Years, as we have said, had passed away since the disappearance of Hope Vines, and her memory was lost to all but the Sagamore of Saco, in whose breast it burned a perpetual and yearning reminiscence, branded into the very fiber of his life and being.
A council of the Sacos had been called among the upper waters of the river, for the tribe had determined upon a grand expedition against the Terrentines and Androscoggins.
The moon was at full, and the sky balmy with the aromas of wood and water, for the brief Indian summer had renewed the youth and revived the beauty of the waning season. The young braves had brought to the council a captive, taken in a recent attack upon a Terrentine village, and she now wasbefore them bound to a tree, the light of the moon conflicting with the ruddy light of the torch-flame of the council-fire, playing in weird contrast over her dark, motionless features.
As chief after chief arose and gave, in a clear, solemn voice, his views regarding the campaign, it was observed that the sagamore cast stern and frequent glances upon the captive. At length he seized a torch and flashed it full upon her face. The eyes of the two met, but not a word passed the lips of either. Returning to the council, the sagamore asked:
“Has the captive heard our proceedings?”
“No; the wind bears the sound away. The sapling to which she is bound is beyond earshot.”
“It is Acashee, the daughter of Samoset.”
The younger chiefs sprung to their feet, and would have buried their tomahawks in her brain, for they knew of the story of Hope Vines, and the grief of the sagamore.
The captive witnessed the outburst with exultant pride, and began to chant her death-song, with head erect and eyes flashing skyward, in words like the following:
“Break out into laughter,Ye thunder-bolts loud,Wildly thereafterScream from your storm-cloud,Oh, eagles undaunted!“By the warrior’s handThe maiden shall fall.Light up the torch brand!The torturers callWith pangs they have vaunted.”
“Break out into laughter,Ye thunder-bolts loud,Wildly thereafterScream from your storm-cloud,Oh, eagles undaunted!“By the warrior’s handThe maiden shall fall.Light up the torch brand!The torturers callWith pangs they have vaunted.”
“Break out into laughter,Ye thunder-bolts loud,Wildly thereafterScream from your storm-cloud,Oh, eagles undaunted!
“Break out into laughter,
Ye thunder-bolts loud,
Wildly thereafter
Scream from your storm-cloud,
Oh, eagles undaunted!
“By the warrior’s handThe maiden shall fall.Light up the torch brand!The torturers callWith pangs they have vaunted.”
“By the warrior’s hand
The maiden shall fall.
Light up the torch brand!
The torturers call
With pangs they have vaunted.”
Thus far, and the women from the camp, unwilling that one of their kind and a captive should emulate the hardihood of warriors, rushed out and threw water from their gourds upon her, and in derision tossed bean-pods and corn-husks about her, and jeeringly clapped the paddles of the canoe, and the pokers of the fire in her face. For awhile the proud woman held her head high, but, fearful of falling beneath these feminine weapons, her head fell upon her bosom, and she was silent.
In the mean while, the chiefs around the council-fire sat long in solemn conclave. At one time, the debate had been of more than usual animation, but at length a solemn silenceprevailed, and the sagamore approached the captive, tomahawk in hand. She lifted her head proudly and looked him in the face while he cut the bonds and set her free.
“Go, Acashee; go, Spider; we need you not.”
The woman looked imploringly up, and even dashed her hands into his face, as he held her by the hair of her head, and cut away the long, heavy braids that depended therefrom. A shout of derision burst from the women, and they followed her with loud and contemptuous jeers far into the forest. Weary at length of their malignant sport, they returned to the camp, leaving the disgraced woman to make her way as best she could, through almost impenetrable forests, to her own people.
John Bonyton, having cut away the black locks of Acashee, retired from the council. A scout had been appointed to follow the woman, never to lose sight of her, to succor her if needed, and after having seen her safely within her own tribe, to return to the camp, and report all he could learn.
When Acashee had departed, John Bonyton, impelled by an irresistible desire to learn something of Hope Vines, whose fate he believed was known to the Indian girl, followed in her path till he saw her throw herself upon the fallen leaves, and give utterance to a fierce, low cry, not unlike that of the hungry panther. She tore at her dishonored locks, and gnashed her teeth in impotent fury.
The sagamore, tall, calm and silent, stood before her. Instantly she sprung to her feet, and throwing back her head, cried:
“Pale-faced coward! I spit upon you, and will work a spell that shall consume all your bones, and—”
“Silence, girl. You will not provoke me to kill you. Live, the scorn of your people.”
“I will live, but only to work your destruction! No, no, no, John Bonyton,” and she covered her face with her hands, to hide her relenting tears.
The sagamore was softened, and laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“Tell me what became of Hope Vines, Acashee, and I will forget all the past.”
“She was called away by the Great Spirit.” And her look and tone softened.
“Acashee, I know your falsehood and your thousand wiles. You do not speak truth. Tell me, I beseech you, where you have put her, for I feel in my very soul that she lives. She comes to me in my dreams, she walks by my side in the forest-path—there is no spot to me where Hope is not.”
“Hear me, John Bonyton: if I knew, I would not tell. Hear me! She is dead—dead, a thousand times dead to you, and I rejoice to know it! The daughters of the morning star have taken her to their arms; why then should you scorn Acashee?”
Her dark eyes were fixed tenderly upon his face as she spoke,while her rich, clear voice wooed the echoes to melody. She had laid her wrist upon his arm in her old seductive way, but the sagamore shook her off, and turned his eyes from her face, as he replied:
“Go, then, Acashee, go. I had hoped there might be some touch of goodness in that cruel heart. Go.”
“Touch of goodness! proud sagamore! Is it nothing to spurn my kind only for such as you? Nothing to live one long thought of you?”
While she spoke, a wood-pigeon alighted upon a branch near by, and with singular dexterity she caught it, and held it fondly to her bosom, smoothing and caressing its ruffled plumage.
John Bonyton waved his hand and turned away, while the treacherous girl stood watching his tall, receding form, till the trees concealed it; then, dashing the bird to the ground, she placed her foot upon its beautiful breast, exclaiming:
“This, and this, be the fate of Hope Vines!” and she ground its innocent blood into the moss-grown soil.
The sagamore plunged into the recesses of the forest, and at length emerged upon the river-bank, where, as boy and youth, he had idled his days in that ecstatic dream of love and youth, which so fills up the soul that the past is forgotten, the future hung with rainbow clouds, pavilioned with golden vaults and silvery sheen, thus exalting the glow of the present by an onward gorgeous perspective.
“Lost! lost! all is lost!” he exclaimed.
Unconsciously he had cast himself down by the wigwam of the prophet of the tribe. It was the custom of the Indians to build the tent or wigwam of those whose duty it was to watch all omens bearing upon the welfare of the people, in some secluded spot within the sound of great falls, or in proximity to some natural cave or grotto, where they might, undisturbed, exercise their spells and incantations. A hand, cold, and wasted by fastings nearly to the bone, was laid upon the shoulder of the sagamore.
“Listen, my son! Turn thy steps to the east. Go!”
Before the sagamore could reply, he was gone. He entered the wigwam; it was empty. He searched upon every side; no one was visible; and he began to doubt if his senses might not have deceived him, when he observed a clear crystal glittering in the moonlight. It was one of those peculiar stones which the common people believed came from the top of the vast White Mountains lying a hundred miles to the north, and hence popularly called the “White Mountain Carbuncle.”
He knew this was a part of the paraphernalia of the wizard’s wigwam, and that on momentous occasions the chiefs called upon their oracle to look into this crystal stone and announce the augury. Remembering this, he raised it to his eyes, looked and started back with surprise. What did he behold?
One look more! There, throned in the center of the crystal, was a miniature image of Hope!
He fell headlong to the earth, he knew not how or why; a feeling of exultation—a something by which he felt as if all sense of weight, of obstacle had been removed. It was but a moment, and the same cold, bony hand wrenched the crystal from his grasp, and was no more seen.
The impressions, whatever it might be, remained, and without trying to account for what he had seen, a new and abiding conviction that he should once more behold the dear object of his lifelong thoughts took possession of his soul. He returned to the camp, buoyed up by brighter thoughts than he had experienced for long and dreary years.
It is well known that the images to be read in the “crystal stone” was a popular belief with the Indians, though only a few persons were gifted with power of sight. They believed the magician must be originally endowed with the power of prescience, and he must educate and develop this power by a long course of fasting and incantation. They believed, also, that a person upon whom had fallen any great calamity became spontaneously endowed with this gift.
The mad-dog stone is a different species, used medicinally for the cure of hydrophobia, and the bite of venomous serpents. This latter is of oriental origin.
The sagamore would gladly have left all, and followed the oracle of the wizard, traveling toward the rising sun, where he now felt sure he should find Hope; but, as chief of the tribe he could not cast off the duties it involved, or forget the grave decorums of the office. He must await the return of the scout, and then follow the Terrentines and Androscoggins to their villages or hunting-grounds. Accordingly, he made ready for the eastern campaign.