c203CHAPTER III.AN ARRIVAL AT MOOSHANNE.—A CALM ASHORE AFTER A STORM AT SEA.While the events, narrated in the preceding chapter, were occurring in the Western wilderness, the family at Mooshanne had been thrown into a state of the greatest dismay and confusion, by the arrival of Captain L’Estrange’s firstletter announcing the flight of Ethelston with his daughter, and depicting his conduct in the blackest colours. Colonel Brandon had perused its contents half a dozen times, and they had produced traces of anxiety upon his countenance, too evident to escape the observation of Lucy, so that he was obliged to break to her by degrees the painful intelligence of her lover’s infidelity: with a calmness that surprised him, she insisted on reading the letter; as she proceeded her brow crimsoned with indignation, and those blue eyes, usually beaming with the gentlest expression, flashed with an angry lustre.Colonel Brandon knew full well the affection she had long conceived for Ethelston, and though his own feelings were deeply wounded by the misconduct of one whom he had loved and trusted as a son, they were at present overpowered by the fears which he entertained of the effect which this unexpected blow might produce on Lucy’s health and happiness. He was, therefore, relieved by observing the anger expressed on her countenance, and prepared himself to hear the deserved reproaches on her former lover, which seemed ready to burst from her tongue. What was his surprise when he saw her tear the letter in pieces before his face, and heard her, while she set her pretty little foot upon them, exclaim,“Dear, dear father, how could you for a moment believe such a tale of vile, atrocious falsehood?”However disinclined the Colonel might be to believe any thing to the disadvantage of Ethelston, there was so much circumstantial evidence to condemn him, that he felt it his duty to prepare his child for the worst at once, and to point out to her how they already knew that Ethelston had been wounded and conveyed to the house of L’Estrange, that his long absence was unexplained, and lastly that the character of the French commodore, as an officer, and a man of honour, was unimpeached.Lucy heard him to the end; the glow on her cheek assumed a warmer hue, and the little foot beat with a nervous and scarcely perceptible motion on the floor, as she replied, “Father I will believe that the letter is a forgery, or that the French officer, or commodore, or admiral, is a madman, but never that Ethelston is a villain.”“My dear Lucy,” said the Colonel, “I am almost as unwillingto think ill of Ethelston as you can be yourself; but alas! I have seen more than you of the inconstancy of men; and I know, too well, that many who have enjoyed a good reputation have yet been found unable to withstand temptation, such as may have beset Ethelston while an inmate of the same house with the Creole beauty—““Dear father,” answered Lucy, colouring yet more deeply; “though it were possible that Ethelston, in the presence of greater attractions, may have yielded to them his affections, and withdrawn them from one who had hoped to possess and treasure them for life,—though this may be possible, it is not possible that he should be guilty of a violation of the laws of hospitality and honour, such as that slanderous paper lays to his charge. Promise me, dearest father, to suspend your belief, and never to speak on this subject again, until it is God’s pleasure that the truth shall be brought to light.”“I promise you, my sweet child,” said her father; “and may that merciful Being grant that your trust be not disappointed!”“I have no fears,” said Lucy; and, as she spoke, her eyes beamed with that full undoubting love such as can only be felt by one who has never known what it is to deceive or to be deceived.Days and weeks passed on without any intelligence of Ethelston; and while the fears of Colonel Brandon became more confirmed, the agony of suspense and the sickness of deferred hope began to prey upon the spirits of his daughter: she never alluded to the forbidden subject; but her nervous anxiety, when the weekly letter–bag was opened, clearly showed that it was ever in her mind: nevertheless she continued her occasional excursions to Marietta, and visited, as usual, those around Mooshanne who were sick or in distress; so that neither her mother nor Aunt Mary detected the anxiety by which she was tortured. One evening, half an hour before sunset, as the family party were seated at their simple supper, the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard approaching at full speed, from which the rider dismounted, and, lifting the latch of the unlocked door, entered the house. Traversing the vestibule with hasty strides, and apparently guided by instinct to the apartment in which the family were assembled, he threw open the door, and Ethelston stood before the astonished party. Hiscountenance was haggard from fatigue and exposure to the sun, and his whole appearance indicated exhaustion. Lucy turned deadly pale, and Colonel Brandon’s constrained manner, as he rose from his chair, must have convinced the new comer that his return was productive of other feelings than those of unmingled pleasure. He was moving, however, a few steps forward to pay his first respects to Mrs. Brandon, when the Colonel, touching him lightly on the arm, said, “Mr. Ethelston, I must crave a few words with you in the adjoining room.”Hitherto Lucy had remained silent, with her eyes fixed intently on Ethelston’s countenance; he returned her look with one as long and fixed: the expression of his eyes was mournful, rather than joyous, but there was no trace of uneasiness or of shame. Springing from her seat, she placed her hand imploringly on the Colonel’s arm saying,“Dear father, I told you so from the first,—I knew it always—I read it now plain as the sun in heaven,—that vile letterwasa string of falsehoods;—he is returned as he left us, with an untarnished honour.”“Thank you, dear Lucy,” said Ethelston, advancing and pressing her extended hands to his lips: “blessings on that trusting affection which has rendered it impossible for you to believe aught to the prejudice of one on whom you have deigned to fix it. Colonel Brandon,” he continued, “I can guess how you have been misled, and appearances were for a short time so much against me, that I acquit of all intentional malice those who have misled you. Judge for yourself whether, if I were stained by the crime of which I have been accused, I could now ask, on my bended knee, for the blessing of you, my second father, and thus hold in mine, as I dare to do, the hand of your pure, trusting, and beloved child.”There was a truth in every tone of his voice, and a convincing dignity in his manner, that swept away all doubts like a torrent. The Colonel embraced him with cordial affection; Aunt Mary kissed her favourite nephew over and over again; Mrs. Brandon wept tears of joy on his neck; and Lucy was so overpowered by delight, that she was perhaps scarcely conscious of all that passed around.After they were in some degree recovered from their emotion,and had pressed Ethelston to take some refreshment, he said to the Colonel, “Now I am prepared to give you an account of my adventures, and to explain those circumstances that led to the misunderstanding under which you have so long laboured.”“Not a word—not a word will I hear of explanation to–night, my dear boy,” replied the Colonel. “I am already ashamed that I have not shown the same undoubting confidence in your rectitude, both of purpose and conduct, that has been evinced from first to last by Lucy. You are weary and exhausted; the agitation of this scene has been trying to all of us; we will defer your narrative until to–morrow. Our first duty this evening is to return our thanks to Providence for having protected you through all danger, and restored you safe to the comforts of home.”As he spoke, the worthy old gentleman took down a Bible from the shelf; and having desired Lucy to summon all the servants into the room, he read an appropriate chapter, and added to the selected prayer for the evening a few impressive and affecting words of thanksgiving, for the safe return of the long–lost member of the family.This duty was scarcely concluded, when the outer door was violently opened; a heavy step was heard approaching, and, without waiting to be admitted or announced, the sturdy figure of Gregson entered the room.“The captain himself, as I live!” said the honest mate. “Beg pardon, Colonel Brandon, but I heard a report of his having been seen going ten knots an hour through Marietta. So up I sticks, made sail, and was in his wake in less time than our nigger cook takes to toss off a glass of grog.”“Give me your hand, Gregson,” said Ethelston, kindly; “there is not a truer nor an honester one between Marietta and China.”“Thank ye, thank ye, captain,” said the mate, giving him a squeeze that would have broken the knuckles of any hand but a sailor’s; “the flipper’s well enough in its way, and I trust the heart’s somewhere about the right place; but what the devil have they been at with you in Guadaloupe?” added he, observing his chief’s wearied and wasted appearance; “considering how long those rascally Frenchmenhave had you in dock, they’ve sent you to sea in precious state, both as to hull and rigging.”“I confess, I am not over ship–shape,” said Ethelston, laughing; “but my present condition is more owing to the fatigues of my tedious journey from New Orleans than to any neglect on the part of the Frenchmen.”The Colonel now invited the worthy mate to be seated; and Lucy brewed for him, with her own fair fingers a large tumbler of toddy, into which, by her father’s desire, she poured an extra glass of rum. Ethelston, pretending to be jealous of this favour, insisted on his right to a draught, containing less potent ingredients, but administered by the same hand; and an animated conversation ensued, in the course of which Gregson inquired after the welfare of his old friend Cupid, the black cook.“Poor fellow, he is no more,” replied Ethelston, in a tone of deep feeling; “he died as he had lived, proud, brave, faithful to the last. I cannot tell you the story now, it is too sad a one for this our first evening at home:” as he spoke, his eyes met those of Lucy, and there he read all that his overcharged heart desired to know.Soon after the allusion to this melancholy incident, the little party broke up; the evening being already far advanced, Gregson returned to Marietta, and the members of the Colonel’s family retired to their respective apartments, leaving Ethelston alone in the drawing–room. For a few minutes he walked up and down, and pressed his hand upon his forehead, which throbbed with various and deep emotions. He took up the music whereon Lucy had written her name, and the needlework on which her fingers had been employed: he sat down on the chair she had just left, as if to satisfy himself with the assurance that all around him was not a dream; and again he vented the full gratitude of his heart in a brief but earnest ejaculation of thanksgiving. After a short indulgence in such meditations, he retired to that rest of which he stood so much in need. The room that had been prepared for him was up stairs, and, on crossing a broad passage that led to it, he suddenly met Lucy, who was returning to her own from her mother’s apartment. Whether this meeting was purely accidental, or whether Lucy, remembering that she had not said good–night quite distinctly to her lover, lingered in hermother’s room until she heard his step on the stair, we have no means of ascertaining, and therefore leave it undecided: certain it is, however, that they did meet in the passage above mentioned, and that Ethelston, putting down his candle on a table that stood by, took Lucy’s unresisting hand and pressed it in his own: he gazed on her blushing countenance with an intensity that can only be understood by those who, like him, have been suddenly restored to a beloved one, whose image had been ever present during a long absence, assuaging the pain of sickness, comforting him in trials, dwelling with him in the solitude of a prison, and sustaining him in the extremest perils of the storm, the fight, and the shipwreck! Though he had never been formally betrothed to her in words, and though his heart was now too full to give utterance to them, he had heard enough below to satisfy him that she had never doubted his faith—he felt that their troth was tacitly plighted to each other, and now it was almost unconsciously that their lips met and sealed the unspoken contract.That first, long, passionate kiss of requited love! Its raptures have been the theme of glowing prose, of impassioned verse, in all ages and climes; the powers of language have been exhausted upon it, the tongue and the pen of genius have, for centuries, borrowed for its description the warmest hues of fancy and imagination—and yet how far short do they fall of the reality! how impossible to express in words an electric torrent of feeling, more tumultuous than joy, more burning than the desert’s thirst,—yet sweeter and more delicious than childhood’s dream of Paradise, pouring over the heart a stream of bliss, steeping the senses in oblivion of all earthly cares, and so mysteriously blending the physical with the immaterial elements of our nature, that we feel as if, in that embrace, we could transfuse a portion of our soul and spirit into the beloved object on whose lip that first kiss of long–treasured love is imprinted.Brief and fleeting moments! they are gone almost before the mind is conscious of them! They could not, indeed, be otherwise than brief, for the agony of joy is like that of pain, and exhausted nature would sink under its continued excess. Precious moments, indeed! to none can they be known more than once in life; to very many, they can never be known at all. They can neither be felt nor imagined by the mereworldling, nor the sensualist; the sources of that stream of bliss must be unadulterated by aught low, or selfish; it is not enough that“Heart and soul and sense in concert move:”desire must go hand in hand with purity, and virtue be the handmaid of passion, or the blissful scene will lose its fairest and brightest hues.The step of some servant was heard approaching; and Lucy, uttering a hasty good–night, returned to her room, where she bolted her door, and gave herself up to the varied emotions by which she was overcome. Tears bedewed her eyes, but they were not tears of grief; her bosom was agitated, but it was not the agitation of sorrow; her pillow was sleepless, but she courted not slumber, for her mind dwelt on the events of the past day; and gratitude for her lover’s return, together with the full assurance of his untarnished honour, and undiminished affection, rendered her waking thoughts sweeter than any that sleep could have borrowed from the land of dreams.On the following morning, after breakfast, when the family were assembled in the library, Ethelston, at the request of Colonel Brandon, commenced the narrative of his adventures. As the reader is already acquainted with them, until the closing scene of poor Nina’s life, we shall make mention of that part of his tale no further than to state that, so far as truth would permit, in all that he told, as well as all that he forbore to tell, he feelingly endeavoured to shield her memory from blame; the sequel of his story we shall give in his own words.“I remained only a few days with L’Estrange after his daughter’s death; during which time I used my best endeavours to console him; but, in spite of the affectionate kindness which he showed me, I felt that my presence must ever recall and refresh the remembrance of his bereavement, and I was much relieved when the arrival of one of his other married daughters, with her family, gave me an excuse and an opportunity for withdrawing from Guadaloupe. The vessel which had brought them from Jamaica proposed to return immediately, and I easily obtained L’Estrange’s permission to sail with her, only on the condition of not serving against Franceduring the continuance of these hostilities: when I bade him farewell he was much affected, and embraced me as if he were parting with a son; so I have at least the melancholy satisfaction of knowing that I retain his best wishes and his esteem.“My voyage to Port Royal was prosperous. On arriving I found a brig laden with fruit, just about to sail in a few days for New Orleans. I confess I did not much like the appearance either of the vessel or her commander; but such was my impatience to return to Mooshanne, that I believe I would have risked the voyage in an open boat.” Here Ethelston looked at Lucy, on whose countenance a blushing smile showed that she well knew the meaning of his words. “I embarked,” continued he, “accompanied by my faithful Cupid, on board the Dos Amigos: the captain was an ignorant rum–drinking Creole; besides himself there was only one white man in the crew, and the coloured men were from all countries and climates, the most reckless and turbulent gang that I had ever seen on board a ship. During the first half of the voyage, the weather being favourable, we crept along the southern coast of Cuba, and passed almost within sight of the Isla de Pinos, which I had so much cause to remember; thence we steered a north–westerly course, and doubled the Cape of Saint Antonio in safety, whence we had a prospect of a fair run to the Belise; but, two days after we had lost sight of the Cuban coast, it came on to blow a gale of wind, which gradually increased until it became almost a hurricane from the south–west.“The brig drove helplessly before it; and from her leaky and shattered condition, as well as from the total want of seamanship exhibited by her drunken captain, I hourly expected that she would founder at sea: for twenty–four hours the gale continued with unabated violence, and the weather was so thick that no object could be discerned at two hundred yards’ distance. I remained constantly on deck, giving such assistance as I could render, and endeavouring to keep the captain’s lips from the rum–bottle, to which he had more frequent recourse as the danger became more imminent. Being at length wearied out, I threw myself in my clothes on my cot, and soon fell asleep. I know not how long I slept; but I was awakened by a violent shock, accompanied by a grating, grinding sound, from which I knew in an instant that the brig had struck ona rock. Almost before I had time to spring from my cot, Cupid dashed into the cabin, and, seizing me with the force of a giant, dragged me on deck. At this moment the foremast fell with a tremendous crash, and a heavy sea swept over the devoted vessel, carrying away the boat, all loose spars, and many of the crew. Cupid and I held on by the main rigging, and were not swept away; but wave after wave succeeded each other with resistless fury, and in a few moments we were both struggling, half stunned and exhausted, in the abyss of waters, holding on convulsively to a large hencoop, which had providentially been thrown between us.“One wild shriek of despair reached my ear, after which nothing was heard but the tumultuous roar of the angry elements.”At this part of Ethelston’s narrative, Lucy covered her face with her hands, as if she would thereby shut out the dreadful view, and in spite of all her struggle for self–command, a tear stole down her colourless cheek.“It was, indeed, a fearful moment,” he continued, “and yet I did not feel deserted by hope; I was prepared for death, I prayed fervently, and I felt that my prayer was not unheard; even then, in that strife of foaming sea and roaring blast, God sent the vision of an angel to comfort and sustain me! It wore the form of one who has ever dwelt in my thoughts by day, and in my dreams by night; who seemed as near to me then, as she does now that her gentle tears are flowing at this recital of my trials.”While speaking the last words, his low voice trembled until it fell into a whisper, and Lucy, overcome by her feelings, would have fallen from her chair, had not his ready arm supported her. A dead silence reigned in the room; Aunt Mary wept aloud, and Colonel Brandon walked to the window to conceal his emotion. After a few minutes, as he turned again towards them, Ethelston, who still supported Lucy, beckoned him to approach, and, addressing him in a tone of deep and earnest feeling, said,“Colonel Brandon, my guardian, friend, and benefactor; add yet this one to all your former benefits, and my cup of gratitude will be full indeed:” as he spoke he took the unresisting hand of Lucy in his own: the Colonel looked inquiringly and affectionately at his daughter, who did not speak, butraised her tearful eyes to his, with an expression not to be misunderstood. Pressing their united hands between his own, and kissing Lucy’s forehead, he whispered,“God bless you, my children:” after a pause he added, with a suppressed smile, “Ethelston shall finish his narrative presently;” and, taking Aunt Mary’s arm, he left the room.We will imitate the Colonel’s discretion, and forbear to intrude upon the sacred quiet of a scene where the secret, long–cherished love of two overflowing hearts was at length unreservedly interchanged; we need only say that ere the Colonel returned with Aunt Mary, after an absence of half an hour, Lucy’s tears were dried, and her cheeks were suffused with a mantling blush, as she sprung into her father’s arms, and held him in a long and silent embrace.“Come, my child,” said the Colonel, when he had returned her affectionate caress: “sit down, and let us hear the conclusion of Ethelston’s adventures—we left him in a perilous plight, and I am anxious to hear how he escaped from it.”“Not without much suffering, both of mind and body, my dear sir,” continued Ethelston in a serious tone of voice; “for the sea dashed to and fro with such violence the frail basket–work to which Cupid and I were clinging, that more than once I was almost forced to quit my hold, and it was soon evident that its buoyant power was not sufficient to save us both, especially as Cupid’s bulk and weight were commensurate with his gigantic strength. His coolness under these trying circumstances was remarkable: observing that I was almost fainting from the effects of a severe blow on the head from a floating piece of the wreck, he poured into my mouth some rum from a small flask that he had contrived to secure, and then replacing the stopper, he thrust the flask into my breast pocket, saying, ‘Capt’n drink more when he want:’ at this moment a large spar from the wreck was driven past us, and the faithful creature said, ‘Capt’n, hencoop not big enough for two, Cupid swim and take spar to ride;’ and, ere I could stop him, he loosed his hold and plunged into the huge wave to seize the spar: more I could not see, for the spray dashed over me, and the gloom and the breakers hid him in a moment from my sight. I felt my strength failing, but enough remained for me to loose a strong silk kerchief from my neck, and to lash myself firmly to the hencoop. Againand again the wild sea broke over me; I felt a tremendous and stunning blow—as I thought, the last, and I was no more conscious of what passed around.“When I recovered my senses, I found myself lying upon some soft branches, and sheltered by low bushes, a few hundred yards from the sea–beach; two strange men were standing near me, and gave evident signs of satisfaction when they saw my first attempts at speech and motion; they made me swallow several morsels of sea–biscuit steeped in rum, and I was soon so far restored as to be able to sit up, and to learn the particulars of my situation. The island near which the brig had been wrecked, was one of the Tortugas; the two men who had carried me up to a dry spot from the beach, belonged to a small fishing–craft, which had put in two days before the hurricane for a supply of water and in hopes of catching turtle. Their vessel was securely moored in a little natural harbour, protected by the outer ledge of rocks: the reef on which the brig had struck was upwards of a mile from the spot where they had found me; and I could not learn from them that they had seen any portion of her wreck, or any part of her crew, alive or dead.“As soon as my bruised condition permitted me to drag my limbs along, I commenced a careful search along the low rocky shore, in hopes of learning something of the fate of Cupid, and at length was horrified on discovering the mutilated remains of the faithful creature, among some crevices in the rocks. He had clung to the spar which still lay beside him with the pertinacious strength of despair: his hands and limbs were dreadfully mangled, and his skull fractured by the violence with which he had been driven on the reef. I remembered how he had resigned the hencoop to save my life; and the grief that I evinced for his loss moved the compassion of the fishermen, who aided me to bury him decently on the island.“We remained there two days longer, until the gale had subsided, during which time I frequently visited poor Cupid’s grave; and though many of our countrymen would be ashamed of owning such regret for one of his colour, I confess that when on that lonely spot I called to mind his faithful services, and his last noble act of generous courage, I mourned him as a friend and brother.“When the fishing–smack put to sea, I prevailed on her captain to visit the reef where the brig had struck; but we found not a spar nor plank remaining; nor am I to this moment aware whether any others of her crew survived the wreck; but it is more than probable that they perished to a man. Upon the promise of a considerable sum of money, I prevailed upon the fishermen to give me a passage to New Orleans, where we arrived without accident or adventure, and my impatience to reach home only permitted me to stay in that city a few hours, when, having provided myself with a horse, I rode on hither by forced marches, and arrived in the travel–worn condition that you observed yesterday.”c204CHAPTER IV.AN ELK–HUNT.—REGINALD MAKES HIS FIRST ESSAY IN SURGERY.—THE READER IS ADMITTED INTO PRAIRIE–BIRD’S TENT.We left Reginald Brandon in the skirt of the forest bounding the Western Prairie, accompanied by Wingenund and War–Eagle. The latter, having taken the lead, conducted his companions through a considerable extent of ground, covered with bushes of alder and scrub–oak, until they reached an open forest glade, where the Indian pointed out to Reginald a large square building, composed of rough logs, and covered with the same material. In the centre of one side was a low aperture, or door, about fifteen inches in height, in front of which was a train of maize laid by Wingenund. On approaching this turkey–pen, or trap, they observed that there were already two prisoners, a large gobbler and a female bird, although not more than an hour had elapsed since the lad had taken out the four turkeys which have been before mentioned. When the captives became aware of the approach of the party, they ran about the pen from side to side, thrusting out their long necks, peering through the crevices in the logs, jumping and flying against the top, in their violent endeavours to escape.“Do they never stoop their heads?” inquired Reginald, “and go out at the same door by which they entered?”“Never,” replied Wingenund.“That is singular,” said Reginald, “for the bird is in general very sagacious and difficult to be taken or killed;—how does it happen that they are so unaccountably stupid as not to go out where they came in?”Before answering the question addressed to him, Wingenund cast a diffident look towards War–Eagle, and on receiving from the chief a sign to reply, he said,“Netis knows that the Great Spirit distributes the gifts of wisdom and cunning like the sunshine and the storm; even the Black Father does not understand all his ways. How can Wingenund tell why the turkey’s eye is so quick, his ear so sharp, his legs so swift?—and yet he is sometimes a fool; when he picks up the maize, his head is low; he walks through the opening; he is in a strange place; he is frightened; and fear takes from him all the sense that the Great Spirit had given him. Wingenund knows no more.”“My young brother speaks truly, and wisely, beyond his years,” said Reginald, kindly. “It is, as you say, fear makes him forget all the capacities of his nature: it is so with men, why should it be otherwise with birds? Does War–Eagle say nothing?”“My brother’s words are true,” replied the chief, gravely; “he has picked out one arrow, but many remain in the quiver.”“My brother speaks riddles,” said Reginald; “I do not understand him.”“Fear is a bad spirit,” replied the chief, raising his arm, and speaking with energy. “It creeps round the heart of a woman, and crawls among the lodges of the Dahcotahs; it makes the deer leap into the river when he would be safer in the thicket; it makes the turkey a fool, and keeps him in the pen: but there are other bad spirits, that make the heart crooked and the eyes blind.”“Tell me how so?” inquired Reginald, desirous of encouraging his Indian friend to continue his illustration.“Does my brother know the antelope,” replied War–Eagle; “he is very cunning and swift; his eye is quick as the turkey’s; the hunter could not overtake him: but he lies down in a hollow and hides himself; he fastens a tuft of grass to his bow and holds it over his head; the Bad Spirit gets into the antelope; he becomes a fool; he comes nearer and nearer to look at the strange sight;—the hunter shoots and he dies.There are many had spirits. The Wyandot who struck at my white brother, he was a cunning snake; he had taken scalps, the ball of his rifle did not wander; if he had crept in the bushes on my brother’s path, Netis would now be in the happy hunting–fields of the white warriors. But a bad spirit took him; he offered food while his heart was false, and he thrust his head under the tomahawk of War–Eagle. There are many bad spirits.—I have spoken.”Reginald listened with interest to these sentiments of his Indian friend, expressed, as they were, in broken sentences and in broken English, the purport of them being, however, exactly conveyed in the foregoing sentences; but he refrained from pursuing the subject further, observing that War–Eagle was slinging the turkeys over Wingenund’s shoulder, and preparing to pursue their course in search of the elk. Leaving the youth to return with his feathered burden to the encampment, the two friends continued their excursion, War–Eagle leading the way, and stopping every now and then to examine such tracks as appeared to him worthy of notice. They had not proceeded far, when they reached a spot where the path which they were following crossed a small rivulet, and, the soil being soft on its bank, there were numerous hoof–prints of deer and elk, but so confused by the trampling of the different animals, that Reginald could not distinguish the one from the other. It was not so, however, with the Indian; for, pointing downward to a track at his foot, he made a sign, by raising both his hands above his head, to indicate a pair of antlers, and whispered to Reginald “very big.”“An elk?” inquired the latter; making a silent affirmative sign, War–Eagle pursued the trail which conducted them to the top of a small rising ground, where it appeared to branch in several directions, and became almost imperceptible from the shortness of the grass and the hardness of the soil. But these seemed to offer no impediment to the Indian’s pursuit of his quarry, for turning short at a right angle to their former course, he descended the hillock in a different direction, walking with a swift noiseless step, as if he saw his game before him.Reginald’s surprise overcame even his eagerness for the sport, trained as he had been in the woods, and justly held one of the quickest and most skilful hunters in the territory. Hehad looked in vain on the ground which they were now traversing for the slightest point or footmark: touching, therefore, his friend lightly on his shoulder, he whispered, “Does my brother guess the elk’s path?—or can he smell it, like the Spaniard’s dog?”A good–humoured smile played on the Delaware’s lip as he replied, “The trail of the elk is broad and easy; War–Eagle could follow it by the moon’s light! My white brother will see: he is an elk–chief; his squaws are with him.”As he spoke he showed several marks, which Reginald could scarcely distinguish, on the short grass: a few yards further War–Eagle added, pointing to a low bush beside them, “If Netis does not see the elk’s foot, he can see his teeth.”On examining the bush, Reginald perceived that a small fresh twig from the side of it had been recently cropped, and suppressing his astonishment at his friend’s sagacity, in following with such apparent ease a trail that to him was scarcely discernible, he allowed him to proceed without further interruption, closely watching his every movement, in the hope that he might be able to discover some of the indications by which the Indian was guided. Moving lightly forward, they soon had occasion again to cross the brook before mentioned; and on the soft edge of its banks War–Eagle pointed in silence to the track of the large hoof of the elk, and to the smaller print left by the feet of its female companions. Desiring Reginald to remain still, the Indian now crept stealthily forward to the top of a small hillock covered with brushwood, where he lay for a few seconds with his ear touching the ground. Having once raised his head to look through a low bush in front of him, he sunk again upon the ground, and made a signal for his friend to creep to the spot. Reginald obeyed, and peering cautiously through the leaves of the same bush, he saw the stately elk browsing at a distance of an hundred and fifty yards, the two hinds being beyond him. The intervening ground being barren and almost flat, offering no cover for a nearer approach, his first impulse was to raise his rifle for a distant shot; but War–Eagle, gently pressing down the barrel, motioned him to crouch behind the bush. When they were again concealed, the Delaware whispered to his friend, that he would go round and creep on the elk from the opposite quarter.Reginald, in reply, pointed to the top branches of a young poplar gently waving in the breeze.“War–Eagle knows it,” said the Indian, gravely, “the wind is from that quarter; it is not good; but he will try; if elk smell him, he comes this way, and Netis shoot him.” So saying, he crept down the little hillock by the same path which they had followed in the ascent, and then striking off in an oblique direction, was soon lost to view.Reginald, still concealed behind the bush, silent and motionless, with his hand on the lock of his rifle, watched intently every movement of the antlered monarch of the woods: the latter, unconscious of danger, lazily picked the tenderest shoots from the surrounding bushes, or tossed his lofty head to and fro, as if to display the ease and grace with which it bore those enormous antlers. More than once, as he turned to brush off from his side some troublesome fly, Reginald thought he had become suddenly aware of the Indian’s approach; but it was not so, for in spite of the disadvantage of the wind, the practised Delaware moved towards his unsuspecting prey with the stealthy creep of a panther. Reginald’s impatience was such that minutes seemed to him hours; and his fingers played with the lock of his rifle, as if he could no longer control their movement: at length a sudden snort from one of the hinds announced that she smelt or heard some object of alarm as she came trotting to the side of her lordly protector.Turning himself to windward, and throwing forward his ears, the elk listened for a moment, while his upturned and wide distended nostril snuffed the breeze, to discover the danger of which he had been warned by his mate. That moment was not lost by the Delaware, and the report of his rifle echoed through the forest. Tossing his head with a sudden start, the elk fled from his now discovered foe, and came bounding over the barren space in front of the bush where Reginald was concealed. With a coolness that did great credit to his nerves as a hunter, the latter remained motionless, with his eye on the game and his finger on the trigger, until the elk passed his station at full speed: then he fired, and with so true an aim, that ere it had gone fifty yards, the noble beast fell to the earth, and immediately Reginald’s hunting–knife put an end to its pain and to its life. The young man lookedover the quarry with pride and pleasure, for it was the largest he had ever seen; and the shot (which had pierced the heart) was well calculated to raise War–Eagle’s opinion of his skill in wood–craft. Whilst he was still contemplating the animal’s bulk and fine proportions, the exclamation “good!” uttered in English, gave him the first notice that the Delaware was at his side.“Ha! my friend,” said Reginald, grasping his hand cordially; “you sent him down towards me in fine style. Tell me War–Eagle, are there many elks as large in this country?”“Not many,” replied the Indian; “War–Eagle told his white brother that the elk’s foot on the trail was big.”“Was my brother very far when he shot?” inquired Reginald; “when his rifle speaks, the ball does not wander in the air.”“War–Eagle was far,” replied the Indian, quietly, “but the elk carries the mark of his rifle—Netis shot better.” On examination, it appeared that the chief was right; his bullet had passed through the fleshy part of the animal’s neck; but not having cut the windpipe, the wound was not mortal, and but little blood had flowed from it.While the Indian was busied in skinning and cutting up the elk, Reginald amused himself by reconnoitring the ground over which his friend had crept before he shot, and he was struck by the extraordinary sagacity with which the latter had made his approach; for on that side there were but few and scattered bushes, nor was there any rugged or broken ground favourable for concealment.When the choicest portions of meat were duly separated and enveloped in the skin, War–Eagle hung them up on an adjacent tree, carefully rubbing damp powder over the covering, to protect the meat from the wolves and carrion birds; after which the friends proceeded on their excursion.Having found fresh tracks of elk leading towards the open Prairie, they followed them, and succeeded in killing two more, after which they returned to the encampment, whence War–Eagle despatched a young Indian with a horse, and with directions as to the locality of the meat, which he was instructed to bring home.As Reginald walked through the lodges of the Osage village, he observed a crowd of Indians collected before one of them,and curiosity prompted him to turn aside and observe what might be passing. Making his way without difficulty through the outer circle of spectators, he found himself before a lodge, in front of which a wounded boy of twelve or fourteen years of age was extended on a buffalo–robe. On inquiry, Reginald learnt from an Indian who could speak a few words of English, that the lad had been struck down and trampled on by a vicious horse: although no sounds escaped from his lips, the involuntary writhing of the youthful sufferer showed the acuteness of the pain which he endured; while a bulky Indian, in the garb of an Osage medicine–man, was displaying beside him the various absurd mummeries of his vocation.This native quack was naked to the waist; his breast and back being painted over with representations of snakes and lizards. Instead of the usual breech–cloth, or middle garment, he wore a kind of apron of antelope skins, hemmed, or skirted with feathers of various colours: the borders of his leggings were also adorned with the wings of an owl; in one hand he held a tomahawk, the haft of which was painted white, and in the other a hollow gourd, containing a few hard beans, or stones of the wild cherry, which latter instrument he rattled incessantly round the head of his patient, accompanying this Æsculapian music with the most grotesque gesticulations, and a sort of moaning howl—all these being intended to exorcise and drive away the evil spirit of pain.While Reginald was contemplating the strange spectacle with mingled curiosity and compassion he heard a confused murmur among those Indians nearest to the corner of the lodge, and thought he could distinguish the name of Olitipa: nor was he mistaken, for almost immediately afterwards the crowd divided, and Prairie–bird appeared before the lodge. Her dress was the same as that which Reginald had before seen, excepting that, in place of the chaplet of wild flowers, she wore on her head a turban of party–coloured silk, the picturesque effect of which blending with her dark hair and the oriental character of her beauty, reminded our hero of those Circassian enchantresses whom he had read of in eastern fable, as ruling satrap or sultan with a power more despotic than his own!Prairie–bird, walking gently forward with modest self–possession, took her place by the side of the sufferer, as if unconsciousof the numerous eyes that were observing all her movements: the medicine–man, whose exorcisms had been hitherto attended with no success, retreated into the lodge, whence he narrowly and silently observed the proceedings of his fair rival in the healing art.It was not difficult for Prairie–bird to ascertain that the boy’s hurts were very serious; for the hot brow, the dry lip, the involuntary contortions of the frame, gave clear evidence of acute pain and fever. She deeply regretted that the missionary had been absent when she was summoned, as his assistance would have been most useful; nevertheless, she resolved to do all in her power towards the mitigation of sufferings, the cure of which seemed beyond the reach of her simple remedies. Opening a bag that hung at her girdle, she drew from it some linen bandage, and various salves and simples, together with a small case of instruments belonging to Paul Müller, and kneeling by her young patient’s side, she breathed a short but earnest prayer for the blessing of Heaven on her humble exertions. During this pause, the Indians observed a strict and attentive silence; and Reginald felt a kind of awe mingle itself with his impassioned admiration, as he contemplated the unaffected simplicity and loveliness of her kneeling figure.A serious wound in the young patient’s temple claimed her first care, which having washed and closed, she covered with a healing plaster; but observing that the symptoms of fever had rather increased than diminished, she knew that the lancet should be immediately applied, and cast her anxious eyes around in the hope that the missionary might have heard of the accident, and be now on his way to the lodge. While looking thus around, she became for the first time aware of Reginald’s presence; and a slight blush accompanied her recognition of him; but her thoughts recurring immediately to the object of her present attention, she asked him in a clear low voice to come nearer, on which he moved forward from the circle of spectators, and stood before the lodge.Prairie–bird, pointing to the form of the young Indian, said, in English, “The poor boy is much hurt, he will die if he is not bled; the Black Father is absent; can Reginald take blood from the arm?”“I do not pretend to much skill in surgery, fair Prairie–bird,” replied the young man, smiling; “but I have learnt tobleed my horse and my dog, and if the necessity be urgent, methinks I can open a vein in this boy’s arm without much risk of danger.”“It is indeed urgent,” said the maiden, earnestly; “here are Paul Müller’s instruments; I pray you take a lancet and proceed without delay.”Thus urged, Reginald selected a lancet, and having proved its sharpness, he passed a bandage tightly round the sufferer’s arm, and set about his first surgical operation with becoming care and gravity, the Osages drawing near and looking on in attentive silence. Before applying the lancet, he said in a low voice to Prairie–bird, “Must I allow a considerable quantity of blood to flow ere I stanch it?” and on her making an affirmative sign, he added, “Let me entreat you to turn your eyes away, it is not a fitting sight for them, and they might affect the steadiness of my nerves.”With a deep blush Prairie–bird cast down her eyes, and began to employ them busily in searching her little bag for some cordial drinks and healing ointment, to be administered after the bleeding should be over.Reginald acquitted himself of his task with skill and with complete success, and found no difficulty in stanching the blood, and placing a proper bandage on the arm; after which the restoratives prepared by Prairie–bird were applied, and in a very short time they had the satisfaction of finding the symptoms of fever and pain subside, and were able to leave the youthful patient to repose, Prairie–bird promising to visit him again on the morrow.An elderly brave of the Osages now stepped forward, and presented Prairie–bird with a girdle of cloth, ornamented with feathers, quills, and beads, of the gayest colours,—an offering which she received with that modest grace which was inseparable from her every movement; the same brave (who was, in fact, the father of the wounded boy,) presented Reginald with a painted buffalo robe, which, as soon as he had displayed its strange designs and devices, he desired a young Indian to convey to the white chief’s lodge. Our hero having, in return, given to the Osage a knife with an ornamented sheath, which he had worn, in addition to his own, in case of being suddenly called upon to make such a present, prepared to accompany Prairie–bird to her lodge.As they left the circle, Reginald’s eye encountered that of Mahéga, fixed with a scowling expression on himself and his fair companion; but he passed on without noticing the sullen and haughty chief, being resolved not to involve himself in any quarrel in her presence. They walked slowly towards the lodge of Tamenund, and it must be confessed that they did not take exactly the shortest path to it, Reginald leading the way, and Prairie–bird following his occasional deviations with marvellous acquiescence.The young man turned the conversation on the character of Paul Müller, knowing it to be a subject agreeable to Prairie–bird, and well calculated to give him an opportunity of listening to that voice which was already music to his ear; nor was he disappointed, for she spoke of him with all the warmth of the most affectionate regard; and the expression of her feelings imparted such eloquence to her tongue and to her beaming eyes, that Reginald looked and listened in enraptured silence. As they drew near her tent, she suddenly checked herself, and looking up in his face with an archness that was irresistible, said, “Pray pardon me, I have been talking all this time, when I ought to have been listening to you, who are so much wiser than myself.”“Say not so,” replied Reginald, with an earnestness that he attempted not to conceal: “say not so, I only regret that we have already reached your tent, for I should never be weary of listening to your voice.”Prairie–bird replied with that ingenuous simplicity peculiar to her:“I am glad to hear you say so, for I know you speak the truth, and it makes me very happy to give you pleasure. Now I must go into my tent.”So saying she held out her hand to him, and nothing but the presence of several Indians loitering near prevented his obeying the impulse which prompted him to press it to his lips. Checking it by an effort of prudence, he withdrew into the lodge of Tamenund, and mused on the qualities of this extraordinary child of the wilderness,—her beauty, her grace, her dignity, and, above all, that guileless simplicity that distinguished her beyond all that he had ever seen; in short, he mused so long on the subject that we will leave him to his meditations, as we fear it must be confessed that he was almost,if not quite, “in love;” and the reflections of parties so circumstanced, are rarely interesting to others.What were the feelings of Prairie–bird when she once more found herself alone in her tent, and vainly endeavoured to still the unwonted tumult in her heart? Her thoughts, in spite of herself, would dwell on the companion who had escorted her from the Osage lodge: his words still rung in her ears; his image was before her eyes; she felt ashamed that one, almost a stranger, should thus absorb all her faculties; and was the more ashamed, from being conscious that she did not wish it were otherwise; her heart told her that it would not exchange its present state of tumult and subjection for its former condition of quiet and peace!Lest the reader should be inclined to judge her as harshly as she judged herself, we will beg him to remember the circumstances and history of this singular girl. Brought up among a roving tribe of Indians, she had fortunately fallen into the hands of a family remarkable for the highest virtues exhibited by that people: the missionary, Paul Müller, had cultivated her understanding with the most affectionate and zealous care; and he was, with the exception of an occasional trader visiting the tribe, almost the only man of her own race whom she had seen; and though entertaining towards Tamenund the gratitude which his kindness to her deserved, and towards War–Eagle and Wingenund the affectionate regard of a sister, both the knowledge imparted by the missionary, and her own instinctive feeling, had taught her to consider herself among them as a separate and isolated being. These feelings she had of course nourished in secret, but they had not altogether escaped the penetration of Wingenund, who, it may be remembered, had told Reginald on their first meeting that the antelope was as likely to pair with the elk, as was his sister to choose a mate among the chiefs of the Osage or the Lenapé.On the return of the two Delawares from their excursion to the Muskingum, Wingenund had related to Prairie–bird the heroic gallantry with which the young white chief had plunged into the river to save War–Eagle’s life: he had painted, with untutored but impassioned eloquence, the courage, the gentleness, the generosity, of his new friend. Prairie–bird’s own imagination had filled up the picture, and the unseen preserver of her Indian brother was therein associated with all thehighest qualities that adorned the heroes of such tales as she had read or heard recounted by the missionary.She had reached that age when the female heart, unsupported by maternal protection, and severed from the ties of kindred, naturally seeks for something on which to rest its affection. Are we then to wonder if, when Reginald Brandon first stood before her, when she saw in his noble form and expressive features all her secret imaginations more than realised, when he addressed her in her own tongue, and in a tone of voice gentle even to tenderness; are we to wonder, or to blame, this nursling of the wilderness, if the barriers of pride and reserve gave way beneath the flood which swept over them with fresh and irresistible force? Often had she, on various pretexts, made Wingenund repeat to her the adventures and occurrences of his excursion to the Ohio; and as the artless boy described, in language as clear as his memory was tenacious, the dwelling of Reginald’s father, the range of buildings, the strange furniture, the garden, the winding brook that bounded its enclosure, and above all the fair features and winning gentleness of the Lily of Mooshanne, Prairie–bird would cover her averted face with her hands, as if struggling to banish or to recall some wild delusive dream, and her lips would move in unconscious repetition of “Mooshanne.” Surprised at her agitation, Wingenund had once so far laid aside the strictness of Indian reserve as to inquire into its cause; and she replied, with a melancholy smile,“Wingenund has painted the Lily of Mooshanne in colours so soft and sweet, that Olitipa longs to embrace and love her as a sister.”The boy fixed his penetrating eye upon her countenance, in deep expressive silence, the innate delicacy of his feeling triumphed, and Prairie–bird’s secret meditations were thenceforward undisturbed.To return from this retrospective digression. Prairie–bird’s tent was divided, by a partition of buffalo skins, into two compartments, in the outer of which was her guitar, the books lent her by the missionary, a small table and two chairs, or rather stools, the latter rudely but efficiently constructed by his own hands; in the corner also stood the chest, where his medicines, instruments, and other few valuables were deposited; in the inner compartment was a bed, composed of Mexican grass,stretched upon four wooden feet, and covered with dressed antelope skins and blankets of the finest quality. Here also was a chest, containing her quaint but not ungraceful apparel, and the other requisites for her simple toilet; at night a female slave, a captive taken from one of the southern tribes, slept in the outer compartment, and the ever watchful Wingenund stretched himself on a buffalo robe across the aperture, so that the slumbers of the fair Prairie–bird were securely guarded even during the absence of Paul Müller; and when he was with the tribe, his small tent was separated from hers only by a partition of skins, which in case of alarm might be cut open by a sharp knife in a moment. There was, in truth, little fear for the security of this extraordinary girl, who was looked upon, as we have before observed, by all the tribe with mingled awe and affection.In the outer room of the two compartments above mentioned she was now sitting, with her eyes cast upon the ground, and her fingers straying unconsciously over the strings of her guitar, when she was aroused from her long reverie by the soft voice of the female slave who had entered unperceived, and who now said, in the Delaware tongue,“Are Olitipa’s ears shut, and is the voice of Wingenund strange to them?”“Is my brother there,” replied the maiden, ashamed at her fit of absence; “tell him, Lita, that he is welcome.”The girl addressed by the name of Lita was about seventeen years of age, small, and delicately formed, exceedingly dark, her wild and changeful countenance being rather of a gipsy than of an Indian character. She had been taken, when a child, by a war–party which had penetrated into the country of the Comanches, a powerful and warlike tribe still inhabiting the extensive prairies on the Mexican and Texian frontier. She was devotedly attached to Prairie–bird, who treated her more like a friend than a slave, but towards all others she observed an habitual and somewhat haughty silence. Had her fate condemned her to any other lodge in the encampment, the poor girl’s life would have been a continued succession of blows, labour, and suffering; for her spirit was indomitable, and impracticable to every other control than kindness; but as the good–humoured Tamenund had appropriated her services to his favourite child, she passed most of her time in Olitipa’stent, and thus avoided the ill–usage to which she might otherwise have been exposed.Such was the girl who now went to the folding aperture of the tent, and desired Wingenund to come in. The youth entered, followed by a boy bearing a large covered dish or basket of wicker–work, which having placed on the table, he withdrew. Prairie–bird could not fail to observe in her young brother’s countenance and carriage an unusual stateliness and dignity, and she remarked at the same time the circumstance of his having brought with him the boy to carry her basket, a service which he had been accustomed to perform with his own hands. Making him a sign to sit down, she thus accosted him, in terms allusive to the customs of the tribe:—“Has my young brother dreamt? Has the breath of the Great Spirit passed over his sleep?”“It is so,” replied Wingenund. “The chiefs and the braves have sat at the council–fire; the name of Wingenund was on their tongues, the deeds of his fathers are not forgotten; he is not to do the work of squaws; his name will be heard among the warriors of the Lenapé.”From this reply Prairie–bird knew that her young brother was about to undergo the fasting, and other superstitious ordeals, through which those youths were made to pass who wished to be enrolled among the warriors of the tribe at an earlier age than usual. These superstitious observances were repugnant to her good sense and enlightened understanding; and as she had hitherto acted in the capacity of monitress and instructress, she was perhaps not pleased at the prospect of his suddenly breaking loose from her gentle dominion: she said to him, therefore, in a tone more grave than usual,—“Wingenund has heard the Black Father speak;—were his ears shut? Does he not know that there is one God above, who rules the world alone? The totems[29], and the symbols and the dreams of the medicine–men, are for those poor Indians whose minds are under a cloud. Wingenund cannot believe these things!”“My sister speaks wisely,” replied the youth; “the wind cannot blow away her words: but Wingenund is of the Lenapé, the ancient people; he wishes to live and die among their braves; he must travel in the path that his fathers have trod, or the warriors will not call his name when the hatchet is dug up.”“Let not the hatchet be dug up,” said the maiden, anxiously. “Have I not told my brother that God is the avenger of blood spilt by man? why should his foot be set on the war–path?”“While the hatchet is below the earth,” replied the youth, in the low, musical accent of his tribe, “Wingenund will sit by his sister and listen to her wisdom; he will go out with War–Eagle and bring back the skin of the antelope or the doe for her apparel, the meat of the deer and the bison for her food; he will open his ears to the counsel of the Black Father, and will throw a thick blanket over thoughts of strife and blood. But if the Washashee (the Osage) bears a forked tongue (here the youth sank his voice to a whisper of deep meaning),—if he loosens the scalp–knife while his hand is on the poacan[30]—if the trail of the Dahcotah is found near our village, Wingenund must be awake: he is not a child: the young men will hear his voice, and the old men shall say, ‘He is the son of his father.’ It is enough. Let my sister eat the meat that War–Eagle has sent her: for three suns Wingenund tastes not food.”So saying, the lad threw his robe over his shoulder and left the tent. Prairie–bird gazed long and thoughtfully on the spot where her brother’s retreating figure had disappeared; she felt grieved that all the lessons and truths of Christianity which she had endeavoured to instil into his mind were unable to change the current of his Indian blood: she had hoped to see him become a civilised man and a convert, and, through his amiable character, and the weight of his name, to win over many others of the Lenapé tribe. In addition to this disappointment, she was alarmed at the purport of his parting words: he had hinted at some treachery on the part of their Osage allies, and that a trail of the Dahcotahs had been seen near the encampment. These subjects of anxiety, added to the excitement which her feelings had lately undergone, socompletely engrossed the maiden’s attention, that, although the corn–cakes were of the sweetest kind, and the venison of the most delicate flavour, the basket of provisions remained untouched on the table when Paul Müller entered the tent.His brow was grave and thoughtful, but his countenance relaxed into its usual benevolent expression, as his affectionate pupil sprang forward to greet and welcome him.“Dear father, I am so glad you are come!” she exclaimed; “I have been waiting for you most impatiently, and I have been in need of your aid.”“I heard, my child, as I walked through the village, that you had been tending the wounds of a boy much hurt by a horse; was the hurt beyond your skill?”“Not exactly,” she replied, hesitating. “It was needful that blood should flow from his arm; and, as you were not there, I was forced to ask the assistance of Netis—that is, of Reginald.”“Well,” said the missionary, smiling, “I hope he proved a skilful leech?”“He would not allow me to look on,” she replied: “but, though it was his first trial, he drew the blood, and stanched it, as skilfully as you could have done it yourself; and then he walked with me to the tent.”“And you conversed much by the way?” inquired the missionary.“Oh yes; and he made me tell him a great deal about you, and I was ashamed of talking so much; but then he told me that it gave him pleasure to hear me talk. How can it please him to hear me talk, dear father? I know nothing, and he has seen and read so much.”Paul Müller averted his face for a moment to conceal from her the smile which he could scarcely repress, as he replied,“My child, he has perhaps seen and read much; but the life and habits of the Indians are new to him, and of these you can tell him many things that he does not know.”“Tell me, dear father,” she said, after a short silence, “are there others like him in my country? I mean, not exactly like him, but more like him than the traders whom I have seen; they are so rough, and they drink fire–water, and they never think of God or his mercies: but he is so noble, hiscountenance made me afraid at first, but now, when he speaks to me, his voice is as gentle as the fawn calling to its dam!”Paul Müller saw very well how it fared with the heart of Prairie–bird. He remembered that Reginald was the son of a wealthy proprietor, who would probably have insuperable objections to his son’s marrying a foundling of the wilderness, and he hesitated whether he should not give her some warning caution on a subject which he foresaw would so soon affect her peace of mind. On the other hand, he was convinced that Reginald was a man of generous and decided character, and, while he resolved carefully to observe the intercourse between them, he would not mar the unsuspecting purity of her nature, nor throw any obstacle in the way of an attachment which he believed might lead to the happiness of both parties. In coming to this conclusion, it must not be forgotten that he was a Moravian missionary, long resident in the Far–west, and therefore not likely to trouble his head with the nice distinctions of European aristocracy. In the country which was now his home, he might be justified in deeming a match equal, if the man were honest and brave, and the bride young and virtuous, without reference to their birth, connections, or worldly possessions. Under the impression of considerations like these, the missionary replied to the maiden’s inquiry:“My child, I will not say that among the cities and settlements of the white men, there are many who would gain by comparison with Reginald Brandon; for not only has he the accidental advantages of fine features, and a form singularly graceful and athletic, but he seems to me to possess the far higher and rarer qualities of a modest, generous mind, and an honest heart: nevertheless, my child, I will pray you, even in respect to him, not to forget what I have told you regarding the general infirmity and waywardness of our nature; keep a watch on your eyes and on your heart, and Providence will rule all for the best:—we will speak no more on this subject now; let us take some food from the basket on your table.” Prairie–bird spread the simple meal in thoughtful silence, and when the missionary had asked a blessing on it, they sat down together. After a pause of some minutes she communicated to him her anxiety on account of the hints dropped by Wingenund respecting the suspected treachery of some of their Osage allies, and the circumstance of a hostile trail havingbeen discovered near the encampment. “It is too true,” replied the missionary gravely, “there are signs of approaching strife; and even that boy, whom I have so long endeavoured to instruct and lead aright, his blood is beginning to boil. I fear it is almost as hard for an Indian to change his nature as an Ethiopian his skin. He has told you the truth, and we must be prepared for approaching trouble.”After musing for a few moments, Paul Müller, fixing his eye on Prairie–bird, continued: “Do you know any cause of quarrel between the Osage and Lenapé chiefs?”“None,” replied the maiden in unaffected surprise. “How should I know? I go not near their council–fire.”“True,” said the missionary; “but your eyes are not often shut in broad day. Have you spoken to Mahéga of late? have you observed him?”“He has spoken to me more than once, and often meets me on my return from any far lodge in the village. I do not like him; he is fierce and bad, and he beats his young squaw, Wetopa.”“You are right, my child; avoid him; there is evil in that man; but if you meet him, do not show any dislike or suspicion of him; you would only kindle strife: you are among faithful and watchful friends; and if they were all to slumber and sleep, you have a Friend above, whose eye is never closed, and whose faithfulness is everlasting. Farewell, my child. I must converse awhile with Tamenund. Do you solace an hour with your guitar; it will put your unquiet thoughts to rest.”Prairie–bird was so accustomed to pay implicit obedience to the slightest wishes and suggestions of her beloved preceptor, that as he left the tent she mechanically took up the guitar, and passed her fingers through the strings. By degrees the soul of music within her was stirred, and ere long vented itself in the following hymn.The words were in the Delaware tongue, and composed by herself—the melodies (for more than one were introduced into the irregular chaunt) were such as she had caught or mingled from Indian minstrelsy, and the whole owed its only attraction to the sweet and varied tones of her voice. The first measure was a low recitative, which might be thus rendered in English:—“The sun sinks behind the western hills;Deep red are the curtains of his couch.One by one the stars appear;Many they are and lustrous.The pale moon is among them!They walk in their appointed path,Singing on their way, ‘God made us all!’Machelenda sutch Ktelewunsoacan,orHallowed be thy name.”Here the measure changed, and sweeping the strings with a bolder hand, she continued her untutored hymn, blending her Christian creed with the figures and expressions of the people among whom she dwelt.“The Great Spirit of the Lenapé is God.He has sent His word to gladden the heart of man.But clouds still darken the minds of the ancient people.The Great Spirit knows that they are blind and deaf,Yet His ear is open to hear,His hand is ready to guide.(ut suprà.)Hallowed be thy name!”Again the measure changed, as in the richest tones of her melodious voice she pursued her theme.“Sion and the everlasting mountains are thy footstool!Lightnings are about thy throne.Thunder is thy voice.And the evil spirit trembles before thee!The eagle cannot soar to thy habitation;His eye cannot look on thy brightness;Yet dost thou give life to the insect,And breath to the merry wren!Thou leadest the wild horse to the pasture,And the thirsty fawn to the stream.Hallowed be thy name.”Here the measure resumed its low and plaintive melody, as she thus concluded her song.“Who sings the praise of God?It is ‘Prairie–bird,’ the poor child of the wilderness.But God spurns not her prayer;She is a stray–leaf, that knows not the treeWhence the rude wind hath blown it;But God planted the parent stem.And not a branch or leaf thereof is hid from His sight.The young whip–poor–will flies to its mother’s nest,The calf bleats to the bison–cow:No mother’s voice says to Olitipa,’Come here!’The wide prairie is her home!God is a Father to Olitipa!Hallowed be thy name!”In singing the last few words, the tones of her voice were “most musical, most melancholy;” and though no human eyemarked the teardrop that stole down her cheek, it would appear that her song had excited sympathy in some human bosom, for a deep sigh fell upon her ear: startled at the sound, Prairie–bird looked around her tent, but no one could be seen; she listened, but it was not repeated, and the maiden remained unconscious that at the very first touch of her guitar Reginald had crept out of the adjoining lodge, and, enveloped in a buffalo robe on the grass at the back of her tent, had heard from beginning to end her plaintive hymn, and had paid the unconscious tribute of a heavy sigh to the touching pathos of its closing strain.
c203CHAPTER III.AN ARRIVAL AT MOOSHANNE.—A CALM ASHORE AFTER A STORM AT SEA.While the events, narrated in the preceding chapter, were occurring in the Western wilderness, the family at Mooshanne had been thrown into a state of the greatest dismay and confusion, by the arrival of Captain L’Estrange’s firstletter announcing the flight of Ethelston with his daughter, and depicting his conduct in the blackest colours. Colonel Brandon had perused its contents half a dozen times, and they had produced traces of anxiety upon his countenance, too evident to escape the observation of Lucy, so that he was obliged to break to her by degrees the painful intelligence of her lover’s infidelity: with a calmness that surprised him, she insisted on reading the letter; as she proceeded her brow crimsoned with indignation, and those blue eyes, usually beaming with the gentlest expression, flashed with an angry lustre.Colonel Brandon knew full well the affection she had long conceived for Ethelston, and though his own feelings were deeply wounded by the misconduct of one whom he had loved and trusted as a son, they were at present overpowered by the fears which he entertained of the effect which this unexpected blow might produce on Lucy’s health and happiness. He was, therefore, relieved by observing the anger expressed on her countenance, and prepared himself to hear the deserved reproaches on her former lover, which seemed ready to burst from her tongue. What was his surprise when he saw her tear the letter in pieces before his face, and heard her, while she set her pretty little foot upon them, exclaim,“Dear, dear father, how could you for a moment believe such a tale of vile, atrocious falsehood?”However disinclined the Colonel might be to believe any thing to the disadvantage of Ethelston, there was so much circumstantial evidence to condemn him, that he felt it his duty to prepare his child for the worst at once, and to point out to her how they already knew that Ethelston had been wounded and conveyed to the house of L’Estrange, that his long absence was unexplained, and lastly that the character of the French commodore, as an officer, and a man of honour, was unimpeached.Lucy heard him to the end; the glow on her cheek assumed a warmer hue, and the little foot beat with a nervous and scarcely perceptible motion on the floor, as she replied, “Father I will believe that the letter is a forgery, or that the French officer, or commodore, or admiral, is a madman, but never that Ethelston is a villain.”“My dear Lucy,” said the Colonel, “I am almost as unwillingto think ill of Ethelston as you can be yourself; but alas! I have seen more than you of the inconstancy of men; and I know, too well, that many who have enjoyed a good reputation have yet been found unable to withstand temptation, such as may have beset Ethelston while an inmate of the same house with the Creole beauty—““Dear father,” answered Lucy, colouring yet more deeply; “though it were possible that Ethelston, in the presence of greater attractions, may have yielded to them his affections, and withdrawn them from one who had hoped to possess and treasure them for life,—though this may be possible, it is not possible that he should be guilty of a violation of the laws of hospitality and honour, such as that slanderous paper lays to his charge. Promise me, dearest father, to suspend your belief, and never to speak on this subject again, until it is God’s pleasure that the truth shall be brought to light.”“I promise you, my sweet child,” said her father; “and may that merciful Being grant that your trust be not disappointed!”“I have no fears,” said Lucy; and, as she spoke, her eyes beamed with that full undoubting love such as can only be felt by one who has never known what it is to deceive or to be deceived.Days and weeks passed on without any intelligence of Ethelston; and while the fears of Colonel Brandon became more confirmed, the agony of suspense and the sickness of deferred hope began to prey upon the spirits of his daughter: she never alluded to the forbidden subject; but her nervous anxiety, when the weekly letter–bag was opened, clearly showed that it was ever in her mind: nevertheless she continued her occasional excursions to Marietta, and visited, as usual, those around Mooshanne who were sick or in distress; so that neither her mother nor Aunt Mary detected the anxiety by which she was tortured. One evening, half an hour before sunset, as the family party were seated at their simple supper, the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard approaching at full speed, from which the rider dismounted, and, lifting the latch of the unlocked door, entered the house. Traversing the vestibule with hasty strides, and apparently guided by instinct to the apartment in which the family were assembled, he threw open the door, and Ethelston stood before the astonished party. Hiscountenance was haggard from fatigue and exposure to the sun, and his whole appearance indicated exhaustion. Lucy turned deadly pale, and Colonel Brandon’s constrained manner, as he rose from his chair, must have convinced the new comer that his return was productive of other feelings than those of unmingled pleasure. He was moving, however, a few steps forward to pay his first respects to Mrs. Brandon, when the Colonel, touching him lightly on the arm, said, “Mr. Ethelston, I must crave a few words with you in the adjoining room.”Hitherto Lucy had remained silent, with her eyes fixed intently on Ethelston’s countenance; he returned her look with one as long and fixed: the expression of his eyes was mournful, rather than joyous, but there was no trace of uneasiness or of shame. Springing from her seat, she placed her hand imploringly on the Colonel’s arm saying,“Dear father, I told you so from the first,—I knew it always—I read it now plain as the sun in heaven,—that vile letterwasa string of falsehoods;—he is returned as he left us, with an untarnished honour.”“Thank you, dear Lucy,” said Ethelston, advancing and pressing her extended hands to his lips: “blessings on that trusting affection which has rendered it impossible for you to believe aught to the prejudice of one on whom you have deigned to fix it. Colonel Brandon,” he continued, “I can guess how you have been misled, and appearances were for a short time so much against me, that I acquit of all intentional malice those who have misled you. Judge for yourself whether, if I were stained by the crime of which I have been accused, I could now ask, on my bended knee, for the blessing of you, my second father, and thus hold in mine, as I dare to do, the hand of your pure, trusting, and beloved child.”There was a truth in every tone of his voice, and a convincing dignity in his manner, that swept away all doubts like a torrent. The Colonel embraced him with cordial affection; Aunt Mary kissed her favourite nephew over and over again; Mrs. Brandon wept tears of joy on his neck; and Lucy was so overpowered by delight, that she was perhaps scarcely conscious of all that passed around.After they were in some degree recovered from their emotion,and had pressed Ethelston to take some refreshment, he said to the Colonel, “Now I am prepared to give you an account of my adventures, and to explain those circumstances that led to the misunderstanding under which you have so long laboured.”“Not a word—not a word will I hear of explanation to–night, my dear boy,” replied the Colonel. “I am already ashamed that I have not shown the same undoubting confidence in your rectitude, both of purpose and conduct, that has been evinced from first to last by Lucy. You are weary and exhausted; the agitation of this scene has been trying to all of us; we will defer your narrative until to–morrow. Our first duty this evening is to return our thanks to Providence for having protected you through all danger, and restored you safe to the comforts of home.”As he spoke, the worthy old gentleman took down a Bible from the shelf; and having desired Lucy to summon all the servants into the room, he read an appropriate chapter, and added to the selected prayer for the evening a few impressive and affecting words of thanksgiving, for the safe return of the long–lost member of the family.This duty was scarcely concluded, when the outer door was violently opened; a heavy step was heard approaching, and, without waiting to be admitted or announced, the sturdy figure of Gregson entered the room.“The captain himself, as I live!” said the honest mate. “Beg pardon, Colonel Brandon, but I heard a report of his having been seen going ten knots an hour through Marietta. So up I sticks, made sail, and was in his wake in less time than our nigger cook takes to toss off a glass of grog.”“Give me your hand, Gregson,” said Ethelston, kindly; “there is not a truer nor an honester one between Marietta and China.”“Thank ye, thank ye, captain,” said the mate, giving him a squeeze that would have broken the knuckles of any hand but a sailor’s; “the flipper’s well enough in its way, and I trust the heart’s somewhere about the right place; but what the devil have they been at with you in Guadaloupe?” added he, observing his chief’s wearied and wasted appearance; “considering how long those rascally Frenchmenhave had you in dock, they’ve sent you to sea in precious state, both as to hull and rigging.”“I confess, I am not over ship–shape,” said Ethelston, laughing; “but my present condition is more owing to the fatigues of my tedious journey from New Orleans than to any neglect on the part of the Frenchmen.”The Colonel now invited the worthy mate to be seated; and Lucy brewed for him, with her own fair fingers a large tumbler of toddy, into which, by her father’s desire, she poured an extra glass of rum. Ethelston, pretending to be jealous of this favour, insisted on his right to a draught, containing less potent ingredients, but administered by the same hand; and an animated conversation ensued, in the course of which Gregson inquired after the welfare of his old friend Cupid, the black cook.“Poor fellow, he is no more,” replied Ethelston, in a tone of deep feeling; “he died as he had lived, proud, brave, faithful to the last. I cannot tell you the story now, it is too sad a one for this our first evening at home:” as he spoke, his eyes met those of Lucy, and there he read all that his overcharged heart desired to know.Soon after the allusion to this melancholy incident, the little party broke up; the evening being already far advanced, Gregson returned to Marietta, and the members of the Colonel’s family retired to their respective apartments, leaving Ethelston alone in the drawing–room. For a few minutes he walked up and down, and pressed his hand upon his forehead, which throbbed with various and deep emotions. He took up the music whereon Lucy had written her name, and the needlework on which her fingers had been employed: he sat down on the chair she had just left, as if to satisfy himself with the assurance that all around him was not a dream; and again he vented the full gratitude of his heart in a brief but earnest ejaculation of thanksgiving. After a short indulgence in such meditations, he retired to that rest of which he stood so much in need. The room that had been prepared for him was up stairs, and, on crossing a broad passage that led to it, he suddenly met Lucy, who was returning to her own from her mother’s apartment. Whether this meeting was purely accidental, or whether Lucy, remembering that she had not said good–night quite distinctly to her lover, lingered in hermother’s room until she heard his step on the stair, we have no means of ascertaining, and therefore leave it undecided: certain it is, however, that they did meet in the passage above mentioned, and that Ethelston, putting down his candle on a table that stood by, took Lucy’s unresisting hand and pressed it in his own: he gazed on her blushing countenance with an intensity that can only be understood by those who, like him, have been suddenly restored to a beloved one, whose image had been ever present during a long absence, assuaging the pain of sickness, comforting him in trials, dwelling with him in the solitude of a prison, and sustaining him in the extremest perils of the storm, the fight, and the shipwreck! Though he had never been formally betrothed to her in words, and though his heart was now too full to give utterance to them, he had heard enough below to satisfy him that she had never doubted his faith—he felt that their troth was tacitly plighted to each other, and now it was almost unconsciously that their lips met and sealed the unspoken contract.That first, long, passionate kiss of requited love! Its raptures have been the theme of glowing prose, of impassioned verse, in all ages and climes; the powers of language have been exhausted upon it, the tongue and the pen of genius have, for centuries, borrowed for its description the warmest hues of fancy and imagination—and yet how far short do they fall of the reality! how impossible to express in words an electric torrent of feeling, more tumultuous than joy, more burning than the desert’s thirst,—yet sweeter and more delicious than childhood’s dream of Paradise, pouring over the heart a stream of bliss, steeping the senses in oblivion of all earthly cares, and so mysteriously blending the physical with the immaterial elements of our nature, that we feel as if, in that embrace, we could transfuse a portion of our soul and spirit into the beloved object on whose lip that first kiss of long–treasured love is imprinted.Brief and fleeting moments! they are gone almost before the mind is conscious of them! They could not, indeed, be otherwise than brief, for the agony of joy is like that of pain, and exhausted nature would sink under its continued excess. Precious moments, indeed! to none can they be known more than once in life; to very many, they can never be known at all. They can neither be felt nor imagined by the mereworldling, nor the sensualist; the sources of that stream of bliss must be unadulterated by aught low, or selfish; it is not enough that“Heart and soul and sense in concert move:”desire must go hand in hand with purity, and virtue be the handmaid of passion, or the blissful scene will lose its fairest and brightest hues.The step of some servant was heard approaching; and Lucy, uttering a hasty good–night, returned to her room, where she bolted her door, and gave herself up to the varied emotions by which she was overcome. Tears bedewed her eyes, but they were not tears of grief; her bosom was agitated, but it was not the agitation of sorrow; her pillow was sleepless, but she courted not slumber, for her mind dwelt on the events of the past day; and gratitude for her lover’s return, together with the full assurance of his untarnished honour, and undiminished affection, rendered her waking thoughts sweeter than any that sleep could have borrowed from the land of dreams.On the following morning, after breakfast, when the family were assembled in the library, Ethelston, at the request of Colonel Brandon, commenced the narrative of his adventures. As the reader is already acquainted with them, until the closing scene of poor Nina’s life, we shall make mention of that part of his tale no further than to state that, so far as truth would permit, in all that he told, as well as all that he forbore to tell, he feelingly endeavoured to shield her memory from blame; the sequel of his story we shall give in his own words.“I remained only a few days with L’Estrange after his daughter’s death; during which time I used my best endeavours to console him; but, in spite of the affectionate kindness which he showed me, I felt that my presence must ever recall and refresh the remembrance of his bereavement, and I was much relieved when the arrival of one of his other married daughters, with her family, gave me an excuse and an opportunity for withdrawing from Guadaloupe. The vessel which had brought them from Jamaica proposed to return immediately, and I easily obtained L’Estrange’s permission to sail with her, only on the condition of not serving against Franceduring the continuance of these hostilities: when I bade him farewell he was much affected, and embraced me as if he were parting with a son; so I have at least the melancholy satisfaction of knowing that I retain his best wishes and his esteem.“My voyage to Port Royal was prosperous. On arriving I found a brig laden with fruit, just about to sail in a few days for New Orleans. I confess I did not much like the appearance either of the vessel or her commander; but such was my impatience to return to Mooshanne, that I believe I would have risked the voyage in an open boat.” Here Ethelston looked at Lucy, on whose countenance a blushing smile showed that she well knew the meaning of his words. “I embarked,” continued he, “accompanied by my faithful Cupid, on board the Dos Amigos: the captain was an ignorant rum–drinking Creole; besides himself there was only one white man in the crew, and the coloured men were from all countries and climates, the most reckless and turbulent gang that I had ever seen on board a ship. During the first half of the voyage, the weather being favourable, we crept along the southern coast of Cuba, and passed almost within sight of the Isla de Pinos, which I had so much cause to remember; thence we steered a north–westerly course, and doubled the Cape of Saint Antonio in safety, whence we had a prospect of a fair run to the Belise; but, two days after we had lost sight of the Cuban coast, it came on to blow a gale of wind, which gradually increased until it became almost a hurricane from the south–west.“The brig drove helplessly before it; and from her leaky and shattered condition, as well as from the total want of seamanship exhibited by her drunken captain, I hourly expected that she would founder at sea: for twenty–four hours the gale continued with unabated violence, and the weather was so thick that no object could be discerned at two hundred yards’ distance. I remained constantly on deck, giving such assistance as I could render, and endeavouring to keep the captain’s lips from the rum–bottle, to which he had more frequent recourse as the danger became more imminent. Being at length wearied out, I threw myself in my clothes on my cot, and soon fell asleep. I know not how long I slept; but I was awakened by a violent shock, accompanied by a grating, grinding sound, from which I knew in an instant that the brig had struck ona rock. Almost before I had time to spring from my cot, Cupid dashed into the cabin, and, seizing me with the force of a giant, dragged me on deck. At this moment the foremast fell with a tremendous crash, and a heavy sea swept over the devoted vessel, carrying away the boat, all loose spars, and many of the crew. Cupid and I held on by the main rigging, and were not swept away; but wave after wave succeeded each other with resistless fury, and in a few moments we were both struggling, half stunned and exhausted, in the abyss of waters, holding on convulsively to a large hencoop, which had providentially been thrown between us.“One wild shriek of despair reached my ear, after which nothing was heard but the tumultuous roar of the angry elements.”At this part of Ethelston’s narrative, Lucy covered her face with her hands, as if she would thereby shut out the dreadful view, and in spite of all her struggle for self–command, a tear stole down her colourless cheek.“It was, indeed, a fearful moment,” he continued, “and yet I did not feel deserted by hope; I was prepared for death, I prayed fervently, and I felt that my prayer was not unheard; even then, in that strife of foaming sea and roaring blast, God sent the vision of an angel to comfort and sustain me! It wore the form of one who has ever dwelt in my thoughts by day, and in my dreams by night; who seemed as near to me then, as she does now that her gentle tears are flowing at this recital of my trials.”While speaking the last words, his low voice trembled until it fell into a whisper, and Lucy, overcome by her feelings, would have fallen from her chair, had not his ready arm supported her. A dead silence reigned in the room; Aunt Mary wept aloud, and Colonel Brandon walked to the window to conceal his emotion. After a few minutes, as he turned again towards them, Ethelston, who still supported Lucy, beckoned him to approach, and, addressing him in a tone of deep and earnest feeling, said,“Colonel Brandon, my guardian, friend, and benefactor; add yet this one to all your former benefits, and my cup of gratitude will be full indeed:” as he spoke he took the unresisting hand of Lucy in his own: the Colonel looked inquiringly and affectionately at his daughter, who did not speak, butraised her tearful eyes to his, with an expression not to be misunderstood. Pressing their united hands between his own, and kissing Lucy’s forehead, he whispered,“God bless you, my children:” after a pause he added, with a suppressed smile, “Ethelston shall finish his narrative presently;” and, taking Aunt Mary’s arm, he left the room.We will imitate the Colonel’s discretion, and forbear to intrude upon the sacred quiet of a scene where the secret, long–cherished love of two overflowing hearts was at length unreservedly interchanged; we need only say that ere the Colonel returned with Aunt Mary, after an absence of half an hour, Lucy’s tears were dried, and her cheeks were suffused with a mantling blush, as she sprung into her father’s arms, and held him in a long and silent embrace.“Come, my child,” said the Colonel, when he had returned her affectionate caress: “sit down, and let us hear the conclusion of Ethelston’s adventures—we left him in a perilous plight, and I am anxious to hear how he escaped from it.”“Not without much suffering, both of mind and body, my dear sir,” continued Ethelston in a serious tone of voice; “for the sea dashed to and fro with such violence the frail basket–work to which Cupid and I were clinging, that more than once I was almost forced to quit my hold, and it was soon evident that its buoyant power was not sufficient to save us both, especially as Cupid’s bulk and weight were commensurate with his gigantic strength. His coolness under these trying circumstances was remarkable: observing that I was almost fainting from the effects of a severe blow on the head from a floating piece of the wreck, he poured into my mouth some rum from a small flask that he had contrived to secure, and then replacing the stopper, he thrust the flask into my breast pocket, saying, ‘Capt’n drink more when he want:’ at this moment a large spar from the wreck was driven past us, and the faithful creature said, ‘Capt’n, hencoop not big enough for two, Cupid swim and take spar to ride;’ and, ere I could stop him, he loosed his hold and plunged into the huge wave to seize the spar: more I could not see, for the spray dashed over me, and the gloom and the breakers hid him in a moment from my sight. I felt my strength failing, but enough remained for me to loose a strong silk kerchief from my neck, and to lash myself firmly to the hencoop. Againand again the wild sea broke over me; I felt a tremendous and stunning blow—as I thought, the last, and I was no more conscious of what passed around.“When I recovered my senses, I found myself lying upon some soft branches, and sheltered by low bushes, a few hundred yards from the sea–beach; two strange men were standing near me, and gave evident signs of satisfaction when they saw my first attempts at speech and motion; they made me swallow several morsels of sea–biscuit steeped in rum, and I was soon so far restored as to be able to sit up, and to learn the particulars of my situation. The island near which the brig had been wrecked, was one of the Tortugas; the two men who had carried me up to a dry spot from the beach, belonged to a small fishing–craft, which had put in two days before the hurricane for a supply of water and in hopes of catching turtle. Their vessel was securely moored in a little natural harbour, protected by the outer ledge of rocks: the reef on which the brig had struck was upwards of a mile from the spot where they had found me; and I could not learn from them that they had seen any portion of her wreck, or any part of her crew, alive or dead.“As soon as my bruised condition permitted me to drag my limbs along, I commenced a careful search along the low rocky shore, in hopes of learning something of the fate of Cupid, and at length was horrified on discovering the mutilated remains of the faithful creature, among some crevices in the rocks. He had clung to the spar which still lay beside him with the pertinacious strength of despair: his hands and limbs were dreadfully mangled, and his skull fractured by the violence with which he had been driven on the reef. I remembered how he had resigned the hencoop to save my life; and the grief that I evinced for his loss moved the compassion of the fishermen, who aided me to bury him decently on the island.“We remained there two days longer, until the gale had subsided, during which time I frequently visited poor Cupid’s grave; and though many of our countrymen would be ashamed of owning such regret for one of his colour, I confess that when on that lonely spot I called to mind his faithful services, and his last noble act of generous courage, I mourned him as a friend and brother.“When the fishing–smack put to sea, I prevailed on her captain to visit the reef where the brig had struck; but we found not a spar nor plank remaining; nor am I to this moment aware whether any others of her crew survived the wreck; but it is more than probable that they perished to a man. Upon the promise of a considerable sum of money, I prevailed upon the fishermen to give me a passage to New Orleans, where we arrived without accident or adventure, and my impatience to reach home only permitted me to stay in that city a few hours, when, having provided myself with a horse, I rode on hither by forced marches, and arrived in the travel–worn condition that you observed yesterday.”
c203
AN ARRIVAL AT MOOSHANNE.—A CALM ASHORE AFTER A STORM AT SEA.
While the events, narrated in the preceding chapter, were occurring in the Western wilderness, the family at Mooshanne had been thrown into a state of the greatest dismay and confusion, by the arrival of Captain L’Estrange’s firstletter announcing the flight of Ethelston with his daughter, and depicting his conduct in the blackest colours. Colonel Brandon had perused its contents half a dozen times, and they had produced traces of anxiety upon his countenance, too evident to escape the observation of Lucy, so that he was obliged to break to her by degrees the painful intelligence of her lover’s infidelity: with a calmness that surprised him, she insisted on reading the letter; as she proceeded her brow crimsoned with indignation, and those blue eyes, usually beaming with the gentlest expression, flashed with an angry lustre.
Colonel Brandon knew full well the affection she had long conceived for Ethelston, and though his own feelings were deeply wounded by the misconduct of one whom he had loved and trusted as a son, they were at present overpowered by the fears which he entertained of the effect which this unexpected blow might produce on Lucy’s health and happiness. He was, therefore, relieved by observing the anger expressed on her countenance, and prepared himself to hear the deserved reproaches on her former lover, which seemed ready to burst from her tongue. What was his surprise when he saw her tear the letter in pieces before his face, and heard her, while she set her pretty little foot upon them, exclaim,
“Dear, dear father, how could you for a moment believe such a tale of vile, atrocious falsehood?”
However disinclined the Colonel might be to believe any thing to the disadvantage of Ethelston, there was so much circumstantial evidence to condemn him, that he felt it his duty to prepare his child for the worst at once, and to point out to her how they already knew that Ethelston had been wounded and conveyed to the house of L’Estrange, that his long absence was unexplained, and lastly that the character of the French commodore, as an officer, and a man of honour, was unimpeached.
Lucy heard him to the end; the glow on her cheek assumed a warmer hue, and the little foot beat with a nervous and scarcely perceptible motion on the floor, as she replied, “Father I will believe that the letter is a forgery, or that the French officer, or commodore, or admiral, is a madman, but never that Ethelston is a villain.”
“My dear Lucy,” said the Colonel, “I am almost as unwillingto think ill of Ethelston as you can be yourself; but alas! I have seen more than you of the inconstancy of men; and I know, too well, that many who have enjoyed a good reputation have yet been found unable to withstand temptation, such as may have beset Ethelston while an inmate of the same house with the Creole beauty—“
“Dear father,” answered Lucy, colouring yet more deeply; “though it were possible that Ethelston, in the presence of greater attractions, may have yielded to them his affections, and withdrawn them from one who had hoped to possess and treasure them for life,—though this may be possible, it is not possible that he should be guilty of a violation of the laws of hospitality and honour, such as that slanderous paper lays to his charge. Promise me, dearest father, to suspend your belief, and never to speak on this subject again, until it is God’s pleasure that the truth shall be brought to light.”
“I promise you, my sweet child,” said her father; “and may that merciful Being grant that your trust be not disappointed!”
“I have no fears,” said Lucy; and, as she spoke, her eyes beamed with that full undoubting love such as can only be felt by one who has never known what it is to deceive or to be deceived.
Days and weeks passed on without any intelligence of Ethelston; and while the fears of Colonel Brandon became more confirmed, the agony of suspense and the sickness of deferred hope began to prey upon the spirits of his daughter: she never alluded to the forbidden subject; but her nervous anxiety, when the weekly letter–bag was opened, clearly showed that it was ever in her mind: nevertheless she continued her occasional excursions to Marietta, and visited, as usual, those around Mooshanne who were sick or in distress; so that neither her mother nor Aunt Mary detected the anxiety by which she was tortured. One evening, half an hour before sunset, as the family party were seated at their simple supper, the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard approaching at full speed, from which the rider dismounted, and, lifting the latch of the unlocked door, entered the house. Traversing the vestibule with hasty strides, and apparently guided by instinct to the apartment in which the family were assembled, he threw open the door, and Ethelston stood before the astonished party. Hiscountenance was haggard from fatigue and exposure to the sun, and his whole appearance indicated exhaustion. Lucy turned deadly pale, and Colonel Brandon’s constrained manner, as he rose from his chair, must have convinced the new comer that his return was productive of other feelings than those of unmingled pleasure. He was moving, however, a few steps forward to pay his first respects to Mrs. Brandon, when the Colonel, touching him lightly on the arm, said, “Mr. Ethelston, I must crave a few words with you in the adjoining room.”
Hitherto Lucy had remained silent, with her eyes fixed intently on Ethelston’s countenance; he returned her look with one as long and fixed: the expression of his eyes was mournful, rather than joyous, but there was no trace of uneasiness or of shame. Springing from her seat, she placed her hand imploringly on the Colonel’s arm saying,
“Dear father, I told you so from the first,—I knew it always—I read it now plain as the sun in heaven,—that vile letterwasa string of falsehoods;—he is returned as he left us, with an untarnished honour.”
“Thank you, dear Lucy,” said Ethelston, advancing and pressing her extended hands to his lips: “blessings on that trusting affection which has rendered it impossible for you to believe aught to the prejudice of one on whom you have deigned to fix it. Colonel Brandon,” he continued, “I can guess how you have been misled, and appearances were for a short time so much against me, that I acquit of all intentional malice those who have misled you. Judge for yourself whether, if I were stained by the crime of which I have been accused, I could now ask, on my bended knee, for the blessing of you, my second father, and thus hold in mine, as I dare to do, the hand of your pure, trusting, and beloved child.”
There was a truth in every tone of his voice, and a convincing dignity in his manner, that swept away all doubts like a torrent. The Colonel embraced him with cordial affection; Aunt Mary kissed her favourite nephew over and over again; Mrs. Brandon wept tears of joy on his neck; and Lucy was so overpowered by delight, that she was perhaps scarcely conscious of all that passed around.
After they were in some degree recovered from their emotion,and had pressed Ethelston to take some refreshment, he said to the Colonel, “Now I am prepared to give you an account of my adventures, and to explain those circumstances that led to the misunderstanding under which you have so long laboured.”
“Not a word—not a word will I hear of explanation to–night, my dear boy,” replied the Colonel. “I am already ashamed that I have not shown the same undoubting confidence in your rectitude, both of purpose and conduct, that has been evinced from first to last by Lucy. You are weary and exhausted; the agitation of this scene has been trying to all of us; we will defer your narrative until to–morrow. Our first duty this evening is to return our thanks to Providence for having protected you through all danger, and restored you safe to the comforts of home.”
As he spoke, the worthy old gentleman took down a Bible from the shelf; and having desired Lucy to summon all the servants into the room, he read an appropriate chapter, and added to the selected prayer for the evening a few impressive and affecting words of thanksgiving, for the safe return of the long–lost member of the family.
This duty was scarcely concluded, when the outer door was violently opened; a heavy step was heard approaching, and, without waiting to be admitted or announced, the sturdy figure of Gregson entered the room.
“The captain himself, as I live!” said the honest mate. “Beg pardon, Colonel Brandon, but I heard a report of his having been seen going ten knots an hour through Marietta. So up I sticks, made sail, and was in his wake in less time than our nigger cook takes to toss off a glass of grog.”
“Give me your hand, Gregson,” said Ethelston, kindly; “there is not a truer nor an honester one between Marietta and China.”
“Thank ye, thank ye, captain,” said the mate, giving him a squeeze that would have broken the knuckles of any hand but a sailor’s; “the flipper’s well enough in its way, and I trust the heart’s somewhere about the right place; but what the devil have they been at with you in Guadaloupe?” added he, observing his chief’s wearied and wasted appearance; “considering how long those rascally Frenchmenhave had you in dock, they’ve sent you to sea in precious state, both as to hull and rigging.”
“I confess, I am not over ship–shape,” said Ethelston, laughing; “but my present condition is more owing to the fatigues of my tedious journey from New Orleans than to any neglect on the part of the Frenchmen.”
The Colonel now invited the worthy mate to be seated; and Lucy brewed for him, with her own fair fingers a large tumbler of toddy, into which, by her father’s desire, she poured an extra glass of rum. Ethelston, pretending to be jealous of this favour, insisted on his right to a draught, containing less potent ingredients, but administered by the same hand; and an animated conversation ensued, in the course of which Gregson inquired after the welfare of his old friend Cupid, the black cook.
“Poor fellow, he is no more,” replied Ethelston, in a tone of deep feeling; “he died as he had lived, proud, brave, faithful to the last. I cannot tell you the story now, it is too sad a one for this our first evening at home:” as he spoke, his eyes met those of Lucy, and there he read all that his overcharged heart desired to know.
Soon after the allusion to this melancholy incident, the little party broke up; the evening being already far advanced, Gregson returned to Marietta, and the members of the Colonel’s family retired to their respective apartments, leaving Ethelston alone in the drawing–room. For a few minutes he walked up and down, and pressed his hand upon his forehead, which throbbed with various and deep emotions. He took up the music whereon Lucy had written her name, and the needlework on which her fingers had been employed: he sat down on the chair she had just left, as if to satisfy himself with the assurance that all around him was not a dream; and again he vented the full gratitude of his heart in a brief but earnest ejaculation of thanksgiving. After a short indulgence in such meditations, he retired to that rest of which he stood so much in need. The room that had been prepared for him was up stairs, and, on crossing a broad passage that led to it, he suddenly met Lucy, who was returning to her own from her mother’s apartment. Whether this meeting was purely accidental, or whether Lucy, remembering that she had not said good–night quite distinctly to her lover, lingered in hermother’s room until she heard his step on the stair, we have no means of ascertaining, and therefore leave it undecided: certain it is, however, that they did meet in the passage above mentioned, and that Ethelston, putting down his candle on a table that stood by, took Lucy’s unresisting hand and pressed it in his own: he gazed on her blushing countenance with an intensity that can only be understood by those who, like him, have been suddenly restored to a beloved one, whose image had been ever present during a long absence, assuaging the pain of sickness, comforting him in trials, dwelling with him in the solitude of a prison, and sustaining him in the extremest perils of the storm, the fight, and the shipwreck! Though he had never been formally betrothed to her in words, and though his heart was now too full to give utterance to them, he had heard enough below to satisfy him that she had never doubted his faith—he felt that their troth was tacitly plighted to each other, and now it was almost unconsciously that their lips met and sealed the unspoken contract.
That first, long, passionate kiss of requited love! Its raptures have been the theme of glowing prose, of impassioned verse, in all ages and climes; the powers of language have been exhausted upon it, the tongue and the pen of genius have, for centuries, borrowed for its description the warmest hues of fancy and imagination—and yet how far short do they fall of the reality! how impossible to express in words an electric torrent of feeling, more tumultuous than joy, more burning than the desert’s thirst,—yet sweeter and more delicious than childhood’s dream of Paradise, pouring over the heart a stream of bliss, steeping the senses in oblivion of all earthly cares, and so mysteriously blending the physical with the immaterial elements of our nature, that we feel as if, in that embrace, we could transfuse a portion of our soul and spirit into the beloved object on whose lip that first kiss of long–treasured love is imprinted.
Brief and fleeting moments! they are gone almost before the mind is conscious of them! They could not, indeed, be otherwise than brief, for the agony of joy is like that of pain, and exhausted nature would sink under its continued excess. Precious moments, indeed! to none can they be known more than once in life; to very many, they can never be known at all. They can neither be felt nor imagined by the mereworldling, nor the sensualist; the sources of that stream of bliss must be unadulterated by aught low, or selfish; it is not enough that
“Heart and soul and sense in concert move:”
desire must go hand in hand with purity, and virtue be the handmaid of passion, or the blissful scene will lose its fairest and brightest hues.
The step of some servant was heard approaching; and Lucy, uttering a hasty good–night, returned to her room, where she bolted her door, and gave herself up to the varied emotions by which she was overcome. Tears bedewed her eyes, but they were not tears of grief; her bosom was agitated, but it was not the agitation of sorrow; her pillow was sleepless, but she courted not slumber, for her mind dwelt on the events of the past day; and gratitude for her lover’s return, together with the full assurance of his untarnished honour, and undiminished affection, rendered her waking thoughts sweeter than any that sleep could have borrowed from the land of dreams.
On the following morning, after breakfast, when the family were assembled in the library, Ethelston, at the request of Colonel Brandon, commenced the narrative of his adventures. As the reader is already acquainted with them, until the closing scene of poor Nina’s life, we shall make mention of that part of his tale no further than to state that, so far as truth would permit, in all that he told, as well as all that he forbore to tell, he feelingly endeavoured to shield her memory from blame; the sequel of his story we shall give in his own words.
“I remained only a few days with L’Estrange after his daughter’s death; during which time I used my best endeavours to console him; but, in spite of the affectionate kindness which he showed me, I felt that my presence must ever recall and refresh the remembrance of his bereavement, and I was much relieved when the arrival of one of his other married daughters, with her family, gave me an excuse and an opportunity for withdrawing from Guadaloupe. The vessel which had brought them from Jamaica proposed to return immediately, and I easily obtained L’Estrange’s permission to sail with her, only on the condition of not serving against Franceduring the continuance of these hostilities: when I bade him farewell he was much affected, and embraced me as if he were parting with a son; so I have at least the melancholy satisfaction of knowing that I retain his best wishes and his esteem.
“My voyage to Port Royal was prosperous. On arriving I found a brig laden with fruit, just about to sail in a few days for New Orleans. I confess I did not much like the appearance either of the vessel or her commander; but such was my impatience to return to Mooshanne, that I believe I would have risked the voyage in an open boat.” Here Ethelston looked at Lucy, on whose countenance a blushing smile showed that she well knew the meaning of his words. “I embarked,” continued he, “accompanied by my faithful Cupid, on board the Dos Amigos: the captain was an ignorant rum–drinking Creole; besides himself there was only one white man in the crew, and the coloured men were from all countries and climates, the most reckless and turbulent gang that I had ever seen on board a ship. During the first half of the voyage, the weather being favourable, we crept along the southern coast of Cuba, and passed almost within sight of the Isla de Pinos, which I had so much cause to remember; thence we steered a north–westerly course, and doubled the Cape of Saint Antonio in safety, whence we had a prospect of a fair run to the Belise; but, two days after we had lost sight of the Cuban coast, it came on to blow a gale of wind, which gradually increased until it became almost a hurricane from the south–west.
“The brig drove helplessly before it; and from her leaky and shattered condition, as well as from the total want of seamanship exhibited by her drunken captain, I hourly expected that she would founder at sea: for twenty–four hours the gale continued with unabated violence, and the weather was so thick that no object could be discerned at two hundred yards’ distance. I remained constantly on deck, giving such assistance as I could render, and endeavouring to keep the captain’s lips from the rum–bottle, to which he had more frequent recourse as the danger became more imminent. Being at length wearied out, I threw myself in my clothes on my cot, and soon fell asleep. I know not how long I slept; but I was awakened by a violent shock, accompanied by a grating, grinding sound, from which I knew in an instant that the brig had struck ona rock. Almost before I had time to spring from my cot, Cupid dashed into the cabin, and, seizing me with the force of a giant, dragged me on deck. At this moment the foremast fell with a tremendous crash, and a heavy sea swept over the devoted vessel, carrying away the boat, all loose spars, and many of the crew. Cupid and I held on by the main rigging, and were not swept away; but wave after wave succeeded each other with resistless fury, and in a few moments we were both struggling, half stunned and exhausted, in the abyss of waters, holding on convulsively to a large hencoop, which had providentially been thrown between us.
“One wild shriek of despair reached my ear, after which nothing was heard but the tumultuous roar of the angry elements.”
At this part of Ethelston’s narrative, Lucy covered her face with her hands, as if she would thereby shut out the dreadful view, and in spite of all her struggle for self–command, a tear stole down her colourless cheek.
“It was, indeed, a fearful moment,” he continued, “and yet I did not feel deserted by hope; I was prepared for death, I prayed fervently, and I felt that my prayer was not unheard; even then, in that strife of foaming sea and roaring blast, God sent the vision of an angel to comfort and sustain me! It wore the form of one who has ever dwelt in my thoughts by day, and in my dreams by night; who seemed as near to me then, as she does now that her gentle tears are flowing at this recital of my trials.”
While speaking the last words, his low voice trembled until it fell into a whisper, and Lucy, overcome by her feelings, would have fallen from her chair, had not his ready arm supported her. A dead silence reigned in the room; Aunt Mary wept aloud, and Colonel Brandon walked to the window to conceal his emotion. After a few minutes, as he turned again towards them, Ethelston, who still supported Lucy, beckoned him to approach, and, addressing him in a tone of deep and earnest feeling, said,
“Colonel Brandon, my guardian, friend, and benefactor; add yet this one to all your former benefits, and my cup of gratitude will be full indeed:” as he spoke he took the unresisting hand of Lucy in his own: the Colonel looked inquiringly and affectionately at his daughter, who did not speak, butraised her tearful eyes to his, with an expression not to be misunderstood. Pressing their united hands between his own, and kissing Lucy’s forehead, he whispered,
“God bless you, my children:” after a pause he added, with a suppressed smile, “Ethelston shall finish his narrative presently;” and, taking Aunt Mary’s arm, he left the room.
We will imitate the Colonel’s discretion, and forbear to intrude upon the sacred quiet of a scene where the secret, long–cherished love of two overflowing hearts was at length unreservedly interchanged; we need only say that ere the Colonel returned with Aunt Mary, after an absence of half an hour, Lucy’s tears were dried, and her cheeks were suffused with a mantling blush, as she sprung into her father’s arms, and held him in a long and silent embrace.
“Come, my child,” said the Colonel, when he had returned her affectionate caress: “sit down, and let us hear the conclusion of Ethelston’s adventures—we left him in a perilous plight, and I am anxious to hear how he escaped from it.”
“Not without much suffering, both of mind and body, my dear sir,” continued Ethelston in a serious tone of voice; “for the sea dashed to and fro with such violence the frail basket–work to which Cupid and I were clinging, that more than once I was almost forced to quit my hold, and it was soon evident that its buoyant power was not sufficient to save us both, especially as Cupid’s bulk and weight were commensurate with his gigantic strength. His coolness under these trying circumstances was remarkable: observing that I was almost fainting from the effects of a severe blow on the head from a floating piece of the wreck, he poured into my mouth some rum from a small flask that he had contrived to secure, and then replacing the stopper, he thrust the flask into my breast pocket, saying, ‘Capt’n drink more when he want:’ at this moment a large spar from the wreck was driven past us, and the faithful creature said, ‘Capt’n, hencoop not big enough for two, Cupid swim and take spar to ride;’ and, ere I could stop him, he loosed his hold and plunged into the huge wave to seize the spar: more I could not see, for the spray dashed over me, and the gloom and the breakers hid him in a moment from my sight. I felt my strength failing, but enough remained for me to loose a strong silk kerchief from my neck, and to lash myself firmly to the hencoop. Againand again the wild sea broke over me; I felt a tremendous and stunning blow—as I thought, the last, and I was no more conscious of what passed around.
“When I recovered my senses, I found myself lying upon some soft branches, and sheltered by low bushes, a few hundred yards from the sea–beach; two strange men were standing near me, and gave evident signs of satisfaction when they saw my first attempts at speech and motion; they made me swallow several morsels of sea–biscuit steeped in rum, and I was soon so far restored as to be able to sit up, and to learn the particulars of my situation. The island near which the brig had been wrecked, was one of the Tortugas; the two men who had carried me up to a dry spot from the beach, belonged to a small fishing–craft, which had put in two days before the hurricane for a supply of water and in hopes of catching turtle. Their vessel was securely moored in a little natural harbour, protected by the outer ledge of rocks: the reef on which the brig had struck was upwards of a mile from the spot where they had found me; and I could not learn from them that they had seen any portion of her wreck, or any part of her crew, alive or dead.
“As soon as my bruised condition permitted me to drag my limbs along, I commenced a careful search along the low rocky shore, in hopes of learning something of the fate of Cupid, and at length was horrified on discovering the mutilated remains of the faithful creature, among some crevices in the rocks. He had clung to the spar which still lay beside him with the pertinacious strength of despair: his hands and limbs were dreadfully mangled, and his skull fractured by the violence with which he had been driven on the reef. I remembered how he had resigned the hencoop to save my life; and the grief that I evinced for his loss moved the compassion of the fishermen, who aided me to bury him decently on the island.
“We remained there two days longer, until the gale had subsided, during which time I frequently visited poor Cupid’s grave; and though many of our countrymen would be ashamed of owning such regret for one of his colour, I confess that when on that lonely spot I called to mind his faithful services, and his last noble act of generous courage, I mourned him as a friend and brother.
“When the fishing–smack put to sea, I prevailed on her captain to visit the reef where the brig had struck; but we found not a spar nor plank remaining; nor am I to this moment aware whether any others of her crew survived the wreck; but it is more than probable that they perished to a man. Upon the promise of a considerable sum of money, I prevailed upon the fishermen to give me a passage to New Orleans, where we arrived without accident or adventure, and my impatience to reach home only permitted me to stay in that city a few hours, when, having provided myself with a horse, I rode on hither by forced marches, and arrived in the travel–worn condition that you observed yesterday.”
c204CHAPTER IV.AN ELK–HUNT.—REGINALD MAKES HIS FIRST ESSAY IN SURGERY.—THE READER IS ADMITTED INTO PRAIRIE–BIRD’S TENT.We left Reginald Brandon in the skirt of the forest bounding the Western Prairie, accompanied by Wingenund and War–Eagle. The latter, having taken the lead, conducted his companions through a considerable extent of ground, covered with bushes of alder and scrub–oak, until they reached an open forest glade, where the Indian pointed out to Reginald a large square building, composed of rough logs, and covered with the same material. In the centre of one side was a low aperture, or door, about fifteen inches in height, in front of which was a train of maize laid by Wingenund. On approaching this turkey–pen, or trap, they observed that there were already two prisoners, a large gobbler and a female bird, although not more than an hour had elapsed since the lad had taken out the four turkeys which have been before mentioned. When the captives became aware of the approach of the party, they ran about the pen from side to side, thrusting out their long necks, peering through the crevices in the logs, jumping and flying against the top, in their violent endeavours to escape.“Do they never stoop their heads?” inquired Reginald, “and go out at the same door by which they entered?”“Never,” replied Wingenund.“That is singular,” said Reginald, “for the bird is in general very sagacious and difficult to be taken or killed;—how does it happen that they are so unaccountably stupid as not to go out where they came in?”Before answering the question addressed to him, Wingenund cast a diffident look towards War–Eagle, and on receiving from the chief a sign to reply, he said,“Netis knows that the Great Spirit distributes the gifts of wisdom and cunning like the sunshine and the storm; even the Black Father does not understand all his ways. How can Wingenund tell why the turkey’s eye is so quick, his ear so sharp, his legs so swift?—and yet he is sometimes a fool; when he picks up the maize, his head is low; he walks through the opening; he is in a strange place; he is frightened; and fear takes from him all the sense that the Great Spirit had given him. Wingenund knows no more.”“My young brother speaks truly, and wisely, beyond his years,” said Reginald, kindly. “It is, as you say, fear makes him forget all the capacities of his nature: it is so with men, why should it be otherwise with birds? Does War–Eagle say nothing?”“My brother’s words are true,” replied the chief, gravely; “he has picked out one arrow, but many remain in the quiver.”“My brother speaks riddles,” said Reginald; “I do not understand him.”“Fear is a bad spirit,” replied the chief, raising his arm, and speaking with energy. “It creeps round the heart of a woman, and crawls among the lodges of the Dahcotahs; it makes the deer leap into the river when he would be safer in the thicket; it makes the turkey a fool, and keeps him in the pen: but there are other bad spirits, that make the heart crooked and the eyes blind.”“Tell me how so?” inquired Reginald, desirous of encouraging his Indian friend to continue his illustration.“Does my brother know the antelope,” replied War–Eagle; “he is very cunning and swift; his eye is quick as the turkey’s; the hunter could not overtake him: but he lies down in a hollow and hides himself; he fastens a tuft of grass to his bow and holds it over his head; the Bad Spirit gets into the antelope; he becomes a fool; he comes nearer and nearer to look at the strange sight;—the hunter shoots and he dies.There are many had spirits. The Wyandot who struck at my white brother, he was a cunning snake; he had taken scalps, the ball of his rifle did not wander; if he had crept in the bushes on my brother’s path, Netis would now be in the happy hunting–fields of the white warriors. But a bad spirit took him; he offered food while his heart was false, and he thrust his head under the tomahawk of War–Eagle. There are many bad spirits.—I have spoken.”Reginald listened with interest to these sentiments of his Indian friend, expressed, as they were, in broken sentences and in broken English, the purport of them being, however, exactly conveyed in the foregoing sentences; but he refrained from pursuing the subject further, observing that War–Eagle was slinging the turkeys over Wingenund’s shoulder, and preparing to pursue their course in search of the elk. Leaving the youth to return with his feathered burden to the encampment, the two friends continued their excursion, War–Eagle leading the way, and stopping every now and then to examine such tracks as appeared to him worthy of notice. They had not proceeded far, when they reached a spot where the path which they were following crossed a small rivulet, and, the soil being soft on its bank, there were numerous hoof–prints of deer and elk, but so confused by the trampling of the different animals, that Reginald could not distinguish the one from the other. It was not so, however, with the Indian; for, pointing downward to a track at his foot, he made a sign, by raising both his hands above his head, to indicate a pair of antlers, and whispered to Reginald “very big.”“An elk?” inquired the latter; making a silent affirmative sign, War–Eagle pursued the trail which conducted them to the top of a small rising ground, where it appeared to branch in several directions, and became almost imperceptible from the shortness of the grass and the hardness of the soil. But these seemed to offer no impediment to the Indian’s pursuit of his quarry, for turning short at a right angle to their former course, he descended the hillock in a different direction, walking with a swift noiseless step, as if he saw his game before him.Reginald’s surprise overcame even his eagerness for the sport, trained as he had been in the woods, and justly held one of the quickest and most skilful hunters in the territory. Hehad looked in vain on the ground which they were now traversing for the slightest point or footmark: touching, therefore, his friend lightly on his shoulder, he whispered, “Does my brother guess the elk’s path?—or can he smell it, like the Spaniard’s dog?”A good–humoured smile played on the Delaware’s lip as he replied, “The trail of the elk is broad and easy; War–Eagle could follow it by the moon’s light! My white brother will see: he is an elk–chief; his squaws are with him.”As he spoke he showed several marks, which Reginald could scarcely distinguish, on the short grass: a few yards further War–Eagle added, pointing to a low bush beside them, “If Netis does not see the elk’s foot, he can see his teeth.”On examining the bush, Reginald perceived that a small fresh twig from the side of it had been recently cropped, and suppressing his astonishment at his friend’s sagacity, in following with such apparent ease a trail that to him was scarcely discernible, he allowed him to proceed without further interruption, closely watching his every movement, in the hope that he might be able to discover some of the indications by which the Indian was guided. Moving lightly forward, they soon had occasion again to cross the brook before mentioned; and on the soft edge of its banks War–Eagle pointed in silence to the track of the large hoof of the elk, and to the smaller print left by the feet of its female companions. Desiring Reginald to remain still, the Indian now crept stealthily forward to the top of a small hillock covered with brushwood, where he lay for a few seconds with his ear touching the ground. Having once raised his head to look through a low bush in front of him, he sunk again upon the ground, and made a signal for his friend to creep to the spot. Reginald obeyed, and peering cautiously through the leaves of the same bush, he saw the stately elk browsing at a distance of an hundred and fifty yards, the two hinds being beyond him. The intervening ground being barren and almost flat, offering no cover for a nearer approach, his first impulse was to raise his rifle for a distant shot; but War–Eagle, gently pressing down the barrel, motioned him to crouch behind the bush. When they were again concealed, the Delaware whispered to his friend, that he would go round and creep on the elk from the opposite quarter.Reginald, in reply, pointed to the top branches of a young poplar gently waving in the breeze.“War–Eagle knows it,” said the Indian, gravely, “the wind is from that quarter; it is not good; but he will try; if elk smell him, he comes this way, and Netis shoot him.” So saying, he crept down the little hillock by the same path which they had followed in the ascent, and then striking off in an oblique direction, was soon lost to view.Reginald, still concealed behind the bush, silent and motionless, with his hand on the lock of his rifle, watched intently every movement of the antlered monarch of the woods: the latter, unconscious of danger, lazily picked the tenderest shoots from the surrounding bushes, or tossed his lofty head to and fro, as if to display the ease and grace with which it bore those enormous antlers. More than once, as he turned to brush off from his side some troublesome fly, Reginald thought he had become suddenly aware of the Indian’s approach; but it was not so, for in spite of the disadvantage of the wind, the practised Delaware moved towards his unsuspecting prey with the stealthy creep of a panther. Reginald’s impatience was such that minutes seemed to him hours; and his fingers played with the lock of his rifle, as if he could no longer control their movement: at length a sudden snort from one of the hinds announced that she smelt or heard some object of alarm as she came trotting to the side of her lordly protector.Turning himself to windward, and throwing forward his ears, the elk listened for a moment, while his upturned and wide distended nostril snuffed the breeze, to discover the danger of which he had been warned by his mate. That moment was not lost by the Delaware, and the report of his rifle echoed through the forest. Tossing his head with a sudden start, the elk fled from his now discovered foe, and came bounding over the barren space in front of the bush where Reginald was concealed. With a coolness that did great credit to his nerves as a hunter, the latter remained motionless, with his eye on the game and his finger on the trigger, until the elk passed his station at full speed: then he fired, and with so true an aim, that ere it had gone fifty yards, the noble beast fell to the earth, and immediately Reginald’s hunting–knife put an end to its pain and to its life. The young man lookedover the quarry with pride and pleasure, for it was the largest he had ever seen; and the shot (which had pierced the heart) was well calculated to raise War–Eagle’s opinion of his skill in wood–craft. Whilst he was still contemplating the animal’s bulk and fine proportions, the exclamation “good!” uttered in English, gave him the first notice that the Delaware was at his side.“Ha! my friend,” said Reginald, grasping his hand cordially; “you sent him down towards me in fine style. Tell me War–Eagle, are there many elks as large in this country?”“Not many,” replied the Indian; “War–Eagle told his white brother that the elk’s foot on the trail was big.”“Was my brother very far when he shot?” inquired Reginald; “when his rifle speaks, the ball does not wander in the air.”“War–Eagle was far,” replied the Indian, quietly, “but the elk carries the mark of his rifle—Netis shot better.” On examination, it appeared that the chief was right; his bullet had passed through the fleshy part of the animal’s neck; but not having cut the windpipe, the wound was not mortal, and but little blood had flowed from it.While the Indian was busied in skinning and cutting up the elk, Reginald amused himself by reconnoitring the ground over which his friend had crept before he shot, and he was struck by the extraordinary sagacity with which the latter had made his approach; for on that side there were but few and scattered bushes, nor was there any rugged or broken ground favourable for concealment.When the choicest portions of meat were duly separated and enveloped in the skin, War–Eagle hung them up on an adjacent tree, carefully rubbing damp powder over the covering, to protect the meat from the wolves and carrion birds; after which the friends proceeded on their excursion.Having found fresh tracks of elk leading towards the open Prairie, they followed them, and succeeded in killing two more, after which they returned to the encampment, whence War–Eagle despatched a young Indian with a horse, and with directions as to the locality of the meat, which he was instructed to bring home.As Reginald walked through the lodges of the Osage village, he observed a crowd of Indians collected before one of them,and curiosity prompted him to turn aside and observe what might be passing. Making his way without difficulty through the outer circle of spectators, he found himself before a lodge, in front of which a wounded boy of twelve or fourteen years of age was extended on a buffalo–robe. On inquiry, Reginald learnt from an Indian who could speak a few words of English, that the lad had been struck down and trampled on by a vicious horse: although no sounds escaped from his lips, the involuntary writhing of the youthful sufferer showed the acuteness of the pain which he endured; while a bulky Indian, in the garb of an Osage medicine–man, was displaying beside him the various absurd mummeries of his vocation.This native quack was naked to the waist; his breast and back being painted over with representations of snakes and lizards. Instead of the usual breech–cloth, or middle garment, he wore a kind of apron of antelope skins, hemmed, or skirted with feathers of various colours: the borders of his leggings were also adorned with the wings of an owl; in one hand he held a tomahawk, the haft of which was painted white, and in the other a hollow gourd, containing a few hard beans, or stones of the wild cherry, which latter instrument he rattled incessantly round the head of his patient, accompanying this Æsculapian music with the most grotesque gesticulations, and a sort of moaning howl—all these being intended to exorcise and drive away the evil spirit of pain.While Reginald was contemplating the strange spectacle with mingled curiosity and compassion he heard a confused murmur among those Indians nearest to the corner of the lodge, and thought he could distinguish the name of Olitipa: nor was he mistaken, for almost immediately afterwards the crowd divided, and Prairie–bird appeared before the lodge. Her dress was the same as that which Reginald had before seen, excepting that, in place of the chaplet of wild flowers, she wore on her head a turban of party–coloured silk, the picturesque effect of which blending with her dark hair and the oriental character of her beauty, reminded our hero of those Circassian enchantresses whom he had read of in eastern fable, as ruling satrap or sultan with a power more despotic than his own!Prairie–bird, walking gently forward with modest self–possession, took her place by the side of the sufferer, as if unconsciousof the numerous eyes that were observing all her movements: the medicine–man, whose exorcisms had been hitherto attended with no success, retreated into the lodge, whence he narrowly and silently observed the proceedings of his fair rival in the healing art.It was not difficult for Prairie–bird to ascertain that the boy’s hurts were very serious; for the hot brow, the dry lip, the involuntary contortions of the frame, gave clear evidence of acute pain and fever. She deeply regretted that the missionary had been absent when she was summoned, as his assistance would have been most useful; nevertheless, she resolved to do all in her power towards the mitigation of sufferings, the cure of which seemed beyond the reach of her simple remedies. Opening a bag that hung at her girdle, she drew from it some linen bandage, and various salves and simples, together with a small case of instruments belonging to Paul Müller, and kneeling by her young patient’s side, she breathed a short but earnest prayer for the blessing of Heaven on her humble exertions. During this pause, the Indians observed a strict and attentive silence; and Reginald felt a kind of awe mingle itself with his impassioned admiration, as he contemplated the unaffected simplicity and loveliness of her kneeling figure.A serious wound in the young patient’s temple claimed her first care, which having washed and closed, she covered with a healing plaster; but observing that the symptoms of fever had rather increased than diminished, she knew that the lancet should be immediately applied, and cast her anxious eyes around in the hope that the missionary might have heard of the accident, and be now on his way to the lodge. While looking thus around, she became for the first time aware of Reginald’s presence; and a slight blush accompanied her recognition of him; but her thoughts recurring immediately to the object of her present attention, she asked him in a clear low voice to come nearer, on which he moved forward from the circle of spectators, and stood before the lodge.Prairie–bird, pointing to the form of the young Indian, said, in English, “The poor boy is much hurt, he will die if he is not bled; the Black Father is absent; can Reginald take blood from the arm?”“I do not pretend to much skill in surgery, fair Prairie–bird,” replied the young man, smiling; “but I have learnt tobleed my horse and my dog, and if the necessity be urgent, methinks I can open a vein in this boy’s arm without much risk of danger.”“It is indeed urgent,” said the maiden, earnestly; “here are Paul Müller’s instruments; I pray you take a lancet and proceed without delay.”Thus urged, Reginald selected a lancet, and having proved its sharpness, he passed a bandage tightly round the sufferer’s arm, and set about his first surgical operation with becoming care and gravity, the Osages drawing near and looking on in attentive silence. Before applying the lancet, he said in a low voice to Prairie–bird, “Must I allow a considerable quantity of blood to flow ere I stanch it?” and on her making an affirmative sign, he added, “Let me entreat you to turn your eyes away, it is not a fitting sight for them, and they might affect the steadiness of my nerves.”With a deep blush Prairie–bird cast down her eyes, and began to employ them busily in searching her little bag for some cordial drinks and healing ointment, to be administered after the bleeding should be over.Reginald acquitted himself of his task with skill and with complete success, and found no difficulty in stanching the blood, and placing a proper bandage on the arm; after which the restoratives prepared by Prairie–bird were applied, and in a very short time they had the satisfaction of finding the symptoms of fever and pain subside, and were able to leave the youthful patient to repose, Prairie–bird promising to visit him again on the morrow.An elderly brave of the Osages now stepped forward, and presented Prairie–bird with a girdle of cloth, ornamented with feathers, quills, and beads, of the gayest colours,—an offering which she received with that modest grace which was inseparable from her every movement; the same brave (who was, in fact, the father of the wounded boy,) presented Reginald with a painted buffalo robe, which, as soon as he had displayed its strange designs and devices, he desired a young Indian to convey to the white chief’s lodge. Our hero having, in return, given to the Osage a knife with an ornamented sheath, which he had worn, in addition to his own, in case of being suddenly called upon to make such a present, prepared to accompany Prairie–bird to her lodge.As they left the circle, Reginald’s eye encountered that of Mahéga, fixed with a scowling expression on himself and his fair companion; but he passed on without noticing the sullen and haughty chief, being resolved not to involve himself in any quarrel in her presence. They walked slowly towards the lodge of Tamenund, and it must be confessed that they did not take exactly the shortest path to it, Reginald leading the way, and Prairie–bird following his occasional deviations with marvellous acquiescence.The young man turned the conversation on the character of Paul Müller, knowing it to be a subject agreeable to Prairie–bird, and well calculated to give him an opportunity of listening to that voice which was already music to his ear; nor was he disappointed, for she spoke of him with all the warmth of the most affectionate regard; and the expression of her feelings imparted such eloquence to her tongue and to her beaming eyes, that Reginald looked and listened in enraptured silence. As they drew near her tent, she suddenly checked herself, and looking up in his face with an archness that was irresistible, said, “Pray pardon me, I have been talking all this time, when I ought to have been listening to you, who are so much wiser than myself.”“Say not so,” replied Reginald, with an earnestness that he attempted not to conceal: “say not so, I only regret that we have already reached your tent, for I should never be weary of listening to your voice.”Prairie–bird replied with that ingenuous simplicity peculiar to her:“I am glad to hear you say so, for I know you speak the truth, and it makes me very happy to give you pleasure. Now I must go into my tent.”So saying she held out her hand to him, and nothing but the presence of several Indians loitering near prevented his obeying the impulse which prompted him to press it to his lips. Checking it by an effort of prudence, he withdrew into the lodge of Tamenund, and mused on the qualities of this extraordinary child of the wilderness,—her beauty, her grace, her dignity, and, above all, that guileless simplicity that distinguished her beyond all that he had ever seen; in short, he mused so long on the subject that we will leave him to his meditations, as we fear it must be confessed that he was almost,if not quite, “in love;” and the reflections of parties so circumstanced, are rarely interesting to others.What were the feelings of Prairie–bird when she once more found herself alone in her tent, and vainly endeavoured to still the unwonted tumult in her heart? Her thoughts, in spite of herself, would dwell on the companion who had escorted her from the Osage lodge: his words still rung in her ears; his image was before her eyes; she felt ashamed that one, almost a stranger, should thus absorb all her faculties; and was the more ashamed, from being conscious that she did not wish it were otherwise; her heart told her that it would not exchange its present state of tumult and subjection for its former condition of quiet and peace!Lest the reader should be inclined to judge her as harshly as she judged herself, we will beg him to remember the circumstances and history of this singular girl. Brought up among a roving tribe of Indians, she had fortunately fallen into the hands of a family remarkable for the highest virtues exhibited by that people: the missionary, Paul Müller, had cultivated her understanding with the most affectionate and zealous care; and he was, with the exception of an occasional trader visiting the tribe, almost the only man of her own race whom she had seen; and though entertaining towards Tamenund the gratitude which his kindness to her deserved, and towards War–Eagle and Wingenund the affectionate regard of a sister, both the knowledge imparted by the missionary, and her own instinctive feeling, had taught her to consider herself among them as a separate and isolated being. These feelings she had of course nourished in secret, but they had not altogether escaped the penetration of Wingenund, who, it may be remembered, had told Reginald on their first meeting that the antelope was as likely to pair with the elk, as was his sister to choose a mate among the chiefs of the Osage or the Lenapé.On the return of the two Delawares from their excursion to the Muskingum, Wingenund had related to Prairie–bird the heroic gallantry with which the young white chief had plunged into the river to save War–Eagle’s life: he had painted, with untutored but impassioned eloquence, the courage, the gentleness, the generosity, of his new friend. Prairie–bird’s own imagination had filled up the picture, and the unseen preserver of her Indian brother was therein associated with all thehighest qualities that adorned the heroes of such tales as she had read or heard recounted by the missionary.She had reached that age when the female heart, unsupported by maternal protection, and severed from the ties of kindred, naturally seeks for something on which to rest its affection. Are we then to wonder if, when Reginald Brandon first stood before her, when she saw in his noble form and expressive features all her secret imaginations more than realised, when he addressed her in her own tongue, and in a tone of voice gentle even to tenderness; are we to wonder, or to blame, this nursling of the wilderness, if the barriers of pride and reserve gave way beneath the flood which swept over them with fresh and irresistible force? Often had she, on various pretexts, made Wingenund repeat to her the adventures and occurrences of his excursion to the Ohio; and as the artless boy described, in language as clear as his memory was tenacious, the dwelling of Reginald’s father, the range of buildings, the strange furniture, the garden, the winding brook that bounded its enclosure, and above all the fair features and winning gentleness of the Lily of Mooshanne, Prairie–bird would cover her averted face with her hands, as if struggling to banish or to recall some wild delusive dream, and her lips would move in unconscious repetition of “Mooshanne.” Surprised at her agitation, Wingenund had once so far laid aside the strictness of Indian reserve as to inquire into its cause; and she replied, with a melancholy smile,“Wingenund has painted the Lily of Mooshanne in colours so soft and sweet, that Olitipa longs to embrace and love her as a sister.”The boy fixed his penetrating eye upon her countenance, in deep expressive silence, the innate delicacy of his feeling triumphed, and Prairie–bird’s secret meditations were thenceforward undisturbed.To return from this retrospective digression. Prairie–bird’s tent was divided, by a partition of buffalo skins, into two compartments, in the outer of which was her guitar, the books lent her by the missionary, a small table and two chairs, or rather stools, the latter rudely but efficiently constructed by his own hands; in the corner also stood the chest, where his medicines, instruments, and other few valuables were deposited; in the inner compartment was a bed, composed of Mexican grass,stretched upon four wooden feet, and covered with dressed antelope skins and blankets of the finest quality. Here also was a chest, containing her quaint but not ungraceful apparel, and the other requisites for her simple toilet; at night a female slave, a captive taken from one of the southern tribes, slept in the outer compartment, and the ever watchful Wingenund stretched himself on a buffalo robe across the aperture, so that the slumbers of the fair Prairie–bird were securely guarded even during the absence of Paul Müller; and when he was with the tribe, his small tent was separated from hers only by a partition of skins, which in case of alarm might be cut open by a sharp knife in a moment. There was, in truth, little fear for the security of this extraordinary girl, who was looked upon, as we have before observed, by all the tribe with mingled awe and affection.In the outer room of the two compartments above mentioned she was now sitting, with her eyes cast upon the ground, and her fingers straying unconsciously over the strings of her guitar, when she was aroused from her long reverie by the soft voice of the female slave who had entered unperceived, and who now said, in the Delaware tongue,“Are Olitipa’s ears shut, and is the voice of Wingenund strange to them?”“Is my brother there,” replied the maiden, ashamed at her fit of absence; “tell him, Lita, that he is welcome.”The girl addressed by the name of Lita was about seventeen years of age, small, and delicately formed, exceedingly dark, her wild and changeful countenance being rather of a gipsy than of an Indian character. She had been taken, when a child, by a war–party which had penetrated into the country of the Comanches, a powerful and warlike tribe still inhabiting the extensive prairies on the Mexican and Texian frontier. She was devotedly attached to Prairie–bird, who treated her more like a friend than a slave, but towards all others she observed an habitual and somewhat haughty silence. Had her fate condemned her to any other lodge in the encampment, the poor girl’s life would have been a continued succession of blows, labour, and suffering; for her spirit was indomitable, and impracticable to every other control than kindness; but as the good–humoured Tamenund had appropriated her services to his favourite child, she passed most of her time in Olitipa’stent, and thus avoided the ill–usage to which she might otherwise have been exposed.Such was the girl who now went to the folding aperture of the tent, and desired Wingenund to come in. The youth entered, followed by a boy bearing a large covered dish or basket of wicker–work, which having placed on the table, he withdrew. Prairie–bird could not fail to observe in her young brother’s countenance and carriage an unusual stateliness and dignity, and she remarked at the same time the circumstance of his having brought with him the boy to carry her basket, a service which he had been accustomed to perform with his own hands. Making him a sign to sit down, she thus accosted him, in terms allusive to the customs of the tribe:—“Has my young brother dreamt? Has the breath of the Great Spirit passed over his sleep?”“It is so,” replied Wingenund. “The chiefs and the braves have sat at the council–fire; the name of Wingenund was on their tongues, the deeds of his fathers are not forgotten; he is not to do the work of squaws; his name will be heard among the warriors of the Lenapé.”From this reply Prairie–bird knew that her young brother was about to undergo the fasting, and other superstitious ordeals, through which those youths were made to pass who wished to be enrolled among the warriors of the tribe at an earlier age than usual. These superstitious observances were repugnant to her good sense and enlightened understanding; and as she had hitherto acted in the capacity of monitress and instructress, she was perhaps not pleased at the prospect of his suddenly breaking loose from her gentle dominion: she said to him, therefore, in a tone more grave than usual,—“Wingenund has heard the Black Father speak;—were his ears shut? Does he not know that there is one God above, who rules the world alone? The totems[29], and the symbols and the dreams of the medicine–men, are for those poor Indians whose minds are under a cloud. Wingenund cannot believe these things!”“My sister speaks wisely,” replied the youth; “the wind cannot blow away her words: but Wingenund is of the Lenapé, the ancient people; he wishes to live and die among their braves; he must travel in the path that his fathers have trod, or the warriors will not call his name when the hatchet is dug up.”“Let not the hatchet be dug up,” said the maiden, anxiously. “Have I not told my brother that God is the avenger of blood spilt by man? why should his foot be set on the war–path?”“While the hatchet is below the earth,” replied the youth, in the low, musical accent of his tribe, “Wingenund will sit by his sister and listen to her wisdom; he will go out with War–Eagle and bring back the skin of the antelope or the doe for her apparel, the meat of the deer and the bison for her food; he will open his ears to the counsel of the Black Father, and will throw a thick blanket over thoughts of strife and blood. But if the Washashee (the Osage) bears a forked tongue (here the youth sank his voice to a whisper of deep meaning),—if he loosens the scalp–knife while his hand is on the poacan[30]—if the trail of the Dahcotah is found near our village, Wingenund must be awake: he is not a child: the young men will hear his voice, and the old men shall say, ‘He is the son of his father.’ It is enough. Let my sister eat the meat that War–Eagle has sent her: for three suns Wingenund tastes not food.”So saying, the lad threw his robe over his shoulder and left the tent. Prairie–bird gazed long and thoughtfully on the spot where her brother’s retreating figure had disappeared; she felt grieved that all the lessons and truths of Christianity which she had endeavoured to instil into his mind were unable to change the current of his Indian blood: she had hoped to see him become a civilised man and a convert, and, through his amiable character, and the weight of his name, to win over many others of the Lenapé tribe. In addition to this disappointment, she was alarmed at the purport of his parting words: he had hinted at some treachery on the part of their Osage allies, and that a trail of the Dahcotahs had been seen near the encampment. These subjects of anxiety, added to the excitement which her feelings had lately undergone, socompletely engrossed the maiden’s attention, that, although the corn–cakes were of the sweetest kind, and the venison of the most delicate flavour, the basket of provisions remained untouched on the table when Paul Müller entered the tent.His brow was grave and thoughtful, but his countenance relaxed into its usual benevolent expression, as his affectionate pupil sprang forward to greet and welcome him.“Dear father, I am so glad you are come!” she exclaimed; “I have been waiting for you most impatiently, and I have been in need of your aid.”“I heard, my child, as I walked through the village, that you had been tending the wounds of a boy much hurt by a horse; was the hurt beyond your skill?”“Not exactly,” she replied, hesitating. “It was needful that blood should flow from his arm; and, as you were not there, I was forced to ask the assistance of Netis—that is, of Reginald.”“Well,” said the missionary, smiling, “I hope he proved a skilful leech?”“He would not allow me to look on,” she replied: “but, though it was his first trial, he drew the blood, and stanched it, as skilfully as you could have done it yourself; and then he walked with me to the tent.”“And you conversed much by the way?” inquired the missionary.“Oh yes; and he made me tell him a great deal about you, and I was ashamed of talking so much; but then he told me that it gave him pleasure to hear me talk. How can it please him to hear me talk, dear father? I know nothing, and he has seen and read so much.”Paul Müller averted his face for a moment to conceal from her the smile which he could scarcely repress, as he replied,“My child, he has perhaps seen and read much; but the life and habits of the Indians are new to him, and of these you can tell him many things that he does not know.”“Tell me, dear father,” she said, after a short silence, “are there others like him in my country? I mean, not exactly like him, but more like him than the traders whom I have seen; they are so rough, and they drink fire–water, and they never think of God or his mercies: but he is so noble, hiscountenance made me afraid at first, but now, when he speaks to me, his voice is as gentle as the fawn calling to its dam!”Paul Müller saw very well how it fared with the heart of Prairie–bird. He remembered that Reginald was the son of a wealthy proprietor, who would probably have insuperable objections to his son’s marrying a foundling of the wilderness, and he hesitated whether he should not give her some warning caution on a subject which he foresaw would so soon affect her peace of mind. On the other hand, he was convinced that Reginald was a man of generous and decided character, and, while he resolved carefully to observe the intercourse between them, he would not mar the unsuspecting purity of her nature, nor throw any obstacle in the way of an attachment which he believed might lead to the happiness of both parties. In coming to this conclusion, it must not be forgotten that he was a Moravian missionary, long resident in the Far–west, and therefore not likely to trouble his head with the nice distinctions of European aristocracy. In the country which was now his home, he might be justified in deeming a match equal, if the man were honest and brave, and the bride young and virtuous, without reference to their birth, connections, or worldly possessions. Under the impression of considerations like these, the missionary replied to the maiden’s inquiry:“My child, I will not say that among the cities and settlements of the white men, there are many who would gain by comparison with Reginald Brandon; for not only has he the accidental advantages of fine features, and a form singularly graceful and athletic, but he seems to me to possess the far higher and rarer qualities of a modest, generous mind, and an honest heart: nevertheless, my child, I will pray you, even in respect to him, not to forget what I have told you regarding the general infirmity and waywardness of our nature; keep a watch on your eyes and on your heart, and Providence will rule all for the best:—we will speak no more on this subject now; let us take some food from the basket on your table.” Prairie–bird spread the simple meal in thoughtful silence, and when the missionary had asked a blessing on it, they sat down together. After a pause of some minutes she communicated to him her anxiety on account of the hints dropped by Wingenund respecting the suspected treachery of some of their Osage allies, and the circumstance of a hostile trail havingbeen discovered near the encampment. “It is too true,” replied the missionary gravely, “there are signs of approaching strife; and even that boy, whom I have so long endeavoured to instruct and lead aright, his blood is beginning to boil. I fear it is almost as hard for an Indian to change his nature as an Ethiopian his skin. He has told you the truth, and we must be prepared for approaching trouble.”After musing for a few moments, Paul Müller, fixing his eye on Prairie–bird, continued: “Do you know any cause of quarrel between the Osage and Lenapé chiefs?”“None,” replied the maiden in unaffected surprise. “How should I know? I go not near their council–fire.”“True,” said the missionary; “but your eyes are not often shut in broad day. Have you spoken to Mahéga of late? have you observed him?”“He has spoken to me more than once, and often meets me on my return from any far lodge in the village. I do not like him; he is fierce and bad, and he beats his young squaw, Wetopa.”“You are right, my child; avoid him; there is evil in that man; but if you meet him, do not show any dislike or suspicion of him; you would only kindle strife: you are among faithful and watchful friends; and if they were all to slumber and sleep, you have a Friend above, whose eye is never closed, and whose faithfulness is everlasting. Farewell, my child. I must converse awhile with Tamenund. Do you solace an hour with your guitar; it will put your unquiet thoughts to rest.”Prairie–bird was so accustomed to pay implicit obedience to the slightest wishes and suggestions of her beloved preceptor, that as he left the tent she mechanically took up the guitar, and passed her fingers through the strings. By degrees the soul of music within her was stirred, and ere long vented itself in the following hymn.The words were in the Delaware tongue, and composed by herself—the melodies (for more than one were introduced into the irregular chaunt) were such as she had caught or mingled from Indian minstrelsy, and the whole owed its only attraction to the sweet and varied tones of her voice. The first measure was a low recitative, which might be thus rendered in English:—“The sun sinks behind the western hills;Deep red are the curtains of his couch.One by one the stars appear;Many they are and lustrous.The pale moon is among them!They walk in their appointed path,Singing on their way, ‘God made us all!’Machelenda sutch Ktelewunsoacan,orHallowed be thy name.”Here the measure changed, and sweeping the strings with a bolder hand, she continued her untutored hymn, blending her Christian creed with the figures and expressions of the people among whom she dwelt.“The Great Spirit of the Lenapé is God.He has sent His word to gladden the heart of man.But clouds still darken the minds of the ancient people.The Great Spirit knows that they are blind and deaf,Yet His ear is open to hear,His hand is ready to guide.(ut suprà.)Hallowed be thy name!”Again the measure changed, as in the richest tones of her melodious voice she pursued her theme.“Sion and the everlasting mountains are thy footstool!Lightnings are about thy throne.Thunder is thy voice.And the evil spirit trembles before thee!The eagle cannot soar to thy habitation;His eye cannot look on thy brightness;Yet dost thou give life to the insect,And breath to the merry wren!Thou leadest the wild horse to the pasture,And the thirsty fawn to the stream.Hallowed be thy name.”Here the measure resumed its low and plaintive melody, as she thus concluded her song.“Who sings the praise of God?It is ‘Prairie–bird,’ the poor child of the wilderness.But God spurns not her prayer;She is a stray–leaf, that knows not the treeWhence the rude wind hath blown it;But God planted the parent stem.And not a branch or leaf thereof is hid from His sight.The young whip–poor–will flies to its mother’s nest,The calf bleats to the bison–cow:No mother’s voice says to Olitipa,’Come here!’The wide prairie is her home!God is a Father to Olitipa!Hallowed be thy name!”In singing the last few words, the tones of her voice were “most musical, most melancholy;” and though no human eyemarked the teardrop that stole down her cheek, it would appear that her song had excited sympathy in some human bosom, for a deep sigh fell upon her ear: startled at the sound, Prairie–bird looked around her tent, but no one could be seen; she listened, but it was not repeated, and the maiden remained unconscious that at the very first touch of her guitar Reginald had crept out of the adjoining lodge, and, enveloped in a buffalo robe on the grass at the back of her tent, had heard from beginning to end her plaintive hymn, and had paid the unconscious tribute of a heavy sigh to the touching pathos of its closing strain.
c204
AN ELK–HUNT.—REGINALD MAKES HIS FIRST ESSAY IN SURGERY.—THE READER IS ADMITTED INTO PRAIRIE–BIRD’S TENT.
We left Reginald Brandon in the skirt of the forest bounding the Western Prairie, accompanied by Wingenund and War–Eagle. The latter, having taken the lead, conducted his companions through a considerable extent of ground, covered with bushes of alder and scrub–oak, until they reached an open forest glade, where the Indian pointed out to Reginald a large square building, composed of rough logs, and covered with the same material. In the centre of one side was a low aperture, or door, about fifteen inches in height, in front of which was a train of maize laid by Wingenund. On approaching this turkey–pen, or trap, they observed that there were already two prisoners, a large gobbler and a female bird, although not more than an hour had elapsed since the lad had taken out the four turkeys which have been before mentioned. When the captives became aware of the approach of the party, they ran about the pen from side to side, thrusting out their long necks, peering through the crevices in the logs, jumping and flying against the top, in their violent endeavours to escape.
“Do they never stoop their heads?” inquired Reginald, “and go out at the same door by which they entered?”
“Never,” replied Wingenund.
“That is singular,” said Reginald, “for the bird is in general very sagacious and difficult to be taken or killed;—how does it happen that they are so unaccountably stupid as not to go out where they came in?”
Before answering the question addressed to him, Wingenund cast a diffident look towards War–Eagle, and on receiving from the chief a sign to reply, he said,
“Netis knows that the Great Spirit distributes the gifts of wisdom and cunning like the sunshine and the storm; even the Black Father does not understand all his ways. How can Wingenund tell why the turkey’s eye is so quick, his ear so sharp, his legs so swift?—and yet he is sometimes a fool; when he picks up the maize, his head is low; he walks through the opening; he is in a strange place; he is frightened; and fear takes from him all the sense that the Great Spirit had given him. Wingenund knows no more.”
“My young brother speaks truly, and wisely, beyond his years,” said Reginald, kindly. “It is, as you say, fear makes him forget all the capacities of his nature: it is so with men, why should it be otherwise with birds? Does War–Eagle say nothing?”
“My brother’s words are true,” replied the chief, gravely; “he has picked out one arrow, but many remain in the quiver.”
“My brother speaks riddles,” said Reginald; “I do not understand him.”
“Fear is a bad spirit,” replied the chief, raising his arm, and speaking with energy. “It creeps round the heart of a woman, and crawls among the lodges of the Dahcotahs; it makes the deer leap into the river when he would be safer in the thicket; it makes the turkey a fool, and keeps him in the pen: but there are other bad spirits, that make the heart crooked and the eyes blind.”
“Tell me how so?” inquired Reginald, desirous of encouraging his Indian friend to continue his illustration.
“Does my brother know the antelope,” replied War–Eagle; “he is very cunning and swift; his eye is quick as the turkey’s; the hunter could not overtake him: but he lies down in a hollow and hides himself; he fastens a tuft of grass to his bow and holds it over his head; the Bad Spirit gets into the antelope; he becomes a fool; he comes nearer and nearer to look at the strange sight;—the hunter shoots and he dies.There are many had spirits. The Wyandot who struck at my white brother, he was a cunning snake; he had taken scalps, the ball of his rifle did not wander; if he had crept in the bushes on my brother’s path, Netis would now be in the happy hunting–fields of the white warriors. But a bad spirit took him; he offered food while his heart was false, and he thrust his head under the tomahawk of War–Eagle. There are many bad spirits.—I have spoken.”
Reginald listened with interest to these sentiments of his Indian friend, expressed, as they were, in broken sentences and in broken English, the purport of them being, however, exactly conveyed in the foregoing sentences; but he refrained from pursuing the subject further, observing that War–Eagle was slinging the turkeys over Wingenund’s shoulder, and preparing to pursue their course in search of the elk. Leaving the youth to return with his feathered burden to the encampment, the two friends continued their excursion, War–Eagle leading the way, and stopping every now and then to examine such tracks as appeared to him worthy of notice. They had not proceeded far, when they reached a spot where the path which they were following crossed a small rivulet, and, the soil being soft on its bank, there were numerous hoof–prints of deer and elk, but so confused by the trampling of the different animals, that Reginald could not distinguish the one from the other. It was not so, however, with the Indian; for, pointing downward to a track at his foot, he made a sign, by raising both his hands above his head, to indicate a pair of antlers, and whispered to Reginald “very big.”
“An elk?” inquired the latter; making a silent affirmative sign, War–Eagle pursued the trail which conducted them to the top of a small rising ground, where it appeared to branch in several directions, and became almost imperceptible from the shortness of the grass and the hardness of the soil. But these seemed to offer no impediment to the Indian’s pursuit of his quarry, for turning short at a right angle to their former course, he descended the hillock in a different direction, walking with a swift noiseless step, as if he saw his game before him.
Reginald’s surprise overcame even his eagerness for the sport, trained as he had been in the woods, and justly held one of the quickest and most skilful hunters in the territory. Hehad looked in vain on the ground which they were now traversing for the slightest point or footmark: touching, therefore, his friend lightly on his shoulder, he whispered, “Does my brother guess the elk’s path?—or can he smell it, like the Spaniard’s dog?”
A good–humoured smile played on the Delaware’s lip as he replied, “The trail of the elk is broad and easy; War–Eagle could follow it by the moon’s light! My white brother will see: he is an elk–chief; his squaws are with him.”
As he spoke he showed several marks, which Reginald could scarcely distinguish, on the short grass: a few yards further War–Eagle added, pointing to a low bush beside them, “If Netis does not see the elk’s foot, he can see his teeth.”
On examining the bush, Reginald perceived that a small fresh twig from the side of it had been recently cropped, and suppressing his astonishment at his friend’s sagacity, in following with such apparent ease a trail that to him was scarcely discernible, he allowed him to proceed without further interruption, closely watching his every movement, in the hope that he might be able to discover some of the indications by which the Indian was guided. Moving lightly forward, they soon had occasion again to cross the brook before mentioned; and on the soft edge of its banks War–Eagle pointed in silence to the track of the large hoof of the elk, and to the smaller print left by the feet of its female companions. Desiring Reginald to remain still, the Indian now crept stealthily forward to the top of a small hillock covered with brushwood, where he lay for a few seconds with his ear touching the ground. Having once raised his head to look through a low bush in front of him, he sunk again upon the ground, and made a signal for his friend to creep to the spot. Reginald obeyed, and peering cautiously through the leaves of the same bush, he saw the stately elk browsing at a distance of an hundred and fifty yards, the two hinds being beyond him. The intervening ground being barren and almost flat, offering no cover for a nearer approach, his first impulse was to raise his rifle for a distant shot; but War–Eagle, gently pressing down the barrel, motioned him to crouch behind the bush. When they were again concealed, the Delaware whispered to his friend, that he would go round and creep on the elk from the opposite quarter.
Reginald, in reply, pointed to the top branches of a young poplar gently waving in the breeze.
“War–Eagle knows it,” said the Indian, gravely, “the wind is from that quarter; it is not good; but he will try; if elk smell him, he comes this way, and Netis shoot him.” So saying, he crept down the little hillock by the same path which they had followed in the ascent, and then striking off in an oblique direction, was soon lost to view.
Reginald, still concealed behind the bush, silent and motionless, with his hand on the lock of his rifle, watched intently every movement of the antlered monarch of the woods: the latter, unconscious of danger, lazily picked the tenderest shoots from the surrounding bushes, or tossed his lofty head to and fro, as if to display the ease and grace with which it bore those enormous antlers. More than once, as he turned to brush off from his side some troublesome fly, Reginald thought he had become suddenly aware of the Indian’s approach; but it was not so, for in spite of the disadvantage of the wind, the practised Delaware moved towards his unsuspecting prey with the stealthy creep of a panther. Reginald’s impatience was such that minutes seemed to him hours; and his fingers played with the lock of his rifle, as if he could no longer control their movement: at length a sudden snort from one of the hinds announced that she smelt or heard some object of alarm as she came trotting to the side of her lordly protector.
Turning himself to windward, and throwing forward his ears, the elk listened for a moment, while his upturned and wide distended nostril snuffed the breeze, to discover the danger of which he had been warned by his mate. That moment was not lost by the Delaware, and the report of his rifle echoed through the forest. Tossing his head with a sudden start, the elk fled from his now discovered foe, and came bounding over the barren space in front of the bush where Reginald was concealed. With a coolness that did great credit to his nerves as a hunter, the latter remained motionless, with his eye on the game and his finger on the trigger, until the elk passed his station at full speed: then he fired, and with so true an aim, that ere it had gone fifty yards, the noble beast fell to the earth, and immediately Reginald’s hunting–knife put an end to its pain and to its life. The young man lookedover the quarry with pride and pleasure, for it was the largest he had ever seen; and the shot (which had pierced the heart) was well calculated to raise War–Eagle’s opinion of his skill in wood–craft. Whilst he was still contemplating the animal’s bulk and fine proportions, the exclamation “good!” uttered in English, gave him the first notice that the Delaware was at his side.
“Ha! my friend,” said Reginald, grasping his hand cordially; “you sent him down towards me in fine style. Tell me War–Eagle, are there many elks as large in this country?”
“Not many,” replied the Indian; “War–Eagle told his white brother that the elk’s foot on the trail was big.”
“Was my brother very far when he shot?” inquired Reginald; “when his rifle speaks, the ball does not wander in the air.”
“War–Eagle was far,” replied the Indian, quietly, “but the elk carries the mark of his rifle—Netis shot better.” On examination, it appeared that the chief was right; his bullet had passed through the fleshy part of the animal’s neck; but not having cut the windpipe, the wound was not mortal, and but little blood had flowed from it.
While the Indian was busied in skinning and cutting up the elk, Reginald amused himself by reconnoitring the ground over which his friend had crept before he shot, and he was struck by the extraordinary sagacity with which the latter had made his approach; for on that side there were but few and scattered bushes, nor was there any rugged or broken ground favourable for concealment.
When the choicest portions of meat were duly separated and enveloped in the skin, War–Eagle hung them up on an adjacent tree, carefully rubbing damp powder over the covering, to protect the meat from the wolves and carrion birds; after which the friends proceeded on their excursion.
Having found fresh tracks of elk leading towards the open Prairie, they followed them, and succeeded in killing two more, after which they returned to the encampment, whence War–Eagle despatched a young Indian with a horse, and with directions as to the locality of the meat, which he was instructed to bring home.
As Reginald walked through the lodges of the Osage village, he observed a crowd of Indians collected before one of them,and curiosity prompted him to turn aside and observe what might be passing. Making his way without difficulty through the outer circle of spectators, he found himself before a lodge, in front of which a wounded boy of twelve or fourteen years of age was extended on a buffalo–robe. On inquiry, Reginald learnt from an Indian who could speak a few words of English, that the lad had been struck down and trampled on by a vicious horse: although no sounds escaped from his lips, the involuntary writhing of the youthful sufferer showed the acuteness of the pain which he endured; while a bulky Indian, in the garb of an Osage medicine–man, was displaying beside him the various absurd mummeries of his vocation.
This native quack was naked to the waist; his breast and back being painted over with representations of snakes and lizards. Instead of the usual breech–cloth, or middle garment, he wore a kind of apron of antelope skins, hemmed, or skirted with feathers of various colours: the borders of his leggings were also adorned with the wings of an owl; in one hand he held a tomahawk, the haft of which was painted white, and in the other a hollow gourd, containing a few hard beans, or stones of the wild cherry, which latter instrument he rattled incessantly round the head of his patient, accompanying this Æsculapian music with the most grotesque gesticulations, and a sort of moaning howl—all these being intended to exorcise and drive away the evil spirit of pain.
While Reginald was contemplating the strange spectacle with mingled curiosity and compassion he heard a confused murmur among those Indians nearest to the corner of the lodge, and thought he could distinguish the name of Olitipa: nor was he mistaken, for almost immediately afterwards the crowd divided, and Prairie–bird appeared before the lodge. Her dress was the same as that which Reginald had before seen, excepting that, in place of the chaplet of wild flowers, she wore on her head a turban of party–coloured silk, the picturesque effect of which blending with her dark hair and the oriental character of her beauty, reminded our hero of those Circassian enchantresses whom he had read of in eastern fable, as ruling satrap or sultan with a power more despotic than his own!
Prairie–bird, walking gently forward with modest self–possession, took her place by the side of the sufferer, as if unconsciousof the numerous eyes that were observing all her movements: the medicine–man, whose exorcisms had been hitherto attended with no success, retreated into the lodge, whence he narrowly and silently observed the proceedings of his fair rival in the healing art.
It was not difficult for Prairie–bird to ascertain that the boy’s hurts were very serious; for the hot brow, the dry lip, the involuntary contortions of the frame, gave clear evidence of acute pain and fever. She deeply regretted that the missionary had been absent when she was summoned, as his assistance would have been most useful; nevertheless, she resolved to do all in her power towards the mitigation of sufferings, the cure of which seemed beyond the reach of her simple remedies. Opening a bag that hung at her girdle, she drew from it some linen bandage, and various salves and simples, together with a small case of instruments belonging to Paul Müller, and kneeling by her young patient’s side, she breathed a short but earnest prayer for the blessing of Heaven on her humble exertions. During this pause, the Indians observed a strict and attentive silence; and Reginald felt a kind of awe mingle itself with his impassioned admiration, as he contemplated the unaffected simplicity and loveliness of her kneeling figure.
A serious wound in the young patient’s temple claimed her first care, which having washed and closed, she covered with a healing plaster; but observing that the symptoms of fever had rather increased than diminished, she knew that the lancet should be immediately applied, and cast her anxious eyes around in the hope that the missionary might have heard of the accident, and be now on his way to the lodge. While looking thus around, she became for the first time aware of Reginald’s presence; and a slight blush accompanied her recognition of him; but her thoughts recurring immediately to the object of her present attention, she asked him in a clear low voice to come nearer, on which he moved forward from the circle of spectators, and stood before the lodge.
Prairie–bird, pointing to the form of the young Indian, said, in English, “The poor boy is much hurt, he will die if he is not bled; the Black Father is absent; can Reginald take blood from the arm?”
“I do not pretend to much skill in surgery, fair Prairie–bird,” replied the young man, smiling; “but I have learnt tobleed my horse and my dog, and if the necessity be urgent, methinks I can open a vein in this boy’s arm without much risk of danger.”
“It is indeed urgent,” said the maiden, earnestly; “here are Paul Müller’s instruments; I pray you take a lancet and proceed without delay.”
Thus urged, Reginald selected a lancet, and having proved its sharpness, he passed a bandage tightly round the sufferer’s arm, and set about his first surgical operation with becoming care and gravity, the Osages drawing near and looking on in attentive silence. Before applying the lancet, he said in a low voice to Prairie–bird, “Must I allow a considerable quantity of blood to flow ere I stanch it?” and on her making an affirmative sign, he added, “Let me entreat you to turn your eyes away, it is not a fitting sight for them, and they might affect the steadiness of my nerves.”
With a deep blush Prairie–bird cast down her eyes, and began to employ them busily in searching her little bag for some cordial drinks and healing ointment, to be administered after the bleeding should be over.
Reginald acquitted himself of his task with skill and with complete success, and found no difficulty in stanching the blood, and placing a proper bandage on the arm; after which the restoratives prepared by Prairie–bird were applied, and in a very short time they had the satisfaction of finding the symptoms of fever and pain subside, and were able to leave the youthful patient to repose, Prairie–bird promising to visit him again on the morrow.
An elderly brave of the Osages now stepped forward, and presented Prairie–bird with a girdle of cloth, ornamented with feathers, quills, and beads, of the gayest colours,—an offering which she received with that modest grace which was inseparable from her every movement; the same brave (who was, in fact, the father of the wounded boy,) presented Reginald with a painted buffalo robe, which, as soon as he had displayed its strange designs and devices, he desired a young Indian to convey to the white chief’s lodge. Our hero having, in return, given to the Osage a knife with an ornamented sheath, which he had worn, in addition to his own, in case of being suddenly called upon to make such a present, prepared to accompany Prairie–bird to her lodge.
As they left the circle, Reginald’s eye encountered that of Mahéga, fixed with a scowling expression on himself and his fair companion; but he passed on without noticing the sullen and haughty chief, being resolved not to involve himself in any quarrel in her presence. They walked slowly towards the lodge of Tamenund, and it must be confessed that they did not take exactly the shortest path to it, Reginald leading the way, and Prairie–bird following his occasional deviations with marvellous acquiescence.
The young man turned the conversation on the character of Paul Müller, knowing it to be a subject agreeable to Prairie–bird, and well calculated to give him an opportunity of listening to that voice which was already music to his ear; nor was he disappointed, for she spoke of him with all the warmth of the most affectionate regard; and the expression of her feelings imparted such eloquence to her tongue and to her beaming eyes, that Reginald looked and listened in enraptured silence. As they drew near her tent, she suddenly checked herself, and looking up in his face with an archness that was irresistible, said, “Pray pardon me, I have been talking all this time, when I ought to have been listening to you, who are so much wiser than myself.”
“Say not so,” replied Reginald, with an earnestness that he attempted not to conceal: “say not so, I only regret that we have already reached your tent, for I should never be weary of listening to your voice.”
Prairie–bird replied with that ingenuous simplicity peculiar to her:
“I am glad to hear you say so, for I know you speak the truth, and it makes me very happy to give you pleasure. Now I must go into my tent.”
So saying she held out her hand to him, and nothing but the presence of several Indians loitering near prevented his obeying the impulse which prompted him to press it to his lips. Checking it by an effort of prudence, he withdrew into the lodge of Tamenund, and mused on the qualities of this extraordinary child of the wilderness,—her beauty, her grace, her dignity, and, above all, that guileless simplicity that distinguished her beyond all that he had ever seen; in short, he mused so long on the subject that we will leave him to his meditations, as we fear it must be confessed that he was almost,if not quite, “in love;” and the reflections of parties so circumstanced, are rarely interesting to others.
What were the feelings of Prairie–bird when she once more found herself alone in her tent, and vainly endeavoured to still the unwonted tumult in her heart? Her thoughts, in spite of herself, would dwell on the companion who had escorted her from the Osage lodge: his words still rung in her ears; his image was before her eyes; she felt ashamed that one, almost a stranger, should thus absorb all her faculties; and was the more ashamed, from being conscious that she did not wish it were otherwise; her heart told her that it would not exchange its present state of tumult and subjection for its former condition of quiet and peace!
Lest the reader should be inclined to judge her as harshly as she judged herself, we will beg him to remember the circumstances and history of this singular girl. Brought up among a roving tribe of Indians, she had fortunately fallen into the hands of a family remarkable for the highest virtues exhibited by that people: the missionary, Paul Müller, had cultivated her understanding with the most affectionate and zealous care; and he was, with the exception of an occasional trader visiting the tribe, almost the only man of her own race whom she had seen; and though entertaining towards Tamenund the gratitude which his kindness to her deserved, and towards War–Eagle and Wingenund the affectionate regard of a sister, both the knowledge imparted by the missionary, and her own instinctive feeling, had taught her to consider herself among them as a separate and isolated being. These feelings she had of course nourished in secret, but they had not altogether escaped the penetration of Wingenund, who, it may be remembered, had told Reginald on their first meeting that the antelope was as likely to pair with the elk, as was his sister to choose a mate among the chiefs of the Osage or the Lenapé.
On the return of the two Delawares from their excursion to the Muskingum, Wingenund had related to Prairie–bird the heroic gallantry with which the young white chief had plunged into the river to save War–Eagle’s life: he had painted, with untutored but impassioned eloquence, the courage, the gentleness, the generosity, of his new friend. Prairie–bird’s own imagination had filled up the picture, and the unseen preserver of her Indian brother was therein associated with all thehighest qualities that adorned the heroes of such tales as she had read or heard recounted by the missionary.
She had reached that age when the female heart, unsupported by maternal protection, and severed from the ties of kindred, naturally seeks for something on which to rest its affection. Are we then to wonder if, when Reginald Brandon first stood before her, when she saw in his noble form and expressive features all her secret imaginations more than realised, when he addressed her in her own tongue, and in a tone of voice gentle even to tenderness; are we to wonder, or to blame, this nursling of the wilderness, if the barriers of pride and reserve gave way beneath the flood which swept over them with fresh and irresistible force? Often had she, on various pretexts, made Wingenund repeat to her the adventures and occurrences of his excursion to the Ohio; and as the artless boy described, in language as clear as his memory was tenacious, the dwelling of Reginald’s father, the range of buildings, the strange furniture, the garden, the winding brook that bounded its enclosure, and above all the fair features and winning gentleness of the Lily of Mooshanne, Prairie–bird would cover her averted face with her hands, as if struggling to banish or to recall some wild delusive dream, and her lips would move in unconscious repetition of “Mooshanne.” Surprised at her agitation, Wingenund had once so far laid aside the strictness of Indian reserve as to inquire into its cause; and she replied, with a melancholy smile,
“Wingenund has painted the Lily of Mooshanne in colours so soft and sweet, that Olitipa longs to embrace and love her as a sister.”
The boy fixed his penetrating eye upon her countenance, in deep expressive silence, the innate delicacy of his feeling triumphed, and Prairie–bird’s secret meditations were thenceforward undisturbed.
To return from this retrospective digression. Prairie–bird’s tent was divided, by a partition of buffalo skins, into two compartments, in the outer of which was her guitar, the books lent her by the missionary, a small table and two chairs, or rather stools, the latter rudely but efficiently constructed by his own hands; in the corner also stood the chest, where his medicines, instruments, and other few valuables were deposited; in the inner compartment was a bed, composed of Mexican grass,stretched upon four wooden feet, and covered with dressed antelope skins and blankets of the finest quality. Here also was a chest, containing her quaint but not ungraceful apparel, and the other requisites for her simple toilet; at night a female slave, a captive taken from one of the southern tribes, slept in the outer compartment, and the ever watchful Wingenund stretched himself on a buffalo robe across the aperture, so that the slumbers of the fair Prairie–bird were securely guarded even during the absence of Paul Müller; and when he was with the tribe, his small tent was separated from hers only by a partition of skins, which in case of alarm might be cut open by a sharp knife in a moment. There was, in truth, little fear for the security of this extraordinary girl, who was looked upon, as we have before observed, by all the tribe with mingled awe and affection.
In the outer room of the two compartments above mentioned she was now sitting, with her eyes cast upon the ground, and her fingers straying unconsciously over the strings of her guitar, when she was aroused from her long reverie by the soft voice of the female slave who had entered unperceived, and who now said, in the Delaware tongue,
“Are Olitipa’s ears shut, and is the voice of Wingenund strange to them?”
“Is my brother there,” replied the maiden, ashamed at her fit of absence; “tell him, Lita, that he is welcome.”
The girl addressed by the name of Lita was about seventeen years of age, small, and delicately formed, exceedingly dark, her wild and changeful countenance being rather of a gipsy than of an Indian character. She had been taken, when a child, by a war–party which had penetrated into the country of the Comanches, a powerful and warlike tribe still inhabiting the extensive prairies on the Mexican and Texian frontier. She was devotedly attached to Prairie–bird, who treated her more like a friend than a slave, but towards all others she observed an habitual and somewhat haughty silence. Had her fate condemned her to any other lodge in the encampment, the poor girl’s life would have been a continued succession of blows, labour, and suffering; for her spirit was indomitable, and impracticable to every other control than kindness; but as the good–humoured Tamenund had appropriated her services to his favourite child, she passed most of her time in Olitipa’stent, and thus avoided the ill–usage to which she might otherwise have been exposed.
Such was the girl who now went to the folding aperture of the tent, and desired Wingenund to come in. The youth entered, followed by a boy bearing a large covered dish or basket of wicker–work, which having placed on the table, he withdrew. Prairie–bird could not fail to observe in her young brother’s countenance and carriage an unusual stateliness and dignity, and she remarked at the same time the circumstance of his having brought with him the boy to carry her basket, a service which he had been accustomed to perform with his own hands. Making him a sign to sit down, she thus accosted him, in terms allusive to the customs of the tribe:—
“Has my young brother dreamt? Has the breath of the Great Spirit passed over his sleep?”
“It is so,” replied Wingenund. “The chiefs and the braves have sat at the council–fire; the name of Wingenund was on their tongues, the deeds of his fathers are not forgotten; he is not to do the work of squaws; his name will be heard among the warriors of the Lenapé.”
From this reply Prairie–bird knew that her young brother was about to undergo the fasting, and other superstitious ordeals, through which those youths were made to pass who wished to be enrolled among the warriors of the tribe at an earlier age than usual. These superstitious observances were repugnant to her good sense and enlightened understanding; and as she had hitherto acted in the capacity of monitress and instructress, she was perhaps not pleased at the prospect of his suddenly breaking loose from her gentle dominion: she said to him, therefore, in a tone more grave than usual,—
“Wingenund has heard the Black Father speak;—were his ears shut? Does he not know that there is one God above, who rules the world alone? The totems[29], and the symbols and the dreams of the medicine–men, are for those poor Indians whose minds are under a cloud. Wingenund cannot believe these things!”
“My sister speaks wisely,” replied the youth; “the wind cannot blow away her words: but Wingenund is of the Lenapé, the ancient people; he wishes to live and die among their braves; he must travel in the path that his fathers have trod, or the warriors will not call his name when the hatchet is dug up.”
“Let not the hatchet be dug up,” said the maiden, anxiously. “Have I not told my brother that God is the avenger of blood spilt by man? why should his foot be set on the war–path?”
“While the hatchet is below the earth,” replied the youth, in the low, musical accent of his tribe, “Wingenund will sit by his sister and listen to her wisdom; he will go out with War–Eagle and bring back the skin of the antelope or the doe for her apparel, the meat of the deer and the bison for her food; he will open his ears to the counsel of the Black Father, and will throw a thick blanket over thoughts of strife and blood. But if the Washashee (the Osage) bears a forked tongue (here the youth sank his voice to a whisper of deep meaning),—if he loosens the scalp–knife while his hand is on the poacan[30]—if the trail of the Dahcotah is found near our village, Wingenund must be awake: he is not a child: the young men will hear his voice, and the old men shall say, ‘He is the son of his father.’ It is enough. Let my sister eat the meat that War–Eagle has sent her: for three suns Wingenund tastes not food.”
So saying, the lad threw his robe over his shoulder and left the tent. Prairie–bird gazed long and thoughtfully on the spot where her brother’s retreating figure had disappeared; she felt grieved that all the lessons and truths of Christianity which she had endeavoured to instil into his mind were unable to change the current of his Indian blood: she had hoped to see him become a civilised man and a convert, and, through his amiable character, and the weight of his name, to win over many others of the Lenapé tribe. In addition to this disappointment, she was alarmed at the purport of his parting words: he had hinted at some treachery on the part of their Osage allies, and that a trail of the Dahcotahs had been seen near the encampment. These subjects of anxiety, added to the excitement which her feelings had lately undergone, socompletely engrossed the maiden’s attention, that, although the corn–cakes were of the sweetest kind, and the venison of the most delicate flavour, the basket of provisions remained untouched on the table when Paul Müller entered the tent.
His brow was grave and thoughtful, but his countenance relaxed into its usual benevolent expression, as his affectionate pupil sprang forward to greet and welcome him.
“Dear father, I am so glad you are come!” she exclaimed; “I have been waiting for you most impatiently, and I have been in need of your aid.”
“I heard, my child, as I walked through the village, that you had been tending the wounds of a boy much hurt by a horse; was the hurt beyond your skill?”
“Not exactly,” she replied, hesitating. “It was needful that blood should flow from his arm; and, as you were not there, I was forced to ask the assistance of Netis—that is, of Reginald.”
“Well,” said the missionary, smiling, “I hope he proved a skilful leech?”
“He would not allow me to look on,” she replied: “but, though it was his first trial, he drew the blood, and stanched it, as skilfully as you could have done it yourself; and then he walked with me to the tent.”
“And you conversed much by the way?” inquired the missionary.
“Oh yes; and he made me tell him a great deal about you, and I was ashamed of talking so much; but then he told me that it gave him pleasure to hear me talk. How can it please him to hear me talk, dear father? I know nothing, and he has seen and read so much.”
Paul Müller averted his face for a moment to conceal from her the smile which he could scarcely repress, as he replied,
“My child, he has perhaps seen and read much; but the life and habits of the Indians are new to him, and of these you can tell him many things that he does not know.”
“Tell me, dear father,” she said, after a short silence, “are there others like him in my country? I mean, not exactly like him, but more like him than the traders whom I have seen; they are so rough, and they drink fire–water, and they never think of God or his mercies: but he is so noble, hiscountenance made me afraid at first, but now, when he speaks to me, his voice is as gentle as the fawn calling to its dam!”
Paul Müller saw very well how it fared with the heart of Prairie–bird. He remembered that Reginald was the son of a wealthy proprietor, who would probably have insuperable objections to his son’s marrying a foundling of the wilderness, and he hesitated whether he should not give her some warning caution on a subject which he foresaw would so soon affect her peace of mind. On the other hand, he was convinced that Reginald was a man of generous and decided character, and, while he resolved carefully to observe the intercourse between them, he would not mar the unsuspecting purity of her nature, nor throw any obstacle in the way of an attachment which he believed might lead to the happiness of both parties. In coming to this conclusion, it must not be forgotten that he was a Moravian missionary, long resident in the Far–west, and therefore not likely to trouble his head with the nice distinctions of European aristocracy. In the country which was now his home, he might be justified in deeming a match equal, if the man were honest and brave, and the bride young and virtuous, without reference to their birth, connections, or worldly possessions. Under the impression of considerations like these, the missionary replied to the maiden’s inquiry:
“My child, I will not say that among the cities and settlements of the white men, there are many who would gain by comparison with Reginald Brandon; for not only has he the accidental advantages of fine features, and a form singularly graceful and athletic, but he seems to me to possess the far higher and rarer qualities of a modest, generous mind, and an honest heart: nevertheless, my child, I will pray you, even in respect to him, not to forget what I have told you regarding the general infirmity and waywardness of our nature; keep a watch on your eyes and on your heart, and Providence will rule all for the best:—we will speak no more on this subject now; let us take some food from the basket on your table.” Prairie–bird spread the simple meal in thoughtful silence, and when the missionary had asked a blessing on it, they sat down together. After a pause of some minutes she communicated to him her anxiety on account of the hints dropped by Wingenund respecting the suspected treachery of some of their Osage allies, and the circumstance of a hostile trail havingbeen discovered near the encampment. “It is too true,” replied the missionary gravely, “there are signs of approaching strife; and even that boy, whom I have so long endeavoured to instruct and lead aright, his blood is beginning to boil. I fear it is almost as hard for an Indian to change his nature as an Ethiopian his skin. He has told you the truth, and we must be prepared for approaching trouble.”
After musing for a few moments, Paul Müller, fixing his eye on Prairie–bird, continued: “Do you know any cause of quarrel between the Osage and Lenapé chiefs?”
“None,” replied the maiden in unaffected surprise. “How should I know? I go not near their council–fire.”
“True,” said the missionary; “but your eyes are not often shut in broad day. Have you spoken to Mahéga of late? have you observed him?”
“He has spoken to me more than once, and often meets me on my return from any far lodge in the village. I do not like him; he is fierce and bad, and he beats his young squaw, Wetopa.”
“You are right, my child; avoid him; there is evil in that man; but if you meet him, do not show any dislike or suspicion of him; you would only kindle strife: you are among faithful and watchful friends; and if they were all to slumber and sleep, you have a Friend above, whose eye is never closed, and whose faithfulness is everlasting. Farewell, my child. I must converse awhile with Tamenund. Do you solace an hour with your guitar; it will put your unquiet thoughts to rest.”
Prairie–bird was so accustomed to pay implicit obedience to the slightest wishes and suggestions of her beloved preceptor, that as he left the tent she mechanically took up the guitar, and passed her fingers through the strings. By degrees the soul of music within her was stirred, and ere long vented itself in the following hymn.
The words were in the Delaware tongue, and composed by herself—the melodies (for more than one were introduced into the irregular chaunt) were such as she had caught or mingled from Indian minstrelsy, and the whole owed its only attraction to the sweet and varied tones of her voice. The first measure was a low recitative, which might be thus rendered in English:—
“The sun sinks behind the western hills;Deep red are the curtains of his couch.One by one the stars appear;Many they are and lustrous.The pale moon is among them!They walk in their appointed path,Singing on their way, ‘God made us all!’
Machelenda sutch Ktelewunsoacan,
or
Hallowed be thy name.”
Here the measure changed, and sweeping the strings with a bolder hand, she continued her untutored hymn, blending her Christian creed with the figures and expressions of the people among whom she dwelt.
“The Great Spirit of the Lenapé is God.He has sent His word to gladden the heart of man.But clouds still darken the minds of the ancient people.The Great Spirit knows that they are blind and deaf,Yet His ear is open to hear,His hand is ready to guide.
(ut suprà.)
Hallowed be thy name!”
Again the measure changed, as in the richest tones of her melodious voice she pursued her theme.
“Sion and the everlasting mountains are thy footstool!Lightnings are about thy throne.Thunder is thy voice.And the evil spirit trembles before thee!The eagle cannot soar to thy habitation;His eye cannot look on thy brightness;Yet dost thou give life to the insect,And breath to the merry wren!Thou leadest the wild horse to the pasture,And the thirsty fawn to the stream.
Hallowed be thy name.”
Here the measure resumed its low and plaintive melody, as she thus concluded her song.
“Who sings the praise of God?It is ‘Prairie–bird,’ the poor child of the wilderness.But God spurns not her prayer;She is a stray–leaf, that knows not the treeWhence the rude wind hath blown it;But God planted the parent stem.And not a branch or leaf thereof is hid from His sight.The young whip–poor–will flies to its mother’s nest,The calf bleats to the bison–cow:No mother’s voice says to Olitipa,’Come here!’The wide prairie is her home!God is a Father to Olitipa!
Hallowed be thy name!”
In singing the last few words, the tones of her voice were “most musical, most melancholy;” and though no human eyemarked the teardrop that stole down her cheek, it would appear that her song had excited sympathy in some human bosom, for a deep sigh fell upon her ear: startled at the sound, Prairie–bird looked around her tent, but no one could be seen; she listened, but it was not repeated, and the maiden remained unconscious that at the very first touch of her guitar Reginald had crept out of the adjoining lodge, and, enveloped in a buffalo robe on the grass at the back of her tent, had heard from beginning to end her plaintive hymn, and had paid the unconscious tribute of a heavy sigh to the touching pathos of its closing strain.