The snow was falling fast, the early snow of northern America. Otaitsa stole forth from the shelter of the great lodge, passed amongst the huts around, and out into the fields through the opening in the palisade. She was going where she wished not her steps to be traced, and she knew that the fast falling snow would speedily fill up every footprint. Quietly and gracefully she glided on till she reached the edge of the deep wood, and then along a little frequented trail, till, at the distance of about half a mile, her eyes, keenly bent forward, perceived something brown, crouching, still and motionless, under cover of a young hemlock, the branches of which nearly swept the ground. As the Blossom approached, a head, covered with glossy black hair rolled up behind, was raised above a little bush which partly hid the woman's figure; and, coming nearer, the girl asked, in a low voice, "Did he pass?"
"No," answered the young maiden to whom she spoke. "It was Apukwa, the medicine man."
Otaitsa waved her head sadly to and fro, saying, "Now I understand;" and then, speaking to the girl again, she said: "Now back to the Castle, through the bush, then to the other trail, and then home."
Her own walk was to be longer; and on she went, with the same gliding step, till, about half a mile farther, she turned a little out of the path to the right, and there, concealed amongst the bushes, she found an old woman of her tribe, to whom she put the same question, and received nearly the same answer.
"Thou art cold, my mother," said Otaitsa, unfastening her mantle, and throwing it over the old woman. "Get thee back with the step of a mole, through the most covered ways thou canst find. How far on is the other?"
"More than an hour," replied the woman, "close at the foot of the rocks."
Otaitsa made no reply, but hastened forward to a spot where some abrupt but not very elevated crags rose up out of the midst of the wood. For a moment there seemed no one there; and the trail at that spot divided into two, one running to the right and the other to the left, at the very base of the rocks. Otaitsa gazed cautiously around. She did not dare to utter a sound; but at length her eye fell upon a large mass of stone, tumbled from the bank above, crested and feathered with some sapling chestnuts. It seemed a place fit for concealment, and advancing over some broken fragments, she was approaching carefully, when again a head was raised and a hand stretched out, beckoning to her.
Still she trod her way cautiously, taking care not to set her foot on prominent points, where the trace might remain, and contriving, as far as possible, to make each bush and scattered tree a screen. At length she reached her companion's place of concealment, and crouched down behind the rock by the side of a beautiful young woman a few years older than herself.
"Has he passed?" asked Otaitsa. "Which way did he take?"
"To the east," replied the other; "to the rising sun; but it was not the brother of the Snake. It was Apukwa the Bulrush, and he had a wallet with him, but no tomahawk."
"How long is it since he passed?" asked the Blossom, in the same low tone which they had hitherto used.
"While the crow could fly out of sight," answered the young woman. "Has my husband yet come back?"
"Not so," replied Otaitsa. "But let us both go, for thou art weary for thy home, my sister, and I am now satisfied. Their secret is mine."
"How so?" inquired the other. "Canst thou see through the rock with thy bright eyes, Blossom?"
"The cunning medicine man goes not to pray to his Manito," answered Otaitsa, "nor to converse with his Hawenneyo. Neither does he wander forth to fulfil his fasts in the solitude to the east. Yet he will find no dry deer's flesh there, my sister, nor any of the firewater he loves so well. But away there, where I have gathered many a strawberry when I was young, there is a deep rift in the rock, where you may walk a hundred paces on flat ground, with the high cliffs all around you. The wildcat cannot spring up, and the deer winks as he looks down. It has but a narrow entrance, for the jaws of the rock are half open; and I know now where they have hid my brother. That is enough, for this night, to Otaitsa."
"And what wilt thou do next?" asked her companion.
"Nay, I know not," answered the Blossom. "The sky grows darker; the night is coming on, and we must follow the setting sun if we would not have Apukwa see us. We have yet time, for the gloomy place he goes to is two thousand paces farther. Come. Be assured, dear sister, I will call for thy aid when it is needful, and thou wilt as soon refuse it as the flower refuses honey to the bee. Step carefully in the low places, that they see not the tracks of thy little feet."
Thus saying, Otaitsa led the way from their place of concealment with a freer air, for she knew that Apukwa had far to go, but with as cautious a tread as ever, lest returning before the sun had fully fallen, he should see the footprints in the snow.
They had been gone some ten minutes when, creeping silently down along the trail from the east, the medicine man appeared at the farthest corner of the rock, within sight; but he was not alone. The Indian whom they called the brother of the Snake was with him. The latter, however, remained at the point where he could see both ways, while Apukwa came swiftly forward. At the spot where the trail separated he paused and looked earnestly down upon the ground, bending his head almost to his knees. Then he seemed to track something along the trail toward the Indian Castle; and then, turning back, walked slowly up to the rock, following exactly the path by which the two women had returned. At length he seemed satisfied, and quickening his pace he rejoined his companion. "Thou art right, brother," he said. "There were two. What dimmed thine eyes, that thou canst not tell who they were?"
"I was far," answered the other, "and there is shadow upon shadow."
"Was not one Otaitsa?" asked the medicine man, slowly. "Could the brother of the Snake fail to know the Blossom he loves to look at?"
"If my eyes were not hidden, it was not she," replied his companion. "Never did I see the great sachem's daughter go out, even when the sun has most fire, without her mantle round her. This woman had none."
"Which woman?" asked Apukwa. "Thou saidst there were two."
"One came, two went," replied the other Oneida, "but the second could not be the Blossom, for she was tall. The other might have been, but she had no mantle, and seemed less than Black Eagle's daughter--more like Roya, the daughter of the Bear. What were the prints of the moccasins?"
"The snow falls fast, and covers up men's steps, as time covers the traditions of our fathers," said the medicine man. "They were not clear, brother. One was bigger than the other, but that was all I could see. Yet I scent the Blossom in this thing, my brother. The worshipper of the God of the palefaces would save the life of the paleface had he made milk of the blood of her brother. She may love the boy too well, as her father loved the white woman. She has been often there, at the lodge of Prevost, with the paleface priest or her father--very often--and she has stayed long. That trail she likes to follow better than any other, and the Black Eagle may think that his Blossom is a flower fit to grow by the lodge of the Yengees and too beautiful for the redman. Has not my brother dreamed such dreams? Has not his Manito whispered to him such things?"
"He has," answered the brother of the Snake, in a tone of stern meaning, "and my tomahawk is sharp; but we must take counsel on this with our brethren, to make sure that there be no double tongues amongst us. How else should these women see our tracks, when we have covered them with leaves?"
It is probable that this last expression was used figuratively, not actually to imply that a precaution very common among Indians had been taken in this case, but that every care had been used to prevent a discovery by the women of the nation of any part of the proceedings in regard to Walter Prevost.
"My tongue is single," said the brother of the Snake, "and if I had a double tongue, would I use it when my enemy is under my scalping-knife? Besides, am I not more than thy brother?" and, baring his arm, he pointed with his finger to that small blue stripe which Woodchuck had exhibited on his own arm to Lord H---- in Albany.
"My brother hears with the ears of the hare," said Apukwa. "The Honontkoh never betray each other. But there are young men with us who are not of our order. Some are husbands, some are lovers; and with women they are women. Yet we must be watchful not to scatter our own herd. There must be no word of anger; but our guard must be made more sure. Go thou home to thine own lodge, and to-morrow, while the east is still white, let us hold council in the wigwam farther down the lake. The home wind is blowing strong, and there will be more snow to cover our trail."
Thus saying, they parted for the night. But the next morning, early, from one of the small fortified villages of the Indians, some miles from their great Castle, no less than six young men set out at different times and took their way separately through the woods. One said to his wife, as he left her, "I go to hunt the moose;" and one to his sister, "I go to kill the deer."
An older man told his squaw the same story, but she laughed, and answered: "Thou art careful of thy goods, my husband. Truth is too good a thing to be used an all occasions. Thou keepest it for the time of need."
The man smiled, and stroked her cheek, saying: "Keep thine own counsel, wife, and when I lie to thee seem not to know it."
In the chain of low cliffs which run at the distance of some four or five miles from the Oneida village, and to which, probably, at one time, the waters of the lake had extended, was a deep cleft or fissure in the hard rock, some fourteen or fifteen yards in width at its widest part, and narrower at the mouth than in the interior. One of the rocks, at the time I speak of--though large masses have fallen since, and a good deal altered the features of the scene--one of the rocks near the entrance at the time I speak of beetled considerably over its base, and projected so far as almost to touch the opposite crag, giving the mouth of the fissure somewhat the appearance of a cave. On either side the walls of this gloomy dell were perpendicular, in some places even overhanging; and at the end, where it might have been expected to slope gradually away to the upland, the general character of the scene was merely diversified by a break, or step, some fifteen or sixteen feet from the ground, dividing the face of the crag into two nearly equal parts. Beneath this ledge was a hollow of some four or five feet in depth, rendering ascent from that side impracticable.
Underneath that ledge, at the time referred to, had been hastily constructed a small hut, or Indian lodge, formed of stakes driven into the ground, and covered over skilfully enough with bark branches and other materials of the forest. A door had apparently been brought for it from some distance, for it was evidently old, and had some strange figures painted on it in red; and across this door was fixed a great bar, which would, indeed, have been very useless, had not the stakes forming the walls of the hut been placed close together, rendering it in reality much stronger than an ordinary Indian lodge.
On the day after Otaitsa's expedition, mentioned in the preceding chapter, some sixteen or eighteen Oneidas of different ages, but none of them far advanced in life, gathered round the mouth of the cliff and conversed together for several minutes in low tones, and with their usual slow and deliberate manner. At the end of their conference one seated himself on a stone near the entrance, two advanced into the chasm, and the rest dispersed themselves in different directions through the woods. The two who advanced approached the hut, following each other so close that the foot of each trod in the step of the other; and when they reached it the foremost took down the bar and opened the door, suffering the light to enter the dark chamber within. The sight which that light displayed was a very painful one.
There, seated on the ground, with his head almost bent down to his knees, his beautiful brown hair falling wild and shaggy over his face, his dress soiled and in some parts torn, and his hands thin and sallow, sat poor Walter Prevost, the image of despair. All the bright energies of his eager, impetuous nature seemed quelled; the look of youthful, happy enjoyment was altogether gone, and with it the warm hopes and glowing aspirations, the dreams of future happiness or greatness, of love, and joy, and tenderness. The sunshine had departed; the motes of existence no longer danced in the beam.
He lifted not his head when the Indians entered; still and impassive as themselves, he sat without movement or word; the very senses seemed dead in the living tomb where they had confined him; but the sight touched them with no pity.
Gazing at him with a curious, cunning, serpent-like look, Apukwa placed before him the wallet which he carried, containing some dried deer's flesh and parched Indian corn; and, after having watched him for a moment without a change of countenance, said in a cold tone: "There is food. Take it and eat."
As if the sound of his hated voice had startled the youth from a death-like sleep, Walter sprang suddenly on his feet, exclaiming: "Why should I eat to prolong my misery? Slay me! Take thy tomahawk and dash my brains out! Put an end to this torment, the most terrible that thy fiend-like race have ever devised."
The two Indians laughed with a low, quiet, satisfied laugh. "We cannot slay thee," said the brother of the Snake, "till we know that thy paleface brother who killed our brother cannot be found to take thy place."
"He is far beyond your power," cried Walter, vehemently. "He will never be within your grasp. I helped him to escape. I delivered him from you! Slay me! slay me! Dogs of Indians, your hearts are wolves' hearts! You are not men; you are women, who dare not use a tomahawk! You are the scoff of your enemies! They laugh at the Oneidas, they spit at them! They say they are children, who dare not kill an enemy till the old men say kill him! They fear the rod of their chief. They are like hares and rabbits, that fear the sound of the wind!"
It was in vain that he tried to provoke them. They only seemed to enjoy his agony and the bitter words that it called forth.
"Eat and drink," said Apukwa, coldly, as soon as he became silent, "for we are going to tie thee. We must hunt the deer, we must grind the corn; we cannot watch thee every day till the time of the sacrifice comes. Eat and drink, then, for here are the thongs."
Walter glared at him for a moment, and then snatched up a gourd filled with water, which the brother of the Snake had brought, draining it with a long and eager draught. He then cast it from him, and stood still and stern before them, saying: "I will disappoint you. Henceforth I will eat no more. Tie me if you will. I can fast as well as you Indians."
The two men looked in each other's face, apparently puzzled how to act, for if he kept his resolution their object would indeed be frustrated. The death of their kinsman, according to their superstition, required blood, and by starvation the prisoner would escape from their hands. Still they dared not disobey the decision of the chiefs. A slight sign seemed to pass between them, and taking hold of the poor lad somewhat roughly, they bound both his hands and feet, twining the strong thongs of deerskin round and round, and through and through, in what seemed inextricable knots. He stood quite still and impassive, and when they had done, cast himself down upon the ground again, turning his face from them. The two men gazed at him for a moment or two, and then leaving the hut in silence, replaced the bar.
For some time after they had gone, Walter lay just as he had fallen. The dead apathy of despair had taken, possession of him. Life, thought, feeling, was a burden. The many days which had passed in that dull, dark, silent abode was rapidly producing on his mind that effect which solitary confinement is said to occasion but too often.
He lay in that deathlike stillness for several hours; nor came there a sound of any kind during all that time to relieve the black monotony of the day. His ear, by suffering, had been rendered painfully acute, but the snow fell noiselessly, the wild animals were in their coverts or in their dens, the very wind had no breath.
Suddenly there was a sound. What was it? It seemed a cracking branch, far up above his head. Then a stone rolled down and rattled over the roof, making the snow slip before it. Another crashing branch, and then a silence which seemed to him to last for hours. "Some panther or catamount," he thought, "in the trees above," and he laid his half-raised head down again upon the ground.
No! There were fingers on the bar. He heard it move! Had the Indians come back to urge the food upon him? The touch upon the bar, however, seemed feeble compared with theirs. It lifted the heavy bar of wood slowly and with difficulty. Walter's heart beat--visions came before his mind--hope flickered up, and he raised himself as well as he could into a sitting posture. From the ground he could not rise, for his hands were tied.
Slowly and quietly the door opened, the light rushed in, and in the midst of the blaze stood the beautiful figure of the Blossom, with her head partly turned away, as if in the act of listening. Her curly, long, wavy hair, broken from its band, and spotted with the white snow, fell almost to her feet. But little was the clothing that she wore. No mantle, no overdress, nothing but the Indian woman's embroidered skirt, gathered round her by a belt, and leaving the arms and legs bare. Her hands were torn and bloody, her bright face and brow scratched by the fangs of the bramble, but still to Walter Prevost, as she stood listening there, it was the loveliest sight his eyes had ever rested on.
But for a moment she listened, then gazed into the hut, sprang forward, cast her arms around his neck, and wept as she had never wept before.
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"My brother--my husband," she said, leaning her forehead on his shoulder, "Otaitsa has found thee at length!"
He would fain have cast his arms around her; he would fain have pressed her to his heart; he would fain have told her that he could bear death, or even life, or any fate, for such love as hers. But his hands were tied, and his tongue was powerless with emotion.
A few moments passed in silence, and then Otaitsa said: "The cruel wolves have tied thee, but Otaitsa will give thee freedom."
In an instant her small, delicate fingers were busy with the thongs, and with the rapidity of thought they were all untied, and hands and feet were both loose; but as she worked, the blood dropped from her fingers on to his wrists, and while he held her to his heart he said: "Thou bleedest, my Blossom. Oh, Otaitsa, what hast thou risked, what hast thou encountered for Walter's sake?"
"But little, my beloved," she answered. "Would it were ten times more, to prove my love! What! They have put meat within thy sight, and tied thy hands to make thee die of famine, with food before thee! Out on the cruel monsters!"
"No, no, my Otaitsa!" answered Walter. "I would not eat. I wished to die. I knew not that an angel would come to cheer and help me."
"And to deliver thee, too, my Walter," answered Otaitsa, with a bright smile. "I trust it is certain, my beloved. By the way I came, by that way you can go."
"How came you?" asked Walter, seating her beside him, and pressing her closer with his arm to the bosom on which she leaned. "I thought it was impossible for anyone to reach me, so stern is this place, so close the watch they kept. It must have been very perilous for thee, my Blossom. Art thou not hurt?"
"Oh, no," she answered, "nor was the peril really great. God gave me wings to fly to thee. Love bore me up; but let me tell thee how I came. I have a friend, the wife of one of thine enemies, a young bride to whom his heart is open as the lake. From her I heard of all their plans; how they have filled the woods below the rocks with watchers, how they have set guards on every trail. They never dreamed that from the morning side a way could be found down over the rock into this dell. I pondered over the tidings, and remembered that when I was a little, happy child I clambered some way down, by the aid of shrubs and crevices, in search of fruit; and I laid my plan against theirs. I took two ropes which I had woven long ago, of the tough bark of the moose plant, and making a wide circle round, I reached the upland above the cliffs. My only trouble was to find the exact spot from that side; for I knew that there was a cloud between me and your enemies, and that I walked unseen. At length, however, I found the rock overlooking the chasm. I cast off all burdens, all that the brambles or branches might snatch at, and with the ropes wound round me, came down as far as I could find safe footing. There was a tree, a small tree, on the pinnacle, and I tried it before I trusted it. One branch broke, but the root and stump stood firm, gripping the rock fast. To them I fixed the end of one rope, and easily swung down to a point below, where there was a larger, stronger tree. A stone, however, slipped from under my feet, and fell rattling down. Round the strong tree I twisted the rope again, and thus reached the very ledge overhead; but there, as there had been noise and some crashing of the branches, I stood for a while, hidden behind the bushes, to make sure that I was not discovered. At length, however, I was satisfied, and now the other rope was a friend to give me help. I fastened it to the first, knotted it into tight loops, and thus aiding hands and feet, with sometimes the aid of a projecting stone, and sometimes a small shrub, came slowly down. By the same way I shall return, my love, and by it, too, my Walter must go back this night to his own people."
"Why not with you now?" asked Walter, eagerly. "Let Otaitsa go with me, and whenever we reach my father's house become my wife indeed. Oh, how gladly will he fold her to his heart, how fondly will Edith call her sister!"
"It cannot be, beloved," she answered. "I came to save him I love, to save him who is the husband of my heart, but not to abandon my father till he gives me to you; and besides, there would be none to help us. This night you must climb by the ropes and boughs up to the top of the cliff, when, as near as you can reckon, there has been six hours of darkness. At the top you will find people waiting. They are but women, yet they all love you and me likewise, and they have sworn by their Great Spirit that if it costs their lives they will set you free. Each will help you in some way. One has a canoe upon the creek, another knows the deepest woods on the Mohawk side, and can guide you well. Others will lead you down Ward Creek to Sir William Johnson's Castle, where you are safe. Eat now, my beloved, for you must have strength, and Otaitsa must leave you soon. Before she goes she must tie your hands again, lest your enemies come ere the night; but she will tie them in such a sort that with your teeth you can undraw the knot; and she will loosen the fastening of the bar so that even a weak hand can push it out."
She had hardly uttered the words, when a low, mocking laugh came upon their ears, and two or three dark forms shadowed the doorway. Otaitsa instantly started up and drew a knife from the belt around her waist.
"Stand back!" she cried aloud in the Iroquois tongue, as the men glided in. "I am your great chief's daughter, and the blood of the Black Eagle will not bear a touch."
"We touch thee not, Blossom," answered Apukwa. "Thou shalt go free, for the Black Eagle is a mighty chief, a mighty warrior, reverenced by his people; but our prisoner we keep, and though thou hast loosened his hands we can fasten them again. Put thy tomahawk in thy belt, brother of the Snake; it must taste no blood here, though it is hungry, I know well. He shall die, but not now."
As he spoke he thrust his arm between the younger Indian and Walter, who had cast himself before Otaitsa, as if for one desperate struggle if he saw any violence offered to her. The words of the medicine man, however, quieted him on that score, and it was but too plain that all resistance on his part would be in vain. A few hours before he had sought death as a boon, but the coming of the Blossom had changed all his thoughts and feelings, had relighted hope and restored firmness and constancy. He was willing to live, and for the chances of what some other day might bring; for the love and self-devotion of that beautiful creature made existence seem too valuable to cast away the slightest chance of its preservation.
He suffered them to bind him then, while Otaitsa turned away her head and struggled against the tears that sought to rise. It cost her a great effort, but resolution triumphed, and with a lofty air, very different from the tenderness of her demeanor a few moments before, she waved her hand for the Indians to make way, saying: "Unworthy Oneidas, I go to carry my own tale to my father's feet, to tell him that with his own blood warm in my heart I came thither to save my brother, my lover, my husband, and to warn him that the tomahawk which falls on that beloved head severs the chain of Otaitsa's life. But fear not, Walter," she continued, turning toward him; "fear not, my beloved. Live, and laugh thine enemies to scorn. Thou shalt be delivered yet, let these men do what they will. It is written on high that thou shalt not perish by their hands," and thus saying, she left the hut, and followed closely by two of the Oneidas, pursued her way back toward the Castle.
When she reached the gate of the palisade she at once perceived a good deal of commotion and activity within, though none but women, youths, and children were to be seen.
"Where is the Black Eagle?" she asked of the first woman whom she met. "Has he returned to the lodge?"
"He returned with forty warriors," replied the other, in a grave tone, "painted himself for battle, and has gone forth upon the warpath, taking with him every warrior he could find."
"Against whom?" asked Otaitsa, in as calm a tone as she could assume, but with her heart beating fast.
"We do not know," replied the woman, sadly; "but a tale spread, coming out of darkness throughout which none could see, that the Black Eagle had gone against our brethren, the Mohawks and Onondagas. It was said they had unburied the hatchet, and cut down the tree of peace before the door of the Oneidas."
Otaitsa clasped her hands together, bent her head, and took some steps toward the door of the lodge, and then, turning to the two men who had followed her, she said, bitterly: "And ye were absent when the Black Eagle called for warriors! Ye were right, for ye are women, and have only courage to torment a captive."
Thus saying, she passed on with a quiet step into the lodge, and there, when no eye could see her, gave way in tears to all the sad and bitter feelings of her heart.
Through the widespread woods which lay between the extensive territory occupied by the Mohawks and the beautiful land of the Oneidas, early in the morning of the day, some of the events of which have been already recorded, a small troop of Indians glided along in their usual stealthy manner. They were in their garments of peace. Each was fully clothed according to the Indian mode, and the many-colored mat of ceremony hung from their shoulders as they passed along, somewhat encumbering them in their progress. They took the narrow trails; but yet it was not so easy for them to conceal themselves, if such was their object, as it might have been in another dress and at another time; for, except when passing a still brilliant maple, or a rich brown oak, the gaudy coloring of their clothing showed itself strongly either against the dark evergreens or the white snow.
The party had apparently traveled from night into day, for as soon as the morning dawned the head man of the five stopped, and, without changing his position--and thus avoiding the necessity of making fresh prints in the snow-conversed over his shoulder with those behind him. Their conversation was brief, and might be translated into modern English thus:
"Shall we halt here, or go on farther? The day's eyes are open in the east."
"Stay here till noon," said an elder man behind him. "The Oneidas always go to their lodge in the middle of the day. They are children. They require sleep when the sun is high."
Another voice repeated the same advice, and springing one by one from the trail into the thicket, they gathered together under a wide-spreading hemlock, where the ground was free from snow, and seated themselves in a circle beneath the branches. There they passed their time nearly in silence. Some food was produced, and also some rum, the fatal gift of the English; but very few words were uttered, and the only sentences worth recording were:
"Art thou quite sure of the spot, brother?"
"Certain," answered the one who had been leading. "The intelligence was brought by an Albany runner, a man of a true tongue."
From time to time each of the different members of the group looked up toward the sky, and at length one of them rose, saying: "It is noon; let us onward. We can go forward for an hour, and then we shall be near enough to reach the place and return while the shadows are on the earth."
"We were told to spread out and enter by several trails," said an elder man of the party.
"It is not needful now," said the man who seemed the leader of the party, "when it can all be done between sun and sun."
His words seemed conclusive, and they resumed the path again, walking on stealthily in a single file, as before. They had gone about three miles more, when a wild, fearful yell, such as no European would believe a human throat could utter, was heard upon their right. Another rose up on their left the instant after, and then another in their front. Each man stopped in breathless silence, as if suddenly turned to stone, but each with the first impulse had laid his hand upon his tomahawk. All listened for a repetition of the well-known war-whoop, and each man asked himself what such a sound could mean in a land where the Indians were all at peace amongst themselves, and where no tidings had been received of a foreign foe; but no man uttered a word, even in a whisper, to the man close to him. Suddenly a single figure appeared upon the trail before them, tall, powerful, commanding, and one well known to all there present. It was that of the Black Eagle, now feathered and painted for battle, with his rifle in his hand, and his tomahawk ready.
"Are ye Mohawks?" he exclaimed, as he came near. "Are we brethren?"
"We are Mohawks and brethren," replied the leader of the party. "We are but wandering through the forest, seeking to find something which has been lost."
"What is it?" asked the Black Eagle, sternly; "nothing is lost which cannot be found. Snow may cover it for a time, but when the snow melts, it will come to light."
"It is a young lad's coat," said the cunning Mohawk; "but why is Black Eagle on the warpath? Who has unburied the hatchet against the Oneidas?"
"The Black Eagle dreamed a dream," replied the chief, round whom numerous Oneidas, equipped for war, had by this time gathered, "and in his dream he saw ten men come from the midday into the land of the Oneida, and ten men from the side of the cold wind. They wore the garb of peace, and called themselves brothers of the children of the Stone. But the eyes of the Black Eagle were strong in his dream, and he saw through their bosoms, and their hearts were black, and a voice whispered to him that they came to steal from the Oneida that which they cannot restore, and to put a burden upon the children of the Stone that they will not carry."
"Was it not the voice of the singing bird?" asked the young Mohawk chief. "Was the dream sent by the bad spirit?"
"I know not," answered the Black Eagle, "say ye!" But the Black Eagle believed the dream, and starting up, he called his warriors round him, and he sent Lynx Eyes, the sachem of the Bear, to the north, and led his own warriors to the south, saying: "Let us go and meet these ten men, and tell them, if they be really brethren of the Oneidas, to come with us, and smoke the pipe of peace together, and eat and drink in our lodges and return to their own land when they are satisfied; but if their hearts are black and their tongues double, to put on the warpaint openly, and unbury the long buried hatchet, and take the warpath like men and warriors, and not creep to mischief like the silent copperhead!"
These last words were spoken in a voice of thunder, while his keen black eyes flashed, and his whole form seemed to dilate with indignation.
The Mohawks stood silent before him, and even the young chief who had shown himself the boldest amongst them bent down his eyes to the ground. At length, however, he answered: "The Black Eagle has spoken well, and he has done well, though he should not put too much faith in such dreams. The Mohawk is the brother of the Oneida; the children of the Stone and the men of blood are one, though the Mohawk judges the Oneida hasty, in deeds. He is the panther that springs upon his prey from on high, before he sees whether it is not the doe that nourishes his young. He forgets hospitality----"
The eyes of the Black Eagle flashed fiercely for a moment, but then the fire went out in them, and a grave, and even sad look succeeded. The young man went on boldly, however, saying: "He forgets hospitality. He takes to death the son of his brother, and sheds the blood of him who has eaten of the same meat with him. He waits not to punish the guilty, but raises his tomahawk against his friend. The Five Nations are a united people; that which brings shame upon one brings it upon all. The Mohawk's eyes are full of fire and his head bends down, when men say 'the Oneida is inhospitable; the Oneida is hasty to slay, and repays faith, and trust, and kindness by death.' What shall we say to our white father beyond the salt waters, when he asks us, 'Where is my son Walter, who loved the Oneidas, who was their brother, who sat by their council fire, and smoked the pipe of peace with them?' Shall we say, 'The Oneidas have slain him because he trusted to the hospitality of the Five Nations and did not fly?' When he asks us, 'What was his crime?' and 'Did the Oneidas judge him for it like calm and prudent men?' shall we answer, 'He had no crime, and the Oneidas took him in haste, without judgment. He was full of love and kindness toward them--a maple tree overrunning with honey for the Oneidas, but they seized him in haste, when, in a few moons, they could have found many others.' If we say that, what will our great father think of his red children? Black Eagle, judge thou of this, and when thou dreamest another dream, see thou forked-tongued serpents hissing at the Five Nations, and ask, 'Who made them hiss?' I have spoken."
The feeling excited by this speech in all the Oneida warriors who heard it would be difficult to describe. There was much anger, but there was more shame. The latter was certainly predominant in the breast of Black Eagle. He put his hand to his shoulder, as if seeking for his mantle to draw over his face, and after a long pause he said: "Alas! that I have no answer. Thou art a youth, and my heart is old. My people should not leave me without reply before a boy. Go in peace! I will send my answer to him who sent thee, for our brethren the Mohawks have not dealt well with us in using subtlety. There are more of you, however. Let each of them return to his home, for the children of the Stone are masters of themselves."
"Of us there are no more than thou seest," answered the young man.
Black Eagle gazed at him somewhat sternly, and then answered: "Six men have entered the Oneida lands from this side since morning yesterday, by separate ways. Let them go back. We give them from sun to sun, and no one shall hurt them; but if they be found here after that, their scalps shall hang upon the warpost."
Thus saying, he turned and withdrew with his warriors, the young Mohawk and his companions glided back through the woods toward their own district, almost as silently as they came.
The returning path of the great Oneida chief was pursued by him and his companions with a slow and heavy tread. Not a word was spoken by anyone, for there were both deep grief and embarrassment upon each; and all felt that there was much justice in the reproof of the young Mohawk. They had come forth with feelings of indignation and anger at the intelligence which had been received of the interference of other tribes in the affairs of the Oneida people, and they still felt much irritation at the course which had been pursued; but still their pride was humbled, and their native sense of justice touched by the vivid picture which had just been given of the view which might be taken by others of their conduct toward Walter Prevost.
At this time, while the confederacy of the five powerful nations remained entire, and a certain apprehensive sense of their danger from the encroachments of the Europeans was felt by all the Indian tribes, a degree of power and authority had fallen to the great chiefs which probably had not been attributed to them in earlier and more simple times. The great chief of the Mohawks called himself king, and in some degree exercised the authority of a monarch. Black Eagle, indeed, assumed no different title from the ordinary Indian appellation of sachem, but his great renown and his acknowledged wisdom had, perhaps, rendered his authority more generally reverenced than that of any other chief in the confederacy. The responsibility, therefore, weighed strongly upon him, and it was with feelings of deep gloom and depression that he entered the great Oneida village shortly before the hour of sunset. The women and children were assembled to see the warriors pass, excepting Otaitsa, who sat before the door of Black Eagle's great lodge, with her head bent down, under an oppressive sense of the difficulties and dangers of her coming task.
Black Eagle saw her well, and saw that she was moved by deep grief; but he gave no sign even of perceiving her, and moving slowly, and with an unchanged countenance, to the door, he seated himself by her side, while his warriors ranged themselves round, and the women and young people formed another circle beyond the first. It was done without concert and without intimation, but all knew that the chief would speak before they parted. Otaitsa remained silent, in the same position, out of reverence for her father, and, after a short pause, the voice of the Black Eagle was heard, saying: "My children, your father is grieved. Were he a woman, he would weep. The reproach of his people, and the evil conduct of his allies, would bring water into the eyes that never were moist. But there is a storm upon us, the heaviest storm that ever has fallen. The waters of our lake are troubled, and we have troubled them ourselves. We must have counsel. We must call the wisdom of many men to avert the storm. Let, then, three of my swiftest warriors speed away to the heads of the eight tribes, telling them to come hither before the west is dark to-morrow, bringing with them their wisest men. Then shall my children know my mind, and the Black Eagle shall have strength again."
He paused, and Otaitsa sprang upon her feet, believing that intelligence of what she had done had reached her father's ears. "Ere thou sendest for thy chiefs, hear thy daughter!"
Black Eagle was surprised, but no sign of it was apparent on his face. He slowly bowed his head, and the Blossom went on:
"Have I not been an obedient child to thee? Have I not loved thee, and followed thy slightest word? I am thy child altogether. Thou hast taken me often to the dwelling of the white man, because he is of my kindred. Thou hast often left me there whilst thou hast gone upon the warpath, or hunted in the mountains. Thou hast said, 'They are of our own blood. My wife, my beloved, was of high race amongst the paleface people of the east, the daughter of a great chief. I saved her in the day of battle, and she became mine; and true and faithful, loving and just, was the child of the white chief to the great sachem of the Oneidas. Shall I keep her daughter from all communication with her kindred?' Young was I, a mere child, when first thou tookest me there, and Edith was a sister, Walter a brother to me. They both loved me well, and I loved them; but my love for the brother grew stronger than for the sister, and his for me. We told our love to each other, and he said, 'When I am old enough to go upon the warpath I will ask the Black Eagle to give me Otaitsa, and the red chief and the white chief shall again be united, and the bonds between the Oneidas and the English people shall be strengthened;' and we dreamed a dream that all this would be true, and pledged ourselves to each other forever. Now, what have I done, my father? The brethren of the Snake, and the chief Apukwa, contrary to the customs of the Oneidas, seized upon my betrothed, carried off my husband captive four days after their brother was slain by a white man, but not by my Walter. It is not for me to know the laws of the Oneidas, or to speak of the traditions of our fathers, but in this, at least, I knew that they had done evil; they had taken an innocent man before they had sought for the guilty. I found the place where they had hid him. I climbed to the top of the rock above the chasm. I descended the face of the precipice. I tied two ropes to the trees for his escape. I loosened the thongs from his hands, and from his feet, and I said, 'This night thou shalt flee, my husband, and escape the wrath of thine enemies.' All this I did, and what is it? It may be against the law of the Oneidas, but it is the law of a woman's own heart, placed there by the Great Spirit. It is what my mother would have done for thee, my father, hadst thou been a captive in the hands of thine enemies. Had I not done it, I should not have been thy child, I should have been unworthy to call the Black Eagle father. The daughter of a chief must act as the daughter of a chief. The child of a great warrior must have no fear. If I am to die, I am ready."
She paused for a moment, and Black Eagle raised his head, which had been slightly bowed, and said, in a loud, clear voice: "Thou hast done well, my child. So let every Indian woman do for him to whom she is bound. The women of the children of the Stone are not as other women. Like the stone, they are firm; like the rock, they are lofty. They bear warriors for the nation. They teach them to do great deeds."
"Yet bear with me a little, my father," said Otaitsa, "and let thy daughter's fate be in thy hand before all the eyes here present. Apukwa and the brethren of the Snake had set a watch, and stole upon me and upon my white brother, and mocked thy daughter and her husband, and bound his hands and feet again, and said that he shall die!"
It is rare that an Indian interrupts the speech of anyone, but the heart of the chief had been altogether with Otaitsa's enterprise, and he now exclaimed, with great anxiety, "Then has he not escaped?"
"He has not," replied Otaitsa. "It went as I have said. Walter Prevost is still in the hands of the brethren of the Snake and of Apukwa, and he is not safe, my father, even until the nation shall have decided what shall be his fate. When the nation speaks," she continued, emboldened by her father's approbation, "then will Otaitsa live or die, for I tell thee, and I tell all the warriors here present, that if my husband is slain for no offence by the hand of an Oneida, the daughter of the chief dies, too!"
"Koui! koui!" murmured the chiefs, in a low, sad tone, as they gazed upon her, standing in her great beauty by her father's side, while the setting sun peeped out from beneath the edge of the snow cloud and cast a gleam of rosy light around her.
"He is not safe even till the word is spoken," said Otaitsa, "for they are bad men that hold him. They took him contrary to our customs. They despise our laws. They are Honontkoh, and fear nothing but the tomahawk of the Black Eagle. They drink blood. They slay their mothers and their brethren. They are Honontkoh!"
A murmur of awe and indignation at the hated name of the dark secret order existing amongst the Indians, but viewed with apprehension and hatred by all the more noble warriors of the tribes, ran round the circle, and Black Eagle rose, saying: "Let them be examined, and if the stripe be found upon them, set honest men to guard the lad. To-morrow, at the great council, we will discuss his fate, and the Great Spirit send us dreams of what is right. Come with me, my child. The Blossom is ever dear."
Thus saying, he turned and entered the lodge.