Miss Prevost," he said, "it's a sad thing for a young lady like you to part, for the first time, with those she loves when they are going to battle; and I don't know that a woman's heart ever gets rightly accustomed to it. But it don't do to love anything too well in this world--no, not even one's own life. It's a sad stumbling-block, both in the way of our duty and our happiness. Not that I'd have people keep from loving anything. That would never do. They wouldn't be worth having if they couldn't love their friends, and love them very well; but, I guess, the best way is to recollect always, when we've got a thing, that it is but a loan--life itself, all the same as everything else. It's all lent, and all will be recalled; only, you see, my dear young lady, we've got a promise that, if we use what we've had lent to us well, it shall be given to us for ever hereafter, and that should always be a comfort to us. It is to me."
A slight sigh followed his words, and he walked on in silence for a minute or two, probably pursuing the course which he had laid down for himself in his very excellent philosophy, of marching on straight to a high object, and casting from him all thought of the unavoidable sufferings of the way. Soon after, he looked up to the sky, and said,--
"It's getting wonderfully black out there. I should not wonder if we had a flaw of wind and a good soaking rain. I say, Master Chando, put that bear-skin over the young lady's baggage, and hold the horse better in hand, or you'll have him down amongst these stumps. You ride better than you lead, my friend."
The negro grinned at him, but did as he was directed; and, a few minutes after, they issued out of the wood upon a small open space of ground extending over the side of a slight eminence. The view thence was prolonged far to the westward in a clear day, showing some beautiful blue hills at the distance of eight or nine miles. Those hills, however, had now disappeared; and in their place was seen what can only be called a dense black cloud, although those words give a very inadequate idea of the sight which presented itself to Edith's eye. It was like a gigantic wall of black marble, with a faint, white, irregular line at the top. But this wall evidently moved, coming forward with vast rapidity, although, where the travellers were, not a breath of air was felt. On it rushed towards them, swallowing up everything in its own obscurity. Each instant some tree, some undulation of the ground, some marking object in the prospect, disappeared in its deep gloomy shadow; and for a few moments Edith sat still upon her horse, gazing in awe and even in terror. Woodchuck himself seemed for an instant overpowered; but then he caught Edith's rein, and turned her horse, exclaiming,--
"Back, Miss Prevost, back, as fast as possible! That's the blackest cloud I ever see in all my days. There, there, to the east'ard! Get under them big old hemlocks. Keep away from the pines and the small trees. A tree had need to have been fastening to the ground for a hundred years to stand what's coming."
As he spoke, he ran fast on by the side of Edith's horse till they reached the edge of the wood, and there he checked her progress.
"Not too far in; not too far in! You must be ready to jump out if you find that these old fellows begin crashing."
He then left her bridle, and walked carefully round several of the trees, examining their trunks and roots with a very critical eye, to ascertain that they were firmly fixed and not decayed; and then, approaching Edith again, he held out his hand, saying,--
"Jump down! Here's one will do. He must ha' stood many a hard storm and bitter blast, and p'r'aps will bear this one too; for he's as sound as when he started up a little twig out of the ground, before the eye of any mortal man now living winked in the sunshine--ay, or his father's either. Here, Chando, take the horses and grip them all tight, for depend upon it they'll caper when the wind and rain come. Now, my dear, put yourself on this side of the tree, keep close to him, and listen well. You may find him shiver and sway a bit, but don't mind that, for he's not so tall as the rest, and twice as stout; and what makes me trust him is, that in some storm his head has been broken off, and yet his feet have stood stout. He won't catch so much wind as the others, and I think he'd stand it if he did. But if you hear him begin to cranch, jump clear out here to the left into the open ground. He'll fall t'other way. If you keep close, the branches won't strike you when they fall, and the rain won't get at you; for it's taking a long sweep."
The next moment, it came. The wind, blowing with the force of a hurricane, rushed over the valley below; the leaves were torn off, the small twigs, with their umbrageous covering, were carried aloft into the air and scattered; a few large drops of rain fell; and then the whole force of the tempest struck the hill-side and the more open forest where Edith stood. In an instant, the scene of confusion and destruction was indescribable. The gusts seemed to hiss as they passed through the boughs of the trees and between the tall stems. Large branches were torn off and scattered far; the young pines and birches bent before the force of the storm. As in the case of war and pestilence, the weak and the sickly and the young and the decayed suffered first and most. Wherever the roots had not got a firm hold of the ground--wherever the thawing of the spring, or the heavy rains, had washed away the earth or loosened it--the trees came thundering and crashing down, and the din was awful; the howling wind, the breaking branches, the falling tree, all joining in the roar; and the pattering rain, rustling and rushing amongst the withered leaves left by the winter, became at length thicker and more dense, till it seemed as if a river was falling down from the sky, hardly separated into drops, rather than a fertilizing shower passing over the landscape.
Edith gazed round her in affright, for she could, as Woodchuck had predicted, feel the enormous but low-stemmed hemlock against which he had placed her tremble and quiver with the blast; and a number of large trees hard by were rooted up, and cast prostrate, bearing the turf and earth in which they had stood, up into the air; while, here and there, some more firmly fixed in the ground, but defective higher up, snapped in the midst, and the whole upper part was carried many yards away. But, though she gazed, little was the distance she could see, so thick and black was the covering of the sky; while all around, what between the close-falling deluge and a sudden mist rising up from the earth, the sort of twilight that the storm-cloud left, was rendered hazy and still more obscure.
The two negroes, as usual with that race, were clamorous and excited, adding the noise of their tongues to the roar of the tempest; but the horses, contrary to the expectation of Woodchuck, seemed cowed and paralyzed by fear. Instead of attempting to break loose and rush away, they merely turned from the wind and rain; and with hoofs set firm, and drooping heads, abode the storm, with now and then a shivering thrill, showing the terror that they felt. Woodchuck himself stood silent close by Edith, leaning his strong shoulder against the tree, and, with his eyes bent down upon the ground, seemed to lose himself in heavy thought. A man who has parted with the world and the world's hopes, is tempest-proof.
After the first rush of the storm, there came a lull: and then another fierce roar, and more falling trees and crashing branches. The whole forest swayed and bent like a feather in a breeze, and down came the torrents from the sky more furiously than ever. But, in the midst of all, Woodchuck started, leaned his head a little on one side, and seemed to listen, with his eyes fixed upon vacancy.
"What is the matter?" asked Edith, alarmed by his look.
"I thought I heard a footfall," he answered.
"In the roar of such a storm!" exclaimed Edith. "It must have been some falling branch."
He only smiled for an answer; but still he listened, and she could see him lift his arm a little from the lock of his rifle on which it had been tightly pressed, and look down upon it to see that it was dry.
The next moment, however, he resumed his ordinary attitude, and said, in a quiet tone,--
"It's all nonsense, however. The Indians are all quiet and friendly on this side of the lake. But you see, Miss Prevost, I have been for so many months on the watch every minute, not knowing whether I should not feel the scalping-knife or the tomahawk the next, that I have got over-wary. The Mohawks are all on the move about here, and no Hurons or any other of our enemies would venture across, except in a large body, to fight a regular battle. It must have been the tread of some friendly Ingian I heard, though they don't usually leave the trail, except when they've some object in view."
"But is it possible you could hear anything distinctly amidst this awful noise?" asked Edith. "Are you sure you were not mistaken?"
"Oh no, I'm not like to be mistaken," answered Woodchuck. "One's ears get sharp with continual listening. I'm pretty sure it was a foot I heard, and a man's foot too. It seemed to me as if it had slipped off a loose stone, hidden under the leaves, and come down harder, perhaps, than he expected. But that's no proof that he meant mischief, for they've all got those cat-like sort of ways, creeping about silently, whether there's 'casion for it or not; and, as I said just now, they're all friendly here on this side of Horicon."
A few moments' silence succeeded; the wind once more swelled up, raged for a minute or two, and then fell again a little; and Woodchuck, putting out his head from beyond the shelter of the great trunk, observed, "It seems to me to be getting a little clearer there to the west'ard. I guess it won't last more nor half an hour longer."
Almost as he spoke, from every side but that which opened upon the hill, came a yell, so loud, so fierce, so fiend-like, that, ere she knew what she was doing, Edith, under the sudden impulse of terror, darted at once away from the tree into the open space, and ran a few steps, till her long riding-dress caught round her feet, and she fell upon the grass. At the same instant, she felt a strong arm seize her by the shoulder, and heard the rattle of a rifle; and, turning her head in mute terror, she beheld the gleaming eyes and dark countenance of an Indian, rendered more hideous by the half-washed-off war-paint, bending over her. His tomahawk was in his right hand; her last hour seemed come; but so sudden, so confounding, had been the attack, that she could not collect her ideas. She could not speak, she could not think, she could not pray. The weapon did not fall, however; and the savage dragged her up from the ground, and gazed upon her, uttering some of the uncouth exclamations of his people, in tones of satisfaction, and even merriment.
One hurried glance around for help, showed Edith that all hope for help was vain; and no words can describe her horror at the scene she saw. At the moment when she looked round, a tomahawk, in the hands of a gigantic Indian, was falling on the head of the poor negro Chando, and the next instant a wild shrieking yell told that his agony was come and gone. Woodchuck, hatchet in hand, was battling for life against another savage, and seemed nearly, if not quite, his match; but eight or ten more Indians were rushing up, yelling like wolves as they came; and, in the midst of the struggle, while the hatchets were playing and flashing round the heads of the combatants, a young and active Indian sprang upon the poor hunter from behind, and threw him backwards on the earth.
Woodchuck lay perfectly still and motionless, gazing up at the tomahawk lifted over his head; but, at that instant, the young Indian put his arm upon his companion's naked breast, and pushed him violently back, with a loud exclamation in the Iroquois tongue. Then, seizing the hand of Woodchuck, he pulled up the sleeve of his hunting-shirt, and pointed to a blue stripe tattooed upon his arm.
The lifted hand and tomahawk of the other sunk slowly by his side; and Woodchuck sat up, and gazed around him, but without attempting to rise altogether from the ground.
Five or six of the Indians came quietly up; and, some kneeling, some bending down, gazed upon the blue line, while the savage who had seized upon Edith, dragged her forward to the spot, and, still holding her fast, gazed likewise. Several quick and muttered words succeeded amongst their captors, a few only of which Edith heard and understood.
"It's the sign! it's the sign!" cried one. Then came a sentence or two that escaped her ear; and then another vociferated, "Ask him! ask him!"
One of the Indians next seated himself on the ground before Woodchuck, spread out his hands like a fan, and addressed some words to him, which Edith, notwithstanding her perfect knowledge of the Iroquois language in most of its dialects, did not in the least comprehend. The answer of Woodchuck was equally unintelligible to her; and the only word which she caught was "Honontkoh."
The moment he had spoken, two of the Indians placed their hands under his arms, and raised him from the ground. They took the precaution of disarming him entirely; and then, gathering round, they talked quickly and eagerly in low tones. But now they spoke a language which Edith understood; and, though she did not catch all that was said, she heard enough to show her that they were discussing what was to be done with herself and Woodchuck, whom, it seemed to her, that from some cause they recognized as a brother.
Suddenly, the savage who held her pressed his fingers tighter upon her arm, exclaiming aloud, in a fierce, angry voice,--"She is mine! I will dispose of her as I please!"
"No one will oppose the brother of the Snake," said another and older man. "Scalp her when thou wilt; where canst thou carry her if thou dost not slay her?"
"Let us all go to the other side of Corlear, Apukwa," said the man who held her. "I will take her with me; she shall cook my venison for me; 'twas for this I brought you hither."
"What! shall we become women amongst the Hurons?" demanded Apukwa.
"No," replied the brother of the Snake; "there are many of our tribe and order there, men of our own nation, outcasts like ourselves. We will become, like them, warriors of the great French king, and fight against the accursed Yengees."
"But how shall we cross?" asked Apukwa.
"There are canoes in plenty," replied the other. "Besides, our Canada brethren are here close at hand, at Che-on-de-ro-ga. They will give us help."
A silent pause succeeded; and then Woodchuck, having recovered from the confusion which perhaps the suddenness of the attack, perhaps the violence of his fall, had produced, stretched forth his arm, and addressed them after their own fashion.
"Are we not brothers?" he said; "are we not all Honontkoh? are we not all bound by the dreadful name to aid each other even unto blood and death? I demand, therefore, ye who have lifted the hatchet against us unjustly, to set me and this maiden free; to make our feet as the feet of the panther, to go whither we will. I have spoken the terrible words; I have uttered the dreadful name; the sign of the order is in my flesh, and ye dare not refuse."
A look of doubt and hesitation came over the faces of the Indians; and Apukwa inquired,--
"Whither wouldst thou go, my brother? We have all sworn the oath, in the presence of the dark Spirit, that we will aid one another, and that each of the Honontkoh will defend another of the order, though he should have eaten fire or shed his brother's blood. Thou hast shed our brother's blood, for we know thee, though we knew not that thou wert of our order. But we are Honontkoh, and we will keep the oath. We will defend thee, we will assist thee. But whither wouldst thou go?"
"I go," answered Woodchuck, with unfortunate frankness and truth, "I go to lay down my life for your brother's life. I go to the castle of the Oneidas, to say, 'Woodchuck is here! Let the hatchet fall upon the old tree, and let the young sapling grow up till its time be come. I killed the Snake; take the blood of him who slew him, and set the boy Walter free.' As for this maiden, she is mine; I have adopted her. I claim her as brother claims from brother. Ye cannot be Honontkoh and take her from me. If ye be true to our order, give her into my hand and let us go."
While he thus spoke, the countenances of the Indians round betrayed no mark of any emotion whatever, though many and varying feelings were undoubtedly busy in their breasts.
As he ended, however, a slight and somewhat scornful smile came upon the cunning face of Apukwa, and he replied,--
"We cannot let our brother go on such an errand. It would be contrary to our laws. We are bound to defend and protect him, and must not let him make wind of his life. The yellow leaf falls of itself from the bough; the green leaf is torn off by the tempest. We must preserve our brother's life, though the young man perish."
Edith's eyes wept fast with the bitterest drops of despair; but Apukwa went on.
"As for the maiden, we will hear and judge more another day. Thou sayest thou hast adopted her. We will hear how, for we know her to be the daughter of the pale-face Prevost. If she be the prize of the brother of the Snake, the brother of the Snake must have her. But if she be thy daughter, she is thine. Let her be with thee till we have heard all, and judged. We have not room now; for time goes fast, and we are near danger. The pale-faces are to the rising and the setting sun, towards the cold and towards the soft wind. The Honontkoh is the enemy of the pale-face, the abandoned of the Mohawk, and the outcast of the Oneida. Take the maiden in thy hand, and go on towards the rising sun. We come with thee as thy brethren, and will preserve thy life."
Woodchuck gave an anxious glance at Edith's face, and said, in a low voice, and in English,--
"We can't resist, but we may outwit them. Come on for the present, for I guess it may be no better. I will shed my blood foryou, my dear, if I cannot for your brother."
Taking her hand, he led her on towards the north-east, preceded by one and followed by five or six Indians, who, according to their usual cautious plan, walked singly one after the other, well knowing that their prisoners could not escape them. Several remained upon the spot for a few minutes longer, engaged in stripping the pack-horse of all that he carried, and taking the saddles and bridles of the other horses, which they knew would be valuable in the eyes of the French.
All this was done with extraordinary rapidity, and then the last party followed the first into the depth of the wood.
By this time, the wind had considerably abated, though it still rained hard. The moment after the Indians had departed, however, the leaves and branches of a large flower-covered bush of the calmia, growing under a low, spreading hemlock, moved gently, and the next instant a black face protruded. After one hasty glance around, the whole form of the negress, Sister Bab, was drawn slowly out from the bush; and, running from tree to tree with silent speed, she stopped not till she caught sight again of the retiring Indians, and then followed them quietly and cautiously on their way towards Champlain.
The stillness of death pervaded the great lodge of the Oneidas; and yet it was not vacant. But Black Eagle sat in the outer chamber alone. With no eye to see him--with none to mark the traces of those emotions which the Indian so carefully conceals from observation, he gave way, in a degree at least, to feelings which, however sternly hidden from others, wrought powerfully in his own heart. His bright blue and scarlet apparel, feathers and belt, medals and armlets, were thrown aside; and, with his head bowed, his face full of gloomy sadness, and all the strong muscles of his finely-proportioned figure relaxed, he sat like an exquisite figure of grief sculptured in porphyry. No tear, indeed, bedewed his eyelids; no sigh escaped his lips; but the very attitude bespoke his sorrow, and there was something awfully sad in the perfect unvarying stillness of his form.
Oh, what a terrible strife was going on within! Grief is ten times more terrible to those who concentrate it in the heart, than to those who pour it forth upon the wide air.
The door of the lodge opened. He started, and instantly was himself again: the head upright, the face clear, the aspect active and dignified.
"Where hast thou been, my child?" asked the chief, gazing on his daughter as she entered, with feelings mingled of a thousand strong emotions,--parental love, fond admiration, pity, regret, and manifold memories.
"Where thou hast permitted me to go, my father," she answered, with a smile so bland and sweet that a momentary suspicion crossed her father's mind.
"Thou dost not forget thy promise, my Blossom," he said, in a tone as stern as he ever used to her.
"Oh no, my father," answered Otaitsa; "didst thou ever know me do so? To see him, to be with him in his long captivity--to move the rock between us, and to let some light into his dark lodge--I promised that if thou wouldst let me stay with him even a few hours each day, I would do naught, try naught, for his escape. Otaitsa has not a double tongue for her own father. Is Black Eagle's eye dim, that it cannot see his child's heart? Her heart is in his hand."
"How fares the boy?" asked her father. "Is there sunshine with him, or a cloud?"
"Sunshine," said Otaitsa, simply. "We sat and talked of death. It must be very happy."
The chief gazed at her silently for a few moments, and then asked--"Doeshethink so too?"
"He makesmethink so," answered the Blossom. "Must it not be happy where there is no weeping, no slaughter, no parting of dear friends and lovers; where a Saviour and Redeemer is ever ready to mediate even for those who do such deeds as these?"
"The Great Spirit is good," said Black Eagle thoughtfully; "the happy hunting-grounds are ever ready for those who die bravely in battle."
"For those who do good," returned Otaitsa, with a sigh; "for those who spare their enemies, and show mercy to such as obey the voice of God in their own hearts, and are merciful and forgiving to their fellow-men."
Black Eagle smiled. "A woman's religion," he said. "Why should I forgive my enemies? The voice of God you speak of in my heart teaches me to kill them; for, if I did not, they would kill me."
"Not if they were Christians too," said Otaitsa. "The voice of God tells all men to spare each other, to love each other; and if every one obeyed it, there would be no such thing as enemies. All would be friends and brethren."
Black Eagle mused, for a moment or two, and then answered, "But thereareenemies, and therefore I must kill them."
"That is because men obey the voice of the Evil Spirit, and not that of the Good," rejoined the Blossom. "Will my father do so? Black Eagle has the voice of the Good Spirit in his heart. He loves children, he loves his friends, he spares women, and has taught the Oneidas to spare them. All this comes from the voice of the Good Spirit. Will he not listen to it further?"
Her parent remained lost in thought; and, believing that she had gained something, Otaitsa went on to the point nearest to her heart.
"The Black Eagle is just," she said; "he dispenses equity between man and man. Is it either just, or does it come from the voice of the Good Spirit, that he should slay one who has done good and not harm? that he should kill a man for another man's fault? Even if it be permitted to him to slay an enemy, is it permitted to slay a friend? If the laws of the Oneidas are unjust, if they teach faithlessness to one who trusted them, if they are contrary to the voice of the Good Spirit, is not Black Eagle a great chief, who can change them, and teach his children better things?"
Her father started up, and waved his hand impatiently.
"No more," he said, "no more. When I hear the voice of the Good Spirit, and know it, I will obey it. But our laws came from Him, and I will abide by the sayings of our fathers."
As he spoke, he strode to the door of the lodge, and gazed forth, while Otaitsa wept in silence. She saw that it was in vain to plead further, and, gliding up to her parent's side, she touched his arm reverently with her hand.
"My father," she said, "I give thee back the permission to see him, and I take back my promise. Otaitsa will not deceive her father; but the appointed hour is drawing on, and she will save her husband if she can. She has laid no plan with him, she has formed no scheme, she has not spoken to him of safety or escape. She has deceived Black Eagle in nothing: but now she tells him that she will shrink from nothing, no not from death itself, to save her brother Walter."
"Koué, Koué! my Blossom," ejaculated the chief, in a tone of profound melancholy. "Thou canst do nothing." Then, raising his head suddenly, he added, "Go, my daughter; it is well. If thy mother has made thee soft and tender as a flower, thy father has given thee the courage of the eagle. Go in peace; do what thou canst; but thou wilt fail."
"Then will I die!" exclaimed Otaitsa.
And gliding past him, she sought her way through the huts.
The first door she stopped at was partly covered with strange paintings, in red and blue colours, representing, in rather grotesque forms, men, and animals, and flowers. She entered, at once, without hesitation; and found, seated in the dim twilight before a large fire, the old priest who had spoken last at the council of the chiefs in the glen. His ornaments bespoke a chief of high degree; and several deep scars in his long, meagre limbs showed that he had been known in the battle-field. He did not even look round when the Blossom entered, but still sat gazing at the flickering flame, without the movement of a limb or feature. Otaitsa seated herself before him, and gazed at his face in silence, waiting for him to speak.
At the end of not less than five minutes, he turned his head a little, looked at her, and asked--
"What would the Blossom with the Old Cedar-tree?"
"I would take counsel with wisdom," replied the girl. "I would hear the voice of the warrior who is just, and the great chief who is merciful. Let him whom my mother reverenced most after her husband amongst the children of the Stone, speak words of comfort to Otaitsa."
She then, in language which, in rich imagery, and even in peculiarities of style, had a striking resemblance to the Hebrew writings, poured forth to him all the circumstances of Walter's capture, and of their love and plighted faith; and, with the same arguments which we have seen already used, she tried to convince him of the wrong and injustice done to her lover.
The old man listened with the usual appearance of apathy; but the beautiful girl before him gathered that he was much moved at heart, by the gradual bending down of his head till his forehead nearly touched his knees.
When she ceased, he remained silent for several moments, according to their custom; and then raised his head, saying,--
"How can the Old Cedar help thee? His boughs are withered, and the snows of more than seventy winters have bent them down. His roots are shaken in the ground, and the first blast of the tempest will lay him low. But the law of the Oneidas is in his heart: he cannot change it or pervert it. By thine own saying, it is clear that the Good Spirit will do nothing to save this youth. The young warrior is the first they lay hands on. No means have been found for his escape. No pale-face has come into the Oneida land, who might be made to take his place. All thine efforts to rescue him have been seeds that bore no fruit. If the Good Spirit wished to save him, he would provide a means. I have no counsel; and my heart is dead, for I loved thy mother as a child. She was to me as the evening star coming from afar to shine upon the night of my days; but I have no way to help her child, no words to give her comfort. Has not the Black Eagle a sister who loved thy mother well, who has seen well-nigh as many winters as I have, and who has a charm from the Great Spirit? Her lodge is even now filled with wise women of the tribe, taking counsel together as to this matter of the young chief. All love him well, except the dark and evil Honontkoh: all would save him, whether men or women of the nation, were not the law of the Oneida against him. Go to her lodge, then, and with her take counsel; for the Cedar-tree is without words."