CHAPTER XIII.THE CAPTIVE.
Many a wild thought raged in Mahaska’s mind, too wild for reason or control, but all bearing to one end. She rode on day after day, haunted by the idea that some unlooked-for event would place it in her power to wreak the vengeance she yearned for against the Governor of Quebec, and so bring at once her wishes to a fulfillment.
Mahaska had her scouts out in every direction. They had received strict orders to report to her without informing Gi-en-gwa-tah of any discoveries they might make. Gi-en-gwa-tah had gone one day with several companions on a hunting excursion. Mahaska wishing to rid herself of his presence, had expressed a desire for him to bring her venison and game of his own shooting, and her slightest request was still his law.
Mahaska was sitting in her tent, several miles back from the river. She had determined that if no opportunity to annoy the French offered, she would at least visit the island in person before the neighborhood of the Indians should become known, and then return to Seneca lake, having possession of the buried treasures which Ahmo’s ingenuity and avarice had secured to her grandchild.
One morning a scout approached her tent.
“What news?” she asked, abruptly.
“Many boats on the river,” he answered, “going up to the great settlement.”
“Who are they? Did Omene hear?”
“It is reported that the Governor-chief is sending his squaw back to the great settlement,” he answered.
Mahaska sprung to her feet with the bound of a lioness. She had learned the fact of De Laguy having become Governor of Quebec: the thought that Adèle might again be thrown in her power fairly dizzied her with its promise of torture to her hated foe and his despised wife. Having questioned the man minutely, she dismissed him and sat down toarrange in her mind the project which had so suddenly been called into life.
Toward sunset she selected a number of her body-guard and set out in the direction of the river. One of the savages was sent in advance, to await the coming of the boats and learn the exact order in which they were journeying. It so chanced that the boat which carried the Governor’s wife had fallen behind. Adèle, having placed the nurse and child in another canoe, sat conversing with a female acquaintance who was accompanying her on her return to Quebec. It was growing almost twilight; they had reached a point where the river took a variety of short curves, and the bank was so thickly wooded that the boats often lost sight of each other. Still, the officer who had command of the expedition had given no orders for the canoes to be kept more closely together, as there was scarcely a supposition of danger in the whole journey.
The two ladies were conversing so eagerly that they did not observe that the other boats had passed out of sight. But the rower seeing this, was bending forward to make new exertions, and they were just passing a dark point of the forest, when he was struck violently upon the head, lost his balance, and fell backward into the water.
The two women sprung up with a cry of dismay; at the same instant, several Indians burst out of the thicket and plunged into the water. The boat was seized and dragged to the shore, and Madame De Lenneville, as she fell insensible in the canoe, heard one last shriek from the hapless Adèle, and saw her borne off in the arms of savages.
That appalling cry brought back the other boats; they saw the canoe drifting down the current with the lady’s companion lying senseless, but neither the oarsman nor the Governor’s wife were to be seen.
It was a long time before Madame De Lenneville could be restored to consciousness, and even then, her senses were so confused by the shock, that she could give no clear account of the occurrence.
Further down the river they found the body of the oarsman, who had been so stunned by the blow that he could make no effort, and was swept passively down the stream.
To Madame De Lenneville’s excited imagination, the number of the savages appeared immense, and the officers decided that nothing could be done but to push on to Quebec for assistance, as any attempt to follow the Indians with their little party would only result in a general massacre.
They hurried on through the gathering twilight, every breast tortured with anxiety. The child awoke and moaned piteously for his mother. The sound was a new agony to her friends, for but few of that little party ever expected to see the Governor’s wife alive.
The queen’s body-guard bore the hapless lady swiftly along through the forest, answering neither her cries or supplications. After the first moments of agonizing fear, her thoughts were of her child. Anxiety kept her senses all acute; she had not even the blessing of insensibility. Once or twice she caught glimpses of men on horseback galloping before them through the windings of the forest; but she could distinguish nothing more. No one spoke to her. She was a prisoner. Mahaska was one of the riders—she urged her horse forward into the camp. Gi-en-gwa-tah met her, but before he could speak, she exclaimed:
“Prepare every thing for our departure; we must be miles away before the dawn breaks.”
“Our queen rides fast,” he returned, with a feeling that she had been upon some lawless errand. “Whence comes she in such haste.”
“Let Gi-en-gwa-tah keep silent,” she exclaimed; “it is not for him to question the descendant of the prophet.”
She turned to the Indians, and issued her commands for an instant departure.
“Where are the rest who went out with the queen?” demanded the chief.
“They are coming through the forest,” cried Mahaska.
She pointed down the path. As the chief looked, the party carrying Adèle appeared in sight.
“A prisoner!” he exclaimed. “What has the queen done?”
“The wife of the French Governor is Mahaska’s prisoner,” returned she, with a fearful laugh. “This time, these hands shall strangle the viper; there is no escape now.”
The chief uttered an exclamation of horror.
“The Nations have not declared war,” he said, hurriedly; “Mahaska will ruin herself by this act.”
“Fool!” she exclaimed. “Will you try to teach Mahaska? Out of my path, or I will trample you under my horse’s feet!”
But he stood his ground firmly, and after one prolonged glance of fiendish hate, Mahaska turned toward her prisoner.
Adèle caught sight of her old friend and arch-enemy, as she was seated upon the powerful black horse. A light from the fires fell full upon Mahaska’s face, and in spite of the changes evil passions and her wild life had made, Adèle recognized her foster-sister at once. From that instant she resigned all hope; she uttered no cry, but remained gazing at the face turned upon her as if fascinated by the glare of those basilisk eyes.
The savages placed her upon the ground. She leaned against a tree for support, but did not turn her eyes from the face of her captor.
A cold, deadly smile wreathed the white queen’s lip. She bowed low, with an affectation of extreme courtesy, and said in her blandest voice:
“Queen Mahaska bows herself before the guest who honors her camp; the wife of the French Governor is welcome.”
Adèle shuddered at that voice, for she knew well the hatred and danger expressed in its accents.
“Katharine!” she exclaimed, involuntarily, calling her by the familiar name which she had borne when a child in her father’s castle. “Oh, Katharine, what harm have I done you?”
Mahaska started; wrath surged into her face, but she controlled the rising tempest, looked carelessly about, as if to see whom the lady had thus addressed, and said:
“The pale-face wanders in her mind; there is no one here but Mahaska and her braves.”
“Why have you brought me here?” cried Adèle. “What have I done to you, that you should pursue me with such remorseless hatred? Only set me free, and my husband will pay you any ransom. Name your price—but let me go.”
The smile died from Mahaska’s lips. She leaned forward in her saddle, and hissed from between her clenched teeth:
“He must offer it for your dead body then, for he will haveno time to make other terms. All the wealth of France would not purchase your life. Mahaska does not sell her hate.”
Adèle’s overwrought faculties gave way at those fearful words, and, with one low moan, she fell senseless almost under the horse’s feet.
Mahaska motioned the Indians to raise her and turned coldly away. The preparations for departure were going hurriedly on. Gi-en-gwa-tah had been standing near, and being sufficiently familiar with French to understand, had comprehended the conversation that had passed between the two women. He looked pityingly at the white face, so pure and girlish still; then he turned toward the pitiless woman, sitting there so unconcerned, to make one last effort.
“Let the queen reflect,” he said; “she is doing a dangerous thing—”
“Queen Mahaska loves danger,” she interrupted, without even glancing toward him. “Let the fire be put out; let the guard make ready!” she called, in a loud voice.
“Let Mahaska at least wait here till the day breaks,” urged the chief.
She turned upon him with a look of contempt.
“Wait here that the dogs of pale-faces may come up and rescue her?” she exclaimed. “Is the queen a mad woman to heed such advice? If Gi-en-gwa-tah had no other counsel to offer, he had better leave off his eagle plumes.”
The chief was stung beyond endurance by the insult.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is indeed a chief,” he answered, “and Mahaska is only his wife, only a squaw, in spite of the favor his people have shown her.”
The woman turned upon him in speechless rage; her right hand moved slowly, as if clutching for her tomahawk, but he paid no attention to the menace.
“The wife of the Governor-chief shall be returned to him,” he said.
“Who will give her back?” she almost whispered, in the hoarseness of her rage.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah,” he replied. “The chief will not permit his people to be false and treacherous, to gratify the anger a woman.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah will give her back?” she repeated, slowly.
“He will do it. The French are our allies; we will keep faith with them.”
She bent her head with mocking reverence.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is a great chief,” she said; “he wills a thing only to be obeyed. Let him command the queen’s guards to give up her prisoner.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah does command,” he replied; “here he will be obeyed.”
The principal warriors had pressed nearer, and listened in silence to the altercation.
“The braves hear,” said Mahaska, turning toward them; “let them tremble before the frown of Gi-en-gwa-tah; they are his slaves.”
An angry murmur went through the throng. Mahaska saw her advantage and went on.
“Does it please Gi-en-gwa-tah that the pale-face should be sent back to-night?” she asked.
He understood the mockery in her voice. Worse still, he perceived that he was quite powerless. The chiefs drew around Mahaska, avoiding him.
“Once more, Gi-en-gwa-tah asks the queen to reflect,” he said:
“The great prophet teaches the queen,” she returned. “The Six Nations wish to break their treaty with the French. When they dance about the death-fire of the Governor’s wife, they will feel that they are repaid for many wrongs.”
“It shall not be!” cried the chief. “The pale-face shall be given to her husband.”
“Let Gi-en-gwa-tah save her then!”
He started forward, ready in his single bravery to attempt the fulfillment of her mocking words, but at a signal from Mahaska, he was surrounded by her guard. He dropped his bands and stood gazing upon his captors with a look of angry sorrow.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah sees that Mahaska commands here,” she said, slowly. “Let him go back to his place among the chiefs.”
Gi-en-gwa-tah leaped upon his horse and rode close to Adèle.
Every thing was by this time prepared for the departure;the insensible Adèle was placed upon a horse behind one of the guards, and the whole band started rapidly off through the forest.
Gi-en-gwa-tah rode in silence close by the white captive; his face was stern but sorrowful; the mortification he felt at the insult which he had received was light compared with the pain he endured at feeling the power of Mahaska’s hate.
They rode on through the darkness of the night, Mahaska giving way in her thoughts to the fierce joy which the capture of her innocent enemy had cast upon her soul. So great was her exultation, that she made her horse leap and prance through the darkness in the exuberance of her glee. This time there should be no escape; her own hands should deal the blow that terminated that guileless life, and she would send the scalp fringed with those golden tresses back to the agonized husband, with only these words: “Katharine is avenged!”
Adèle came to her senses, only to find herself borne swiftly away further and further from all hope of rescue. She looked back; the starlight showed the pallid, terrible face of the woman who had brought this misery upon her. She closed her eyes to shut out the awful vision of fiendish beauty, and allowed them to bear her on.
“Husband! child!” was the agonized moan that broke from her lips; their sufferings made her forget her own.
Mahaska caught the convulsed cry.
“Let the pale-face shriek,” she said; “the flames of her death-fire will soon scatter the darkness she dreads so much.”
So they rode on. The cold stars looked pitilessly down; the wind shivered by, seeming to bear her the moans of her loved onces, and at intervals the voice of that dreaded woman struck her ear like a warning of the terrible doom of the stake and the death-fire.