Thus passed away many a night and day. Hope waited and watched and hoped, but in vain. Her companion never relaxed her vigilance, but her cold irony, her malignant sneer, had given place to a deference amounting to awe. Hope was calm, grave and taciturn; her old freakishness had all gone, and in its place was that quiet, burning look, allied only to subdued passion.
At length Hope divined, from the preparations made by her keepers, that some important event was about to transpire. As midnight approached, a group of the chief men of the tribe emerged from amid the spray at the entrance of the grotto, and seated themselves in front of the council-fire. Burning torches were placed under the arches, and the cave glowed with the ruddy light of a crackling fire in the center.
Acashee, blessed or cursed with an almost sleepless vitality, paced the solitary and echoless void in a tumult of contending passions. She was dressed with care, and had, since her return, assumed the air and tone of one who had a right to command.
Hope slept, or affected to sleep, in front of the stone of sacrifice, couched amid snowy furs gorgeously ornamented with wampum, and branches of evergreen, cool and aromatic, spread at her feet. Several familiar pets slumbered around the fair and mystic-enshrouded form, while the panther had placed his broad head upon her shoulder.
As Acashee paced back and forth, she sometimes paused in front of this dainty couch, and eyed the recumbent Hope with a malignant scowl that showed the envy and rage that contended within, but, as Hope had said, she dared not lift a finger against her; and as Hope was now doomed to perpetual imprisonment, separated forever, as she deemed, from John Bonyton, her revenge grew like honey under the tongue, because of the protracted misery of its object.
More than once, as Acashee thus paused in front of Hope, the panther raised himself into a couchant attitude, and eyed her with a sidelong glance, as a cat will watch a mouse, which she is sure is within reach, and therefore may be allowed to gambol with impunity.
At length Acashee stopped her weary pacing to and fro, and leaned with folded arms against a massive stalactite, and eyed the consulting chiefs in silence; but as they planned, discussed and advised, she was called upon to participate in their deliberations, and her suggestions were often hailed with tokens of approval; for the woman was of a keen and penetrating mind, stimulated by passions at once powerful and malevolent.
Had the party observed the white occupant of the sumptuous couch, they would have been aware of a pair of dark, bright eyes peering through those snowy locks, and red lips parted in the eagerness of the intent ear.
“Has the scout arrived?” asked Acashee.
“Fleet-foot has returned, and the Sacos are coming to reclaim tribute of the Androscoggins.”
“When will the Sacos be upon the trail?”
“They are already on their way; they have landed at the meeting of the waters.”
“Why await their coming? Why sit here and invite the tomahawk and the brand? Give me the war-club of a chief, and Iwill teach them what it is to follow the trail of the Androscoggin!”
The fierce fervor of the woman was not lost upon the council of chiefs, but they replied, gravely:
“Listen, daughter of Samoset! Thou shalt wear the eagle-plume, for thy courage and thy wisdom are becoming to a chief.”
“When arrived the Sacos at the meeting of the rivers?” asked Acashee.
“As the sun went down.”
“Where is the Sagamore of Saco?”
“He leads the expedition.”
Acashee walked back and forth, and then stooped over the couch of Hope, and listened. Apparently she slept, for she returned to the council-fire.
It may be that the effort at concealment had been too great for the nerves of Hope, for hardly had the woman turned away when a low sound, like a human wail, escaped from the couch. Acashee again bent over the recumbent form, but there was no sign of consciousness, no winking of the eye, no perturbation. The panther rolled himself over, stretched out his claws, and threw back his head, showing his long, red tongue and glittering teeth, and uttered a yawn so nearly a howl, that the woman believed the sounds identical, and the warriors resumed their discussion.
“In an hour the moon will set,” said Acashee.
“Our young warriors lean upon their arms. When the moon is down we light a fireabove the falls, at Still-Water. This will be the signal for the Terrentines to join us. They will there leave their canoes in the hands of the women, and join our warriors on the bank below. The fire will warn our people how near to approach the falls, for the night will be dark.”
“It is well planned,” said Acashee.
“Has Wa-ain (White Spirit) spoken?” asked an old chief.
“She has had a vision of battle.”
“How went it with the Androscoggins?”
“There is nothing but victory to the brave,” she answered, evading the truth.
The old chief was not deceived. He eyed her with a keen, penetrating look, but said not a word.
Presently the group dispersed themselves to rest till the moon should set. The guardians of the cave inverted the torches, and a dim, sepulchral light played over the features of the sleeping warriors.
Acashee retired into a distant recess, and there practiced those incantations supposed to augur success in any contemplated enterprise.
Waiting till all was silent, Hope gathered her little figure closely to the floor of the cave, and slowly made her way to theentrance, nearing which, the roar of the waters made her movements less perceptible. In breathless silence she passed the council-fire, and threaded her way amid the group around it. She was cautious but fearless. A chief turned in his sleep; she stood erect with flashing eye. Her hand grasped the war-club beside him; had he moved again there was no mistaking the deadly purpose of the girl; but he slept on.
Her step was now firm, her air determined. She cast back a hurried glance—all was silent. With a bound she plunged amid the world of waters. A moment more and she stood upon the rocky plateau at the foot of the falls.
The moon was nearly down, and a thick mist hung over the river, of which the slight form of Hope seemed only a part. She stood for a few seconds and gave a soft but hurried glance at the majestic scenery—the starry sky, over which rushed the hurrying clouds, which herald the coming storm, and the mass of waters, pouring itself forever over its shelving steep.
Then she gathered her long hair into a knot, and with rapid feet ascended the bank. She hurried onward until she found the heap of dry wood and torches at Still-Water, and with eager haste she filled her arms and redescended.
She heaped these into a pilebelowthe falls. She gathered the broken wood always to be found in juxtaposition with river-banks—wrecked canoes, cast down the stream; riven branches scattered by the whirlwind; and torches left by the women in their wanderings and toils. She had secured the dry pieces reserved for kindling, and she was skilled in the Indian method of producing a blaze by rubbing two sections of dry wood together.
She then seated herself and watched the descent of the moon; with eager eyes she waited till the last faint rim sunk beneath the horizon—till the last quivering ray shot upward, and then left the sky only to the watchful stars.
Thenshe arose and lightedthe beacon-fire.
Quick as lightning shot up the lurid flame, towering in the night sky, gleaming, and flashing, and lightening the old woods far and wide.