When Edith rose on the day following the visit of poor Captain Brooks, somewhat later than was her custom--for the first half of the watches of the night had known no comfort--Woodchuck was gone. He had waited for no leave-taking, and was on his way toward the mountains before the dawn of day.
It was better for all, indeed, that he should go, and he felt it. Not that there was any chance of his resolution being shaken, but as he had himself said, he wished to forget that resolution--to think no more of his coming fate than the dark remembrance of it within his own heart forced him to think; and the presence of Mr. Prevost and his daughter--the very absence of Walter from their fireside--would have reminded him constantly of the rock on which his bark was inevitably steering. With Mr. Prevost and Edith his presence would have had the effect of keeping up the struggle between affection for Walter and a kindly sense of justice toward him. His every look, his every word, would have been a source of painful interest, and the terrible balancing of very narrowly divided equities, where life was in the scale and affection held the beam, would have gone on, in the mind at least, continually.
When he was gone the agitating feelings gradually subtranspose themselves, and they almost looked upon him as a thing decided; the mind was relieved from a greater apprehension by a lesser, and a quiet melancholy, whenever his coming fate was thought of, took the place of anxious alarm. In some sort the present and the past seemed to transpose themselves, and they almost looked upon him as already dead.
True, all fear in regard to Walter was not completely banished. There was nothing definite, there was no tangible object of apprehension. They felt perfectly sure that Woodchuck would execute his resolution, but yet the heart, like an agitated pendulum, vibrated long after the momentum had ceased. It grew quieter and quieter by degrees, however, on the part of Mr. Prevost; a change of thought and of object did much. All his preparations had to be made for the proper execution of the office he had undertaken. He had more than once to go to Albany, and on each occasion he took his daughter with him. Each change had some effect, and both he and Edith recovered a certain degree of cheerfulness at last in general society. It was only in the quiet and the silent hours, when either was left alone, when those intervals took place during which, sleep refuses to visit the eye, when all external sounds are still, when all external sights are absent, and the mind is left alone with thought, and nothing but thought for its companion--it was only then that the fear, and the anxiety, and the gloom returned.
Every moment that could be spared from military duties were passed by Lord H---- at Edith's side, whether in her own home or in the city.
Thus passed nearly three weeks, by which time the bustle of active preparation, the marching of several regiments toward the north, and signs of activity and haste in every department, gave notice to the inhabitants of Albany that some important military movement was about to take place. The fife and drum, the lumbering roll of the cannon, were daily heard in the quiet streets. Boats were seen collecting on the river, parades and exercises occupied the greater part of every day; scouts and runners were hurrying about in all directions, and clouds of Indians, painted and feathered for the warpath, hovered round the city, and often appeared in the streets. Lord H---- had advanced with his whole regiment to the neighborhood of Sandy Hill; other bodies of troops were following, and the commissary general, whose active energy and keen intelligence surprised all who had only known him as a somewhat reserved and moody man, had advanced to a spot on the Hudson where a small fort had been built at the commencement of what was called the King's road, to see with his own eyes the safe delivery and proper distribution of the stores he had collected. Long ranges of huts had gathered round the fort, which was judged so far within the English lines as to be a place of perfect security, and many a lady from Albany, both young and old, had gathered together there to see the last of husband, brother, or father, before they plunged into the forest and encountered the enemy.
Here everything was done, as usual, to smooth the front of war and conceal ugly features, and certainly after the arrival of Lord H---- with his regiment and the wing of another, the scene was brilliant and lively enough. Bright dresses, glittering arms, military music, fluttering flags, and prancing chargers, were beheld on every side, and gay and lively talk, only interrupted now and then by the solemn words of adieu, of caution, or direction from anxious heart to anxious heart, hid in a great degree the deeper, stronger, sterner feelings that were busy underneath.
In all such expeditions, amidst the bustle and excitement, there come lapses of quiet inactivity, especially before the first blow is struck. Some accident causes a delay; some movements have not been combined with sufficient accuracy; one party has to wait for another, and is left unoccupied. Thus it was in the present instance. A small but important division of the army, to be accompanied by a large body of Indians, was retarded by a deficiency of boats, and the news arrived that two days must elapse before they could reach the fort. A superior officer was now present, and both Lord H---- and Mr. Prevost felt that it would be no dereliction of duty to seek leave of absence, in order to visit once more the house of the latter, and personally escort Edith to the place where she was to remain till the object of the expedition was accomplished. The same day it was first made known what the object of that expedition was. The word Ticonderoga was whispered through the encampment, running from the general's quarters through every rank down to the private soldier, and a strange sort of feeling of joy spread throughout the force; not that many knew either the importance of the object or the state of the place, but simply that all were relieved from an uncertainty.
The comment of Lord H---- was very brief. He had long known, indeed, the fact now first published, but as he told it to Edith while seating her on her horse to set out, he said: "The place is, luckily, near, and the business will soon be brought to an end, my love." A something indefinable in his heart made him add mentally, "one way or another," but he gave no utterance to the gloomy doubt, and the little party rode away.
A calm, quiet evening, with the wind at the south, the sun setting red in clouds, and a gray vapor stealing over the sky, with every prospect of a coming storm, and yet everything still and sober in solemn tranquillity, often puts me in mind of those pauses in the busy course of life which precede some great and decisive event.
Such an evening was that which Lord H---- and Edith and Mr. Prevost spent together at the house where so many of these scenes have been laid, after quitting Fort Edward in the morning. Their journey had passed quite peaceably. They had encountered no human being but a few bands of friendly Indians going to join the army, and the ride, as everyone knows, was, and still is, a very beautiful one. It had occupied hardly four hours, and thus the principal part of the day had been spent in calm tranquillity in a scene endeared to all.
Mr. Prevost had retired to his room to write, and Lord H---- and Edith sat together in front of the house, gazing out toward the setting sun.
They talked of many things, some not at all connected with the circumstances of the present or the future; they feared to dwell upon them too long, and they often sought relief in indifferent topics, but still the coming hour was vaguely present to the mind of each. It was like sitting near a waterfall, with the quiet, melancholy murmur of the cataract mingling harmoniously but sadly with every other sound.
"I trust, dear Edith, that we shall see them together," said Lord H----, speaking of distant lands where they both had birth. "There is many a lovely thing to be met with in the old world, both in nature and in art, and though I love these beautiful scenes well, and enjoy as much as anyone the magnificence of unadorned nature, yet methinks that is no reason why we should not appreciate to the full all that is fine and lovely, though of a different character. It is the narrow-minded man alone, the man of an uncapacious soul, who suffers one sort of excellence to take possession of his taste or heart. Beauty and goodness are infinitely varied, and though I may love some aspects best, yet I trust ever to be capable of deriving pleasure from each and all."
"But you have seen all these things, George," she answered. "Will it not weary you to go over them all again with so untutored a companion as myself?"
He gazed at her for a moment with a look of earnest affection, and gently pressed the hand he held in his. "I take a new light with me, Edith," he replied, "a light that will give new loveliness to everything that is beautiful. I have often thought, my beloved, that to see our own sensations--I mean happy ones: enjoyment, admiration, satisfaction--reflected from the mind of one so dear as you are to me, must be like beholding a loved scene reflected from the bosom of a calm lake, when every fair feature and bright hue acquires a magic luster and a brightness greater in the borrowed image than even in the tangible reality. These are happy dreams, Edith; let us trust to renew them some few weeks hence, and then, whenever this campaign is over, I will quit this busy, perilous game of war, if Edith will then be mine, and realize the visions we love so well. In the meanwhile, dear one, as everyone who goes into battle encounters certainly some peril, let us speak a word of the future in case the worst should befall. You will remember me, Edith, I am sure, if I should not return. I do not think you will ever love another so well; but remember, I am not so selfish in my love as to wish you to sacrifice the whole comfort and happiness of a life to the memory of one departed. Be happy when and in what way you can. Consult your own feelings solely, and I do believe that if spirits can look down on earth when parted from this frail body, your happiness, however it is attained, will add to mine; for I cannot believe that when we quit this earth we carry the selfishness of clay along with us."
The tears swam in Edith's eyes, and gemmed the long, black lashes round them, but they ran not over. "I have but one wish on earth, George," she answered, "when I think of the chances that you mention. It is that I may not survive you, even for an hour. If I had not known it could not be, I would have asked to go with you, in the hope that if you are to fall, one hour might take us both."
Lord H---- smiled sadly, and shook his head. "That might entail greater sorrows still," he answered, "and in no sense could it be, my Edith. No soldier should have his wife with him. While in the field he should be detached as much as possible from every thought but that of duty. I doubt, indeed, that he should have any tie to earth whatever, except those which God imposed upon him at birth. This is one reason why I shall quit the army. I am less fit to be a soldier than I was, but I should be utterly unfit if I thought you were in peril. From all apprehension on that score, indeed, I go free. I felt some uneasiness, indeed, while I thought that you were to remain alone here, with none but the servants round you. As matters are arranged at present, however, you will be quite safe with Colonel Schneider and his wife. Besides his servants, the host of workmen employed in finishing his house and all the other works he has going on, will prove a little bodyguard in itself."
"I should have felt myself perfectly secure here," replied Edith, "for the familiar aspect of all things round gives a sort of confidence which I could feel nowhere else. These Schneiders I hardly know, but if you and my father are better satisfied, I am content to be with them. What hour are we to set out to-morrow?"
"Between one and two o'clock," replied Lord H----, "will be quite time enough. The distance is but six miles, and your father and I can very well escort you thither and reach Fort Edward before night."
"I am glad of that," answered Edith. "To-morrow is the day that poor Captain Brooks is to be here. I should much like to see him once more, and I hope that he will arrive before we go. If not, I must tell the servants to provide for him well, and show him every kindness. Oh, George, is it not terrible to think of his encountering such a fate? The very idea of providing his last meals for him when going to a voluntary death makes my heart sink with horror and regret."
"The only chance is between him and poor Walter," answered Lord H----; "and we must not forget that this act of Woodchuck's has not been pressed or even asked by us. He judges, and judges rightly, I think, that it would be ungenerous to allow Walter to suffer for his acts; and though I would not urge him to adopt the course he has chosen, I certainly would say nothing to dissuade him."
"His self-devotion only makes it more terrible," answered Edith, "at least in my eyes, and yet I cannot help hoping," she continued, looking up inquiringly in her lover's face, "that something may occur. Why should I not say that something would be provided to rescue them both without this awful sacrifice?"
Lord H---- would say nothing to quell a hope which he thought would give relief, but yet he did not share it; for his faith was less than Edith's--man's faith always is less than woman's.
Not many minutes more passed before Mr. Prevost rejoined them, speaking to one of the servants as he entered, in a calm but rapid tone, and giving various orders and directions for the morrow. Although not likely to be exposed so much as if entrusted with a military command, some danger, of course, attended the mere fact of his accompanying the army, and he had spent the last hour or two in making many arrangements, in view of probable death.
All the proceedings of the following day were then definitely arranged. After a hasty dinner he and Lord H----, with the four mounted men who accompanied them, and Edith's old traveling companion, Chaudo, were to escort her to the dwelling of Colonel Schneider, the new house built that spring, even farther in the wild than that of Mr. Prevost, of which the Indians on the hill had spoken. There, leaving her at once, the two gentlemen were to return to the camp, which they calculated upon reaching before nightfall.
The night passed quietly; day followed, and while Edith was dressing she saw from her window the expected figure of Woodchuck walking toward the door, with a firmer tread and a more resolute and easy bearing than he displayed when he had last appeared. On descending, she found him talking with her father and Lord H----, with perfect calmness and ease. His look was firm and self-possessed, his air was bold, though tranquil, and he seemed to have gained health since she saw him last. Edith was almost tempted to believe that some happy change of circumstances had taken place, but his first words dispelled her illusion.
"No, I thank you, Mr. Prevost," he said, "I must go on. I'll just take some breakfast with you, and then begin my march. I have calculated well my time, and should like to have a day or two to go and come upon. It does not do to leave things to the last. I guess I shall leave Johnson Castle to-night. Then, mayhap, I shall get a lift up the river in a canoe. But, at all events, even if I am obliged to foot it all the way, I shall be in time."
Mr. Prevost looked down, and fell into thought, while Woodchuck advanced to Edith, shook hands with her, and spoke upon indifferent subjects. She now remarked that he was dressed in different guise from that which he had assumed during the winter. A light brown hunting shirt, loose in the body and the sleeves, seemed to be his principal garment; and in the belt which bound it round him was stuck the tomahawk and scalping knife of an Indian. His rifle stood in one corner of the room. On his head he wore a fur cap, as usual, and a pouch and powder horn, with moccasins on his feet, completed his equipment.
"Well, general," he said, turning to Lord H----, "I saw some of your people as I came up the river. There had been a fuss about batteaux, but I showed them how they could find some, for a set of knaves, more French than English at their hearts, had drawn a crowd of them up the creek. So Abercrombie and the rest are all up at Fort Edward by this time."
Lord H---- looked toward Mr. Prevost, but he was still in thought, and only roused himself to lead the way into the hall to breakfast. Woodchuck ate heartily; but to touch a single mouthful was a hard task for the other three. While still at the table, however, the sound of horses' feet galloping up to the door was heard, and Lord H----, starting up, looked out of the window. There were a young officer and a trooper of dragoons at the door; and the moment the former saw Lord H---- he handed him in a letter by the window, dismounting and entering the moment after, himself. By this time the despatch had been read by the young nobleman and Mr. Prevost, and the latter exclaimed: "This is most unfortunate! An immediate recall, Edith! We must not delay a moment, for the march commences to-morrow at daybreak! Get ready as fast as possible, my love. We will see you safely to Colonel Schneider's, and then gallop back to the fort."
"Excuse me for observing," said the young officer, "that the order is peremptory. Of course, his lordship will judge for himself, but I only follow General Abercrombie's commands in saying that he wishes not a moment's delay."
"But my daughter, sir, my daughter!" said Mr. Prevost.
The young gentleman bowed stiffly, but made no answer, and the countenance of Lord H---- was very grave.
"Surely," said Mr. Prevost, "'twould be no great disobedience of orders to see my daughter safely to the house of my friend, Colonel Schneider, a distance of not more than six miles?"
"Which would take nearly two hours to go and come," said the young officer, drily, "at least over roads such as these. But you and his lordship are the best judges. I do not presume to dictate, and only convey to you the commander-in-chief's orders."
"Leave her to my care, Prevost," said Woodchuck, starting up. "I will see her safe. It's all in my way. Some of the servants can go with us, and there is no danger."
"I am in no fear, indeed, my dear father," said Edith. "Do not risk a censure. I shall be quite safe with our friend here."
"I believe, indeed, you will," said Lord H----; "otherwise I should be tempted to disobey, myself. But the terms of this despatch are so pressing that unless there were immediate and positive peril I think we are bound to return to camp at once."
He spoke aloud, and very gravely; but then, advancing to Edith's side, he added a few words in a lower tone. Mr. Prevost walked up and joined in their conversation, a sufficient indication, it might have seemed, that they wished for a few moments' privacy. Woodchuck understood, and advanced quietly to the door, for natural delicacy of feeling is but the reality of that of which politeness is the shadow. But the young officer, who was of that coarse, common stuff of which martinets are ultimately made, still kept his ground, till Lord H----, somewhat provoked, turned round and said: "Captain Lumley, you will have the goodness to return to headquarters, and inform the commander-in-chief that his orders shall be peremptorily obeyed."
The young man paused a moment, with a look of surprise and discontent, and a moment or two after, when he passed Woodchuck at the door of the house, he was muttering: "Without asking me to take any refreshment."
His murmurs were, perhaps, natural; for those who concede least to the feelings of others invariably exact most for their own.
It is true that Lord H----, occupied with thoughts that engrossed him altogether, dismissed the aide-de-camp without remembrance of his needs, as well as without any feeling of resentment, and omitted a courtesy which no resentment, assuredly, could have curtailed. But the young man, swelling with indignation and offended dignity, mounted sullenly, and proceeded but slowly on his way. He had not gone one-half the distance, however, between Mr. Prevost's house and Fort Edward, when Lord H---- and the commissary passed him at great speed; and he did not reach headquarters till half an hour after they had announced their own return.
The storm prognosticated from the red aspect of the setting sun the night before had not descended when Edith Prevost left the door of her father's house. No raindrops, fell, no breeze even stirred the trees, and it was only a sort of misty obscurity to the westward which gave token, to eyes well acquainted with the forest, that the promise of the preceding sunset would yet be fulfilled. Overhead all was clear and blue, and the sun, though there was some haze around the broad disk, was powerful for the season of the year.
Edith's companions were only Chaudo the negro, the good woman Sister Bab (whose kindness, faithfulness and intelligence had all been tried), and Woodchuck, who refused to take a horse from the stable, but set out on foot by the beautiful girl's side.
"You can't canter a step of the way, Miss Edith," he said, "so I can keep up with you, I guess; for the road, such as it is, is better fitted for two feet than four."
There were tears in Edith's eyes as she turned from the door, arising from many a mingled source. She had seen her father and him whom she loved as well, though differently, depart suddenly to danger and to battle. Her brother was far away; and still she could not help thinking him in peril. Not only was the future of all uncertain--for that the future of everyone is--but the uncertainty was dark, and, as it were, more tangible than is generally the case with the dim, misty valley of the coming time. There was not only a cloud, but the cloud was threatening.
The moment of departing from her father's door was one of those pausing places of the mind for Edith Prevost. She did not cast her thoughts far back; she took in but a little range; six months was the limit. But she remembered how calmly happy she had been in that dwelling six months before.
She mused sadly, gazing down upon the horse's neck, and hardly seeing or thinking of the way she took. In the meantime, Woodchuck trudged on by her side, with his head erect, his face lifted toward the sky, his pace steady and assured. Edith suddenly and almost unconsciously turned her eyes toward him. There was a tranquil elevation of his countenance, a lofty resolution in his look, which gave her thoughts, in a moment, another direction. She was parting from a well loved home and cherished associations, with some clouds hanging over her, some anxieties dogging her path, but with a probability of soon returning, and with many a sweet promise of future happiness. Yet she was sad and downcast. He was marching onward, wittingly and voluntarily, to a certain and terrible death; and yet his march was tranquil, firm, and resolute. She felt ashamed of her tears. Nay, more, as thought ran on, she said to herself: "There is something more in life--something higher, nobler, grander, than any human passion, than any mortal enjoyment, than any mere earthly peace can give--something that comes from heaven to aid and support us in our struggles here below. He knows, he feels that he is doing his duty, that he is acting according to the commandment of his God, and he is calm and firm in the presence of death, and in the separation from all earthly things. And I--what have I to suffer? What have I to fear in comparison with him?"
She made a great effort, she shook off her sadness, she wiped the tears from her eyes, and said a few words to her companion in a quiet tone. He answered briefly to her actual words, but then turned at once to the feelings which he believed to be in her heart.
"Ah, Miss Prevost," he said, "it's a sad thing for a young lady like you to part for the first time with those she loves when they are going to battle, and I don't know that a woman's heart ever gets rightly accustomed to it; but it don't do to love anything too well in this world--no, not even one's own life. It's a sad stumbling block, both in the way of our duty and our happiness. Not that I'd have people keep from loving anything; that would never do. They wouldn't be worth having if they couldn't love their friends, and love them very well; but I guess the best way is to recollect always when we've got a thing, that it is but a loan--life itself all the same as everything else. It's all lent--all will be recalled. But only you see, my dear young lady, we've got a promise that if we use what we've lent to us well, it shall be given to us forever hereafter; and that should always be a comfort to us--it is to me."
A slight sigh followed his words, and he walked on in silence for a minute or two, probably pursuing the course which he had laid down for himself in his very excellent philosophy, of marching on straight to a high object, and casting from him all thought of the unavoidable sufferings of the way. Soon after, he looked up to the sky and said: "It's getting wonderfully black out there. I shouldn't wonder if we had a flaw of wind and a good soaking rain. I say, Master Chaudo, put that bearskin over the young lady's baggage and hold the horse better in hand, or you'll have him down amongst these stumps. You ride better than you lead, my friend."
The negro grinned at him, but did as he was directed, and a few minutes after they issued out of the wood upon a small open space of ground extending over the side of a slight eminence. The view thence was prolonged far to the westward in a clear day, showing some beautiful blue hills at the distance of some eight or nine miles. Those hills, however, had now disappeared, and in their place was seen what can only be called a dense black cloud, although those words give a very inadequate idea of the sight which presented itself to Edith's eyes. It was like a gigantic wall of black marble, with a faint, irregular line at the top. But this wall evidently moved, coming forward with vast rapidity, although where the travelers were not a breath of air was felt. On it rushed toward them, swallowing up everything, as it were, in its own obscurity. Each instant some tree, some undulation of the ground, some marking object in the prospect, disappeared in its deep, gloomy shadow, and for a few moments Edith sat still upon her horse, gazing in awe, and even in terror. Woodchuck himself seemed for an instant overpowered, but then he caught Edith's rein and turned her horse, exclaiming: "Back, Miss Prevost! Back as fast as possible! That's the blackest cloud I ever see in all my days. There! there! to the eastward! Get under them big old hemlocks! Keep away from the pines and the small trees! It'll need to have been fastening to the ground for a hundred years to stand what's coming!"
As he spoke he ran on fast by the side of Edith's horse till they reached the edge of the wood, and there he checked her. "Not too far in! not too far in! You must be ready to jump out if you find that even these old fellows commence crashing!"
He then left her bridle and walked carefully round several of the trees, examining their trunks and roots with a very critical eye, to ascertain that they were firmly fixed, and not decayed, and then approaching Edith again, he held out his hand, saying: "Jump down! Here's one will do. He must ha' stood many a hard storm and bitter blast, and p'raps will bear this one, too; for he's as sound as when he started up, a little twig, before the eyes of any mortal man now living winked in the sunshine--aye! or his father's, either. There, Chaudo, take the horses and grip them all tight, for depend upon it they'll caper when the wind and rain come. Now, my dear, put yourself on this side of the tree, keep close to it, and listen well. You may find him shiver and sway a bit, but don't mind that, for he's not so tall as the rest, and twice as stout; and what makes me trust him is that in some storm his head has been broken off and his feet have stood stout. He won't catch so much wind as the others, and I think he'd stand it if he did. But if you hear him begin to crack, jump clear out here to the left, into the open ground. They'll fall t'other way. If you keep close, the branches won't strike you when they fall, and the rain won't get at you, for it's taking a long sweep."
The next moment it came. The wind, blowing with the force of a hurricane, rushed over the valley below; the leaves were torn off, the small twigs, with their umbrageous covering, carried aloft into the air and scattered; a few large drops of rain fell, and then the whole force of the tempest struck the hillside and the more open space where Edith stood. In an instant the scene of confusion and destruction was indescribable. The gusts seemed to hiss as they passed through the branches of the trees and between the tall stems. Large branches were torn off and scattered far; the young pines and birches bent before the force of the storm. As in the case of war and pestilence, the weak, and the sickly, and the young, and the decayed, suffered first and most. Wherever the roots had not got a firm hold of the ground, wherever the frosts of the winter and the thawing of the spring, or the heavy rains had washed away the earth, or loosened it, the trees came thundering and crashing down, and the din was awful, the howling wind, the breaking branches, the falling trees, all joining in the roar; and a moment after the pattering rain, rustling and rushing amongst the withered leaves left by the winter, becoming thicker and more dense every moment, seemed more as if a river was falling down from the sky, hardly separated into drops, than a fertilizing shower passing over the landscape.
Edith gazed round her in affright, for she could, as Woodchuck had predicted, feel the enormous but low-stemmed hemlock against which he had placed her, tremble and quiver with the blast; and a number of trees hard by were rooted up and cast prostrate, bearing the turf and earth in which they had stood up into the air, while here and there some more firmly fixed in the ground, but defective higher up, snapped in the middle, and then the whole upper part was carried many yards away. But though she gazed, little was the distance she could see, so thick and black was the covering of the sky; while all around, what between the close-falling deluge and a sudden mist rising up from the ground, the sort of twilight that the storm cloud left was rendered still more murky and obscure.
The two negroes, as usual with that race, were clamorous and excited, adding the noise of their tongues to the roar of the tempest; but the horses, contrary to the expectation of Woodchuck, seemed cowed and paralyzed by fear. Instead of attempting to break loose and rushing away, they merely turned from the wind and rain, and with hoofs set firm, and drooping heads, abode the storm, with now and then a shivering thrill, showing the terror that they felt. Woodchuck himself stood silent, close by Edith, leading his strong shoulder against the tree, and, with his eyes bent down upon the ground, seemed to lose himself in heavy thought. A man who has parted with the world and the world's hopes is tempest-proof.
After the first rush of the storm there came a lull, and then another fierce roar, and more falling trees and crashing branches. The whole forest swayed and bent like the harvest in a breeze, and down came the torrent from the sky more furiously than ever. But in the midst of it all Woodchuck started, leaned his head a little to one side, and seemed to listen, with his eye fixed upon vacancy.
"What is the matter?" asked Edith, alarmed by his look.
"I thought I heard a footfall," he answered.
"In the roar of such a storm?" said Edith. "It must have been some falling branch."
He only smiled for an answer, but still he listened, and she could see him lift his arm a little from the lock of his rifle, on which it had been tightly pressed, and look down upon it to see that it was dry.
The next moment, however, he resumed his ordinary attitude, and said in a quiet tone: "It's all nonsense, however. The Ingians are all quiet and friendly on this side of the lake. But you see, Miss Prevost, I have been so many months on the watch every minute, not knowing whether I should not feel the scalping knife or the tomahawk the next, that I've got over-wary. The Mohawks are all on the move about here, and no Hurons or any other of the enemies would venture across, except in a large body, to fight a regular battle. It must have been the tread of some friendly Ingian I heard, though they don't usually leave the trail except they've some object in view."
"But is it possible you could hear anything distinctly amidst this awful noise?" asked Edith. "Are you sure you are not mistaken?"
"Oh, no, I'm not likely to be mistaken," answered Woodchuck. "One's ears get sharp with continued listening. I'm putty sure it was a foot I heard, and a man's foot, too. It seemed to be as if it had slipped off a loose stone hidden under the leaves, and came down harder, perhaps, than he expected. But that's no proof that he meant mischief, for they've all got those cat-like sort of ways, creeping about silently, whether there's 'casion for it or not; and as I said just now, they're all friendly here on this side of Horicon."
A few moments' silence succeeded, while the wind again swelled up, raged for a minute or two, and then fell again; and Woodchuck, putting out his head from beyond the shelter of the great trunk, observed: "It seems to me to be getting a little clearer there to the westward. I guess it won't last more nor half an hour longer."
page 281
Almost as he spoke, from every side but that which opened upon the hill, came a yell, so loud, so fierce, so fiend-like, that ere she knew what she was doing, under the sudden impulse of terror, Edith darted at once away from the tree into the open space, and ran a few steps till her long riding dress caught round her small feet, and she fell upon the grass. At the same instant she felt a strong arm seize her by the shoulder and heard the rattle of a rifle, and turning her head in mute terror, she beheld the gleaming eyes and dark countenance of an Indian, rendered more hideous by the half-washed off war paint, bending over her. His tomahawk was in his right hand; her last hour seemed come, but so sudden, so confounding had been the attack that she could not collect her ideas. She could not speak, she could not think, she could not pray. The weapon did not fall, however, and the savage dragged her up from the ground and gazed upon her, uttering some of the uncouth exclamations of his people in tones of satisfaction and even merriment.
One hurried glance around for help showed Edith that all hope for help was vain; and no words can describe her horror at the scene she saw. At the very moment she looked round, a tomahawk in the hands of a gigantic Indian was falling on the head of the poor negro Chaudo, and the next instant a wild, shrieking yell told her his agony was come and gone. Woodchuck, hatchet in hand, was battling for life against another savage, and seemed nearly, if not quite, his match, but eight or ten more Indians were rushing up, yelling like wolves as they came, and in the midst of the struggle, while hatchets were playing and flashing round the heads of the combatants, a young and active Indian sprang upon the poor hunter from behind and threw him backward on the earth. He lay perfectly still and motionless, gazing up at the tomahawk lifted over his head; but at that instant the young Indian put his arm around his companion's naked breast and pushed him violently back, with a loud exclamation in the Iroquois tongue. Then seizing the hand of Woodchuck, he pulled up the sleeve of his hunting shirt and pointed to a blue stripe tattooed upon his arm.
The lifted hand and tomahawk of the other sank slowly by his side, and Woodchuck sat up and gazed round him, but without attempting to rise altogether from the ground.
Some five or six of the Indians came quietly up, and some kneeling, some bending down, gazed upon the blue line, while the savage who had seized upon Edith dragged her forward to the spot, and still holding her fast, gazed likewise. A few quick and muttered words succeeded amongst their captors, some only of which Edith heard and understood.
"It's the sign! it's the sign!" said one. Then came a sentence or two that escaped her ear, and then another cried, "Ask him! Ask him!"
Then one of the Indians seated himself on the ground before Woodchuck, spread out his hands like a fan, and addressed some words to him, which Edith, notwithstanding her perfect knowledge of the Iroquois language in most of its dialects, did not in the least comprehend. The answer of Woodchuck was equally unintelligible to her, and the only word or words which she caught was "Honontkoh."
The moment he had spoken, two of the Indians placed their hands under his arms and raised him from the ground. They took the precaution of disarming him entirely, and then, gathering round, they talked quickly and eagerly in low tones; but now they spoke a language which Edith understood, and though she did not catch all that was said she heard enough to show her that they were discussing what was to be done with herself and Woodchuck, whom it seemed to her that from some cause they recognized as a brother. Suddenly the savage who held her pressed his fingers tighter upon her arm, exclaiming aloud in a fierce, angry voice: "She is mine! I will dispose of her as I please."
"No one will oppose the brother of the Snake," said another elder man. "Scalp her, if thou wilt, but where canst thou carry her if thou dost not slay her?"
"Let us all go to the other side of Corlear, Apukwa," said the man who held her. "I will take her with me; she shall cook my venison for me. 'Twas for this I brought you hither."
"What! Shall we become women amongst the Hurons?" said Apukwa.
"No," replied the brother of the Snake; "there are many of our tribe and order there, of our own nation, outcasts like ourselves. We will become, like them, warriors of the great French king, and fight against the accursed Yengees."
"But how shall we cross?" said Apukwa.
"There are canoes in plenty," said the other. "Besides, our Canada brethren are here, close at hand, at Che-on-de-ro-ga. They will give us help."
A silent pause succeeded, and then Woodchuck stretched forth his arm, recovered from the confusion which perhaps the suddenness of the attack, perhaps the violence of his fall, had produced, and addressed them after their own fashion.
"Are we not brothers?" he said. "Are we not all Honontkoh? Are we not all bound by the dreadful name to aid each other, even unto blood and death? I demand, therefore--ye who have lifted the hatchet against us unjustly--to set me and this maiden free, to make our feet as the feet of the panther, to go whither we will. I have spoken the terrible words. I have uttered the dreadful name; the sign of the order is in my flesh, and ye dare not refuse!"
A look of doubt and hesitation came over the faces of the Indians, and Apukwa replied: "Whither wouldst thou go, my brother? We have all sworn the oath in the presence of the dark spirit that we will aid one another, and that each of the Honontkoh will defend and protect another, though he should have eaten fire or shed his brother's blood. Thou hast shed our brother's blood; for we know thee, though we knew not that thou wert of our order. But we are Honontkoh, and we will keep the saying. We will defend thee; we will protect thee; but whither wouldst thou go?"
"I go," answered Woodchuck, with unfortunate frankness and truth, "I go to lay down my life for your brother's life. I go to the Castle of the Oneidas, to say: 'Woodchuck is here. Let the hatchet fall upon the old tree, and let the young sapling grow up till its time be come. I killed the Snake. Take the blood of him who slew him, and set the boy Walter free.' As for this maiden, she is mine. I have adopted her. I claim her, as brother claims from brother. Ye cannot be Honontkoh and take her from me. If ye be true to our order, give her into my hand, and let us go."
While he spoke, the countenances of the Indians round betrayed no mark of any emotion whatever, though there were many and varying feelings, undoubtedly, busy in their breasts. As he ended, however, a slight and somewhat scornful smile came upon the cunning face of Apukwa, and he replied: "We cannot let our brother go on such an errand. It would be contrary to our laws. We are bound to defend and protect him, and must not let him make wind of his life. The yellow leaf falls of itself from the bough; the green leaf is torn off by the tempest. We must preserve our brother's life, though the young man perish."
Edith's eyes wept fast with the bitterest drops of despair, but Apukwa went on: "As for the maiden, we will hear and judge more another day. Thou sayest thou hast adopted her. We will hear how, for we know her to be the daughter of the paleface Prevost. If she be the prize of the brother of the Snake, the brother of the Snake must have her. But if she be thy daughter, she is thine. Let her be with thee till we have heard all and judged. We have not room now; for time goes fast, and we are near danger. The palefaces are to the rising and setting sun, toward the cold and toward the soft wind. The Honontkoh is the enemy of the paleface, the abandoned of the Mohawk, and the outcast of the Oneida. Take the maiden in thy hand, and go on toward the rising sun. We come with thee as thy brethren, and will preserve thy life."
Woodchuck gave an anxious glance to Edith, and said in a low voice and in English: "We can't resist, but we may outwit them. Come on for the present, for I guess it may be no better. I will shed my blood for you, my dear, if I cannot for your brother." And taking her hand, he led her on toward the northeast, preceded by one, and followed by five or six Indians, who, on their usual cautious plan, walked singly, one after another, well knowing that their prisoners could not escape them. Several remained upon the spot a few minutes longer, engaged in stripping the pack-horse of all that he carried, and taking the saddles and bridles of the other horses, which they knew would be valuable in the eyes of the French. All this was done with extraordinary rapidity, and then the last party followed the first into the depths of the wood.
By this time the wind had considerably abated, though it still rained hard. The moment after the Indians had departed, however, the leaves and branches of a large flower-covered bush, of the kalmia, growing under a low-spreading hemlock, moved gently, and the next instant a black face protruded. After one hasty glance around, the whole form of the negress, Sister Bab, was drawn slowly out from the bush, and running from tree to tree with silent speed, she stopped not till she caught sight again of the retiring Indians, and then followed them quietly and cautiously on their way toward Champlain.
The stillness of death pervaded the great lodge of the Oneidas, and yet it was not vacant. But Black Eagle sat in the outer chamber alone. With no eye to see him, with none to mark the traces of those emotions which the Indian so carefully conceals from observation, he gave way, in a degree, at least, to feelings which, however sternly hidden from others, wrought powerfully in his own heart. His bright blue and scarlet apparel, feathers and belt, medals and armlets, were thrown aside, and with his head bowed, his face full of gloomy sadness, and all the strong muscles of his beautifully proportioned figure relaxed, he sat like an exquisite figure sculptured in porphyry. No tear, indeed, bedewed his eyelids; no sigh escaped his lips; but the very attitude bespoke sorrow, and there was something awfully sad in the perfect, unvarying stillness of his form.
Oh! what a terrible strife was going on within! Grief is ten times more terrible to those who concentrate it in the heart than to those who pour it forth upon the wide air.
The door of the lodge opened. He started, and instantly was himself again; the head upright, the face clear, the aspect calm and dignified.
"Where hast thou been, my child?" asked the chief, gazing on his daughter as she entered, with feeling mingled of a thousand strong emotions--parental love, fond admiration, and manifold memories.
"Where thou hast permitted me to go, my father," she answered, with a smile so bland and sweet that a momentary suspicion crossed her father's mind.
"Thou hast not forgot thy promise, my Blossom?" he said, in a tone as stern as he ever used to her.
"Oh, no, my father," answered Otaitsa; "didst thou ever know me to do so? To see him--to be with him in his long captivity--to move the rock between us, and to let some light into his dark lodge. I promised, if thou wouldst let me stay with him a few short hours each day, I would do naught, try naught for his escape. Otaitsa has not a double tongue for her own father. Is Black Eagle's eye dim, that it cannot see his child's heart? Her heart is in his hand."
"How fares the boy?" asked her father. "Is there sunshine with him, or a cloud?"
"Sunshine," said Otaitsa, simply. "He sat and talked of death. It must be very happy."
The chief gazed at her silently for a few moments, and then asked: "Does he think so, too?"
"He makes me think so," answered the Blossom; "must it not be happy where there is no weeping, no slaughter, no parting of dear friends and lovers, where a Saviour and Redeemer is ever ready to mediate even for those who do such deeds?"
"The Great Spirit is good," answered Black Eagle, thoughtfully. "The happy hunting grounds are ever ready for those who die bravely in battle."
"For those who do good," said Otaitsa, with a sigh; "for those who spare their enemies, and show mercy--for those who obey even the voice of God in their own hearts, and are merciful and forgiving to their fellow men."
Black Eagle smiled. "A woman's religion," he said. "Why should I forgive my enemies? The voice of God you speak of, in my heart, teaches me to kill them; for if I did not, they would kill me."
"Not if they were Christians, too," said Otaitsa. "The voice of God tells all men to spare each other, to love each other; and if everyone obeyed it, there would be no such thing as enemies. All would be friends and brethren."
Black Eagle mused for a moment or two, and then answered: "But there are enemies, and therefore I must kill them."
"That is because men obey the voice of the evil spirit, and not that of the good," replied the Blossom. "Will my father do so? Black Eagle has the voice of the Good Spirit in his heart. He loves children, he loves his friends, he spares women, and has taught the Oneidas to spare them. All this comes from the the voice of the Good Spirit. Will he not listen to it farther?"
Her father remained lost in thought, and believing that she had carried something, Otaitsa went on to the point nearest to her heart. "The Black Eagle is just," she said; "he dispenses equity between man and man. Is it either just, or does it come from the voice of the Good Spirit, that he should slay one who has done good, and not harm; that he should kill a man for another man's fault? Even if it be permitted to him to slay an enemy, is it permitted to slay a friend? If the laws of the Oneidas are unjust, if they teach faithlessness to one who trusted them, if they are contrary to the voice of the Good Spirit, is not Black Eagle a great chief who can change them, and teach his children better things?"
Her father started up, and waved his hand impatiently. "No more!" he said; "no more! When I hear the voice of the Good Spirit, and know it, I will obey it; but our laws came from him, and I will abide by the sayings of our fathers."
As he spoke he strode to the door of the lodge and gazed forth, while Otaitsa wept in silence. She saw that it was in vain to plead farther, and gliding up to her father's side she touched his arm reverently with her hand.
"My father," she said, "I give thee back the permission to see him, and I take back my promise. Otaitsa will not deceive her father; but the appointed hour is drawing on, and she will save her husband if she can. She has laid no plan with him; she has found no scheme; she has not spoken to him of safety or escape. She has deceived Black Eagle in nothing, and she now tells him that she will shrink from no way to save her brother Walter--no, not even from death itself!"
"Koui! koui!" said the chief, in a tone of profound melancholy. "Thou canst do nothing." Then, raising his head suddenly, he added: "Go, my daughter; it is well. If thy mother has made thee soft and tender as a flower, thy father has given thee the courage of the eagle. Go in peace; do what thou canst; but thou wilt fail!"
"Then will I die!" said Otaitsa; and gliding past him, she sought her way through the huts.
The first door she stopped at was partly covered with strange paintings in red and blue colors, representing, in somewhat grotesque forms, men and animals, and flowers. She entered at once, without hesitation, and found, seated in the dim twilight, before a large fire, the old chief who had spoken last at the council of the chiefs, in the glen. His ornaments bespoke a chief of high degree, and several deep scars in his long, meager limbs showed that he had been known in the battlefield. He did not even look round when Blossom entered, but still sat gazing at the flickering flame, without the movement of a limb or feature. Otaitsa seated herself before him, and gazed at his face in silence, waiting for him to speak. At the end of not less than five minutes he turned his head a little, looked at her, and asked: "What would the Blossom of the old Cedar Tree?"
"I would take counsel with wisdom," said the girl. "I would hear the voice of the warrior who is just, and the great chief who is merciful. Let him whom my mother reverenced most, after her husband, among the children of the Stone, speak words of comfort to Otaitsa."
Then, in language which, in rich imagery, and even in peculiarities of style, had a striking resemblance to the Hebrew writings, she poured forth to him all the circumstances of Walter's capture, and of their love and plighted faith; and, with the same arguments which we have seen already used, she tried to convince him of the wrong and injustice done to her lover.
The old man listened with the usual appearance of apathy, but the beautiful girl before him gathered that he was much moved at heart, by the gradual bending down of his head, till his forehead nearly touched his knees.
When she ceased, he remained silent for several moments, according to their custom, and then raised his head and answered: "How can the old Cedar Tree help thee?" he asked. "His boughs are withered, and the snows of more than seventy winters have bent them down. His roots are shaken in the ground, and the first blast of the tempest will lay him low. But the law of the Oneidas is in his heart; he cannot change it or pervert it. By thine own saying, it is clear that the Good Spirit will do nothing to save this youth. The young warrior is the first they lay hands on. No means have been found for his escape. No paleface has come into the Oneida land who might be made to take his place. All thine efforts to rescue him have been seeds that bore no fruit. Did the Good Spirit wish to save him, he would provide a means. I have no counsel, and my heart is dead, for I loved thy mother as a child. She was to me as the evening star, coming from afar to shine upon the nights of my days. But I have no way to help her child, no words to give her comfort. Has not the Black Eagle a sister, who loved thy mother well, who has seen well nigh as many winters as I have, and who has a charm from the Great Spirit? Her lodge is even now filled with wise women of the tribe, taking counsel together as to this matter of the young chief. All love him well, except the dark and evil Honontkoh; all would save him, whether man or woman of the nation, were not the law of the Oneida against him. Go to her lodge, then, and with her take counsel, for the Cedar Tree is without words."
The lodge of Black Eagle's sister was next in size and importance to that of the chief himself, and on it, too, some European skill had been expended. Though on a somewhat smaller scale, it was very much such another building as that which has been described by a writer of those days as the "Palace of King Hendrick," the celebrated chief of the Mohawks. In a word, "It had the appearance of a good barn, divided across by a mat hung in the middle." It was of but one story, however; but the workman who had erected it, a good many years before, on the return from the completion of Fort Oswego, had added a door of European form, with a latch and a brass knob, which greatly increased its dignity in the eyes of the tribe.
The possessor of this mansion, who was held in great reverence all through the Oneida nation, and was supposed to hold communication with the spiritual world, had obtained, I know not how, the name of the Gray Dove, although her features by no means displayed the characteristic meekness of the bird from which she derived her appellation, but bore a considerable resemblance to those of her brother, which certainly well accorded with his name.
When Otaitsa approached the door she found it fastened, and she knocked twice with her hand before it was opened. A young girl then peeped out, and seeing the sachem's daughter, gave her admission at once into the outer apartment. The space on the outer side of the large mat which formed the partition was vacant, but there was a murmur of voices coming from the division beyond, and a light shone through the crevices between the mat and the wall.
The feelings of Otaitsa's heart were too powerful to leave any timidity in her bosom, and although she shared in some degree the feelings of awe with which the other Oneidas regarded the Gray Dove, she advanced at once, drew back the corner of the mat, and entered the chamber beyond. The scene was neither of a very beautiful nor of a very solemn character, but nevertheless there was something very striking in it. Seated around a large fire in the middle were a number of the elder women of the tribe, whose faces and forms, once, perhaps, fair and lovely, had lost almost every trace of beauty. But their features were strongly marked, and had in many instances a stern and almost fierce expression. Their eyes, jetty black, and in most cases as brilliant as in early youth, shone in the light of the fire like diamonds, and in many an attitude and gesture appeared much of that grace which lingers longer with people accustomed to a free and unconfined life than with those of rigid and conventional habits.
Outside of the first and elder circle sat a number of the younger women, from fifteen or sixteen years of age up to five or six and twenty. Many of them were exceedingly beautiful, but the figures of their elder companions shaded them mostly from the glare of the fire, and it was only here and there that one of those countenances could be discovered which offer in many of the Indian tribes fit models for painter or sculptor. Seated, not on the ground, like the rest, but on a small settle at the farther side of the inner circle, appeared Black Eagle's sister, gorgeously dressed, almost entirely in crimson, with armlets and bracelets of gold, and innumerable glittering ornaments round her neck. She was much older than her brother, and her hair, almost as white as snow, was knotted up behind on the ordinary roller, without any decoration. Her features were aquiline, and much more prominent than those of Black Eagle, and her eyes were still keen and bright. The moment they lighted upon Otaitsa, the exclamation burst from her lips: "She is come! The Great Spirit has sent her! Stand there in the midst, Blossom, and hear what we have resolved."
Otaitsa passed between two of the younger and two of the elder women, taking her place between the inner circle and the fire, and wonderfully bright and beautiful did she look, with the flame flashing upon her exquisite form and delicate features, and lighting up a countenance full of strong enthusiasm and pure emotions.
"Thy child hears thy words," she said, without pause or hesitation; for it must be remarked that the stoical gravity which prevailed at the conferences of the chiefs and warriors was not thought necessary among the women of the tribes. "What has the Gray Dove to say to the daughter of her brother?"
"The boy must not die," said the old woman, in a firm and decided tone. "It is not the will of the Great Spirit. Or, if he die, there shall be wailing in every lodge, and mourning amongst the children of the Stone. Art thou willing, Otaitsa, child of the Black Eagle, daughter of the flower of the East, to do as we do, and to obey my voice?"
Otaitsa gazed round the circle, and saw stern and lofty determination written on every countenance.
After gazing round them for an instant, she answered: "I am. I will do what thou sayest to save him, even unto death!"
"She has said!" cried the old woman. "Now, then, Blossom, this is the task: Thou shalt watch eagerly as a fox upon the hillside, and bring word to me of the exact day and hour when the sacrifice is to be offered. Everyone must watch!"
"But how shall I discover?" asked Otaitsa. "The warriors tell not their secrets to women. The Black Eagle hides his thoughts from his daughter; he covers his face with a cloud, and wraps his purposes in shadows from our eyes."
"By little signs shalt thou know," said the Gray Dove, "Small clouds prognosticate great storms. When thou seest any change, mark it well. If his head droop, and his eye seeks the ground more than common, bring or send the tidings unto me. If he be silent when he should speak, and hears not the words thou utterest; if he gazes up to the heaven as if he were seeking to know the changes of the weather when all is clear; and if he looks at the tomahawk as it hangs upon the beam, with a dull and heavy eye, be sure the time is coming."
Otaitsa gave a wild start, and exclaimed: "Then it is this night, for all the signs thou hast mentioned have been present. When I entered the lodge his head was bowed down, and his eyes fixed upon the ground. He was very sad. He heard me, but his thoughts seemed to wander. When he stopped my petitions and turned toward the door, his eyes rested gloomily on the hatchet; and when he stood without, they were lifted to the sky, as if looking for stars in the daytime. It is to-night! It is to-night! Oh, what shall be done?"
"Nay," answered the Gray Dove, with a kindly look, "it is not to-night. Be composed, my child. Not until to-morrow, at the hour of twilight, will the six moons have passed away, and the Black Eagle speaks no word in vain. He will not lift the tomahawk a moment before the hour; but to-morrow will be the time, after the sun has set. The palefaces have taken the warpath against each other, and the allies of the Black Eagle have called upon him to take wing and help them. They have bid him paint himself for battle, and come forth with his warriors. He has waited but for this, and now we know the day and the hour; for he will not tarry."
Otaitsa still trembled, but her mind was much relieved for the present. She knew her father well, and she saw the truth of what the Gray Dove said. "How shall we stay him?" she inquired. "The Black Eagle bends not in his way like the serpent; he goes straight upon his path like a bird in the air. He hears not the voice of entreaty; his ears are stopped against the words of prayer. You may turn the torrent as it rushes down after the melting of the snow, or the rock as it falls from the precipice, but you cannot arrest the course of the Black Eagle, or turn him from his way!"
"Be firm and constant," said the Gray Dove. "We are in the hands of the Great Spirit. Watch him closely, Otaitsa, all to-morrow, from the midday till the setting sun--from the setting sun till the dawn, if it be needful. The moment he goes forth, come then to me at the lodge of the Lynx, by the western gate of the palisade; there shalt thou find me with others. I know that thy young heart is strong, and that it will not quail. Watch carefully, but watch secretly. See if he takes the tomahawk in his belt, and if his face be gay or gloomy. Mark every sign, and bring the news to me."
"They may go off by the other gate, and steal round," said one of the women in the inner circle. "I will set my daughter, now waiting, to watch that gate and bring us tidings. She is still and secret as the air of night, and has the foot of the wind."
"It is good," said the Gray Dove, rising. "Let us all be prepared, for the boy must not die."
No more was said, for the old prophetess fell into one of those deep and solemn reveries from which all present knew she could not easily be wakened, and which probably had acquired for her the reputation of conversing with the spirit world which she possessed. One by one, slowly and silently, the women stole out of the lodge, dispersing in various directions the moment they quitted the door. Otaitsa remained the last, in the hope that the Gray Dove would speak again, and afford her some further information of her plans; but she continued silently gazing on the fire, with her tall figure erect and stiff, and probably perfectly unconscious of the departure of the others, till at length the Blossom followed the rest, and returned quietly to the great lodge.
The following day broke dark and stormy. About three o'clock in the afternoon a sharp, cold wind succeeded to the mild breath of spring, and the Indians generally remained assembled round their fires, leaving the wide space within the palisade very nearly deserted. Shortly before sunset one Indian woman crept quietly forth, and took her way toward a hut near the eastern entrance of their village. Another followed very speedily, and when twilight had ended and night begun, no less than twelve stood beneath the roof, with the Gray Dove in the midst of them. It was too dark for anyone to see the face of another, for the night had fallen heavily and thick, and a blanket was stretched across the entrance. But the Gray Dove felt them one after another with her hands, asking a question of each, to which she seemed to receive a satisfactory answer.
"The thirteenth is not here," she said, "but she will come, and her heart will not fail."
A dead silence fell over them all after these words were spoken; that sort of stern, heavy, solemn silence which not unfrequently precedes the execution of some strong and terrible resolution. Yet of those twelve there were several gay and lively girls, as well as women fallen into the decline of life; but nevertheless all were as still as death. The volatile lightness of youth, as well as the garrulity of old age, was hushed.
Suddenly, after they had waited some twenty minutes, the blanket was pushed aside, and another figure was added to the number. The voice of Otaitsa whispered: "He has gone forth, armed as if for battle; he has his tomahawk with him; his face is very sad. I saw the Old Cedar Tree cross to the west gate, and others whom I knew not in the darkness."
She spoke in eager haste, and gasped for breath; but the old woman took her by the arm, saying: "Be calm! Be still! Now follow noiselessly. Then down as you pass through the maize, though in this black night who shall see us?"
She was the first to issue forth; then came Otaitsa, and the others followed, one by one, with quick but silent steps, through the wide field of maize that swept round the palisade, and then into the neighboring forest. Once, when they came near a spot where the polished mirror of the lake collected and cast back every ray of light that remained in the air, they caught sight of a dark file, shadowy and ghostlike as themselves, moving on at a little distance, in the same direction. But it was soon lost; and the sight only served to hasten their footsteps. Passing along a trail which cut across the neck of a little wooded promontory, they suddenly came in sight of the lake again, and by its side a low Indian hut, marked out plainly against the surface of the water. When within some thirty yards, the Gray Dove halted, whispered a word or two to those who followed, and then, bending down, crept closer to the lodge.
"Oh, let us hasten!" whispered Otaitsa. "They are already there! I hear my father speaking!"
"Hush! hush! Be still!" said the old woman, in the same tone. "The Black Eagle will do nothing hastily; it is for him a solemn rite. Let me first get near; then follow, and do what I do."