So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand,Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest,Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were buildingTowns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens ofvverdure,Peaceful,vaerial cities of joy and affection and freedom.All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict,Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse.So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow;Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of PriscillaSinging the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem,Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many.Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maidenSeated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-driftPiled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle,While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.So he entered the house; and the hum of the wheel and the singingSuddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold,Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome,Saying, “I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage;For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning.”Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingledThus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden,Silent before her he stood.“I have been thinking all day,” said gently the Puritan maiden,“Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedgerows of England,—They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden;Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet,Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighborsGoing about as of old, and stopping to gossip together.Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion;Still my heart is so sad that I wish myself back in Old England.You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it; I almostWish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched.”Thereupon answered the youth: “Indeed I do not condemn you;Stouter hearts than a woman’s have quailed in this terrible winter.Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on;So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriageMade by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth!”Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,—Did notvembellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases,But came straight to the point and blurted it out like a schoolboy;Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly.Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maidenLooked into Alden’s face, her eyes dilated with wonder,Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned and rendered her speechless;Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence:“If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me,Why does he not come himself and take trouble to woo me?If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!”Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter,Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy,—Had no time for such things;—such things! the words grating harshly,Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a flash she made answer:“Has he not time for such things, as you call it, before he is married,Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding?”Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla,Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding.But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language,Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival,Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with laughter,Said, in a tremulous voice, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”
So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand,Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest,Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were buildingTowns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens ofvverdure,Peaceful,vaerial cities of joy and affection and freedom.All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict,Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse.
So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow;Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of PriscillaSinging the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem,Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many.Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maidenSeated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-driftPiled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle,While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.
So he entered the house; and the hum of the wheel and the singingSuddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold,Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome,Saying, “I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage;For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning.”Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingledThus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden,Silent before her he stood.“I have been thinking all day,” said gently the Puritan maiden,“Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedgerows of England,—They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden;Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet,Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighborsGoing about as of old, and stopping to gossip together.Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion;Still my heart is so sad that I wish myself back in Old England.You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it; I almostWish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched.”
Thereupon answered the youth: “Indeed I do not condemn you;Stouter hearts than a woman’s have quailed in this terrible winter.Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on;So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriageMade by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth!”Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,—Did notvembellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases,But came straight to the point and blurted it out like a schoolboy;Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly.Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maidenLooked into Alden’s face, her eyes dilated with wonder,Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned and rendered her speechless;Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence:“If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me,Why does he not come himself and take trouble to woo me?If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!”Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter,Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy,—Had no time for such things;—such things! the words grating harshly,Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a flash she made answer:“Has he not time for such things, as you call it, before he is married,Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding?”Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla,Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding.But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language,Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival,Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with laughter,Said, in a tremulous voice, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”
With conflicting feelings of love for Priscilla and duty to his friend, Miles Standish, John Alden does not “speak for himself,” but returns to Plymouth to tell Standish the result of the interview.
Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure,From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened;How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship,Only smoothing a little and softening down her refusal.But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken,Words so tender and cruel: “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armorClanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen.All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion,E’en as a hand grenade, that scatters destruction around it.Wildly he shouted and loud: “John Alden! you have betrayed me!Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me!You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother;Henceforth let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!”So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber,Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples.But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway,Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance,Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians!Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley,Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron,Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed.Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbardGrowing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance.Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness,Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult,Lifted his eyes to the heavens and, folding his hands as in childhood,Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret.
Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure,From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened;How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship,Only smoothing a little and softening down her refusal.But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken,Words so tender and cruel: “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armorClanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen.All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion,E’en as a hand grenade, that scatters destruction around it.Wildly he shouted and loud: “John Alden! you have betrayed me!Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me!You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother;Henceforth let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!”
So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber,Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples.But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway,Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance,Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians!Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley,Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron,Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed.Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbardGrowing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance.Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness,Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult,Lifted his eyes to the heavens and, folding his hands as in childhood,Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret.
III.
A report comes to the settlement that Miles Standish has been killed in a fight with the Indians. John Alden, feeling that Standish’s death has freed him from the need of keeping his own love for Priscilla silent, woos and wins her. At last the wedding-day arrives.
This was the wedding-morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden.Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate alsoGraced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the Gospel,One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven.Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz.Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal,Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate’s presence,After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland.Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of PlymouthPrayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in affection,Speaking of life and death, and imploring Divine benedictions.Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold,Clad in armor of steel, a somber and sorrowful figure!Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition?Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder?Is it a phantom of air,—a bodiless, spectral illusion?Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal?Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed;Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expressionSoftening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them.Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent,As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention;But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction,Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazementBodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth!Grasping the bridegroom’s hand, he said with emotion, “Forgive me!I have been angry and hurt,—too long have I cherished the feeling;I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it is ended.Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish,Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error.Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden.”Thereupon answered the bridegroom: “Let all be forgotten between us,—All save the dear old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer!”Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla,Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband.Then he said with a smile: “I should have remembered the adage,—If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and, moreover,No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas!”Great was the people’s amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing,Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of their Captain,Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and crowded about him,Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom,Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other,Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewildered,He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment,Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited.Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at the doorway,Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning.Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine,Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation;But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden,Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the ocean.Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure,Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying.Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder,Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla,Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master,Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils,Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle.She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday;Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant.Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others,Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband,Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey.Onward the bridal procession now moved to the new habitation,Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together.Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors,Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended,Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree,Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley ofvEshcol.Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages,Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac,Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers,So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession.Henry W. Longfellow.
This was the wedding-morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden.Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate alsoGraced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the Gospel,One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven.Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz.Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal,Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate’s presence,After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland.Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of PlymouthPrayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in affection,Speaking of life and death, and imploring Divine benedictions.Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold,Clad in armor of steel, a somber and sorrowful figure!Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition?Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder?Is it a phantom of air,—a bodiless, spectral illusion?Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal?Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed;Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expressionSoftening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them.Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent,As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention;But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction,Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazementBodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth!
Grasping the bridegroom’s hand, he said with emotion, “Forgive me!I have been angry and hurt,—too long have I cherished the feeling;I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it is ended.Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish,Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error.Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden.”Thereupon answered the bridegroom: “Let all be forgotten between us,—All save the dear old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer!”Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla,Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband.Then he said with a smile: “I should have remembered the adage,—If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and, moreover,No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas!”
Great was the people’s amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing,Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of their Captain,Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and crowded about him,Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom,Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other,Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewildered,He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment,Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited.Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at the doorway,Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning.Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine,Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation;But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden,Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the ocean.Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure,Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying.Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder,Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla,Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master,Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils,Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle.She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday;Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant.Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others,Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband,Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey.Onward the bridal procession now moved to the new habitation,Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together.Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors,Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended,Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree,Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley ofvEshcol.Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages,Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac,Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers,So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession.Henry W. Longfellow.
HELPS TO STUDY
Miles Standish was one of the early settlers of Plymouth colony. He came over soon after the landing of theMayflowerand was made captain of the colony because of his military experience. The feeble settlement was in danger from the Indians, and Standish’s services were of great importance. He was one of the leaders of Plymouth for a number of years. Longfellow shaped the legend of his courtship into one of the most beautiful poems of American literature, vividly describing the hardships and perils of the early life of New England.
I. Where is the scene of the story laid? At what time did it begin? What is the first impression you get of Miles Standish? of John Alden? Read the lines that bring out the soldierly qualities of the one and the studious nature of the other. What lines show that Standish had fought on foreign soil? Read the lines that show John Alden’s interest in Priscilla. What request did Standish make of Alden? How was it received? Why did Alden accept the task?II. What time of the year was it? How do you know? Contrast Alden’s feelings with the scene around him. What were Priscilla’s feelings toward Alden? Quote lines that show this. How did he fulfill his task? With what question did Priscilla finally meet his eloquent appeal in behalf of his friend? How did Standish receive Alden’s report? What interruption occurred?III. What report brought about the marriage of John Alden and Priscilla? Read the lines that describe the beauty of their wedding-day. What time of year was it? How do you know? What custom was followed in the marriage ceremony? Look in the Bible for a description of the marriage of Ruth and Boaz. Find other biblical references in the poem. Who appeared at the end of the ceremony? How was he received? Contrast his mood now with the mood when he left to fight the Indians. What adage did he use to show the difference between his age and Priscilla’s? Describe the final scene of the wedding—the procession to the new home. Tell what you know of early life in Massachusetts.
I. Where is the scene of the story laid? At what time did it begin? What is the first impression you get of Miles Standish? of John Alden? Read the lines that bring out the soldierly qualities of the one and the studious nature of the other. What lines show that Standish had fought on foreign soil? Read the lines that show John Alden’s interest in Priscilla. What request did Standish make of Alden? How was it received? Why did Alden accept the task?
II. What time of the year was it? How do you know? Contrast Alden’s feelings with the scene around him. What were Priscilla’s feelings toward Alden? Quote lines that show this. How did he fulfill his task? With what question did Priscilla finally meet his eloquent appeal in behalf of his friend? How did Standish receive Alden’s report? What interruption occurred?
III. What report brought about the marriage of John Alden and Priscilla? Read the lines that describe the beauty of their wedding-day. What time of year was it? How do you know? What custom was followed in the marriage ceremony? Look in the Bible for a description of the marriage of Ruth and Boaz. Find other biblical references in the poem. Who appeared at the end of the ceremony? How was he received? Contrast his mood now with the mood when he left to fight the Indians. What adage did he use to show the difference between his age and Priscilla’s? Describe the final scene of the wedding—the procession to the new home. Tell what you know of early life in Massachusetts.
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
This story is taken from Mary Johnston’s novel,To Have and to Hold, which describes the early settlement of Virginia. The most important event of this period was the Indian massacre of 1622. For some years the whites and Indians had lived in peace, and it was believed that there would be no further trouble from the savages. However, Opechancanough, the head chief of the Powhatan confederacy, formed a plot against the white men and suddenly attacked them with great fury. Hundreds of the English settlers were slain. The author of the novel, taking the bare outline of the massacre as given in the early histories, has woven around it the graphic story of Captain Ralph Percy and his saving of the colony. Percy, unlike Miles Standish, is not a historical character.
This story is taken from Mary Johnston’s novel,To Have and to Hold, which describes the early settlement of Virginia. The most important event of this period was the Indian massacre of 1622. For some years the whites and Indians had lived in peace, and it was believed that there would be no further trouble from the savages. However, Opechancanough, the head chief of the Powhatan confederacy, formed a plot against the white men and suddenly attacked them with great fury. Hundreds of the English settlers were slain. The author of the novel, taking the bare outline of the massacre as given in the early histories, has woven around it the graphic story of Captain Ralph Percy and his saving of the colony. Percy, unlike Miles Standish, is not a historical character.
I.
A man who hath been a soldier and adventurer into far and strange countries must needs have faced Death many times and in many guises. I had learned to know that grim countenance, and to have no great fear of it. The surprise of our sudden capture by the Indians had now worn away, and I no longer struggled to loose my bonds, Indian-tied and not to be loosened.
Another slow hour and I bethought me of Diccon, my servant and companion in captivity, and spoke to him, asking him how he did. He answered from the other side of the lodge that was our prison, but the words were scarcely out of his mouth before our guard broke in upon us, commanding silence.
It was now moonlight without the lodge and very quiet. The night was far gone; already we could smell the morning, and it would come apace. Knowing the swiftness of that approach and what the early light would bring, I strove for a courage which should be the steadfastness of the Christian and not the vainglorious pride of the heathen.
Suddenly, in the first gray dawn, as at a trumpet’s call, the village awoke. From the long communal houses poured forth men, women, and children; fires sprang up, dispersing the mist, and a commotion arose through the length and breadth of the place. The women made haste with their cooking and bore maize cakes and broiled fish to the warriors, who sat on the ground in front of the royal lodge. Diccon and I were loosed, brought without, and allotted our share of the food. We ate sitting side by side with our captors, and Diccon, with a great cut across his head, even made merry.
In the usual order of things in an Indian village, the meal over, tobacco should have followed. But now not a pipe was lit, and the women made haste to take away the platters and to get all things in readiness for what was to follow. Thevwerowance of thevPaspaheghs rose to his feet, cast aside his mantle, and began to speak. He was a man in the prime of life, of a great figure, strong as avSusquehannock, and a savage cruel and crafty beyond measure. Over his breast, stainedwith strange figures, hung a chain of small bones, and the scalp locks of his enemies fringed his moccasins. No player could be more skillful in gesture and expression, no poet more nice in the choice of words, no general more quick to raise a wild enthusiasm in the soldiers to whom he called. All Indians are eloquent, but this savage was a leader among them.
He spoke now to some effect. Commencing with a day in the moon of blossoms when for the first time winged canoes brought white men into thevPowhatan, he came down through year after year to the present hour, ceased, and stood in silence, regarding his triumph. It was complete. In its wild excitement the village was ready then and there to make an end of us, who had sprung to our feet and stood with our backs against a great bay tree, facing the maddened throng. Much the best would it be for us if the tomahawks left the hands that were drawn back to throw, if the knives that were flourished in our faces should be buried to the haft in our hearts; and so we courted death, striving with word and look to infuriate our executioners to the point of forgetting their former purpose in the passion for instant vengeance. It was not to be. The werowance spoke again, pointing to the hills which were dimly seen through the mist. A moment, and the hands clenched upon the weapons fell; another, and we were upon the march.
As one man, the village swept through the forest toward the rising ground that was but a few bowshots away. The young men bounded ahead to make the preparation; but the approved warriors and the old men went more sedately, and with them walked Diccon and I, as steady of step as they. The women and children for the most part brought up the rear, though a few impatient hags ran past us. One of these women bore a great burning torch, the flame and smoke streaming over her shoulder as she ran. Others carried pieces of bark heaped with thevslivers of pine of which every wigwam has store.
The sun was yet to rise when we reached a hollow amongst the low red hills. The place was a natural amphitheater, well fitted for a spectacle. Those Indians who could not crowd into the narrow level spread themselves over the rising ground and looked down with fierce laughter upon the driving of the stakes which the young men had brought. The women and children scattered into the woods beyond the cleft between the hills and returned bearing great armfuls of dry branches. Taunting laughter, cries of savage triumph, the shaking of rattles, and the furious beating of two great drums combined to make a clamor deafening me to stupor. Above the horizon was the angry reddening of the heavens and the white mist curling up like smoke.
I sat down beside Diccon on the log. I did not speak to him, nor he to me; there seemed no need of speech.In thevpandemonium to which the world had narrowed, the one familiar, matter-of-course thing was that he and I were to die together.
The stakes were in the ground and painted red, the wood was properly fixed. The Indian woman who held the torch that was to light the pile ran past us, whirling the wood around her head to make it blaze more fiercely. As she went by she lowered the brand and slowly dragged it across my wrists. The beating of the drums suddenly ceased, and the loud voices died away.
Seeing that they were coming for us, Diccon and I rose to await them. When they were nearly upon us, I turned to him and held out my hand.
He made no motion to take it. Instead, he stood with fixed eyes looking past me and slightly upward. A sudden pallor had overspread the bronze of his face.
“There’s a verse somewhere,” he said in a quiet voice,—“it’s in the Bible, I think—I heard it once long ago: ‘I will look unto the hills from whence cometh my help.’ Look, sir!”
I turned and followed with my eyes the pointing of his finger. In front of us the bank rose steeply, bare to the summit,—no trees, only the red earth, with here and there a low growth of leafless bushes. Behind it was the eastern sky. Upon the crest, against the sunrise, stood the figure of a man—an Indian. From one shoulder hung an otterskin, and a great bow was in his hand. His limbs were bare, and as he stood motionless,bathed in the rosy light, he looked like some bronze god, perfect from the beaded moccasins to the calm, uneager face below the feathered head-dress. He had but just risen above the brow of the hill; the Indians in the hollow saw him not.
While Diccon and I stared, our tormentors were upon us. They came a dozen or more at once, and we had no weapons. Two hung on my arms, while a third laid hold of my doublet to rend it from me. An arrow whistled over our heads and stuck into a tree behind us. The hands that clutched me dropped, and with a yell the busy throng turned their faces in the direction whence had come the arrow.
The Indian who had sent that dart before him was descending the bank. An instant’s breathless hush while they stared at the solitary figure; then the dark forms bent forward for the rush straightened, and there arose a cry of recognition. “The son of Powhatan! The son of Powhatan!”
He came down the hillside to the level of the hollow, the authority of his look and gesture making way for him through the crowd that surged this way and that, and walked up to us where we stood, hemmed round but no longer in the clutch of our enemies.
“You were never more welcome, Nantaquas,” I said to him, heartily.
Taking my hand in his, the chief turned to his frowning countrymen. “Men of thevPamunkeys!” hecried, “this is Nantaquas’ friend, and so the friend of all the tribes that called Powhatan ‘father.’ The fire is not for him nor for his servant; keep it for thevMonacans and for the dogs of thevLong House! The calumet is for the friend of Nantaquas, and the dance of the maidens, the noblest buck and the best of the fish-weirs.”
There was a surging forward of the Indians and a fierce murmur of dissent. The werowance, standing out from the throng, lifted his voice. “There was a time,” he cried, “when Nantaquas was the panther crouched upon the bough above the leader of the herd; now Nantaquas is a tame panther and rolls at the white men’s feet! There was a time when the word of the son of Powhatan weighed more than the lives of many dogs such as these, but I know not why we should put out the fire at his command! He is war chief no longer, forvOpechancanough will have no tame panther to lead the tribes. Opechancanough is our head, and he kindleth a fire indeed. We will give to this man what fuel we choose, and to-night Nantaquas may look for his bones!”
He ended, and a great clamor arose. The Paspaheghs would have cast themselves upon us again but for a sudden action of the young chief, who had stood motionless, with raised hand and unmoved face, during the werowance’s bitter speech. Now he flung up his hand, and in it was a bracelet of gold, carved andtwisted like a coiled snake and set with a green stone. I had never seen the toy before, but evidently others had. The excited voices fell, and the Indians, Pamunkeys and Paspaheghs alike, stood as though turned to stone.
Nantaquas smiled coldly. “This day hath Opechancanough made me war chief again. We have smoked the peace pipe together—my father’s brother and I—in the starlight, sitting before his lodge, with the wide marshes and the river dark at our feet. Singing birds in the forest have been many; evil tales have they told; Opechancanough has stopped his ears against their false singing. My friends are his friends, my brother is his brother, my word is his word: witness the armlet that hath no like. Opechancanough is at hand; he comes through the forest with his two hundred warriors. Will you, when you lie at his feet, have him ask you, ‘Where is the friend of my friend, of my war chief?’”
There came a long, deep breath from the Indians, then a silence in which they fell back, slowly and sullenly—whipped hounds but with the will to break that leash of fear.
“Hark!” said Nantaquas, smiling. “I hear Opechancanough and his warriors coming over the leaves.”
The noise of many footsteps was indeed audible, coming toward the hollow from the woods beyond. With a burst of cries, the priests and the conjurerwhirled away to bear the welcome of Okee to the royal worshipper, and at their heels went the chief men of the Pamunkeys. The werowance of the Paspaheghs was one that sailed with the wind; he listened to the deepening sound and glanced at the son of Powhatan where he stood, calm and confident, then smoothed his own countenance and made a most pacific speech, in which all the blame of the late proceedings was laid upon the singing birds. When he had done speaking, the young men tore the stakes from the earth and threw them into a thicket, while the women plucked apart the newly kindled fire and flung the brands into a little nearby stream, where they went out in a cloud of hissing steam.
I turned to the Indian who had wrought this miracle. “Art sure it is not a dream, Nantaquas? I think that Opechancanough would not lift a finger to save me from all the deaths the tribes could invent.”
“Opechancanough is very wise,” he answered quietly. “He says that now the English will believe in his love indeed when they see that he holds dear even one who might be called his enemy, who hath spoken against him at the Englishmen’s council fire. He says that for five suns Captain Percy shall feast with him, and then shall go back free to Jamestown. He thinks that then Captain Percy will not speak against him any more, calling his love to the white men only words with no good deeds behind.”
He spoke simply, out of the nobility of his nature, believing his own speech. I that was older, and had more knowledge of men and the masks they wear, was but half deceived. My belief in the hatred of the dark emperor was not shaken, and I looked yet to find the drop of poison within this honey flower. How poisoned was that bloom, God knows I could not guess!
By this time we three were alone in the hollow, for all the savages, men and women, had gone forth to meet the Indian whose word was law from the falls of the far west to the Chesapeake. The sun now rode above the low hills, pouring its gold into the hollow and brightening all the world besides. A chant raised by the Indians grew nearer, and the rustling of the leaves beneath many feet more loud and deep; then all noise ceased and Opechancanough entered the hollow alone. An eagle feather was thrust through his scalp lock; over his naked breast, which was neither painted nor pricked into strange figures, hung a triple row of pearls; his mantle was woven of bluebird feathers, as soft and sleek as satin. The face of this barbarian was as dark, cold, and impassive as death. Behind that changeless mask, as in a safe retreat, the subtle devil that was the man might plot destruction and plan the laying of dreadful mines.
I stepped forward and met him on the spot where the fire had been. For a minute neither spoke. It was true that I had striven against him many a time, andI knew that he knew it. It was also true that without his aid Nantaquas could not have rescued us from that dire peril. And it was again the truth that an Indian neither forgives nor forgets. He was my saviour, and I knew that mercy had been shown for some dark reason which I could not divine. Yet I owed him thanks and gave them as shortly and simply as I could.
He heard me out with neither liking nor disliking nor any other emotion written upon his face; but when I had finished, as though he had suddenly bethought himself, he smiled and held out his hand, white-man fashion.
“Singing birds have lied to Captain Percy,” he said. “Opechancanough thinks that Captain Percy will never listen to them again. The chief of the Powhatans is a lover of the white men, of the English, and of other white men. He would call the Englishmen his brothers and be taught of them how to rule and to whom to pray”—
“Let Opechancanough go with me to Jamestown,” I replied. “He hath the wisdom of the woods; let him come and gain that of the town.”
The emperor smiled again. “I will come to Jamestown soon, but not to-day or to-morrow or the next day. And Captain Percy must smoke the peace pipe in my lodge above the Pamunkey and watch my young men and maidens dance, and eat with me five days. Then he may go back to Jamestown with presents for thegreat white father there and with a message from me that I am coming soon to learn of the white man.”
For five days I tarried in the great chief’s lodge in his own village above the marshes of the Pamunkey. I will allow that the dark emperor to whom we were so much beholden gave us courteous keeping. The best of the hunt was ours, the noblest fish, the most delicate roots. We were alive and sound of limb, well treated and with the promise of release; we might have waited, seeing that wait we must, in some measure of content. We did not so. There was a horror in the air. From the marshes that were growing green, from the sluggish river, from the rotting leaves and cold black earth and naked forest, it rose like anvexhalation. We knew not what it was, but we breathed it in, and it went to the marrow of our bones.
The savage emperor we rarely saw, though we were bestowed so near to him that his sentinels served for ours. Like some god, he kept within his lodge, the hanging mats between him and the world without. At other times, issuing from that retirement, he would stride away into the forest. Picked men went with him, and they were gone for hours; but when they returned they bore no trophies, brute or human. What they did we could not guess. If escape had been possible, we would not have awaited the doubtful fulfillment of the promise made us. But the vigilance of the Indians never slept; they watched us like hawks, night and day.
In the early morning of the fifth day, when we came from our wigwam, it was to find Nantaquas sitting by the fire, magnificent in the paint and trappings of the ambassador, motionless as a piece of bronze and apparently quite unmindful of the admiring glances of the women who knelt about the fire preparing our breakfast. When he saw us he rose and came to meet us, and I embraced him, I was so glad to see him.
“The Rappahannocks feasted me long,” he said. “I was afraid that Captain Percy would be gone to Jamestown before I was back on the Pamunkey.”
“Shall I ever see Jamestown again, Nantaquas?” I demanded. “I have my doubts.”
He looked me full in the eyes, and there was no doubting the candor of his own. “You go with the next sunrise,” he answered. “Opechancanough has given me his word.”
“I am glad to hear it,” I said. “Why have we been kept at all? Why did he not free us five days agone?”
He shook his head. “I do not know. Opechancanough has many thoughts which he shares with no man. But now he will send you with presents for the governor, and with messages of his love for the white men. There will be a great feast to-day, and to-night the young men and maidens will dance before you. Then in the morning you will go.”
When we had sat by the fire for an hour, the old men and the warriors came to visit us, and the smokingbegan. The women laid mats in a great half circle, and each savage took his seat with perfect breeding: that is, in absolute silence and with a face like a stone. The peace paint was upon them all—red, or red and white—and they sat and looked at the ground until I had made the speech of welcome. Soon the air was dense with fragrant smoke; in the thick blue haze the sweep of painted figures had the seeming of some fantastic dream. An old man arose and made a long and touching speech, with much reference to calumets and buried hatchets. Then they waited for my contribution of honeyed words. The Pamunkeys, living at a distance from the settlements, had but little English, and the learning of the Paspaheghs was not much greater. I repeated to them the better part of a canto of Master Spenser’sFaery Queen, after which I told them the moving story of the Moor of Venice. It answered the purpose to admiration.
The day wore on, with relay after relay of food, which we must taste at least, with endless smoking of pipes and speeches which must be listened to and answered. When evening came and our entertainers drew off to prepare for the dance, they left us as wearied as by a long day’s march.
Suddenly, as we sat staring at the fire, we were beset by a band of maidens, coming out of the woods, painted, with antlers upon their heads and pine branches in their hands. They danced about us, now advancinguntil the green needles met above our heads, now retreating until there was a space of turf between us. They moved with grace, keeping time to a plaintive song, now raised by the whole choir, now fallen to a single voice.
The Indian girls danced more and more swiftly, and their song changed, becoming gay and shrill and sweet. Higher and higher rang the notes, faster and faster moved the dark feet; then quite suddenly song and motion ceased together. From the darkness now came a burst of savage cries only less appalling than the war whoop itself. In a moment the men of the village had rushed from the shadow of the trees into the broad, firelit space before us. They circled around us, then around the fire; now each man danced and stamped and muttered to himself. For the most part they were painted red, but some were white from head to heel—statues come to life—while others had first oiled their bodies, then plastered them over with small, bright-colored feathers.
Diccon and I watched that uncouth spectacle, that Virginianvmasque, as we had watched many another one, with disgust and weariness. It would last, we knew, for the better part of the night. For a time we must stay and testify our pleasure, but after a while we might retire, and leave the women and children the sole spectators. They never wearied of gazing at the rhythmic movement.
I observed that among the ranks of the women one girl watched not the dancers but us. Now and then she glanced impatiently at the wheeling figures, but her eyes always returned to us. At length I became aware that she must have some message to deliver or warning to give. Once when I made a slight motion as if to go to her, she shook her head and laid her finger on her lips.
Presently I rose and, making my way to the werowance of the village, where he sat with his eyes fixed on the spectacle, told him that I was wearied and would go to my hut, to rest for the few hours that yet remained of the night. He listened dreamily, but made no offer to escort me. After a moment he acquiesced in my departure, and Diccon and I quietly left the press of savages and began to cross the firelit turf between them and our lodge. When we had reached its entrance, we paused and looked back to the throng we had left. Every back seemed turned to us, every eye intent upon the leaping figures. Swiftly and silently we walked across the bit of even ground to the friendly trees and found ourselves in a thin strip of shadow. Beneath the trees, waiting for us, was the Indian maid. She would not speak or tarry, but flitted before us as dusk and noiseless as a moth, and we followed her into the darkness beyond the firelight. Here a wigwam rose in our path; the girl, holding aside the mats that covered the entrance, motioned to us to enter.A fire was burning within the lodge and it showed us Nantaquas standing with folded arms.
“Nantaquas!” I exclaimed, and would have touched him but that with a slight motion of his hand he kept me back.
“Well!” I asked at last. “What is the matter, my friend?”
For a full minute he made no answer, and when he did speak his voice matched his strained and troubled features.
“Myfriend,” he said, “I am going to show myself a friend indeed to the English, to the strangers who were not content with their own hunting-grounds beyond the great salt water. When I have done this, I do not know that Captain Percy will call me ‘friend’.”
“You were wont to speak plainly, Nantaquas,” I answered him. “I am not fond of riddles.”
Again he waited, as though he found speech difficult. I stared at him in amazement, he was so changed in so short a time.
He spoke at last: “When the dance is over and the fires are low and the sunrise is at hand, Opechancanough will come to you to bid you farewell. He will give you the pearls he wears about his neck for a present to the governor and a bracelet for yourself. Also he will give you three men for a guard through the forest. He has messages of love to send the white men, and he would send them by you who were hisenemy and his captive. So all the white men shall believe in his love.”
“Well!” I said drily as he paused. “I will bear the messages. What next?”
“Your guards will take you slowly through the forest, stopping to eat and sleep. For them there is no need to run like the stag with the hunter behind it.”
“Then we should make for Jamestown as for life,” I said, “not sleeping or eating or making pause?”
“Yes,” he replied, “if you would not die, you and all your people.”
In the silence of the hut the fire crackled, and the branches of the trees outside, bent by the wind, made a grating sound against the bark roof.
“How die?” I asked at last. “Speak out!”
“Die by the arrow and the tomahawk,” he answered,—“yea, and by the guns you have given the red men. To-morrow’s sun, and the next, and the next—three suns—and the tribes will fall upon the English. At the same hour, when the men are in the fields and the women and children are in the houses, they will strike—all the tribes, as one man; and from where the Powhatan falls over the rocks to the salt water beyond Accomac, there will not be one white man left alive.”
He ceased to speak, and for a minute the fire made the only sound in the hut. Then I asked, “All die? There are three thousand Englishmen in Virginia.”
“They are scattered and unwarned. The fighting men of the villages of the Powhatan and the Pamunkey and the great bay are many, and they have sharpened their hatchets and filled their quivers with arrows.”
“Scattered!” I cried. “Strewn broadcast up and down the river—here a lonely house, there a cluster of two or three—the men in the fields or at the wharves, the women and children busy within doors, allunwarned!”
I leaned against the side of the hut, for my heart beat like a frightened woman’s. “Three days!” I exclaimed. “If we go with all our speed, we shall be in time. When did you learn this thing?”
“While you watched the dance,” the Indian answered, “Opechancanough and I sat within his lodge in the darkness. His heart was moved, and he talked to me of his own youth in a strange country, south of the sunset. Also he spoke to me of Powhatan, my father—of how wise he was and how great a chief before the English came, and how he hated them. And then—then I heard what I have told you!”
“How long has this been planned?”
“For many moons. I have been a child, fooled and turned aside from the trail; not wise enough to see it beneath the flowers, through the smoke of the peace pipes.”
“Why does Opechancanough send us back to the settlements?” I demanded.
“It is his fancy. Every hunter and trader and learner of our tongues, living in the villages or straying in the woods, has been sent back to Jamestown or his home with presents and fair words. You will lull the English in Jamestown into a faith in the smiling sky just before the storm bursts on them in fullest fury.”
There was a pause.
“Nantaquas,” I said, “you are not the first child of Powhatan who has loved and shielded the white men.”
“Pocahontas was a woman, a child,” he answered. “Out of pity she saved your lives, not knowing that it was to the hurt of her people. Then you were few and weak and could not take your revenge. Now, if you die not, you will drink deep of vengeance—so deep that your lips may never leave the cup. More ships will come, and more; you will grow ever stronger. There may come a moon when the deep forests and the shining rivers will know us, to whomvKiwassa gave them, no more.”
“You will be with your people in the war?” I asked.
“I am an Indian,” was his simple reply.
“Come against us if you will,” I returned. “Nobly warned, fair upon our guard, we will meet you as knightly foe should be met.”
Very slowly he raised his arm from his side andheld out his hand. His eyes met mine in somber inquiry, half eager, half proudly doubtful. I went to him at once and took his hand in mine. No word was spoken. Presently he withdrew his hand from my clasp, and, putting his finger to his lips, whistled low to the Indian girl. She drew aside the mats, and we passed out, Diccon and I, leaving him standing as we had found him, upright against the post, in the red firelight.
Should we ever go through the woods, pass through that gathering storm, reach Jamestown, warn them there of the death that was rushing upon them? Should we ever leave that hated village? Would the morning ever come? It was an alarm that was sounding, and there were only two to hear; miles away beneath the mute stars English men and women lay asleep, with the hour thundering at their gates, and there was none to cry, “Awake!” I could have cried out in that agony of waiting, with the leagues on leagues to be traveled and the time so short! I saw, in my mind’s eye, the dark warriors gathering, tribe on tribe, war party on war party, thick crowding shadows of death, slipping through the silent forest ... and in the clearings the women and children!
It came to an end, as all things earthly will. When the ruffled pools amid the marshes were rosy red beneath the sunrise, the women brought us food, and the warriors and old men gathered about us. I offeredthem bread and meat and told them that they must come to Jamestown to taste the white man’s cookery.
Scarcely was the meal over when Opechancanough issued from his lodge, and, coming slowly up to us, took his seat upon the white mat that was spread for him. Through his scalp lock was stuck an eagle’s feather; across his face, from temple to chin, was a bar of red paint; the eyes above were very bright and watchful.
One of his young men brought a great pipe, carved and painted, stem and bowl; it was filled with tobacco, lit, and borne to the emperor. He put it to his lips and smoked in silence, while the sun climbed higher and higher and the golden minutes that were more precious than heart’s blood went by swiftly.
At last, his part in the solemn mockery played, he held out the pipe to me.
“The sky will fall, and the rivers will run dry, and the birds cease to sing,” he said, “before the smoke of this peace-pipe fades from the land.”
I took the symbol of peace and smoked it as silently and soberly as he had done before me, then laid it leisurely aside and held out my hand.
“Come to Jamestown,” I said, “to smoke of the Englishman’s pipe and receive rich presents—a red robe like your brother Powhatan, and a cup from which you shall drink, you and all your people.”
But the cup I meant was that of punishment.
The savage laid his dark fingers in mine for an instant, withdrew them, and, rising to his feet, motioned to three Indians who stood out from the throng of warriors.
“These are Captain Percy’s guides and friends,” he announced. “The sun is high; it is time that he was gone. Here are presents for him and my brother the governor.” As he spoke, he took from his neck the rope of pearls and from his arm a copper bracelet, and laid both upon my palm.
“Thank you, Opechancanough,” I said briefly. “When we meet again I will not greet you with empty thanks.”
We bade farewell to the noisy throng and went down to the river, where we found a canoe and rowers, crossed the stream, and entered the forest, which stretched black and forbidding before us—the blacker that we now knew the dreadful secret it guarded.
II