The Last of the Mohicans

A Narrative of 1757

by James Fenimore Cooper

INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X. CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIV. CHAPTER XV. CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. CHAPTER XVIII. CHAPTER XIX. CHAPTER XX. CHAPTER XXI. CHAPTER XXII. CHAPTER XXIII. CHAPTER XXIV. CHAPTER XXV. CHAPTER XXVI. CHAPTER XXVII. CHAPTER XXVIII. CHAPTER XXIX. CHAPTER XXX. CHAPTER XXXI. CHAPTER XXXII. CHAPTER XXXIII. [Illustration]

INTRODUCTION

It is thought that the setting of this story, and most of the information needed to grasp its allusions, are made sufficiently clear to the reader within the text itself or in the accompanying notes. However, Indian traditions are so obscure, and the names are so confusing, that some explanation proves useful

. Few people display such a greater diversity, or, if we may put it that way, such stark opposition in character, as the native warriors of North America. In war, they are daring, boastful, cunning, ruthless, self-denying, and devoted to themselves; in peace, they are just, generous, hospitable, vengeful, superstitious, modest, and generally chaste. These are qualities that don't all apply equally, but they are the predominant traits of these remarkable people, making them characteristic

. It is generally held that the Aborigines of the American continent have an Asiatic origin. There are many physical and moral facts that support this view, along with a few that seem to contradict it

.The writer believed the color of the Indian was peculiar to him; while his cheekbones bore a striking hint of Tartar origin, his eyes did not. Climate might have influenced the former, but it's hard to see how it could account for the substantial difference in the latter. The imagery he employed—in both his poetry and oratory—was oriental: chastened, perhaps even refined, by the limited scope of his practical knowledge. He drew his metaphors from the clouds, the seasons, the birds, the beasts, and the plant world. In this sense, he was likely doing no more than any other imaginative race would: being forced to temper fancy with experience. Yet, the North American Indian clothed his ideas in a style distinct from the African and inherently oriental. His language carried the richness and pithy fullness of Chinese. He could express an entire phrase in a single word, qualify the meaning of a whole sentence with a single syllable, and convey different meanings through the simplest vocal inflections.

Philologists suggest that there are only two or three languages, to speak properly, among all the numerous tribes that once inhabited the land now known as the United States. They attribute the difficulty one people have in understanding another to corruption and dialect. The writer recalls being present at an interview between two chiefs of the Great Prairies west of the Mississippi, where an interpreter spoke both their languages. The warriors seemed on the friendliest terms, conversing quite a bit; yet, according to the interpreter's account, each was completely ignorant of what the other was saying. They were hostile tribes, brought together by the influence of the American government, and it’s worth noting that a common policy led them both to adopt the same subject. They mutually urged each other to be useful should the chances of war place either party in the hands of their enemies. Whatever the truth may be regarding the root and essence of the Indian tongues, it is certain they are now so distinct in their words that they possess most of the disadvantages of foreign languages; this explains much of the embarrassment surrounding the study of their histories and much of the uncertainty within their traditions.

Like nations with higher pretensions, the American Indian offers a very different account of his own tribe or race than what others provide. He is very keen on overestimating his own virtues while undervaluing those of his rivals or enemies—a trait that might easily be seen as corroborating the Mosaic account of creation.

The whites greatly obscured the traditions of the Aborigines through their very act of corrupting names. Consequently, the term used in this book's title has evolved through Mahicanni, Mohicans, and Mohegans; the latter being the word commonly employed by the whites. Remember that the Dutch (who first settled New York), the English, and the French all gave names to the tribes inhabiting the land where this story unfolds. Furthermore, since the Indians frequently named their enemies and themselves differently, the source of this confusion becomes clear.

In these pages, Lenni-Lenape, Lenope, Delawares, Wapanachki, and Mohicans all refer to the same people, the same stock. The Mengwe, Maquas, Mingoes, and Iroquois, while not entirely identical, are often identified by the speakers as politically confederated groups opposed to the others. Mingo was a term of specific reproach, as were Mengwe and Maqua to a lesser extent.

The Mohicans were the people who first possessed the land occupied by the Europeans on this part of the continent. They were, therefore, the first to be dispossessed. The seemingly inevitable fate of all these peoples—those who vanished before or during the incursions, or what might be called the inroads of civilization as the lushness of their native forests yields to the biting frosts—is presented as having already befallen them. History sufficiently supports this depiction.

In reality, the country where this tale unfolds hasn't changed much since the historical events mentioned took place; it’s almost no different from any other district of the same size within the United States. There are fashionable and busy watering holes near the spring where Hawkeye stopped to drink, and roads cut through the forests where he and his friends had to travel without even a path. Glen has a large village; and while William Henry, and even a later fortress, are only visible as ruins, there’s another village on the shores of the Horican. But beyond that, the ambition and energy of a people who have achieved so much elsewhere have amounted to little here. The entire wilderness where these later events of the legend occurred is nearly still a wilderness, though the Red Man has entirely abandoned this part of the state. Of all the tribes named in these pages, only a few half-civilized beings of the Oneidas remain on their reservations in New York. The rest have vanished, either from the lands where their fathers lived or completely from the earth.

There's one point we want to make before closing this preface. Hawkeye calls the Lac du Saint Sacrement, the “Horican.” Since we believe this name originates with us, perhaps the time has come to admit the truth plainly. While writing this book, a full quarter-century later, it struck us that the French name for this lake was too complicated, the American one too common, and the Indian name too difficult to pronounce—all unsuitable for use in fiction.Looking over an ancient map, it was ascertained that a tribe of Indians, called “Les Horicans” by the French, existed in the neighborhood of this beautiful sheet of water.As every word uttered by Natty Bumppo was not to be received as rigid truth, we took the liberty of putting the “Horican” into his mouth, as the substitute for “Lake George.” The name has appeared to find favor, and all things considered, it may possibly be quite as well to let it stand, instead of going back to the House of Hanover for the appellation of our finest sheet of water.We relieve our conscience by the confession, at all events leaving it to exercise its authority as it may see fit.

CHAPTER I.

“Mine ear is open, and my heart prepared:
The worst is wordly loss thou canst unfold:—
Say, is my kingdom lost?”—Shakespeare

It was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of North America, that the toils and dangers of the wilderness were to be encountered before the adverse hosts could meet. A wide and apparently an impervious boundary of forests severed the possessions of the hostile provinces of France and England. The hardy colonist, and the trained European who fought at his side, frequently expended months in struggling against the rapids of the streams, or in effecting the rugged passes of the mountains, in quest of an opportunity to exhibit their courage in a more martial conflict. But, emulating the patience and self-denial of the practiced native warriors, they learned to overcome every difficulty; and it would seem that, in time, there was no recess of the woods so dark, nor any secret place so lovely, that it might claim exemption from the inroads of those who had pledged their blood to satiate their vengeance, or to uphold the cold and selfish policy of the distant monarchs of Europe.

Perhaps no district across those intermediate frontiers could offer a livelier glimpse of the cruelty and ferocity of those era's savage warfare than the land situated between the headwaters of the Hudson and the adjacent lakes

. The facilities nature provided for the combatants’ march were too obvious to ignore. The elongated sheet of Champlain stretched from the frontiers of Canada, deep into the borders of New York, forming a natural passage across half the distance the French had to conquer to strike their foes. Near its southern end, it received the contribution of another lake, whose waters were so clear that Jesuit missionaries exclusively used them for the typical purification of baptism, earning the lake the title "du Saint Sacrément." The less zealous English thought this was enough honor when they named it after their reigning prince, the second of the House of Hanover. Together, they robbed the untutored inhabitants of its wooded scenery of their native right to keep its original name, "Horican."[1]

[1] Since each Native American nation had its own language or dialect, they usually gave different names to the same places, though most of their appellations were descriptive. Therefore, a literal translation of the name of this beautiful body of water, used by the tribe living on its banks, would be “The Tail of the Lake.” Lake George, as it is commonly and legally known today, essentially forms a tail to Lake Champlain when viewed on the map. Hence, the name

. Winding its way among countless islands, and imbedded in mountains, the “holy lake” extended a dozen leagues still further to the south. With the high plain that there interposed itself to the further passage of the water, commenced a portage of as many miles, which conducted the adventurer to the banks of the Hudson, at a point where, with the usual obstructions of the rapids, or rifts, as they were then termed in the language of the country, the river became navigable to the tide.

While, in the pursuit of their daring plans of annoyance, the restless enterprise of the French even attempted the distant and difficult gorges of the Alleghany, it may easily be imagined that their proverbial acuteness would not overlook the natural advantages of the district we have just described. It became, emphatically, the bloody arena, in which most of the battles for the mastery of the colonies were contested. Forts were erected at the different points that commanded the facilities of the route, and were taken and retaken, razed and rebuilt, as victory alighted on the hostile banners. While the husbandman shrank back from the dangerous passes, within the safer boundaries of the more ancient settlements, armies larger than those that had often disposed of the scepters of the mother countries, were seen to bury themselves in these forests, whence they rarely returned but in skeleton bands, that were haggard with care or dejected by defeat. Though the arts of peace were unknown to this fatal region, its forests were alive with men; its shades and glens rang with the sounds of martial music, and the echoes of its mountains threw back the laugh, or repeated the wanton cry, of many a gallant and reckless youth, as he hurried by them, in the noontide of his spirits, to slumber in a long night of forgetfulness.

It was in this scene of strife and bloodshed that the incidents we shall attempt to relate occurred, during the third year of the war which England and France last waged for the possession of a country that neither was destined to retain.

The imbecility of her military leaders abroad, and the fatal want of energy in her councils at home, had lowered the character of Great Britain from the proud elevation on which it had been placed by the talents and enterprise of her former warriors and statesmen.No longer dreaded by her enemies, her servants were fast losing the confidence of self-respect.In this mortifying abasement, the colonists, though innocent of her imbecility, and too humble to be the agents of her blunders, were but the natural participators.They had recently seen a chosen army from that country, which, reverencing as a mother, they had blindly believed invincible—an army led by a chief who had been selected from a crowd of trained warriors, for his rare military endowments, disgracefully routed by a handful of French and Indians, and only saved from annihilation by the coolness and spirit of a Virginian boy, whose riper fame has since diffused itself, with the steady influence of moral truth, to the uttermost confines of Christendom.[2] A wide frontier had been laid naked by this unexpected disaster, and more substantial evils were preceded by a thousand fanciful and imaginary dangers.The alarmed colonists believed that the yells of the savages mingled with every fitful gust of wind that issued from the interminable forests of the west.The terrific character of their merciless enemies increased immeasurably the natural horrors of warfare.Numberless recent massacres were still vivid in their recollections; nor was there any ear in the provinces so deaf as not to have drunk in with avidity the narrative of some fearful tale of midnight murder, in which the natives of the forests were the principal and barbarous actors.As the credulous and excited traveler related the hazardous chances of the wilderness, the blood of the timid curdled with terror, and mothers cast anxious glances even at those children which slumbered within the security of the largest towns.In short, the magnifying influence of fear began to set at naught the calculations of reason, and to render those who should have remembered their manhood, the slaves of the basest passions.Even the most confident and the stoutest hearts began to think the issue of the contest was becoming doubtful; and that abject class was hourly increasing in numbers, who thought they foresaw all the possessions of the English crown in America subdued by their Christian foes, or laid waste by the inroads of their relentless allies.

[2] Washington, who, after uselessly admonishing the European general of the danger into which he was heedlessly running, saved the remnants of the British army, on this occasion, by his decision and courage.The reputation earned by Washington in this battle was the principal cause of his being selected to command the American armies at a later day.It is a circumstance worthy of observation, that while all America rang with his well-merited reputation, his name does not occur in any European account of the battle; at least the author has searched for it without success.In this manner does the mother country absorb even the fame, under that system of rule.

When, therefore, intelligence was received at the fort which covered the southern termination of the portage between the Hudson and the lakes, that Montcalm had been seen moving up the Champlain, with an army “numerous as the leaves on the trees,” its truth was admitted with more of the craven reluctance of fear than with the stern joy that a warrior should feel, in finding an enemy within reach of his blow.The news had been brought, toward the decline of a day in midsummer, by an Indian runner, who also bore an urgent request from Munro, the commander of a work on the shore of the “holy lake,” for a speedy and powerful reinforcement.It has already been mentioned that the distance between these two posts was less than five leagues.The rude path, which originally formed their line of communication, had been widened for the passage of wagons; so that the distance which had been traveled by the son of the forest in two hours, might easily be effected by a detachment of troops, with their necessary baggage, between the rising and setting of a summer sun.The loyal servants of the British crown had given to one of these forest-fastnesses the name of William Henry, and to the other that of Fort Edward, calling each after a favorite prince of the reigning family.The veteran Scotchman just named held the first, with a regiment of regulars and a few provincials; a force really by far too small to make head against the formidable power that Montcalm was leading to the foot of his earthen mounds.At the latter, however, lay General Webb, who commanded the armies of the king in the northern provinces, with a body of more than five thousand men.By uniting the several detachments of his command, this officer might have arrayed nearly double that number of combatants against the enterprising Frenchman, who had ventured so far from his reinforcements, with an army but little superior in numbers.

But under the influence of their degraded fortunes, both officers and men appeared better disposed to await the approach of their formidable antagonists, within their works, than to resist the progress of their march, by emulating the successful example of the French at Fort du Quesne, and striking a blow on their advance.

After the first surprise of the intelligence had a little abated, a rumor was spread through the entrenched camp, which stretched along the margin of the Hudson, forming a chain of outworks to the body of the fort itself, that a chosen detachment of fifteen hundred men was to depart, with the dawn, for William Henry, the post at the northern extremity of the portage. That which at first was only rumor, soon became certainty, as orders passed from the quarters of the commander-in-chief to the several corps he had selected for this service, to prepare for their speedy departure. All doubts as to the intention of Webb now vanished, and an hour or two of hurried footsteps and anxious faces succeeded. The novice in the military art flew from point to point, retarding his own preparations by the excess of his violent and somewhat distempered zeal; while the more practiced veteran made his arrangements with a deliberation that scorned every appearance of haste; though his sober lineaments and anxious eye sufficiently betrayed that he had no very strong professional relish for the, as yet, untried and dreaded warfare of the wilderness. At length the sun set in a flood of glory, behind the distant western hills, and as darkness drew its veil around the secluded spot the sounds of preparation diminished; the last light finally disappeared from the log cabin of some officer; the trees cast their deeper shadows over the mounds and the rippling stream, and a silence soon pervaded the camp, as deep as that which reigned in the vast forest by which it was environed.

Following the orders of the previous night, the army's heavy sleep was shattered by the rolling of the warning drums. Their rattling echoes cut across the damp morning air, echoing from every vista of the woods as the day began to draw the shaggy outlines of tall pines nearby beneath the soft, cloudless eastern sky. Instantly, the entire camp sprang into motion; the humblest soldier stirred from his rest to watch his comrades depart and share in the excitement of the moment. The simple formation of the chosen band was quickly established. While the regular, trained hired men marched with haughtiness to the right of the line, the less pretending colonists took a humbler position on the left, displaying the docility that long practice had made easy. The scouts departed; strong guards preceded and followed the lumbering vehicles carrying the baggage. Before the gray light of morning was softened by the sun's rays, the main body of the combatants wheeled into column and left the camp with a display of high military bearing—a spectacle meant to drown the slumbering apprehensions of many novices about to make their first foray into arms. As they were admired by their comrades, this proud front and ordered array was observed until the notes of their fifes faded in the distance, and the forest finally seemed to swallow up the living mass that had slowly entered its embrace.

The deepest sounds from the receding and unseen column were no longer carried on the breeze to the listeners, and the latest straggler had already vanished in pursuit. Yet, signs of another departure remained: a log cabin of unusual size and accommodation stood before which those sentinels paced their rounds—men known to guard the English general. Gathered there were about half a dozen horses, caparisoned in a way that suggested at least two were destined to carry females of a rank rarely seen so far in the wilds. A third bore the trappings and arms of a staff officer; the rest, judging by their plain housings and the baggage they carried, were clearly fitted to hold numerous men who seemed to await the pleasure of those they served. At a respectful distance, various curious idlers had gathered; some admired the blood and bone of the high-mettled military chargers, while others gazed at the preparations with dull, vulgar curiosity. One man, however, stood out among them by his countenance and actions; he was neither idle nor seemingly ignorant.

The person of this individual was to the last degree ungainly, without being in any particular manner deformed. He had all the bones and joints of other men, without any of their proportions. Erect, his stature surpassed that of his fellows; though seated, he appeared reduced within the ordinary limits of the race. The same contrariety in his members seemed to exist throughout the whole man. His head was large; his shoulders narrow; his arms long and dangling; while his hands were small, if not delicate. His legs and thighs were thin, nearly to emaciation, but of extraordinary length; and his knees would have been considered tremendous, had they not been outdone by the broader foundations on which this false superstructure of blended human orders was so profanely reared. The ill-assorted and injudicious attire of the individual only served to render his awkwardness more conspicuous. A sky-blue coat, with short and broad skirts and low cape, exposed a long, thin neck, and longer and thinner legs, to the worst animadversions of the evil-disposed. His nether garment was a yellow nankeen, closely fitted to the shape, and tied at his bunches of knees by large knots of white ribbon, a good deal sullied by use. Clouded cotton stockings, and shoes, on one of the latter of which was a plated spur, completed the costume of the lower extremity of this figure, no curve or angle of which was concealed, but, on the other hand, studiously exhibited, through the vanity or simplicity of its owner.

From beneath the flap of an enormous pocket in a soiled vest of embossed silk, heavily adorned with tarnished silver lace, an instrument projected itself. Seen amidst such martial company, it might easily have been mistaken for some mischievous and unknown implement of war. Though small, this uncommon engine had piqued the curiosity of most of the Europeans in the camp. Yet, several provincials handled it not just without fear, but with utter familiarity. A large, civil cocked hat, like those worn by clergymen in the last thirty years, crowned the whole, lending dignity to a good-natured and somewhat vacant face that apparently required such artifice to bear the weight of some high and extraordinary trust.

While the common herd stood aside, deferring to Webb's quarters, the figure we described strode into the center of the domestics, freely offering his praises or criticisms regarding the horses, depending on whether they satisfied or displeased his judgment.

"I rather conclude, friend, that this beast doesn't hail from our shores, but perhaps from foreign lands, or maybe even from the little island itself across the blue water?" he remarked, his voice possessing a softness and sweetness rare for his stature; "I might speak of these matters without boasting, for I have visited both places. I've seen the waters at the mouth of the Thames, the one named after Old England's capital, and 'Haven,' with 'New' added to it. I’ve watched skiffs and brigantines gather their herds, like people boarding an ark, heading out to Jamaica for trade and transport of four-legged animals. But I have never before seen a beast that truly embodied the scripture of the warhorse: 'He paces in the valley and rejoices in his strength; he goes to meet the armed men. He calls out among the trumpets, 'Ha, ha'; and he smells the battle afar off—the thunder of the captains and the shouting.'" It seemed to me that the stock of Israel’s horse had descended to our time; wouldn't you agree, friend?"

Receiving no reply to this extraordinary appeal—an appeal that, delivered with full, sonorous tones, certainly deserved some notice—he who had sung forth the language of the holy book turned to the silent figure to whom he had unwittingly addressed himself and found a new, more potent subject for admiration in the object that met his gaze. His eyes fell upon the still, upright, and rigid form of the "Indian runner," who had brought the unwelcome tidings of the previous evening to the camp. Though in perfect repose and seemingly disregarding the excitement and bustle around him with characteristic stoicism, a sullen fierceness mingled with the quiet of the savage resided within him—a quality that would likely arrest the attention of more experienced eyes than those now scanning him, leaving them in unconcealed amazement. The native carried both the tribe's tomahawk and knife; yet his appearance wasn't entirely that of a warrior. On the contrary, there was an air of neglect about his person, as if stemming from great and recent exertion that he hadn't yet found leisure to mend. The war-paint colors had blurred into dark confusion across his fierce countenance, rendering his swarthy features even more savage and repulsive than chance could have achieved. His eye alone, which glistened like a fiery star amidst lowering clouds, was seen in its native wildness. For a single instant, his searching yet wary glance met the other's wondering look, and then, shifting its direction partly in cunning and partly in disdain, it remained fixed, as if piercing the distant air.

It was impossible to guess what unlooked-for remark this brief, silent exchange between the two singular men might have provoked from the white man had his active curiosity not been drawn elsewhere. A general stirring among the domestics and a low murmur of gentle voices signaled the arrival of those whose mere presence was enough to prompt the cavalcade onward. The simple admirer of the war-horse instantly turned to a low, gaunt, switch-tailed mare that was unconsciously grazing the faded camp foliage nearby; leaning with one elbow on the blanket—a makeshift apology for a saddle—he became a spectator to the departure, while a foal quietly enjoyed its morning meal on the other side of the same animal.

A young man, dressed in an officer's uniform, led their steeds toward two females who, by their attire, seemed prepared for a trek through the woods. One of them, the more youthful, allowed a glimpse of her dazzling complexion, fair golden hair, and bright blue eyes to be caught as she artlessly let the morning air sweep aside the green veil hanging low from her beaver.

The flush which still lingered above the pines in the western sky was not more bright nor delicate than the bloom on her cheek; nor was the opening day more cheering than the animated smile which she bestowed on the youth, as he assisted her into the saddle.The other, who appeared to share equally in the attention of the young officer, concealed her charms from the gaze of the soldiery with a care that seemed better fitted to the experience of four or five additional years.It could be seen, however, that her person, though molded with the same exquisite proportions, of which none of the graces were lost by the traveling dress she wore, was rather fuller and more mature than that of her companion.

No sooner were these females seated, than their attendant sprang lightly into the saddle of the war-horse, when the whole three bowed to Webb, who in courtesy, awaited their parting on the threshold of his cabin and turning their horses’ heads, they proceeded at a slow amble, followed by their train, toward the northern entrance of the encampment.As they traversed that short distance, not a voice was heard among them; but a slight exclamation proceeded from the younger of the females, as the Indian runner glided by her, unexpectedly, and led the way along the military road in her front.Though this sudden and startling movement of the Indian produced no sound from the other, in the surprise her veil also was allowed to open its folds, and betrayed an indescribable look of pity, admiration, and horror, as her dark eye followed the easy motions of the savage.The tresses of this lady were shining and black, like the plumage of the raven.Her complexion was not brown, but it rather appeared charged with the color of the rich blood, that seemed ready to burst its bounds.Yet there was neither harshness nor shadow in a countenance that was exquisitely regular, dignified, and supremely beautiful. She smiled, as if pitying her own momentary forgetfulness, revealing a row of teeth that would have shamed the purest ivory. When she replaced the veil and bowed her face, she rode in silence, as if her thoughts had drifted entirely from the scene around her.

CHAPTER II.

“Sola, sola, wo ha, ho, sola!”
—Shakespeare

While one of the lovely beings we have so cursorily presented to the reader was thus lost in thought, the other quickly recovered from the alarm which induced the exclamation, and, laughing at her own weakness, she inquired of the youth who rode by her side:

“Are such specters frequent in the woods, Heyward, or is this sight an especial entertainment ordered on our behalf? If the latter, gratitude must close our mouths; but if the former, both Cora and I shall have need to draw largely on that stock of hereditary courage which we boast, even before we are made to encounter the redoubtable Montcalm.”

“Yon Indian is a ‘runner’ of the army; and, after the fashion of his people, he may be accounted a hero,” returned the officer. “He has volunteered to guide us to the lake, by a path but little known, sooner than if we followed the tardy movements of the column; and, by consequence, more agreeably.”

“I like him not,” said the lady, shuddering, partly in assumed, yet more in real terror. “You know him, Duncan, or you would not trust yourself so freely to his keeping?”

“Say, Alice, that I don’t trust you,” he said. “I know him, or he wouldn't have my confidence, especially not now. He’s said to be Canadian too; yet he served with our friends the Mohawks, who, as you know, are one of the six allied nations. I hear he was brought among us by some strange accident involving your father, and that the savage was dealt with severely in it. But I forget the idle story; it’s enough that he is now our friend.”

“If he was my father’s enemy, I’d like him even less!” the girl exclaimed, suddenly anxious. “Won't you speak to him, Major Heyward, so I can hear his tone? Though it might seem foolish, you’ve often heard me declare my faith in the sound of a human voice!”

“It would be useless,” he replied, probably with an ejaculation. “Though he might understand, he, like most of his people, is ignorant of English; and he certainly won't deign to speak it now that the war demands he exercise every bit of dignity. But he stops; the private path we must take is doubtless right there.”

Major Heyward’s conjecture was correct. When they reached the spot where the Indian stood, pointing into the thicket that lined the military road—a narrow, blind path that might, with a little trouble, allow one person at a time, became visible.

“Here, then, is our way,” the young man said in a low voice. “Don't show any distrust, or you’ll invite the danger you seem to fear.”

“Cora, what do you think?” asked the reluctant fair one. “If we travel with the troops, even if their presence is bothersome, won’t we have a better sense of security?”

“Since you’re so unaccustomed to the savages' ways, Alice, you misunderstand where the real danger lies,” Heyward replied. “If enemies had reached the portage at all—which is highly improbable since our scouts are out—they would surely be found skirting the column where the scalps are most plentiful. The route of our detachment is known; ours, having been determined within the hour, must remain secret.”

“Should we distrust the man because his manners are not our manners, and that his skin is dark?” coldly asked Cora.

Alice hesitated no longer; but giving her Narrangansett[1] a smart cut of the whip, she was the first to dash aside the slight branches of the bushes, and to follow the runner along the dark and tangled pathway.The young man regarded the last speaker in open admiration, and even permitted her fairer, though certainly not more beautiful companion, to proceed unattended, while he sedulously opened the way himself for the passage of her who has been called Cora.It would seem that the domestics had been previously instructed; for, instead of penetrating the thicket, they followed the route of the column; a measure which Heyward stated had been dictated by the sagacity of their guide, in order to diminish the marks of their trail, if, haply, the Canadian savages should be lurking so far in advance of their army.For many minutes the intricacy of the route admitted of no further dialogue; after which they emerged from the broad border of underbrush which grew along the line of the highway, and entered under the high but dark arches of the forest.Here their progress was less interrupted; and the instant the guide perceived that the females could command their steeds, he moved on, at a pace between a trot and a walk, and at a rate which kept the sure-footed and peculiar animals they rode at a fast yet easy amble.The youth had turned to speak to the dark-eyed Cora, when the distant sound of horses hoofs, clattering over the roots of the broken way in his rear, caused him to check his charger; and, as his companions drew their reins at the same instant, the whole party came to a halt, in order to obtain an explanation of the unlooked-for interruption.

[1] In Rhode Island, there’s a bay called Narragansett, named after a powerful tribe of Indians who once lived along its banks. An accident—one of those unaccountable quirks nature sometimes throws into the animal world—gave rise to a breed of horses, once well-known in America, distinguished by their pacing habit. These horses were, and still are, highly sought after as saddle mounts because of their hardiness and easy movement. Since they were sure-footed, the Narragansetts were greatly desired by women who had to travel over the roots and holes in the "new countries."

In a flash, a colt glided among the straight pine trunks like a fallow deer; in another instant, the ungainly man from the previous chapter appeared, moving with just enough speed to coax his meager beast through without breaking. Until then, this figure had evaded the travelers' notice. If he could halt any wandering eye when displaying his stature on foot, his equestrian grace would surely draw attention.

Despite constantly pressing his single-armed heel against the mare's flanks, the most stable gait he could manage was a Canterbury gallop using the hind legs, where those forward ones wavered at doubtful moments, though he generally settled for a steady, loping trot. Perhaps the quick shifts between these paces created an optical illusion, magnifying the beast's power; it was clear that Heyward, who possessed a true eye for a horse’s merits, couldn't, through all his ingenuity, discern how his pursuer traced those sinuous movements across his footsteps with such relentless determination

. The rider's industry and movements were just as remarkable as the animal's. With every shift in the latter's gait, he raised his tall body in the stirrups; this caused sudden elongations and contractions of his stature that baffled any conjecture about his actual dimensions. Add to this the fact that applying the spur unevenly made one side of the mare appear to move faster than the other, and that the wounded flank was clearly shown by the ceaseless flicks of a bushy tail—and then the picture of both horse and man was complete

. The frown on Heyward’s handsome, open, and manly brow gradually softened, and a slight smile touched his lips as he regarded the stranger. Alice didn't strain hard to hold back her amusement; even Cora's dark, thoughtful eye lit up with a humor that seemed more repressed by habit than by nature

.“Are you seeking anything here?” Heyward demanded when the other had arrived close enough to slow his pace. “I trust you aren’t bringing bad news?”

“Still,” the stranger replied, skillfully using his triangular device to create a swirl in the still air of the woods, leaving his listeners wondering which of the young man's questions he should answer. Once he had calmed himself and caught his breath, he continued, “I hear you’re heading for William Henry; since I’m traveling that way too, I figured good company would suit both parties.”

“You seem to have the advantage of a casting vote,” Heyward retorted. “There are three of us here, and you haven't consulted anyone but yourself.”

“Still. The first thing to grasp is one’s own thoughts. Once you know that—and it’s tricky when women are involved—the next step is to act on that decision. I’ve tried to do both, and here I am.”

“If you head to the lake, you've taken the wrong road,” Heyward said haughtily. “The proper route is at least half a mile behind you.”

"Even so," the stranger replied, utterly unfazed by the chilly reception; "I stayed with 'Edward' for a week, and I should not be dumb to have asked for the route I was to travel; otherwise, my calling would have come to an end." After offering a small, subdued simper—as if his modesty forbade a more open expression of admiration for a witty remark perfectly opaque to his listeners—he continued, "It is imprudent for any one of my profession to be too familiar with those they must instruct. That is why I don't follow the army; moreover, I conclude that a gentleman of your character possesses the best judgment regarding travel; I have therefore decided to join company so that the ride may be agreeable and we might partake in some social communion."

"What an arbitrary, if not a hasty decision!" Heyward exclaimed, torn between letting loose his mounting anger or laughing in the other's face. "But you speak of instruction, of a profession; are you an adjunct to the provincial corps, a master of the noble science of defense and offense? Or perhaps you're one who draws lines and angles, pretending to expound mathematics?"

The stranger regarded his questioner in wonder for a moment, and then, shedding all trace of self-satisfaction in an expression of solemn humility, he answered:

“I hope there is no offense to either party,” I said, “and I offer no defense—by God’s mercy, I haven’t committed any palpable sin since I last begged for his pardon. I don’t follow your hints about lines and angles; I leave the explanation to those who have been called and set apart for that holy office. I claim no higher gift than a small insight into the glorious art of petitioning and thanksgiving, as practiced in psalmody.”

“The man is, most plainly, a disciple of Apollo,” Alice cried, amused, “and I take him under my own special protection. Come on, Heyward, drop that frown, and for the sake of my longing ears, let him join our party. Besides,” she added in a low, hurried voice, glancing at the distant Cora, who followed the footsteps of their silent, sullen guide, “he might be a friend to strengthen us in times of need.”

“Do you think, Alice, that I would trust those I love by this secret path? Could such a need even arise?”

“No, no, I don’t think so right now; but this strange man amuses me. And if he has music in his soul, let’s not cruelly reject his company.” She gestured persuasively along the path with her riding whip, and their eyes met in a gaze the young man lingered on for a moment. Then, yielding to her gentle influence, he clapped his spurs into his charger and was quickly back beside Cora.

“I am glad to encounter thee, friend,” continued the maiden, waving her hand to the stranger to proceed, as she urged her Narragansett to renew its amble. “Partial relatives have almost persuaded me that I am not entirely worthless in a duet myself; and we may enliven our wayfaring by indulging in our favorite pursuit. It might be of signal advantage to one, ignorant as I, to hear the opinions and experience of a master in the art.”

“It is refreshing both to the spirits and to the body to indulge in psalmody, in befitting seasons,” returned the master of song, unhesitatingly complying with her intimation to follow; “and nothing would relieve the mind more than such a consoling communion. But four parts are altogether necessary to the perfection of melody. You have all the manifestations of a soft and rich treble; I can, by especial aid, carry a full tenor to the highest letter; but we lack counter and bass! Yon officer of the king, who hesitated to admit me to his company, might fill the latter, if one may judge from the intonations of his voice in common dialogue.”

“Judge not too rashly from hasty and deceptive appearances,” said the lady, smiling; “though Major Heyward can assume such deep notes on occasion, believe me, his natural tones are better fitted for a mellow tenor than the bass you heard.”

“Is he, then, much practiced in the art of psalmody?” demanded her simple companion.

Alice felt disposed to laugh, though she succeeded in suppressing her merriment, ere she answered:

“I apprehend that he is rather addicted to profane song. The chances of a soldier’s life are but little fitted for the encouragement of more sober inclinations.”

"Man's voice is given to him, just like his other talents—to be used, not abused. No one can claim they've ever known me neglecting my gifts! I'm thankful that even though my boyhood might be said to have been set aside, like the youth of King David, for the sake of music, not a single word of coarse verse has ever defiled my lips."

"So, you've limited your efforts to sacred song?"

"Even so. Just as the Psalms of David surpass all other languages, so too does the psalmody fitted to them by the divines and sages of the land outshine all vain poetry. Happily, I can say I utter nothing but the thoughts and wishes of the King of Israel himself; though times might call for slight adjustments, this version used in the colonies of New England far exceeds all others. By its richness, its precision, and its spiritual simplicity, it approaches, as closely as possible, to the great work of the inspired writer. I never rest, whether sleeping or awake, without an example of this gifted work. It's the six-and-twenty edition, published in Boston in the year 1744; and it's titled, 'The Psalms, Hymns, and Spiritual Songs of the Old and New Testaments; faithfully translated into English Metre, for the Use, Edification, and Comfort of the Saints, in Public and Private, especially in New England'."

During this eulogy for the rare output of his native poets, the stranger drew the book from his pocket, fitted a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles onto his nose, and opened the volume with a care and reverence befitting its sacred purpose. Then, without preamble or apology, he first pronounced the word "Standish," then placed the unknown instrument, already described, to his mouth. From it emerged a high, shrill sound, followed by an octave lower from his own voice, and he commenced singing the following words in full, sweet, and melodious tones—tones that set the music, the poetry, and even the uneasy movement of his ill-trained beast into defiance:

“How good it is, O see,
And how it pleaseth well,
Together e’en in unity,
For brethren so to dwell.

It’s like the choice ointment,
From the head to the beard did go;
Down Aaron’s head, that downward went
His garment’s skirts unto.”

The delivery of these skillful rhymes was accompanied by a regular rise and fall of his right hand, which ended in a descent, allowing his fingers to linger a moment upon the leaves of the small volume; and on the ascent, with such a flourish of the limb, none but the initiated could hope to imitate. It seemed long practice had made this manual accompaniment necessary, as it continued until the preposition the poet had chosen for the close of his verse was delivered as a full two-syllable word.

Such an innovation in the silence and retirement of the forest couldn't fail to catch the ears of those who had journeyed even a short distance ahead. The Indian mumbled a few words in broken English to Heyward, who, in turn, addressed the stranger, immediately halting his musical efforts for the time being.

“Though we aren’t in danger, common sense would teach us to travel through this wilderness as quietly as possible. You’ll forgive me, Alice, if I diminish your enjoyment by asking this gentleman to postpone his chant until a safer opportunity.”

“You will diminish them, indeed,” the arch girl retorted. “I’ve never heard such an unworthy combination of execution and language as that to which I listened; I was deep in a learned inquiry into the causes of such an unfitness between sound and sense when your bass broke the charm of my musings, Duncan!”

“I don’t know what you call my bass,” Heyward replied, piqued by her remark, “but I know your safety, and Cora’s, are far more precious to me than any orchestra of Handel’s music.” He paused, quickly turning his head toward a thicket, and then suspiciously fixed his gaze on their guide, who continued his steady pace with undisturbed gravity. The young man smiled to himself; he thought he had mistaken some shining berry in the woods for the glistening eyes of a prowling savage, and he rode on, continuing the conversation that had been broken by that passing thought.

Major Heyward was only mistaken in letting his youthful and generous pride hold back his active watchfulness. The cavalcade hadn't passed long before the branches of the bushes forming the thicket were cautiously moved aside, and a human face, as fiercely wild as savage art and unbridled passion could make it, peered out onto the travelers' retreating footsteps. A gleam of exultation shot across the darkly-painted features of the forest inhabitant as he traced the route of his intended victims. They rode on unconsciously, the light, graceful forms of the women waving among the trees, following the curves of their path; at every bend, Heyward’s manly figure followed, until finally, the shapeless person of the singing master was hidden behind the countless trunks of trees, rising in dark lines in the space between.

CHAPTER III.

“Before these fields were cleared and filled,
Our rivers flowed full to the brim;
The melody of water filled
The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dashed, and little streams played
, And fountains spouted in the shade.”—Bryant

Leaving the unsuspecting Heyward and his confidants to venture deeper into a forest teeming with such treacherous inhabitants, we needed an author's license, shifting the scene a few miles westward from where we had last seen them.

On that day, two men lingered by the banks of a small, swift stream, an hour’s journey from Webb's encampment, much like those waiting for someone absent or some expected event. The vast canopy of the woods spread itself over the river's edge, shadowing the dark current with a deeper hue. The sun's rays were softening, and the day's intense heat eased as cooler vapors rose from the springs and fountains above their leafy beds, settling in the atmosphere. Still, that breathing silence—the drowsy sultriness of an American landscape in July—pervaded the secluded spot, broken only by the men's low voices, the lazy tap of a woodpecker, the discordant cry of a gaudy jay, or a dull roar from a distant waterfall. These faint and broken sounds were, however, too familiar to the foresters to distract them from their dialogue. As one loiterer displayed the red skin and wild accouterments of a native, the other revealed, through his rough, almost savage gear, the brighter, though sun-burned and long-faced complexion of someone who might claim European descent. The former sat on the end of a mossy log, in a posture that allowed him to emphasize his earnest words with the calm yet expressive gestures of an Indian engaged in debate.His nearly naked body presented a stark emblem of death, rendered in the intermingled hues of white and black. His closely-shaved head, save for the well-known and chivalrous tuft of scalp [1], was entirely unadorned, save for a single eagle’s plume that crossed his crown and draped over his left shoulder. A tomahawk and scalping knife, both English in make, hung from his girdle; a short military rifle, the very weapon by which the whites armed their savage allies, lay carelessly across his bare, sinewy knee. The expanded chest, full limbs, and grave countenance of this warrior suggested he had reached the vigor of his years, though no sign of decay seemed to have yet weakened his manhood

[1]. The North American warrior had had the hair plucked from his entire body; a small tuft remained on his crown so that his enemy could use it, wrenching off the scalp in case he fell. The scalp was the only acceptable trophy of victory. Therefore, obtaining the scalp was deemed more important than killing the man. Some tribes placed great emphasis on the honor of striking a dead body. These practices had nearly vanished among the Indians of the Atlantic states

. Judging by the parts of his body not concealed by clothing, the frame of the white man resembled that of one who had known hardship and exertion since his earliest youth. Though muscular, his person was rather attenuated than full; every nerve and muscle seemed strung and hardened by relentless exposure and toil.He wore a hunting shirt of forest-green, fringed with faded yellow[2], and a summer cap of skins, shorn of their fur. He carried a knife in a girdle of wampum, similar to what confined the scant garments of the Indian, yet lacking a tomahawk. His moccasins were decorated in the lively style of the natives, while the only visible part of his underdress beneath the hunting-frock was a pair of buckskin leggings, laced at the sides and gartered above the knees with deer sinew. A pouch and horn completed his personal gear, though a rifle of great length[3], which the more ingenious whites had taught them, was considered the most dangerous firearm; he leaned it against a nearby sapling. The hunter's or scout's eye—whichever it was—was small, quick, keen, and restless, roving as he spoke, scanning every side for game or distrusting the sudden approach of some lurking enemy. Despite these symptoms of habitual suspicion, his face wasn't just guileless; at that moment, it was charged with an expression of sturdy honesty

[2]. The hunting shirt itself was a picturesque smock-frock, shorter and adorned with fringes and tassels. The colors were meant to imitate the hues of the wood for concealment. Many corps of American riflemen were thus attired, and this dress was one of the most striking of modern times. The hunting shirt was often white

[3]. The army rifle is short; the hunter's is always long.

“Even your traditions make the case in my favor, Chingachgook,” he said, speaking in the tongue which was known to all the natives who formerly inhabited the country between the Hudson and the Potomac, and of which we shall give a free translation for the benefit of the reader; endeavoring, at the same time, to preserve some of the peculiarities, both of the individual and of the language.“Your fathers came from the setting sun, crossed the big river[4], fought the people of the country, and took the land; and mine came from the red sky of the morning, over the salt lake, and did their work much after the fashion that had been set them by yours; then let God judge the matter between us, and friends spare their words!”

[4] The Mississippi.The scout alludes to a tradition which is very popular among the tribes of the Atlantic states.Evidence of their Asiatic origin is deduced from the circumstances, though great uncertainty hangs over the whole history of the Indians.

“My fathers fought with the naked red man!” returned the Indian, sternly, in the same language. “Is there no difference, Hawkeye, between the stone-headed arrow of the warrior, and the leaden bullet with which you kill?”

“There is reason in an Indian, though nature has made him with a red skin!” said the white man, shaking his head like one on whom such an appeal to his justice was not thrown away. For a moment he appeared to be conscious of having the worst of the argument, then, rallying again, he answered the objection of his antagonist in the best manner his limited information would allow:

“I’m no scholar, and I don’t care who knows it; but judging by what I’ve seen—at deer chases and squirrel hunts, of the sparks below—I reckon a rifle in their grandfathers' hands wasn’t so deadly as a hickory bow and a fine flint-head, drawn with Indian judgment and sighted by an Indian eye.”

“Your fathers have the story,” the other shot back, waving his hand coldly. “What do your elders say? Do they tell the young warriors that the pale faces met the red men, painted for war and armed with stone hatchets and wooden guns?”

“I am not a prejudiced man, nor one who vaunts himself on his natural privileges, though the worst enemy I have on earth, and he is an Iroquois, daren’t deny that I am genuine white,” the scout replied, surveying, with secret satisfaction, the faded color of his bony and sinewy hand, “and I am willing to own that my people have many ways, of which, as an honest man, I can’t approve. It is one of their customs to write in books what they have done and seen, instead of telling them in their villages, where the lie can be given to the face of a cowardly boaster, and the brave soldier can call on his comrades to witness for the truth of his words. In consequence of this bad fashion, a man, who is too conscientious to misspend his days among the women, in learning the names of black marks, may never hear of the deeds of his fathers, nor feel a pride in striving to outdo them. For myself, I conclude the Bumppos could shoot, for I have a natural turn with a rifle, which must have been handed down from generation to generation, as, our holy commandments tell us, all good and evil gifts are bestowed; though I should be loath to answer for other people in such a matter. But every story has its two sides; so I ask you, Chingachgook, what passed, according to the traditions of the red men, when our fathers first met?”

A silence of a minute succeeded, during which the Indian sat mute; then, full of the dignity of his office, he commenced his brief tale, with a solemnity that served to heighten its appearance of truth.

“Listen, Hawkeye, and your ears won’t drink a lie. That’s what my fathers said, and what the Mohicans have done.” He paused for just a moment, glancing cautiously at his companion, then continued, his tone shifting between questioning and declaration. “Doesn’t this stream at our feet flow toward summer, until its waters turn salty, and the current flows upstream?”

“You can’t deny that your traditions tell you the truth in both of these things,” the white man admitted; “for I’ve been there, and I’ve seen them. Though why water, which tastes so sweet in the shade, should turn bitter in the sun—that’s something I’ve never been able to explain.”

“And the current!” demanded the Indian, expecting a response filled with the kind of interest you feel when confirming testimony, marveling even as he respected it; “the fathers of Chingachgook haven’t lied!”

“The Holy Bible is truer, and that’s the most real thing in nature. They call this upstream current the tide, which is pretty clear and easy to understand. The water flows in for six hours and then flows out for six hours. The reason is this: when there’s more water in the sea than in the river, they flow in until the river is at its highest point, and then they flow out again.”

“The waters in the woods and on the great lakes just run downward until they lie like my hand,” the Indian said, stretching his limb horizontally before him, “and then they stop.”

“No honest man will deny it,” said the scout, a little nettled at the implied distrust of his explanation of the mystery of the tides; “and I grant that it is true on the small scale, and where the land is level. But everything depends on what scale you look at things. Now, on the small scale, the ’arth is level; but on the large scale it is round. In this manner, pools and ponds, and even the great fresh-water lakes, may be stagnant, as you and I both know they are, having seen them; but when you come to spread water over a great tract, like the sea, where the earth is round, how in reason can the water be quiet? You might as well expect the river to lie still on the brink of those black rocks a mile above us, though your own ears tell you that it is tumbling over them at this very moment.”

If unsatisfied by the philosophy of his companion, the Indian was far too dignified to betray his unbelief. He listened like one who was convinced, and resumed his narrative in his former solemn manner.

“We came from the place where the sun is hid at night, over great plains where the buffaloes live, until we reached the big river. There we fought the Alligewi, till the ground was red with their blood. From the banks of the big river to the shores of the salt lake, there was none to meet us. The Maquas followed at a distance. We said the country should be ours from the place where the water runs up no longer on this stream, to a river twenty sun’s journey toward the summer. We drove the Maquas into the woods with the bears. They only tasted salt at the licks; they drew no fish from the great lake; we threw them the bones.”

“All this I have heard and believe,” said the white man, observing that the Indian paused; “but it was long before the English came into the country.”

“A pine grew then where this chestnut now stands. The first pale faces who came among us spoke no English. They came in a large canoe, when my fathers had buried the tomahawk with the red men around them. Then, Hawkeye,” he continued, betraying his deep emotion, only by permitting his voice to fall to those low, guttural tones, which render his language, as spoken at times, so very musical; “then, Hawkeye, we were one people, and we were happy. The salt lake gave us its fish, the wood its deer, and the air its birds. We took wives who bore us children; we worshipped the Great Spirit; and we kept the Maquas beyond the sound of our songs of triumph.”

“Know you anything of your own family at that time?” demanded the white. “But you are just a man, for an Indian; and as I suppose you hold their gifts, your fathers must have been brave warriors, and wise men at the council-fire.”

“My tribe is the grandfather of nations, but I am an unmixed man. The blood of chiefs is in my veins, where it must stay forever. The Dutch landed, and gave my people the fire-water; they drank until the heavens and the earth seemed to meet, and they foolishly thought they had found the Great Spirit. Then they parted with their land. Foot by foot, they were driven back from the shores, until I, that am a chief and a Sagamore, have never seen the sun shine but through the trees, and have never visited the graves of my fathers.”

“Graves bring solemn feelings to the mind,” the scout replied, deeply moved by his companion’s quiet suffering; “and they often help a man in his good intentions. Though, for myself, I expect to leave my own bones unburied, to bleach in the woods, or to be torn asunder by the wolves. But where are those of your race who came to their kin in the Delaware country, so many summers ago?”

“Where are the blossoms of those summers!—fallen, one by one; so all of my family departed, each in turn, to the land of spirits. I’m on the hilltop and must descend into the valley; and when Uncas follows in my footsteps, there won’t be any more Sagamore blood, for my boy is the last of the Mohicans.”

“Uncas is here,” another voice said, in the same soft, guttural tones, near his elbow; “who speaks to Uncas?”

The white man loosened his knife in its leather sheath and made an involuntary gesture toward his rifle at the sudden interruption; yet, the Indian sat composed, not turning his head at the unexpected sounds.

In the next instant, a young warrior slipped between them without a sound and settled himself on the bank of the swift stream. The father showed no surprise, nor did he ask or offer any reply for several minutes; he simply seemed to wait for the right moment to speak, showing no womanly curiosity or childish impatience. The white man appeared to draw upon their customs, letting go of his rifle and holding a reserved silence. Eventually, Chingachgook slowly turned his gaze toward his son and demanded,

“Do the Maquas dare leave the print of their moccasins in these woods?”

“I have been on their trail,” the young Indian replied, “and know they number as many as the fingers on my two hands; but they hide like cowards.”

“The thieves are out there seeking scalps and plunder,” said the white man, whom we’ll call Hawkeye, following the tone of his companions. “That busy Frenchman, Montcalm, will send his spies into our camp, but he’ll know the road we travel!”

“That’s enough,” the father returned, glancing toward the setting sun. “They’ll be driven out of their bushes like deer. Hawkeye, let’s eat tonight, and show the Maquas that we’re men tomorrow.”

“I’m as ready to do the one as the other; but to fight the Iroquois, you have to find the skulkers; and to eat, you have to get the game—the devil strikes; he'll show up,” he murmured, laughing with a sound that felt inward, like someone who had learned to be watchful. “There’s a pair of the biggest antlers I’ve seen this season, moving the bushes below the hill!” Then, Uncas, he continued in a half-whisper, chuckling inwardly, “I’ll bet my charger three times full of powder against a foot of wampum that I can take him between the eyes, and closer to the right than the left.”

“That can’t be!” the young Indian exclaimed, springing to his feet with youthful eagerness. “Almost all of his horns are hidden!”

“He’s just a boy!” the white man said, shaking his head as he spoke to his father. “Does he think that when a hunter spots part of the animal, he can't guess where the rest of it is hiding?”

Adjusting his rifle, he was about to display that skill he valued so highly, when the warrior made a hand sign and asked:

“Hawkeye! will you fight the Maquas?”

“These Indians know the nature of the woods, as if by instinct!” the scout replied, dropping his rifle and turning away like someone convinced he’d made a mistake. “I must leave the buck to your arrow, Uncas, or we might kill a deer for those thieves, the Iroquois, to eat.”

The moment the father nodded this message with a gesture of his hand, Uncas threw himself to the ground and approached the animal with cautious steps. Within a few yards of cover, he fitted an arrow to his bow with extreme care. As the antlers moved, it was as if their owner had snuffed an enemy in the tainted air. In another instant, the twang of the cord sounded; a white streak flashed into the bushes, and the wounded buck plunged from cover to the feet of his hidden foe. Avoiding the infuriated animal’s horns, Uncas darted to his side and drew his knife across the throat. As he bounded to the river's edge, it fell, dyeing the waters crimson.

[Illustration]

“It was done with Indian skill,” the scout murmured, a vast satisfaction coloring his laughter. “And a sight to behold! Though an arrow is a near miss, it needs a knife to finish the job.”

“Hugh!” exclaimed his companion, turning quickly, like a hound scenting game.

“By God, there’s a whole herd of them!” the scout exclaimed, his eyes gleaming with the fervor of his usual pursuit; “if they get close enough for a bullet, I’ll drop one, even if the whole Six Nations are lurking! What do you hear, Chingachgook? To my ears, the woods are silent.”

“There’s only one deer, and he's dead,” said the Indian, bending low until his ear nearly touched the earth. “I hear footsteps!”

“Perhaps the wolves drove the buck to shelter, and they’re following his trail.”

“No. The horses of white men are coming!” the other replied, rising with dignity and settling back onto the log with his usual composure. “Hawkeye, they’re your brothers; speak to them.”

“I will, and in English so the king won't be ashamed to answer,” the hunter retorted, speaking in the tongue he had boasted of; “but I see nothing, nor do I hear the sounds of men or beasts. It’s strange that an Indian understands white sounds better than a man whose very enemies will admit they have no cross in their blood, even if they’ve lived among the redskins long enough to be suspected! Ha! There goes something like the crackle of a dry stick—now I hear the bushes shift—yes, yes, there’s trampling that I mistook for a fall—and—but here they come themselves; God keep them from the Iroquois!”

CHAPTER IV.

“Well go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove
Till I torment thee for this injury.”—Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The words were still in the mouth of the scout, when the leader of the party, whose approaching footsteps had caught the vigilant ear of the Indian, came openly into view. A beaten path, such as those made by the periodical passage of the deer, wound through a little glen at no great distance, and struck the river at the point where the white man and his red companions had posted themselves. Along this track the travelers, who had produced a surprise so unusual in the depths of the forest, advanced slowly toward the hunter, who was in front of his associates, in readiness to receive them.

“Who comes?” demanded the scout, throwing his rifle carelessly across his left arm, and keeping the forefinger of his right hand on the trigger, though he avoided all appearance of menace in the act. “Who comes hither, among the beasts and dangers of the wilderness?”

“Believers in religion, and friends to the law and to the king,” returned he who rode foremost. “Men who have journeyed since the rising sun, in the shades of this forest, without nourishment, and are sadly tired of their wayfaring.”

“You are, then, lost,” interrupted the hunter, “and have found how helpless ’tis not to know whether to take the right hand or the left?”

“Even so; sucking babes are not more dependent on those who guide them than we who are of larger growth, and who may now be said to possess the stature without the knowledge of men. Know you the distance to a post of the crown called William Henry?”

“Hoot!” shouted the scout, who didn't spare a moment for open laughter, instantly checking the dangerous sounds he indulged in to ensure he wasn't overheard by any lurking enemies. “You’re as lost as a hound, with Horican between you and the deer! William Henry, man! If you’re friends with the king and have business with the army, your path should be to follow the river down to Edward and lay the matter before Webb, who waits there, rather than pushing into the defiles and driving this cheeky Frenchman back across Champlain into his den again.”

Before the stranger could offer any reply to this unexpected suggestion, another horseman dashed aside the bushes and leaped his charger into the path, right in front of his companion.

“So what’s our distance from Fort Edward?” demanded a new voice. “The place you suggested we seek this morning, and our destination is the head of the lake.”

“Then you must have lost your sight before losing your way,” replied Heyward, smiling. “The road across the portage is only about two rods, and I reckon it’s as grand a path as any that leads into London, or even before the king’s own palace.”

“We won’t argue about the quality of the crossing,” Heyward returned, grinning; after all, the reader expected it. “For now, it’s enough that we trusted an Indian guide for a closer, though misleading, route, and that his knowledge proved flawed. Plain and simple, we don't know where we are.”

“An Indian lost in the woods!” the scout said, shaking his head in doubt; “When the sun scorches the treetops, and the watercourses run full; when the moss on every beech he sees will tell him which way the north star shines at night. The woods are packed with deer-paths leading to streams and watering holes—places everyone knows; and the geese haven’t flown to the Canadian waters at all! It’s strange that an Indian should be lost between Horican and the river bend! Is he a Mohawk?”

“Not by birth, though he was adopted into that tribe; I think his birthplace was further north, and he’s one of those you call a Huron.”

“Hugh!” exclaimed the scout's two companions, who had remained seated, seemingly unmoved by what passed, but who now sprang up with an eagerness and interest that clearly overcame their reserve.

“A Huron!” repeated the sturdy scout, shaking his head in open distrust again; “they’re a thieving race, and I don't care who adopts them; you can never make anything of them but skulking vagabonds. Since you trusted yourself to that nation’s care, I just wonder why you didn’t associate with more.”

“There’s little danger there, since William Henry is so many miles ahead of us. You forget I told you our guide is now a Mohawk, and he serves with our forces as a friend.”

“And I tell you that he born a Mingo will die a Mingo,” the other replied positively. “A Mohawk! No, give me a Delaware or a Mohican for honesty; and when they fight—which they won’t all do, having suffered their cunning enemies, the Maquas, turn them into women—but when they will fight, look to a Delaware or a Mohican for a warrior!”

“Enough of this,” Heyward snapped impatiently. “I don't want to pry into the character of a man I know, and to whom you must be a stranger. You haven't answered my question yet: what is our distance from the main army at Edward?”

“That probably depends on who guides you. One’d think a horse like that could cover quite a bit of ground between sunrise and sunset.”

“I wish no needless argument with you, friend,” Heyward said, curbing his impatience and softening his tone. “If you tell me the distance to Fort Edward and lead me there, your effort will surely be rewarded.”

“And by doing so, how do I know I’m not leading an enemy and a spy of Montcalm to the army's works? Not every man who speaks English is an honest soul.”

“If you serve with the troops—of whom I judge you to be a scout—you should know of such a regiment of the king as the Sixtieth.”

“The Sixtieth! You can tell me little about the Royal Americans I don't know, though I do wear a hunting shirt instead of a scarlet jacket.”

“Well, among other things, you might know the name of its major?”

“Its major!” the hunter interrupted, straightening up like one who was proud of his confidence. “If there’s a man in the country who knows Major Effingham, he stands before you.”

“It’s a corps with many majors; the gentleman you name is the senior, but I speak of the junior of them all; the one who commands the companies in garrison at William Henry.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard that a young man of vast riches, from one of the southern provinces, has gotten the position. He’s too young to hold such rank, and to be placed above men whose heads are starting to bleach; yet they say he’s a soldier in his knowledge, and a gallant gentleman!”

“Whatever he is, or whatever qualifications he holds for that rank, he speaks to you now, and naturally, can’t be an enemy to fear.”

The scout regarded Heyward in surprise, then lifted his cap and answered, his tone less certain than before—though doubt still laced it.

“I heard a party was leaving the camp for the lake shore this morning?”

“You heard the truth; but I preferred a different route, trusting in the knowledge of the Indian I mentioned.”

“And he deceived you, and then deserted?”

“Neither, as I believe; certainly not the latter, for he’s to be found in the rear.”

“I should like to see the creature; if it’s a true Iroquois, I can tell him by his shady look and his paint,” the scout said, stepping past Heyward's charger and into the path behind the singing master’s mare, whose foal had taken advantage of the halt to give birth. After pushing aside the bushes and walking a few paces, he found the females waiting, anxious and somewhat apprehensive about the outcome of the conference. Behind them, the runner leaned against a tree. He was being closely examined by the scout, who remained unmoved, yet his look was so dark and savage it could incite fear in itself. Satisfied with his scrutiny, the hunter soon left him. As he passed the females, he paused for a moment to admire their beauty, smiling and nodding at Alice with open pleasure. Then he moved to the side of the maternal animal, spending a minute fruitlessly trying to gauge her rider’s character before shaking his head and returning to Heyward.

“A Mingo is a Mingo, and God made him so; neither the Mohawks nor any other tribe can change him,” he said when he had regained his footing. “If we were alone, and you left that noble horse to the wolves tonight, I could show you the way to Edward myself within an hour; it’s only about an hour's journey; but with such ladies around, it’s impossible!”

“And why?”

“They’re tired, but they can handle a few more miles.”“It’s a natural impossibility!” the scout repeated. “I wouldn’t walk a mile through these woods after dark, with that runner and the best rifle in the colonies by my side. They're full of outlying Iroquois, and your mongrel Mohawk knows exactly where to find them—too well to be my companion.”

“Do you really think so?” Heyward replied, leaning forward in the saddle, dropping his voice to a near-whisper. “I’ll admit, I’ve always had my own suspicions, though I’ve tried to hide them and act confident, which I haven’t always felt, because of my companions. It was my suspicion that made me stop following; it made him follow me, as you can see.”

“I knew he was one of the cheats the moment I saw him!” the scout retorted, tapping his nose in a gesture of caution.

“The thief is leaning against the base of the sugar sapling, visible over those bushes. His right leg is aligned with the tree’s bark, and,” he tapped his rifle, “I can take him from where I stand, between the angle and the knee, with a single shot. That’ll put an end to his tramping through the woods for at least a month. If I go back to him, the cunning varmint will suspect something and dart through the trees like a frightened deer.”

“That won't do. He might be innocent, and I dislike the idea. Though, if I were certain of his treachery—”

“It’s safe to bet on an Iroquois’ cunning,” the scout said, throwing his rifle forward with a sort of instinctive movement.

“Hold!” Heyward interrupted, “that won't work—we need to come up with another plan—and I have a strong feeling the rogue has tricked me.”

The hunter, having already dropped his aim at maiming the runner, paused for a moment, then made a gesture that instantly brought his two red companions to his side. They spoke earnestly in Delaware, though softly; with the white man’s gestures, often aimed at the top of the sapling, it was clear he was pointing out their hidden enemy. His companions quickly understood what he meant. Setting aside their firearms, they parted, taking opposite sides of the path and melting into the thicket with such carefulness that their movements were utterly silent.

“Now, go back,” the hunter told Heyward, “and keep quiet; these Mohicans here will take him without a fight.”

“No,” Heyward replied proudly, “I’ll take him myself.”

“Halt! What could you do, riding, against an Indian in the brush!”

“I’ll dismount.”

“And, think you, when he saw one of your feet out of the stirrup, he would wait for the other to be free? Whoever comes into the woods to deal with the natives, must use Indian fashions, if he would wish to prosper in his undertakings. Go, then; talk openly to the miscreant, and seem to believe him the truest friend you have on ’arth.”

Heyward prepared to comply, though with strong disgust at the nature of the office he was compelled to execute. Each moment, however, pressed upon him a conviction of the critical situation in which he had suffered his invaluable trust to be involved through his own confidence. The sun had already disappeared, and the woods, suddenly deprived of his light[1], were assuming a dusky hue, which keenly reminded him that the hour the savage usually chose for his most barbarous and remorseless acts of vengeance or hostility, was speedily drawing near. Stimulated by apprehension, he left the scout, who immediately entered into a loud conversation with the stranger that had so unceremoniously enlisted himself in the party of travelers that morning. In passing his gentler companions Heyward uttered a few words of encouragement, and was pleased to find that, though fatigued with the exercise of the day, they appeared to entertain no suspicion that their present embarrassment was other than the result of accident. Giving them reason to believe he was merely employed in a consultation concerning the future route, he spurred his charger, and drew the reins again when the animal had carried him within a few yards of the place where the sullen runner still stood, leaning against the tree.

[1] The scene of this tale was in the 42d degree of latitude, where the twilight is never of long continuation.

“See, Magua,” he said, trying to sound free and confident, “night is closing in on us, and we’re no closer to William Henry than when we left Webb’s camp with the sunrise.”

“You missed the way, and I wasn’t more fortunate. But hey, we’ve found a hunter—the one you hear talking to the singer. He knows all the deer trails and forest paths, and he promises to lead us somewhere safe until morning.”

The Indian fixed his glowing eyes on Heyward and asked in his imperfect English, “Is he alone?”

“Alone!” Heyward answered hesitantly, because lying was too new to assume without embarrassment. “Oh! not alone, surely, Magua, you know we’re with him.”

“Then Le Renard Subtil will go,” the runner replied, coolly pulling his small wallet from where it had lain at his feet. “And the pale faces will see nothing but their own color.”

“Go! Who are you, Le Renard?”

“That’s the name his Canada fathers gave Magua,” the runner answered, showing off a pride in the distinction. “Night is the same as day to Le Subtil when Munro waits for him.”

“And what will Le Renard tell the chief of William Henry about his daughters? Will he dare tell the hot-blooded Scotsman that his children are left without a guide, even though Magua promised to be one?”

“Though the gray-headed one has a loud voice and a long arm, Le Renard will neither hear nor feel him in the woods.”

“But what will the Mohawks say? They’ll make him wear petticoats and tell him to stay in the wigwam with the women, for he’s no longer trusted with a man’s business.”

“Le Subtil knows the path to the great lakes, and he can find his fathers’ bones,” the unmoved runner replied.

“Enough, Magua,” Heyward said. “Aren't we friends? Why should there be bitter words between us? Munro promised you a gift for your services when done, and I’ll owe you another. Rest your weary limbs now, and open your wallet to eat. We have a few moments; let’s not waste them talking like wrangling women. We’ll move on once the ladies are refreshed.”

“The pale faces make themselves dogs to their women,” the Indian muttered in his native tongue, “and when they want food, their warriors must set aside the tomahawk to feed their laziness.”

“What do you say, Renard?”

“Le Subtil says it’s good.”

The Indian then fixed his eyes keenly on Heyward’s open face, but meeting his gaze, he quickly looked away. Sitting deliberately on the ground, he drew forth the remnants of some former meal and began to eat, though not without slowly and cautiously glancing around him first.

“This is good,” Heyward continued. “And Le Renard will have the strength and sight to find the path in the morning.” He paused, as sounds—like a dried stick snapping and leaves rustling—rose from the adjacent bushes, but he instantly regained his composure. “We must move before the sun appears, or Montcalm might block our way and shut us out from the fortress.”

Magua dropped his hand from his mouth to his side. Though his eyes were fixed on the ground, his head turned aside, his nostrils flared, and his ears seemed even more erect than usual, giving him the look of a statue molded by intense focus.

Heyward, watching these movements with a vigilant eye, carelessly dislodged one of his feet from the stirrup while passing a hand over the bear-skin covering his holsters.

Every attempt to pinpoint the point of interest for the runner was completely thwarted by the trembling glances of his organs, which didn't rest a single instant on any particular object, yet seemed almost immobile. As he hesitated about how to proceed, Le Subtil cautiously rose to his feet, though with such slow, guarded motion that no sound escaped him. Heyward felt it was now his turn to act. Throwing his leg over the saddle, he dismounted, determined to advance and seize his treacherous companion, trusting in his own manhood. Still, to avoid unnecessary alarm, he maintained an air of calmness and friendship.

“The Subtle Fox doesn’t eat,” he said, using the title that flattered the Indian's vanity the most. “His corn isn’t too parched, and it looks dry. Let me look; maybe something among my own stores can help his appetite.”

Magua offered the wallet to the other man. They even met hands, betraying no emotion, holding their fixed gazes of attention. But when he felt Heyward’s fingers gently trace his bare arm, he struck out the young man’s limb, let out a piercing cry, and darted beneath it, plunging in a single bound into the opposite thicket. Instantly, Chingachgook appeared from the bushes, looking like a phantom in its paint, and glided across the path in swift pursuit. Next came Uncas’s shout as the woods were suddenly lit by a flash, accompanied by the sharp crack of the hunter’s rifle.

CHAPTER V.

...”In such a night
Did This be fearfully o’ertrip the dew;
And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself.”—Merchant of Venice

The suddenness of the flight of his guide, and the wild cries of the pursuers, caused Heyward to remain fixed, for a few moments, in inactive surprise. Then recollecting the importance of securing the fugitive, he dashed aside the surrounding bushes, and pressed eagerly forward to lend his aid in the chase. Before he had, however, proceeded a hundred yards, he met the three foresters already returning from their unsuccessful pursuit.

“Why so soon disheartened!” he exclaimed; “the scoundrel must be concealed behind some of these trees, and may yet be secured. We are not safe while he goes at large.”

“Would you set a cloud to chase the wind?” returned the disappointed scout; “I heard the imp brushing over the dry leaves, like a black snake, and blinking a glimpse of him, just over ag’in yon big pine, I pulled as it might be on the scent; but ’twouldn’t do! and yet for a reasoning aim, if anybody but myself had touched the trigger, I should call it a quick sight; and I may be accounted to have experience in these matters, and one who ought to know. Look at this sumach; its leaves are red, though everybody knows the fruit is in the yellow blossom in the month of July!”

“’Tis the blood of Le Subtil! he is hurt, and may yet fall!”

“No, no,” the scout replied, clearly disapproving of the idea, “I might have rubbed the bark off a limb, but the creature leaped longer for it. A rifle bullet acts on a running animal just as much as one of your spurs on a horse; it quickens the motion and infuses life into the flesh instead of taking it away. But when it cuts that ragged hole after a bound or two, there's usually no further leaping left, whether in an Indian or a deer!”

“We’re four bodies to one wounded man!”

“Is life so grievous to you?” the scout interrupted. “That red devil over there would have drawn you within the swing of his comrades’ tomahawks before you were even heated in the chase. It was thoughtless, a lapse in judgment for a man who’s often slept with the war-whoop ringing in the air—to let loose his shot amidst an ambush! But then it was a natural temptation! It was very natural! Come on, friends, let's move our position, and do it in a way that will throw the Mingo’s cunning off a wrong scent, or our heads won't be drying in the wind before Montcalm’s tent tomorrow.”

That appalling declaration, uttered by the scout with the cool assurance of a man who fully grasped the danger without fear, served to remind Heyward of the solemn duty he had been entrusted with. Scanning his eyes around, in a vain attempt to pierce the gloom thickening beneath the forest's leafy arches, he felt that, cut off from human aid, his unresisting companions would soon lie at the mercy of those savage enemies. Like beasts of prey, they only waited for the gathering darkness to make their blows more certain. His awakened imagination, deluded by the deceptive light, transformed every waving bush or fallen tree fragment into human shapes, and twenty times he fancied he could discern the horrid visages of his lurking foes, constantly watching his party's movements. Looking up, he saw that the thin, fleecy clouds, which evening had painted the blue sky, were already losing their faintest hints of rose; the stream winding past where he stood could only be traced by the dark outline of its wooded banks.

“What are we to do!” he exclaimed, feeling the utter helplessness of doubt in such a tight spot; “don’t leave me, for heaven’s sake! stay and defend those I escort, and claim your own reward!”

His companions, speaking in their tribal tongue, paid no heed to this sudden and earnest appeal. Though their exchange remained low and cautious, barely above a whisper, Heyward could easily discern the sincere tones of the younger warrior’s words from the more deliberate speeches of his elders. It was clear they were debating the propriety of a certain measure that nearly concerned the welfare of the travelers. Yielding to his strong interest in the matter and impatient with a delay that felt fraught with further peril, Heyward moved closer to the shadowy group, intending to make his offers of compensation more concrete. As if conceding the disputed point with a gesture, the white man turned away, speaking in a sort of monologue in English:

“Uncas is right! It wouldn't be the act of men to leave such harmless things to their fate, even if it ruins the harboring place forever. If you want to save these tender blossoms from the fangs of the worst serpents, gentleman, you don't have time to waste nor the resolve to discard them!”

“How can such a wish be doubted! Haven't I already offered—”

“Offer your prayers to Him who can grant us the wisdom to outwit the devils that infest these woods,” the scout interrupted calmly, “but spare your offers of money; neither you nor I will ever profit from them. These Mohicans and I will do what human ingenuity allows to preserve these flowers—though sweet, they were never meant for the wilderness—from harm, seeking only recompense as God always provides for righteous dealings. First, you must promise two things, both in your own name and for your friends, or we’ll only end up hurting ourselves if you don't serve us!”

“Name them.”

“One is to let these woods remain as still as they are now, and the other is to keep the place where we take you a secret from all mortal men, forever.”

“I will do everything I can to make both of these promises come true.”

“Then hurry on, for we’re wasting moments as precious as a stricken deer’s heartblood!”

Through the deepening shadows of evening, Heyward could discern the scout's impatient gesture, and he moved swiftly in his footsteps toward where he had left the rest of the party. When they rejoined the anxious females, he briefly explained their new guide and the necessity of silencing every apprehension with immediate and serious effort. Though his alarming communication was met with much secret terror by the listeners, his earnest and impressive demeanor—perhaps aided by the nature of the danger—managed to steady their nerves for an unforeseen and unusual trial. Silently and without delay, they allowed him to help them down from their saddles, and as they quickly descended to the water's edge where the scout had gathered the rest of the group, it was through expressive gestures rather than words that they complied

. “What do we do with these dumb creatures!” muttered the white man, who seemed to have sole control over their future movements; “we should just cut their throats and throw them into the river; otherwise, we’ll tell the Mingoes they don't have far to hunt for their owners!”

“Then give them their bridles and let them roam the woods,” Heyward suggested.

“No; it’d be better to mislead the imps and make them believe they must run down their chase at a horse’s speed. Ay, ay, that'll blind their fireballs! Chingach—Hist! What’s stirring in the brush?”

“The colt.”

“That colt, at least, has to die,” muttered the scout, reaching for the nimble beast’s mane, which slipped through his grasp, “Uncas, your arrows!”

“Hold!” cried the owner of the condemned animal, speaking aloud without minding the hushed tones of the others; “spare Miriam’s foal! it’s the lovely offspring of a faithful mother, and it wouldn't want any harm.”

“When men fight for the single life God has given them,” the scout said sternly, “even their own kind are no better than the beasts of the wood. If you speak again, I’ll leave you to the mercy of the Maquas! Aim your arrow, Uncas; we don’t have time for second strikes.”

The low, threatening sounds of his voice were still audible as the wounded foal, first rearing on its hind legs, pitched forward to its knees. Chingachgook met it instantly; his knife flashed across its throat faster than thought, and then he seized the struggling victim’s motion, plunging into the river. It glided downstream, gasping audibly for breath as its life ebbed away. This act of apparent cruelty, born of necessity, fell upon the travelers' spirits like a terrible warning of the danger they faced, amplified by the calm, steady resolve of those in the scene. The sisters shuddered and clung tighter, while Heyward instinctively placed his hand on one of the pistols he’d just drawn from their holsters, positioning himself between his charge and those dense shadows that seemed to form an impenetrable veil before the forest's bosom.

The Indians didn't hesitate for a second; taking the reins, they led the frightened and reluctant horses into the river.

A short distance from the shore, they turned and were quickly hidden by the bank’s projection. Under its brow, they moved away from the water's course. Meanwhile, the scout drew a bark canoe from its hiding spot beneath some low bushes, whose branches waved with the current's eddies. He silently motioned for the females to enter. They complied without hesitation, though many fearful and anxious glances were thrown behind them toward the thickening gloom that now lay like a dark barrier along the stream's edge.

So soon as Cora and Alice were seated, the scout, without regarding the element, directed Heyward to support one side of the frail vessel, and posting himself at the other, they bore it up against the stream, followed by the dejected owner of the dead foal. In this manner they proceeded, for many rods, in a silence that was only interrupted by the rippling of the water, as its eddies played around them, or the low dash made by their own cautious footsteps. Heyward yielded the guidance of the canoe implicitly to the scout, who approached or receded from the shore, to avoid the fragments of rocks, or deeper parts of the river, with a readiness that showed his knowledge of the route they held. Occasionally he would stop; and in the midst of a breathing stillness, that the dull but increasing roar of the waterfall only served to render more impressive, he would listen with painful intenseness, to catch any sounds that might arise from the slumbering forest. When assured that all was still, and unable to detect, even by the aid of his practiced senses, any sign of his approaching foes, he would deliberately resume his slow and guarded progress. At length they reached a point in the river where the roving eye of Heyward became riveted on a cluster of black objects, collected at a spot where the high bank threw a deeper shadow than usual on the dark waters. Hesitating to advance, he pointed out the place to the attention of his companion.

“Ay,” returned the composed scout, “the Indians have hid the beasts with the judgment of natives! Water leaves no trail, and an owl’s eyes would be blinded by the darkness of such a hole.”

The party quickly reassembled, and the scout held another consultation with his new comrades. During this time, they—whose survival depended on the faith and cleverness of these unknown foresters—had a moment to observe their surroundings more closely.

The river was squeezed between high, craggy rocks, one of which loomed over where the canoe rested. As tall trees again surmounted these formations, seeming to teeter on the edge of the precipice, the stream appeared to flow through a deep, narrow dell. Beneath the fantastical limbs and ragged tree tops, dimly painted against the starry zenith here and there, everything lay in shadowed obscurity. Behind them, the curves of the banks soon framed the view with the same dark, wooded outline; but in front, and seemingly not far away, the water seemed piled against the heavens, tumbling into caverns from which issued the sullen sounds that had filled the evening air. It truly felt like a place devoted to seclusion, and the sisters absorbed a soothing sense of security as they gazed upon its romantic, though not unappalling, beauty. However, a general movement among their guides soon pulled them from contemplating the wild charms of the night and into a painful awareness of their actual peril.

The horses were tethered to scattered shrubs growing in the rock fissures, where they spent the night adrift on the water. The scout directed Heyward and his dejected companions to settle at the bow of the canoe, taking the other himself, as if he floated in something much sturdier. The Indians cautiously retraced their steps toward their starting point when the scout jammed his pole into a rock and, with a mighty shove, sent their fragile boat directly into the turbulent stream. For many minutes, the struggle between the air bubble they floated in and the swift current was intense and uncertain. Forbidden to move even a hand, and almost afraid to breathe lest they expose the flimsy fabric to the stream's fury, the passengers watched the glancing water with feverish suspense. Twenty times they thought the swirling eddies would sweep them away, just as their pilot’s strong hand brought the canoe’s bows to stem the rapid. A long, vigorous, and, to the women, a desperate effort closed the struggle. Just as Alice veiled her eyes in horror, convinced they were about to be dragged into the vortex at the base of the falls, the canoe floated, motionless, alongside a flat rock that lay level with the water

. “Where are we, and what do we do now!” Heyward demanded, sensing the scout’s exertion had ceased

.“You’re at the foot of Glenn’s,” the other replied aloud, unconcerned by the roar of the cataract; “and next, you have to make a steady landing, lest the canoe flip, and you end up back on the hard road we just covered faster than you arrived; it’s a tough gap to cross when the river’s a little swollen; and five is an odd number to keep dry while rushing along with a little birch bark and gum. Go on the rock, and I'll bring up the Mohicans with the venison. A man’s better sleep without his scalp than starvation amid plenty.”

His passengers readily followed these instructions. As the last foot touched the rock, the canoe shot away from its spot, and for an instant, they saw the scout’s tall form glide above the water before he vanished into the impenetrable darkness beneath the riverbed. Left by their guide, the travelers were left in helpless confusion, afraid to move across the broken rocks for fear a wrong step might send them tumbling into one of the many deep, roaring caverns where the water seemed to cascade all around them. Their anxiety, however, was quickly eased; thanks to the natives' skill, the canoe shot back into the eddy and floated beside the low rock, before they even thought the scout had time to rejoin his group.

“We’re fortified, we’re garrisoned, and we’re supplied,” Heyward cheerfully cried, “and may set Montcalm and his allies at defiance. How, now, my vigilant sentinel, can you see anything of those you call the Iroquois on the main land!”

“I call them Iroquois because to me, every native who speaks a foreign tongue is counted an enemy, even if he pretends to serve the king! If Webb wants faith and honesty in an Indian, let him bring out the Delawares, and send these greedy, lying Mohawks and Oneidas—with their six nations of vagrants—where they truly belong, among the French!”

“We should then trade a warlike for a useless friend! I hear the Delawares have put down their weapons and are content to be called women!”

“Shame on the Dutch and the Iroquois for tricking them into such a treaty through their deceit! But I’ve known them for twenty years, and I call him a liar who claims cowardly blood runs in the veins of a Delaware. You drove their tribes from the seashore; do you now believe what their enemies say so you can sleep soundly? No, no; to me, every Indian who speaks a foreign tongue is an Iroquois, whether his tribe’s castle[1] is in Canada or York.”

[1] The principal villages of the Indians are still called “castles” by the whites of New York. “Oneida castle” is little more than a scattered hamlet; nevertheless, the name is widely used.

Heyward, seeing that the scout’s stubborn adherence to his friends—the Delawares or Mohicans—as they were branches of the same many peoples, would likely prolong a pointless discussion, he changed the subject.

“Treaty or no treaty, I know full well that your two companions are brave and cautious warriors! have they heard or seen anything of our enemies?”

“An Indian is a mortal to be felt afore he is seen,” returned the scout, ascending the rock, and throwing the deer carelessly down. “I trust to other signs than such as come in at the eye, when I am outlying on the trail of the Mingoes.”

“Do your ears tell you that they have traced our retreat?”

“I should be sorry to think they had, though this is a spot that stout courage might hold for a smart scrimmage. I will not deny, however, but the horses cowered when I passed them, as though they scented the wolves; and a wolf is a beast that is apt to hover about an Indian ambushment, craving the offals of the deer the savages kill.”

“You forget the buck at your feet! or, may we not owe their visit to the dead colt? Ha! what noise is that?”

“Poor Miriam!” murmured the stranger; “thy foal was foreordained to become a prey to ravenous beasts!” Then, suddenly lifting up his voice, amid the eternal din of the waters, he sang aloud:

“First born of Egypt, smite did he,
Of mankind, and of beast also:
O, Egypt! wonders sent ’midst thee,
On Pharaoh and his servants too!”

“The death of the colt weighs heavily on the owner’s heart,” the scout said. “But it’s a good sign to see a man count his dead companions. He has the right perspective—believing what is meant to happen will happen. With such comfort, he won’t be long before he accepts the necessity of killing a four-footed beast to save human lives. It might be as you say,” he continued, echoing Heyward’s last thought, “and the more reason we have to cut our steaks—to let the carcass drive down the stream—the better. Otherwise, the pack will howl along the cliffs, begrudging every mouthful we swallow. Besides, though the Delaware tongue is the same as a book to the Iroquois, those cunning souls are quick enough to understand the meaning behind a wolf’s howl.”

While making these remarks, the scout was busy gathering some necessary tools. When he finished speaking, he moved silently past the group of travelers, accompanied by the Mohicans, who seemed to grasp his intentions instinctively. Then, all three vanished in quick succession, seeming to melt into the dark face of a sheer rock rising only a few yards high, mere feet from the water’s edge.

CHAPTER VI.

“Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide;
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And ‘Let us worship God’, he says, with solemn air.”—Burns

Heyward and his female companions witnessed this mysterious movement with secret uneasiness; for, though the conduct of the white man had hitherto been above reproach, his rude equipments, blunt address, and strong antipathies, together with the character of his silent associates, were all causes for exciting distrust in minds that had been so recently alarmed by Indian treachery.

The stranger alone disregarded the passing incidents. He seated himself on a projection of the rocks, whence he gave no other signs of consciousness than by the struggles of his spirit, as manifested in frequent and heavy sighs. Smothered voices were next heard, as though men called to each other in the bowels of the earth, when a sudden light flashed upon those without, and laid bare the much-prized secret of the place.

At the further extremity of a narrow, deep cavern in the rock, whose length appeared much extended by the perspective and the nature of the light by which it was seen, was seated the scout, holding a blazing knot of pine.The strong glare of the fire fell full upon his sturdy, weather-beaten countenance and forest attire, lending an air of romantic wildness to the aspect of an individual, who, seen by the sober light of day, would have exhibited the peculiarities of a man remarkable for the strangeness of his dress, the iron-like inflexibility of his frame, and the singular compound of quick, vigilant sagacity, and of exquisite simplicity, that by turns usurped the possession of his muscular features.At a little distance in advance stood Uncas, his whole person thrown powerfully into view.The travelers anxiously regarded the upright, flexible figure of the young Mohican, graceful and unrestrained in the attitudes and movements of nature.Though his person was more than usually screened by a green and fringed hunting-shirt, like that of the white man, there was no concealment to his dark, glancing, fearless eye, alike terrible and calm; the bold outline of his high, haughty features, pure in their native red; or to the dignified elevation of his receding forehead, together with all the finest proportions of a noble head, bared to the generous scalping tuft.It was the first opportunity possessed by Duncan and his companions to view the marked lineaments of either of their Indian attendants, and each individual of the party felt relieved from a burden of doubt, as the proud and determined, though wild expression of the features of the young warrior forced itself on their notice.They felt it might be a being partially benighted in the vale of ignorance, but it could not be one who would willingly devote his rich natural gifts to the purposes of wanton treachery.Ingenuous Alice gazed at his free air and proud carriage, as if she were looking upon some precious relic of the Grecian chisel, a form bestowed by a miracle; meanwhile, Heyward, though accustomed to seeing the perfection of form abundant among the uncorrupted natives, openly expressed his admiration for such an unblemished specimen of man's noblest proportions.

“I could sleep in peace,” Alice whispered in reply, “with such a fearless and generous-looking youth as my sentinel. Surely, Duncan, those cruel murders, those terrific scenes of torture we read and hear so much—they are never enacted in the presence of such a man!”

“This is certainly a rare and brilliant example of those natural qualities in which these peculiar people are said to excel,” he replied. “I agree with you, Alice, that such a front and eye are formed more to intimidate than to deceive; but let us not practice deception upon ourselves by expecting any other display of virtue than that found in the fashion of the savage. As bright examples of great qualities are too uncommon among Christians, so they are singular and solitary with the Indians; yet, for the sake of our common nature, neither are incapable of producing them. Let us then hope this Mohican will not disappoint our hopes, but prove what his looks assert him to be: a brave and constant friend.”

“Now Major Heyward speaks as Major Heyward should,” Cora said, “who looks upon this creature of nature, does he remember the shade of his skin?”

A brief, clearly embarrassed silence followed the remark, broken only by the scout calling to them aloud to enter

. “This fire is starting to burn too brightly,” he continued as they complied, “and it might light the Mingoes to our ruin. Uncas, drop the blanket and show the knaves their dark side. This isn't the supper a major of the Royal Americans has a right to expect, but I’ve known stout detachments of the corps glad to eat their venison raw, and without any relish [1]. Here, you see, we have plenty of salt, and we can make a quick broil. There are fresh sassafras boughs for the ladies to sit on, which might not be as grand as their my-hog-guinea chairs, but they bring a sweeter flavor than the skin of any hog can manage, whether from Guinea or any other land. Come, friend, don't mourn the colt; it was innocent and hadn't known much hardship. Its death will save the creature many sore backs and weary feet!”

[1] In plain terms, the seasonings for a meal are what Americans call “relish,” substituting the item for its effect. These provincial terms often slip from the speakers’ mouths based on their various life experiences. Most of them are local, while others are quite specific to the particular class of men to whom they belong. In this case, the scout used the word with immediate reference to the “salt,” which his own party was so fortunate as to be provided

.Uncas followed the other's command, and when Hawkeye’s voice faded, the roar of the cataract sounded like distant thunder.

“Are we safe in this cavern?” Heyward demanded. “Is there no danger of surprise? A single armed man at the entrance could hold us captive.”

A spectral figure stalked from the darkness behind the scout, seizing a blazing brand and holding it toward the far end of their retreat. Alice let out a faint shriek, and even Cora rose to her feet as this appalling object moved into the light; yet, a single word from Heyward calmed them—the assurance that it was only their attendant, Chingachgook, who lifted another blanket and discovered the cavern had two exits. Then, brand in hand, he crossed a deep, narrow chasm in the rocks that ran at right angles to their passage, a fissure open to the heavens, and entered another cave that perfectly matched the description of the first in every detail.

“Old foxes like Chingachgook and I aren’t often caught in a barrow with one hole,” Hawkeye chuckled. “You can easily see the place’s cunning—the rock is black limestone, everybody knows it’s soft. It offers no comfortable cushion where brush and pine wood are scarce. The fall was once just a few yards below us, and I dare say it was as regular and handsome a sheet of water as any along the Hudson back then. But old age is a great injury to good looks, as these sweet young ladies have yet to learn! The place is sadly changed! These rocks are riddled with cracks, and some are softer than others; the water has carved deep hollows for itself, receding some hundred feet, breaking here and there, until the falls have neither shape nor consistency.”

“Where exactly are we?” asked Heyward.

“We’re near where Providence first placed them, but it seems they were too rebellious to stay. The rock proved softer on each side of us, so they left the center of the river bare and dry, carving out these two little hollows for us to hide in.”

“We're on an island!”

Ay!There are waterfalls on both sides of us, and the river above and below. If there were daylight, it would be worth the trouble to step onto this rock and gaze at the water's perversity. It falls by no set rule; sometimes it leaps, sometimes it tumbles; there it skips, here it shoots. In one spot it's white as snow, and in another, green as grass. Nearby, it pitches into deep hollows that rumble and crush the earth. Further away, it ripples and sings like a brook, carving whirlpools and gullies into the old stone, as if it were no harder than trodden clay. The river’s entire design seems disconcerted. First, it flows smoothly, as if intending to descend in an orderly fashion; then it angles around and faces the shores. There are no places where it looks backward, as if unwilling to leave the wilderness or mingle with the salt. Ah, lady, the fine cobweb-like cloth you wear at your throat is coarse. Like a fishnet, there are little spots I can show you where the river fabricates all sorts of images, as if broken from order, it tries its hand at everything. And yet, what does it amount to!After the water has been suffered so to have its will, for a time, like a headstrong man, it is gathered together by the hand that made it, and a few rods below you may see it all, flowing on steadily toward the sea, as was foreordained from the first foundation of the ’arth!”

While his auditors received a cheering assurance of the security of their place of concealment from this untutored description of Glenn’s,[2] they were much inclined to judge differently from Hawkeye, of its wild beauties.But they were not in a situation to suffer their thoughts to dwell on the charms of natural objects; and, as the scout had not found it necessary to cease his culinary labors while he spoke, unless to point out, with a broken fork, the direction of some particularly obnoxious point in the rebellious stream, they now suffered their attention to be drawn to the necessary though more vulgar consideration of their supper.

[2] Glenn’s Falls are on the Hudson, some forty or fifty miles above the head of tide, or that place where the river becomes navigable for sloops.The description of this picturesque and remarkable little cataract, as given by the scout, is sufficiently correct, though the application of the water to uses of civilized life has materially injured its beauties.The rocky island and the two caverns are known to every traveler, since the former sustains the pier of a bridge, which is now thrown across the river, immediately above the fall.In explanation of the taste of Hawkeye, it should be remembered that men always prize that most which is least enjoyed.Thus, in a new country, the woods and other objects, which in an old country would be maintained at great cost, are got rid of, simply with a view of “improving” as it is called.

The meal, greatly enhanced by a few delicacies Heyward had wisely brought with him when they left their horses, was exceedingly refreshing for the weary group. Uncas acted as attendant to the women, handling all the minor duties within his capacity, displaying a blend of dignity and nervous grace that amused Heyward. He knew well that this was a complete departure from Indian customs, which forbade their warriors from taking on menial jobs, especially in favor of their women. However, since the rights of hospitality were considered sacred among them, this slight deviation from masculine dignity elicited no audible comment. If there had been someone sufficiently detached to observe closely, they might have suspected that the young chief’s service wasn't entirely impartial. While he offered Alice the gourd of sweet water and venison, neatly carved from the pepperidge, with due courtesy, performing the same tasks for her sister, his dark eye lingered on her rich, expressive face. On occasion, he was forced to speak, to command the attention of those he served. In these instances, he used English—broken and imperfect, yet perfectly understandable—rendering it so mild and musical through his deep, guttural voice that neither lady failed to look up in admiration and astonishment. During these courtesies, a few sentences were exchanged, establishing an air of amicable intercourse between the parties.

Meanwhile, the weight of Chingcachgook remained unshakeable. He settled deeper into the circle of light, where his guests' frequent, uneasy glances could better separate the natural expression on his face from the artificial terrors of the war paint. They found a strong resemblance between father and son, differing only by the expected variations brought by age and hardship. The fierceness in his countenance seemed to subside, replaced by the quiet, vacant composure that distinguishes an Indian warrior when his faculties aren't needed for any grander purpose of existence. Yet, through the occasional glints shooting across his dusky face, it was easy to see that it was only necessary to stir his passions to fully realize the terrifying display he used to intimidate his enemies. On the other hand, the scout’s quick, roving eye seldom rested. He ate and drank with an appetite undisturbed by any sense of danger, but his vigilance never wavered. Twenty gourds or venison hung before his lips as his head turned away, as if listening to some distant, distrusted sounds—a movement that constantly reminded his guests of the novelties of their situation, of the alarming reasons that had driven them to seek him. Since these pauses were never followed by a word, the momentary unease they created quickly faded, and for a time, it was forgotten.

“Come, friend,” Hawkeye said, pulling a keg from beneath a blanket of leaves as the meal drew to a close, addressing the stranger at his elbow in a way that truly showcased his culinary skill, “try some spruce; it’ll wash away all thoughts of the colt and quicken the life in your chest. I toast our better friendship, hoping that a little horse-flesh won't leave any heart-burnings between us. What’s your name?”

“Gamut—David Gamut,” the singing master replied, preparing to soothe his sorrows with a powerful draught of the woodsman’s richly flavored and well-blended mixture.

“A fine name, and I dare say it comes from honest forefathers. I admire names, though Christian customs fall far short of savage ways in this regard. The biggest coward I ever knew was called Lyon; his wife, Patience, would scold him into silence faster than a hunted deer could run a rod. With an Indian, it’s a matter of conscience; what he calls himself, he generally is—not that Chingachgook, which means Big Serpent, is truly a snake, big or small; but that he understands the twists and turns of human nature, remains silent, and strikes his enemies when they least expect it. What do you call yourself?”

“I am an unworthy instructor in the art of psalmody.”

“Anan!”

“I teach singing to the youths of the Connecticut levy.”

“You might be better off employed. The young hounds are already laughing and singing too loudly through the woods when they ought not to breathe louder than a fox in his den. Can you handle the smoothbore, or manage the rifle?”

“God be praised, I’ve never had cause to meddle with murderous implements!”

“Perhaps you understand the compass. Draw the watercourses and mountains of the wilderness onto paper so that those who follow can find places by their given names?”

“I practice no such trade.”

“You have legs that can make a long path seem short! You journey sometimes, I fancy, with tidings for the general.”

“Never; I follow no other vocation than my own, which is instruction in sacred music!”

“What a strange calling!” Hawkeye muttered, with an inner laugh. “To live life like a catbird, mocking all the ups and downs that come from other men’s throats. Well, friend, I suppose it’s your gift, and it shouldn’t be denied any more than if you were shooting or had some other better inclination. Let’s see what you can do in that way; it'll be a friendly way to say goodnight, since these ladies need strength for a hard and long push, in the pride of the morning, before the Maquas stir.”

“With joyful pleasure, I consent,” said David, adjusting his iron-rimmed spectacles and producing his beloved little volume, which he immediately handed to Alice. “What could be more fitting and comforting than to offer evening praise after a day of such great peril!”

Alice smiled; but, regarding Heyward, she blushed and hesitated.

“Indulge yourself,” he whispered; “ought not the suggestion of the worthy namesake of the Psalmist to have its weight at such a moment?”

Encouraged by his opinion, Alice did what her pious inclinations, and her keen relish for gentle sounds, had before so strongly urged. The book was open at a hymn not ill adapted to their situation, and in which the poet, no longer goaded by his desire to excel the inspired King of Israel, had discovered some chastened and respectable powers. Cora betrayed a disposition to support her sister, and the sacred song proceeded, after the indispensable preliminaries of the pitchpipe, and the tune had been duly attended to by the methodical David.

The air was solemn and slow. At times it rose to the fullest compass of the rich voices of the females, who hung over their little book in holy excitement, and again it sank so low, that the rushing of the waters ran through their melody, like a hollow accompaniment. The natural taste and true ear of David governed and modified the sounds to suit the confined cavern, every crevice and cranny of which was filled with the thrilling notes of their flexible voices. The Indians riveted their eyes on the rocks, and listened with an attention that seemed to turn them into stone. But the scout, who had placed his chin in his hand, with an expression of cold indifference, gradually suffered his rigid features to relax, until, as verse succeeded verse, he felt his iron nature subdued, while his recollection was carried back to boyhood, when his ears had been accustomed to listen to similar sounds of praise, in the settlements of the colony. His roving eyes began to moisten, and before the hymn was ended scalding tears rolled out of fountains that had long seemed dry, and followed each other down those cheeks, that had oftener felt the storms of heaven than any testimonials of weakness. The singers were dwelling on one of those low, dying chords, which the ear devours with such greedy rapture, as if conscious that it is about to lose them, when a cry, that seemed neither human nor earthly, rose in the outward air, penetrating not only the recesses of the cavern, but to the inmost hearts of all who heard it. It was followed by a stillness apparently as deep as if the waters had been checked in their furious progress, at such a horrid and unusual interruption.

“What is it?” murmured Alice, after a few moments of terrible suspense.

[Illustration] “What is it?” murmured Alice, after a few moments of terrible suspense.

“What is it?” repeated Hewyard aloud.

Neither Hawkeye nor the Indians made any reply. They listened, as if expecting the sound would be repeated, with a manner that expressed their own astonishment. At length they spoke together, earnestly, in the Delaware language, when Uncas, passing by the inner and most concealed aperture, cautiously left the cavern. When he had gone, the scout first spoke in English.

“What it is, or what it is not, none here can tell, though two of us have ranged the woods for more than thirty years. I did believe there was no cry that Indian or beast could make, that my ears had not heard; but this has proved that I was only a vain and conceited mortal.”

“Was it not, then, the shout the warriors make when they wish to intimidate their enemies?” asked Cora who stood drawing her veil about her person, with a calmness to which her agitated sister was a stranger.

“No, no; this was bad, and shocking, and had a sort of unhuman sound; but when you once hear the war-whoop, you will never mistake it for anything else. Well, Uncas!” speaking in Delaware to the young chief as he re-entered, “what see you? do our lights shine through the blankets?”

The answer was short, and apparently decided, being given in the same tongue.

“There’s nothing we can’t see,” Hawkeye continued, shaking his head in annoyance. “And our hiding spot is still in the dark. Go into the other cave, you who need it, and find some sleep; we have to be moving long before the sun, and we need to make every moment count getting to Edward while the Mingoes are still napping.”

Cora set an example by complying, with such steadiness that it taught the more timid Alice the necessity of obedience. Before leaving, however, she whispered a request to Duncan, asking him to follow. Uncas pulled the blanket over them for passage, and as the sisters turned to thank him for that gesture, they saw the scout sitting once more by the dying embers, his face hidden in his hands—a clear sign of how deeply he resented the unexplainable interruption that had shattered their evening prayers.

Heyward brought along a blazing knot, which cast a dim light through the narrow view of their new apartment. Placing it strategically, he joined the women, who now found themselves alone with him for the first time since they had left the friendly ramparts of Fort Edward.

“Don’t leave us, Duncan,” Alice pleaded. “We can’t sleep in a place like this with that awful cry still ringing in our ears.”

“First, let’s check the security of your fortress,” he replied. “Then we can talk about rest.”

He moved to the far end of the cavern, toward an outlet, which, like the others, was hidden beneath blankets. Pulling back the thick screen, he breathed the fresh, reviving air from the cataract. One arm of the river flowed through a deep, narrow ravine, its current having carved the soft rock directly beneath his feet, forming what he felt was an effective defense against any threat from that side. A few rods above them, the water plunged, glanced, and swept along in its most violent and broken manner.

“Nature has created an impenetrable barrier on this side,” he continued, pointing down the perpendicular slope into the dark current before dropping the blanket. “And since good men and true are on guard ahead, I see no reason why our honest host’s advice should be ignored. I’m certain Cora will agree that sleep is necessary for you both.”

“Cora might agree with the fairness of your view, though she can’t act on it,” the elder sister replied, who had settled beside Alice on a sassafras couch. “There are other reasons to ward off sleep, even though we dodged this mysterious noise. Ask yourself, Heyward, can daughters forget the anxiety a father endures, knowing not where or how his children hide in such a wilderness, amidst so many dangers?”

“He’s a soldier; he knows how to gauge the chances of the woods.”

“He’s a father; he can’t deny his nature.”

“How kind he’s been to all my follies, how tender and indulgent toward all my wishes!” Alice sobbed. “We were selfish, sister, in insisting on visiting at such risk.”

“I might have been rash in pushing for his consent during a moment of great embarrassment, but I would have shown him that even if others neglected him in his straits, his children remained faithful.”

“When he heard of your arrival, Edward,” Heyward said kindly, “there was a fierce struggle in his heart between fear and love; though the latter, heightened by so long a separation, quickly won out. ‘It is the spirit of my noble-minded Cora that leads them, Duncan,’ he said, ‘and I won’t stop it. If only the one who holds the honor of our royal master in his keeping would show even half her resolve!’”

“And didn’t he speak of me, Heyward?” Alice demanded with jealous affection; “surely, he didn’t forget his little Elsie?”

“That was impossible,” the young man replied. “He called you by a thousand endearing names that I dare not utter, but I can warmly testify to the justice of which.” Once, he had said—

Duncan stopped speaking; his gaze was locked on Alice, who turned to him with an eagerness born of filial affection. In that moment, the same strong, horrid cry filled the air again, rendering him speechless. A long, breathless silence followed, during which they all looked at each other in fearful anticipation, waiting to hear the sound repeated. Eventually, the blanket was slowly lifted, and the scout stood in the opening, his expression betraying a firmness that seemed to crumble before a mystery that hinted at some danger against which all his cunning and experience might prove useless.

CHAPTER VII.

“They do not sleep,
On yonder cliffs, a grizzly band,
I see them sit.”—Gray

“’Twould be neglecting a warning that is given for our good to lie hid any longer,” said Hawkeye “when such sounds are raised in the forest. These gentle ones may keep close, but the Mohicans and I will watch upon the rock, where I suppose a major of the Sixtieth would wish to keep us company.”

“Is, then, our danger so pressing?” asked Cora.

“He who makes strange sounds, and gives them out for man’s information, alone knows our danger. I should think myself wicked, unto rebellion against His will, was I to burrow with such warnings in the air! Even the weak soul who passes his days in singing is stirred by the cry, and, as he says, is ‘ready to go forth to the battle’ If ’twere only a battle, it would be a thing understood by us all, and easily managed; but I have heard that when such shrieks are atween heaven and ’arth, it betokens another sort of warfare!”

“If all our reasons for fear, my friend, are confined to such as proceed from supernatural causes, we have but little occasion to be alarmed,” continued the undisturbed Cora, “are you certain that our enemies have not invented some new and ingenious method to strike us with terror, that their conquest may become more easy?”

“Lady,” the scout returned solemnly, “I have listened to all the sounds of the woods for thirty years, as a man must listen when his life and death hinge on the sharpness of his hearing. There's no whine from the panther, no whistle from the catbird, nor any trickery from those devilish Mingoes that can deceive me! I have heard the forest groan like men in their sorrow; often, and again, I’ve listened to the wind playing its music through the branches of the girdled trees; and I’ve heard lightning crackle in the air like blazing brush snapping as it spat sparks and flared flames. But never have I thought I heard more than the sheer delight of the one who wielded what he held. Yet neither the Mohicans, nor I, a white man without a cross, can explain the cry just heard. So, we believe it a sign meant for our own good.”

“That’s extraordinary!” Heyward exclaimed, grabbing his pistols from where he’d set them upon entering; “be it peace or a warning of war, we have to pay attention. Lead on, my friend; I'm right behind you.”

As they emerged from their confinement, the entire group instantly felt a grateful renewal of spirits, trading the stale air of their hiding-place for the cool, invigorating atmosphere swirling around the whirlpools and drops of the cataract. A heavy evening breeze swept across the river's surface, seeming to drive the roar of the falls deep into their cavern, where it echoed heavily and constantly, like thunder rumbling beyond the distant hills. The moon had risen, its light already flashing here and there on the waters above them; yet the extremity of the rock where they stood remained in shadow. Apart from the sounds of the rushing water and the occasional breath of air murmuring past them in restless currents, the scene was as still as night and solitude could manage. In vain, each person strained their eyes toward the opposite shores, searching for any sign of life that might explain the interruption they had heard. Their anxious and eager gazes were baffled by the deceptive light, resting only on stark rocks and unmoving trees

. “There’s nothing to see here but gloom and quiet,” Duncan whispered. “How much should we value this scene, and all this breathing solitude, at any other moment, Cora! Try to feel safe, and whatever terror might now increase you can be turned into pleasure—”

“Listen!” Alice cut in.

The caution was needless. The same sound arose once more, as if from the riverbed, undulating through the forest in distant, fading rhythms

.“Can any of you name that cry?” Hawkeye demanded as the last echo vanished into the woods. “If so, let him speak; for I judge it doesn’t belong to ‘arth!”

“Here, then, is one who can deceive you,” Duncan replied. “I know the sound well, for I’ve heard it on the battlefield and in situations common to a soldier’s life. It’s the horrid shriek a horse lets out in agony—often drawn from pain, though sometimes from terror. My charger is either prey to the forest beasts, or he sees his danger but lacks the power to evade it. The sound might trick me in a cavern, but in the open air, I know it too well to be wrong.”

The scout and his companions listened to this simple explanation with the keen interest of those who absorbed new ideas while discarding disagreeable old ones. The latter two let out their usual exclamation, “hugh!” as the truth dawned on them, while the first paused for a moment in thought before replying.

“I can’t deny what you say,” he admitted. “I’m not very skilled with horses, though I was born where they thrive. The wolves must be lurking above them on the bank, and those fearsome creatures are calling out to men for help, in the best way they can. Uncas”—he spoke in Delaware—“Uncas, get in the canoe and toss a brand among the pack; or fear might do what the wolves can’t manage, leaving us without horses in the morning when we’ll need to travel fast!”

The young native had already slipped into the water to comply when a long howl ripped across the riverbank, instantly vanishing into the depths of the forest, as if the beasts themselves were abandoning their prey in sudden terror. Uncas, with instinctual swiftness, retreated, and the three foresters resumed their low, earnest discussions.

“We’ve been like hunters who’ve lost the stars, from whom the sun has been hidden for days,” Hawkeye said, turning from his companions. “Now we start again to read the signs of our path, and the brambles are clear! Sit in the shade the moon casts from that beech—it’s thicker than the pines—and let us wait for whatever the Lord chooses to send next. Keep your talk to whispers; though it might be better, and perhaps wiser in the end, if each man held his thoughts to himself for a while.”

The scout's demeanor was truly impressive, no longer marred by any sign of unmanly fear. It was clear that his momentary weakness had vanished once he understood the mystery that his own experience couldn't fathom. Though he now grasped the full reality of their situation, he was ready to face it with the strength of his hardy nature. This sense seemed shared by the natives, who positioned themselves where they could view both shores while keeping their bodies effectively hidden from sight. In such a situation, common sense dictated that Heyward and his companions should mirror the caution emanating from such an intelligent source. The young man pulled a bundle of sassafras from the cave and placed it in the gap separating the two caverns, where the sisters were thus shielded by the rocks from any attack. Their anxiety eased knowing no danger could approach without a warning. Heyward himself was close enough to communicate with his companions without raising his voice dangerously; David, imitating the woodsmen, positioned himself among the rock fissures so that his awkward limbs were no longer offensive to the eye.

In this manner hours passed without further interruption. The moon reached the zenith, and shed its mild light perpendicularly on the lovely sight of the sisters slumbering peacefully in each other’s arms. Duncan cast the wide shawl of Cora before a spectacle he so much loved to contemplate, and then suffered his own head to seek a pillow on the rock. David began to utter sounds that would have shocked his delicate organs in more wakeful moments; in short, all but Hawkeye and the Mohicans lost every idea of consciousness, in uncontrollable drowsiness. But the watchfulness of these vigilant protectors neither tired nor slumbered. Immovable as that rock, of which each appeared to form a part, they lay, with their eyes roving, without intermission, along the dark margin of trees, that bounded the adjacent shores of the narrow stream. Not a sound escaped them; the most subtle examination could not have told they breathed. It was evident that this excess of caution proceeded from an experience that no subtlety on the part of their enemies could deceive. It was, however, continued without any apparent consequences, until the moon had set, and a pale streak above the treetops, at the bend of the river a little below, announced the approach of day.

Then, for the first time, Hawkeye was seen to stir. He crawled along the rock and shook Duncan from his heavy slumbers.

“Now is the time to journey,” he whispered; “awake the gentle ones, and be ready to get into the canoe when I bring it to the landing-place.”

“Have you had a quiet night?” said Heyward; “for myself, I believe sleep has got the better of my vigilance.”

“All is yet still as midnight. Be silent, but be quick.”

By this time, Duncan was wide awake and immediately lifted the shawl from the sleeping women. This movement caused Cora to raise her hand as if to ward him off, while Alice murmured in her soft, gentle voice, “No, no, dear father, we weren't deserted; Duncan is with us!”

“Yes, sweet innocence,” the youth whispered. “Duncan is here, and as long as life persists or danger lingers, he will never leave you. Cora! Alice! Wake up! The time to move has come!”

A loud shriek erupted from the younger sister, and the form of the others, standing upright before him in bewildered horror, was the unexpected reply he received.

As Heyward’s words still left his lips, a tumult of yells and cries arose that wrenched the swift currents of his own blood back from their course into his heart. For a moment, it felt as if the demons of hell had possessed the air around them, venting their savage humors in barbaric sounds. The cries seemed to come from everywhere—they filled the woods, the caverns of the falls, the rocks, the riverbed, and the very air above. David raised his tall frame amidst the infernal din, clutching his ears and exclaiming:

“Where does this discord come from? Has hell broken free, that a man should utter sounds like these!”

The bright flashes and the quick reports of a dozen rifles, from the opposite banks of the stream, followed this incautious exposure of his person, and left the unfortunate singing master senseless on that rock where he had been so long slumbering. The Mohicans boldly sent back the intimidating yell of their enemies, who raised a shout of savage triumph at the fall of Gamut. The flash of rifles was then quick and close between them, but either party was too well skilled to leave even a limb exposed to the hostile aim. Duncan listened with intense anxiety for the strokes of the paddle, believing that flight was now their only refuge. The river glanced by with its ordinary velocity, but the canoe was nowhere to be seen on its dark waters. He had just fancied they were cruelly deserted by their scout, as a stream of flame issued from the rock beneath them, and a fierce yell, blended with a shriek of agony, announced that the messenger of death sent from the fatal weapon of Hawkeye, had found a victim. At this slight repulse the assailants instantly withdrew, and gradually the place became as still as before the sudden tumult.

Duncan seized the favorable moment to spring to the body of Gamut, which he bore within the shelter of the narrow chasm that protected the sisters. In another minute the whole party was collected in this spot of comparative safety.

“The poor fellow has saved his scalp,” said Hawkeye, coolly passing his hand over the head of David; “but he is a proof that a man may be born with too long a tongue! ’Twas downright madness to show six feet of flesh and blood, on a naked rock, to the raging savages. I only wonder he has escaped with life.”

“Isn’t he dead?” Cora demanded, her husky voice revealing how powerfully natural horror wrestled with her assumed composure. “Can we do anything to help the wretched man?”

“No, no! Life still resides in his heart. After a short sleep, he'll come to himself and be wiser for it, until his true time arrives,” Hawkeye replied, casting another sidelong glance at the lifeless body while meticulously saddling his horse. “Take him in, Uncas, and lay him on the sassafras. The longer he sleeps, the better for him, as I doubt he’ll find proper cover for a shape like that on these rocks; and singing won’t help the Iroquois.”

“So, you think the attack will resume?” Heyward asked.

“Do I expect a hungry wolf to satisfy such a craving with a mouthful! They’ve lost a man, and it’s their way when they face a loss and fail to spring back; but we'll have them on again, with new tricks to slip past us and claim our heads. Our main hope,” he continued, raising his rugged face, a fleeting shadow of anxiety crossing it like a darkening cloud, “will be to hold the rock until Munro can send help! God grant it so soon, and under a leader who knows the Indian customs!”

“You can sense our likely fate, Cora,” Duncan said, “and you know we have plenty to hope for from the anxiety and experience of your father. Come, then, with Alice, into this cavern, where you’ll at least be safe from the murderous rifles of our enemies, and where you can offer a kind care suited to your gentle natures to our unfortunate comrade.”

The sisters followed him into the outer cave, where David was beginning, by his sighs, to regain consciousness. He then directed their attention to the wounded man, immediately preparing to depart.

“Duncan!” Cora’s voice trembled as he reached the mouth of the cavern. He turned and saw the speaker, whose complexion had drained to a deadly pallor, and whose lips quivered as he looked back at him with an expression of interest that instantly drew him back to her side. “Remember, Duncan, how vital your safety is to ours—how you carry a father’s sacred trust—how much depends on your discretion and care—in short,” she added, as telltale blood stained her features, crimsoning her temples, “how very dear you are to the entire name of Munro.”

“If anything could deepen my own love for life,” Heyward said, letting his unconscious eyes drift to the youthful form of silent Alice, “it would be a great comfort. As major of the Sixtieth, our honest host will tell you I must take my share of the fight; but our task will be simple—just keeping these bloodhounds at bay for a few hours.”

Without waiting for a reply, he broke free from the sisters' presence and joined the scout and his companions, who still lay sheltered within the narrow chasm between the two caves

. “I tell you, Uncas,” the former said as Heyward caught up to them, “you’re wasting your powder, and the rifle’s kick throws off your aim! Little powder, light lead, and a long gun—they rarely fail to bring the death screech from a Mingo! At least, that’s what I’ve experienced with those creatures. Come on, friends: let’s get to cover, for no man knows when or where a Maqua[1] will strike.”

[1] The Mingo was the Delaware term for the Five Nations; the Dutch called them Maquas. The French, from their first contact, referred to them as Iroquois

. The Indians silently made their way to their assigned spots: fissures in the rock from which they could command the approaches to the foot of the falls. In the center of that small island, a few short, stunted pines had managed to take root, forming a thicket into which Hawkeye darted with the swiftness of a deer, followed by the active Duncan. There, they secured themselves, as circumstances allowed, among the shrubs and scattered stones of the place. Above them loomed a bare, rounded rock, on either side of which the water played and plunged into the abyss below, just as described. As day broke, the opposite shores no longer presented a confused outline; they could look into the woods and distinguish objects beneath a canopy of gloomy pines

.A long, anxious watch had passed, but there was no further sign of a renewed attack; Duncan began to hope that their fire had proven more fatal than anticipated, and that their enemies had been effectively driven back. When he ventured to share this feeling with his companions, Hawkeye met him with an incredulous shake of his head.

“You don’t know the nature of a Maqua if you think he’s so easily driven off without a scalp!” he retorted. “If one of those imps yelled this morning, there were forty! And they know our numbers and quality too well to give up the chase so soon. Look into the water above, right where it breaks over the rocks. I’m no mortal; if those reckless devils haven’t swum down onto the very pitch, and, as bad luck would have it, they’ve hit the island’s head. Man, stay close! Or the hair will be gone from your crown in the turn of a knife!”

Heyward lifted his head from cover and beheld what he rightly considered a marvel of recklessness and skill. The river had eroded the edge of the soft rock in such a way that its initial drop was less abrupt and perpendicular than usual at waterfalls. With no other guide than the ripple of the stream where it met the island's head, a group of their insatiable foes had ventured into the current, swimming down to that point, knowing the easy access it would afford their intended victims if they succeeded.

As Hawkeye fell silent, four human heads peeked above a few logs of drift-wood lodged on the bare rocks, hints perhaps suggesting the hazardous venture was doable. In the next instant, a fifth shape drifted over the green edge of the fall, a little from the island's line. The savage fought fiercely for safety, and swept by the glancing water, he reached out an arm to grasp his companions, when he shot away again with the swirling current. He seemed to rise into the air, arms and eyes wide, and then plunged in a sudden drop into that deep, yawning abyss above him. A single, wild, desperate shriek rose from the cavern, and everything fell silent as the grave.

Duncan’s first instinct was to rush to save the hapless soul; but he felt locked in place by the immovable scout's iron grip.

“Will you bring certain death upon us by telling the Mingoes where we are?” Hawkeye demanded sternly. “This is powder saved, and ammunition is as precious now as breath for a worried deer! Freshen your pistols—the middle of the falls can dampen the brimstone—and hold fast for a close fight while I fire on their rush.”

He placed a finger in his mouth, and drew a long, shrill whistle, which was answered from the rocks that were guarded by the Mohicans. Duncan caught glimpses of heads above the scattered drift-wood, as this signal rose on the air, but they disappeared again as suddenly as they had glanced upon his sight. A low, rustling sound next drew his attention behind him, and turning his head, he beheld Uncas within a few feet, creeping to his side. Hawkeye spoke to him in Delaware, when the young chief took his position with singular caution and undisturbed coolness. To Heyward this was a moment of feverish and impatient suspense; though the scout saw fit to select it as a fit occasion to read a lecture to his more youthful associates on the art of using firearms with discretion.

“Of all we’pons,” he commenced, “the long barreled, true-grooved, soft-metaled rifle is the most dangerous in skillful hands, though it wants a strong arm, a quick eye, and great judgment in charging, to put forth all its beauties. The gunsmiths can have but little insight into their trade when they make their fowling-pieces and short horsemen’s—”

He was interrupted by the low but expressive “hugh” of Uncas.

“I see them, boy, I see them!” continued Hawkeye; “they are gathering for the rush, or they would keep their dingy backs below the logs. Well, let them,” he added, examining his flint; “the leading man certainly comes on to his death, though it should be Montcalm himself!”

At that moment, the woods erupted with another wave of cries, and at the signal, four savages burst from the cover of the driftwood. Heyward felt an intense burning desire to rush forward and meet them; the delirium of the moment was so acute, yet he was held back by the deliberate example set by the scout and Uncas

. When their foes, who had leaped over the black rocks dividing them with long bounds and wild yells, were within a few rods, Hawkeye slowly raised his rifle among the shrubs and unleashed its deadly payload. The foremost Indian bounded like a stricken deer, tumbling headlong into the island's clefts

. “Now, Uncas!” cried the scout, drawing his long knife, his quick eyes blazing with fervor, “take the last of those screeching imps; we’ve got the other two!”

He obeyed. Only two enemies remained to be overcome. Heyward had already given one of his pistols to Hawkeye, and together they charged down the slight incline toward their foes. They fired simultaneously, and both shots were equally unsuccessful

. “I knew it! I told you so!” muttered the scout, whirling the despised little implement over the falls with bitter disdain. “Come on, ye blood-minded hell-hounds! ye meet a man without a cross!”

The words barely escaped him as he encountered a savage of gigantic stature and fiercest mien. Simultaneously, Duncan found himself locked in a similar contest of hand-to-hand combat with the other man. With ready skill, Hawkeye and his adversary each seized the other's uplifted arm, which held the dangerous knife. For nearly a minute, they stood staring into each other's eyes, gradually exerting the power of their muscles for mastery.

[Illustration]

At length, the toughened sinews of the white man prevailed over the less practiced limbs of the native. The arm of the latter slowly gave way before the increasing force of the scout, who, suddenly wresting his armed hand from the grasp of the foe, drove the sharp weapon through his naked bosom to the heart. In the meantime, Heyward had been pressed in a more deadly struggle. His slight sword was snapped in the first encounter. As he was destitute of any other means of defense, his safety now depended entirely on bodily strength and resolution. Though deficient in neither of these qualities, he had met an enemy every way his equal. Happily, he soon succeeded in disarming his adversary, whose knife fell on the rock at their feet; and from this moment it became a fierce struggle who should cast the other over the dizzy height into a neighboring cavern of the falls. Every successive struggle brought them nearer to the verge, where Duncan perceived the final and conquering effort must be made. Each of the combatants threw all his energies into that effort, and the result was, that both tottered on the brink of the precipice. Heyward felt the grasp of the other at his throat, and saw the grim smile the savage gave, under the revengeful hope that he hurried his enemy to a fate similar to his own, as he felt his body slowly yielding to a resistless power, and the young man experienced the passing agony of such a moment in all its horrors. At that instant of extreme danger, a dark hand and glancing knife appeared before him; the Indian released his hold, as the blood flowed freely from around the severed tendons of the wrist; and while Duncan was drawn backward by the saving hand of Uncas, his charmed eyes still were riveted on the fierce and disappointed countenance of his foe, who fell sullenly and disappointed down the irrecoverable precipice.

"Cover! Cover!" Hawkeye yelled, having just dispatched the enemy. "Cover for your lives! The work isn't done yet!"

The young Mohican cried out in triumph, and Duncan followed. He glided up the slope they had descended to the fight, seeking refuge among the rocks and shrubs.

CHAPTER VIII.

“They linger yet,
Avengers of their native land.”—Gray

The warning call of the scout was not uttered without occasion. During the occurrence of the deadly encounter just related, the roar of the falls was unbroken by any human sound whatever. It would seem that interest in the result had kept the natives on the opposite shores in breathless suspense, while the quick evolutions and swift changes in the positions of the combatants effectually prevented a fire that might prove dangerous alike to friend and enemy. But the moment the struggle was decided, a yell arose as fierce and savage as wild and revengeful passions could throw into the air. It was followed by the swift flashes of the rifles, which sent their leaden messengers across the rock in volleys, as though the assailants would pour out their impotent fury on the insensible scene of the fatal contest.

A steady, though deliberate return was made from the rifle of Chingachgook, who had maintained his post throughout the fray with unmoved resolution. When the triumphant shout of Uncas was borne to his ears, the gratified father raised his voice in a single responsive cry, after which his busy piece alone proved that he still guarded his pass with unwearied diligence. In this manner many minutes flew by with the swiftness of thought; the rifles of the assailants speaking, at times, in rattling volleys, and at others in occasional, scattering shots. Though the rock, the trees, and the shrubs, were cut and torn in a hundred places around the besieged, their cover was so close, and so rigidly maintained, that, as yet, David had been the only sufferer in their little band.

“Let them burn their powder,” the deliberate scout said, as bullets whizzed past where he lay secure; “there’ll be a fine pile of lead when it’s done, and I reckon the imps will tire of the game before these old stones beg for mercy! Uncas, boy, you're wasting the powder by overcharging; and a kicking rifle never carries a true bullet. I told you to take that loping rogue under the line of white point; now, if your shot missed by a hair’s breadth, it went two inches over it. Life lies low in a Mingo, and humanity teaches us to end the sarpents quickly.”

A quiet smile lit up the haughty features of the young Mohican, revealing his grasp of the English as well as the other's meaning; yet he let it pass without seeking any reply.

“I can’t let you accuse Uncas of lacking judgment or skill,” Duncan replied; “he saved my life in the coolest and easiest way possible, and he’s made a friend who’ll never have to remember the debt he owes.”

Uncas partly raised his body and offered his hand to Heyward’s grasp. In that gesture of friendship, the two young men exchanged glances full of intelligence, making Duncan forget the character and condition of his wild companion. Meanwhile, Hawkeye, who watched this burst of youthful feeling with a cool but kind gaze, offered the following reply:

Life is an obligation that friends often owe each other in the wilderness. I dare say I may have served Uncas some such turn myself before now; and I very well remember that he has stood between me and death five different times; three times from the Mingoes, once in crossing Horican, and—

“That bullet was better aimed than common!” Duncan exclaimed, involuntarily flinching from a shot that struck the rock beside him with a sharp rebound.

Hawkeye laid his hand on the shapeless metal and shook his head as he examined it. “Falling lead is never flattened; had it come from the clouds, this might have happened.”

But Uncas’s rifle was deliberately raised toward the heavens, directing his companions' eyes to a point that instantly revealed the mystery. A ragged oak grew on the right bank of the river, almost opposite their position. Seeking the freedom of open space, it had leaned so far forward that its upper branches hung over the stream nearest its bank. Among the topmost leaves, which barely concealed the gnarled and stunted limbs, a savage was nestled—partially hidden by the trunk, partially exposed, as if looking down upon them to gauge the effect of his treacherous aim.

“These devils will scale heaven to ruin us,” Hawkeye said. “Keep him in play, boy, until I can bring ‘killdeer’ to bear, then we’ll try his metal on both sides of the tree simultaneously.”

Uncas held his fire until the scout spoke.

Rifles flashed; leaves and oak bark were torn into the air, scattered by the wind. But the Indian answered their assault with a taunting laugh, sending another bullet his way that struck Hawkeye on the cap of his head. Savage yells erupted again from the woods, and the leaden hail whistled over the heads of the besieged, as if trying to trap them in a place where they’d be easy prey for the warrior who had climbed the tree.

“We need to look here,” the scout said, glancing around with an anxious eye. “Uncas, call your father; we need all our weapons to bring that cunning varmint down from his nest.”

The signal was immediate. Before Hawkeye could reload, Chingachgook joined them. When his son showed the experienced warrior the situation of their dangerous enemy, a usual "hugh" burst from his lips; then, no further expression of surprise or alarm escaped him. Hawkeye and the Mohicans talked earnestly for a few moments in Delaware before each quietly took his post to execute the plan they had quickly devised.

The warrior in the oak had kept up a quick, though ineffective, fire from the moment he was discovered. But his aim was broken by the vigilance of his enemies, whose rifles instantly found any exposed part of him. Still, his bullets landed in the center of the crouching group. Heyward's clothes, which made him stand out so much, were repeatedly cut, and blood eventually drew from a slight wound on his arm.

Emboldened by the long, patient watchfulness of his enemies, the Huron attempted a better, more fatal aim. The Mohicans’ quick eyes caught the dark line of his lower limbs, cautiously exposed through the thin foliage, just a few inches from the tree trunk. Their rifles cracked in unison; as the wounded limb sank, part of the savage's body came into view. In a flash, Hawkeye seized the advantage and fired his deadly weapon at the top of the oak. The leaves were unusually agitated; the dangerous rifle dropped from its commanding height, and after a few moments of futile struggle, the savage’s form swung in the wind, while he still clutched a ragged, naked branch with hands clenched in desperation.

“Give him, for pity’s sake, give him the contents of another rifle,” Duncan cried, turning away his eyes in horror at the sight of a fellow creature in such dreadful peril.

“Not a kernel!” Hawkeye exclaimed, obdurate; “his death is certain, and we have no powder left. Indian fights can last for days; it’s their scalps or ours! And God, who made us, has put the craving to keep the skin on the head into our natures.”

Against that stern and unyielding morality, backed by such visible policy, there was no appeal. From that moment, the yells in the forest fell silent again, the fire was allowed to dwindle, and every eye—that of friends and enemies alike—fixed on the wretched man dangling between heaven and earth. His body yielded to the currents of air, and though no sound escaped him, there were moments when he grimly faced his foes, allowing the anguish of cold despair to be traced across the intervening distance through his dark features. Several times, the scout raised his rifle in an act of mercy, but as prudence won out over his impulse, it was silently lowered again. Eventually, one hand of the Huron lost its grip and dropped heavily to his side. A desperate, fruitless struggle to reclaim the branch succeeded, and then the savage was seen for a fleeting instant, grasping wildly at empty air. Lightning was no faster than the flame from Hawkeye’s rifle; the victim's limbs trembled and contracted, his head fell to his chest, and his body parted the foaming waters like lead as the element closed above him in its ceaseless speed, and every trace of the unhappy Huron was lost forever.

No shout of triumph followed this crucial advantage, but even the Mohicans stared at each other in silent horror. A single yell burst from the woods, and everything settled once more into silence. Hawkeye, who seemed to be the only one processing the event, shook his head at his own momentary weakness, even voicing his self-disapproval aloud.

“It was the last charge in my horn and the last bullet in my pouch, and it was a boy’s act!” he said. “What mattered is whether he struck the rock living or dead! Feeling will soon be gone. Uncas, lad, go down to the canoe and bring up the big horn; it’s all the powder we have left, and we’ll need it till the last grain, or I don’t know the Mingo ways.”

The young Mohican obeyed, leaving the scout to turn over the useless contents of his pouch and shake the empty horn with fresh annoyance. From this unsatisfying inspection, however, he was soon called by a loud, piercing cry from Uncas—a sound that struck Duncan’s ears, even those unaccustomed to it, as a signal of some new and unexpected disaster. Every thought filled with dread for the treasure he'd hidden in the cavern. The young man sprang to his feet, heedless of the danger such exposure brought. As if by some common impulse, his companions mirrored his movement, and together they rushed down the pass to the friendly chasm with such speed that the scattering fire of their enemies became perfectly harmless. The unusual cry had drawn the sisters, along with the wounded David, from their refuge; in a single glance, the entire party understood the nature of the disaster that had broken even the practiced stoicism of their young Indian protector.

At a short distance from the rock, their little bark was to be seen floating across the eddy, toward the swift current of the river, in a manner which proved that its course was directed by some hidden agent. The instant this unwelcome sight caught the eye of the scout, his rifle was leveled as by instinct, but the barrel gave no answer to the bright sparks of the flint.

“’Tis too late, ’tis too late!” Hawkeye exclaimed, dropping the useless piece in bitter disappointment; “the miscreant has struck the rapid; and had we powder, it could hardly send the lead swifter than he now goes!”

The adventurous Huron raised his head above the shelter of the canoe, and, while it glided swiftly down the stream, he waved his hand, and gave forth the shout, which was the known signal of success. His cry was answered by a yell and a laugh from the woods, as tauntingly exulting as if fifty demons were uttering their blasphemies at the fall of some Christian soul.

“Well may you laugh, ye children of the devil!” said the scout, seating himself on a projection of the rock, and suffering his gun to fall neglected at his feet, “for the three quickest and truest rifles in these woods are no better than so many stalks of mullein, or the last year’s horns of a buck!”

“What is to be done?” demanded Duncan, losing the first feeling of disappointment in a more manly desire for exertion; “what will become of us?”

Hawkeye made no other reply than by passing his finger around the crown of his head, in a manner so significant, that none who witnessed the action could mistake its meaning.

“Surely, surely, our case is not so desperate!” exclaimed the youth; “the Hurons are not here; we may make good the caverns, we may oppose their landing.”

“With what?” coolly demanded the scout. “The arrows of Uncas, or such tears as women shed! No, no; you are young, and rich, and have friends, and at such an age I know it is hard to die! But,” glancing his eyes at the Mohicans, “let us remember we are men without a cross, and let us teach these natives of the forest that white blood can run as freely as red, when the appointed hour is come.”

Duncan turned quickly in the direction indicated by the other’s eyes, and read a confirmation of his worst apprehensions in the conduct of the Indians. Chingachgook, placing himself in a dignified posture on another fragment of the rock, had already laid aside his knife and tomahawk, and was in the act of taking the eagle’s plume from his head, and smoothing the solitary tuft of hair in readiness to perform its last and revolting office. His countenance was composed, though thoughtful, while his dark, gleaming eyes were gradually losing the fierceness of the combat in an expression better suited to the change he expected momentarily to undergo.

“Our case is not, cannot be so hopeless!” said Duncan; “even at this very moment succor may be at hand. I see no enemies! They have sickened of a struggle in which they risk so much with so little prospect of gain!”

“It might be a minute, or an hour, before the cunning serpents strike us, and it’s quite natural for them to be listening right now,” Hawkeye said; “but they will come, and they’ll leave us with nothing left to hope for! Chingachgook”—he spoke in Delaware—“my brother, we fought our last battle together, and the Maquas will win through the death of the Mohican sage, and the pale-faced man whose eyes can make night equal day, and level the clouds to the mists of the springs!”

“Let the Mingo women weep for the fallen!” the Indian retorted, with characteristic pride and unshakeable resolve; “the Great Snake of the Mohicans has coiled himself in their wigwams, and has spoiled their victory with the cries of children whose fathers haven't returned! Eleven warriors lie hidden from their tribes’ graves since the snows melted, and no one will know where to find them when Chingachgook’s tongue falls silent! Let them draw the sharpest knife and whirl the swiftest tomahawk, for their bitterest enemy is right there in their grasp. Uncas, the topmost branch of a noble trunk, call on the cowards to hurry, or their hearts will soften, and they'll turn to women!”

“They’re searching among the fish for their dead!” returned the youthful chieftain’s low, soft voice; “the Hurons drift with slimy eels! They fall from the oaks like ripe fruit ready to be eaten! and the Delawares laugh!”

“Ay, ay,” muttered the scout, who had listened to this peculiar burst from the natives with deep attention; “they’ve warmed their Indian feelings, and they’ll soon provoke the Maquas into giving them a swift end. As for me, being of pure white blood, it suits me to die as my color dictates, without a word of scorn or bitterness in my heart!”

“Why die at all!” Cora cried, advancing from the spot where natural horror had held her riveted to the rock until this moment; “the path is open everywhere; fly to the woods and call on God for help. Go, brave men, we already owe you too much; let us no longer drag you into our miserable fate!”

“You know little of the Iroquois ways, lady, if you think they’ve left the path open to the woods!” Hawkeye retorted, adding his simplicity immediately, “the downstream current will surely soon sweep us beyond the reach of their rifles or their voices.”

“Then try the river. Why linger to add to the tally of our merciless enemies’ victims?”

“Why,” the scout repeated, looking around him proudly, “because a man is better off dying in peace with himself than living haunted by an evil conscience! What answer could we give Munro when he asked us where and how we left his children?”

“Go to him, and tell him you left them with a message to hurry their help,” Cora replied, stepping closer to the scout with warm eagerness. “Say that the Hurons have led them into the northern wilderness, but that with vigilance and speed, they might yet be saved. And if, after all, it pleases heaven that his aid arrives too late, tell him so.” Her voice softened, gradually lowering until it was almost choked, “tell him of the love, the blessings, the final prayers of his daughters, and ask him not to mourn their early fate, but to look forward with humble confidence toward the Christian’s goal for his children.” The scout’s hard, weather-beaten features began to shift, and when she finished, he dropped his chin into his hand, lost in deep thought about the proposal.

“There’s reason in what she said!” he finally managed, his lips still compressed and trembling. “Yes, and they carry the spirit of Christianity! What’s right and proper for a red-skin might be sinful for a man who doesn't even have a cross in his blood to plead for his ignorance. Chingachgook! Uncas! do you hear the talk of the dark-eyed woman?”

He addressed his companions in Delaware, and though his tone was calm and deliberate, it carried a profound sense of finality. The elder Mohican listened with deep gravity, seeming to ponder his words as if grasping their true import. After a brief hesitation, he waved a hand in assent and uttered the English word, “Good!” with his people's distinct emphasis. Then, replacing his knife and tomahawk in his girdle, the warrior moved silently to the edge of the rock, which was most hidden from the riverbanks. He paused there for a moment, pointed significantly toward the woods below, murmured a few words in his own tongue as if indicating his intended route, and then slipped into the water, disappearing from the sight of the witnesses.

The scout delayed leaving to speak with the generous girl, whose breathing eased as she saw her plea had been successful.

“Wisdom is sometimes given to the young as well as to the old,” he remarked. “What you have said is wise; there’s no better way to put it. If you're led into the woods, that’s the kind of person who can be spared for a while. Break the twigs on your way, make your trail as broad as you can, so that if mortal eyes can see them, you have a friend who will follow you to the end of the earth before you stray.”

He gave Cora an affectionate shake of the hand, raised his rifle, and after a moment of melancholy solicitude, carefully set it aside before descending to where Chingachgook had just vanished. For an instant, he hung suspended by the rock. Looking around at him with a look of peculiar care, he added bitterly, “If the powder had held out, this disgrace could never have befallen!” Then, loosening his grip, water closed over his head, and he was also lost to sight.

All eyes now turned to Uncas, who stood leaning against the jagged rock with unshakeable composure. After a short wait, Cora pointed down the river and asked,

“Your friends haven't been seen, and are most probably safe. Isn't it time for you to follow?”

“Uncas will stay,” the young Mohican calmly replied in English.

“To heighten the horror of our capture and reduce the chances of our release! Go, generous young man,” Cora continued, lowering her eyes under the Mohican’s gaze, perhaps with an intuitive sense of her power; “go to my father, as I said, and be the most confidential of my messengers. Tell him to trust you with the means to buy his daughters’ freedom. Go! It’s my wish, it’s my prayer, that you will go!”

The young chief’s settled, calm look shifted into gloom, but he didn't hesitate. With a noiseless step, he crossed the rock and plunged into the troubled stream. No one who remained drew a breath until they caught a glimpse of his head emerging for air far down the current, when he sank again and vanished from sight.

These sudden, seemingly successful experiments had all occurred in the few precious minutes that had now slipped away. After one last look at Uncas, Cora turned and, with a trembling lip, addressed Heyward:

“I’ve heard about your boasted skill in the water too, Duncan,” she said. “Follow, then, the wise example set by these simple and faithful beings.”

“Is that the faith Cora Munro expects from her protector?” the young man asked, smiling mournfully, yet with a sting of bitterness.

“This isn't a time for idle subtleties or false notions,” she replied. “It’s a moment when every duty must be weighed equally. You can serve no further purpose here, but your precious life might be saved for other, nearer friends.”

He offered no reply, though his eye lingered wistfully on Alice’s beautiful form, who clung to his arm with the dependency of an infant.

“Consider,” Cora continued after a pause where she seemed to struggle with a pang sharper than any her fear had stirred, “that the worst thing for us is death; a tribute that everyone must pay at God’s appointed time.”

“There are evils worse than death,” Duncan rasped, sounding fretful at her persistence, “but the presence of one who would die for you can avert them.”

Cora dropped her pleas; pulling her face into her shawl, she led the nearly unconscious Alice into the deepest recess of the inner cavern.

CHAPTER IX.

“Be gay securely;
Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim’rous clouds,
That hang on thy clear brow.”—Death of Agrippina

The sudden and almost magical change, from the stirring incidents of the combat to the stillness that now reigned around him, acted on the heated imagination of Heyward like some exciting dream. While all the images and events he had witnessed remained deeply impressed on his memory, he felt a difficulty in persuading him of their truth. Still ignorant of the fate of those who had trusted to the aid of the swift current, he at first listened intently to any signal or sounds of alarm, which might announce the good or evil fortune of their hazardous undertaking. His attention was, however, bestowed in vain; for with the disappearance of Uncas, every sign of the adventurers had been lost, leaving him in total uncertainty of their fate.

In that moment of agonizing doubt, Duncan didn't hesitate to scan his surroundings, bypassing the shelter of the rocks that had so recently kept him safe. Any attempt to detect the slightest sign of their hidden enemies proved as futile as his search for his late companions. The wooded banks of the river appeared once again devoid of any animal life. The clamor that had lately echoed through the forest vaults was gone, leaving only the rush of the water to swell and subside on the currents of the air, in nature's unmixed sweetness. A fish-hawk, perched on the uppermost branches of a dead pine, who had been a distant observer of the conflict, now plunged from his high, ragged perch, soaring in wide arcs over his prey; meanwhile, a jay, whose noisy voice had been silenced by the savages' harsher cries, ventured again to open his discordant throat, as if once more in undisturbed possession of his wild domain. Duncan caught a glimmer of hope from these natural accompaniments of the solitary scene and began to rally his faculties for renewed effort, infused with a reviving confidence of success.

“The Hurons are not to be seen,” he said, addressing David, who had hardly recovered from the stunning blow he’d taken, “let’s hide in the cavern and trust to Providence.”

“I recall joining with two lovely maidens, raising our voices in praise and thanksgiving,” the bewildered singing-master returned; “since then, I’ve been visited by a heavy judgment for my sins. I’ve been mocked with the semblance of sleep while sounds of discord have torn at my ears, sounds that seemed to manifest the fullness of time, as if nature itself had forgotten its harmony.”

“Poor soul! your own time was, in truth, nearing its end! But wake up, and come with me; I’ll lead you where all sounds except those of your own psalmody will be banished.”

“There is melody in the fall of the cataract, and the rushing of many waters is sweet to the senses!” said David, pressing a confused hand to his brow. “Isn't the air already filled with shrieks and cries, as if the departed spirits of the damned—”

“Not now, not now,” interrupted the impatient Heyward, “they’ve stopped, and those who raised them—I trust in God, they’re gone too! Everything but the water is still and at peace; in, then, where you can create the sounds you love so much to hear.”

David smiled sadly, yet a momentary gleam of pleasure touched him as he considered this allusion to his beloved vocation. He no longer hesitated to follow the path that promised such unalloyed gratification to his weary senses; leaning on his companion’s arm, he slipped into the cave's narrow mouth. Duncan quickly gathered a pile of sassafras, drawing it before the passage and meticulously concealing every sign of an opening. Within this fragile barrier, he arranged the blankets left by the foresters, plunging the inner part of the cavern into darkness while the exterior caught a chastened light from the narrow ravine, where one arm of the river rushed to join its sister branch just a few rods below

. “I don’t like the natives' principle,” he said, busy with his task. “It teaches them to submit without a fight in desperate emergencies. Our own maxim—‘while life remains, there is hope’—is more comforting and better suited for a soldier’s temperament. I won’t urge any idle encouragement toward you, Cora; your own fortitude and clear reason will teach you everything your sex needs to know. But can’t we dry the tears of that trembling weeper on your bosom?”

“I’m calmer, Duncan,” Alice replied, rising from her sister’s arms and forcing composure through her tears. “Much calmer now. We’re safe here, secret, free from harm. We’ll just have to hope for everything from those generous men who’ve already risked so much for us.”

“Now our gentle Alice speaks like a daughter of Munro!” Heyward said, pausing to press her hand as he moved toward the cavern's outer entrance. “With two such examples of courage before him, a man would be ashamed to prove anything other than a hero.” He then sat in the center of the cavern, clutching his remaining pistol with a convulsively clenched hand, his squinting, frowning eye revealing the sullen desperation of his aim. “The Hurons, if they come, won’t gain our position as easily as they think,” he slowly muttered, propping his head back against the rock as he waited patiently for the outcome, though his gaze was fixed relentlessly on the open path to their retreat

. With the last sound of his voice, a deep, long, and almost breathless silence followed. The fresh morning air had seeped into the recess, and its influence was slowly settling on the spirits of those within. As minute after minute passed by, leaving them in undisturbed security, a subtle feeling of hope gradually took hold of every heart, though each one felt reluctant to voice expectations that the next moment might so fearfully shatter

.David was the only one who didn't succumb to these shifting emotions. A gleam of light from the opening crossed his pale face, falling upon the pages of the small volume he was turning over and over, as if hunting for a melody more suited to their mood than any that had yet caught his eye. He was, most likely, lost in a confused memory of Duncan's promised comfort. Finally, it seemed, his patient work paid off; without apology or explanation, he spoke the words aloud, drew a long, sweet sound from his pitch-pipe, and then wove through the preliminary notes of the air he had just named with the sweeter tones of his own voice

. "Might this not be dangerous?" Cora asked, glancing her dark eye at Major Heyward

. "Poor fellow! His voice is too weak to be heard above the roar of the falls," the reply went; "beside, the cavern will prove his friend. Let him indulge his passions if it can be done without risk"

. "Isle of Wight!" David repeated, looking around him with the dignity he had long used to silence the whispers of his school; "It's a brave tune, set to solemn words! Let it be sung with due respect!"

. After allowing a moment of stillness to enforce his discipline, the voice of the singer was heard, in low, murmuring syllables, gradually stealing on the ear, until it filled the narrow vault with sounds rendered trebly thrilling by the feeble and tremulous utterance produced by his debility. The melody, which no weakness could destroy, gradually wrought its sweet influence on the senses of those who heard it. It even prevailed over the miserable travesty of the song of David which the singer had selected from a volume of similar effusions, and caused the sense to be forgotten in the insinuating harmony of the sounds. Alice unconsciously dried her tears, and bent her melting eyes on the pallid features of Gamut, with an expression of chastened delight that she neither affected or wished to conceal. Cora bestowed an approving smile on the pious efforts of the namesake of the Jewish prince, and Heyward soon turned his steady, stern look from the outlet of the cavern, to fasten it, with a milder character, on the face of David, or to meet the wandering beams which at moments strayed from the humid eyes of Alice. The open sympathy of the listeners stirred the spirit of the votary of music, whose voice regained its richness and volume, without losing that touching softness which proved its secret charm. Exerting his renovated powers to their utmost, he was yet filling the arches of the cave with long and full tones, when a yell burst into the air without, that instantly stilled his pious strains, choking his voice suddenly, as though his heart had literally bounded into the passage of his throat.

“We are lost!” exclaimed Alice, throwing herself into the arms of Cora.

"Not yet, not yet," Heyward replied, agitated but undaunted. "The sound originated from the island's center, caused by the sight of their dead companions. We haven't been found yet, and there's still hope."

Faint and almost desperate about escape, Duncan didn't discard the words; they stirred the sisters' powers in a way that left them waiting in silence for the outcome. A second yell soon followed the first as a rush of voices poured down the island, from its highest points to its lowest, reaching the bare rock above the caverns. There, after a shout of savage triumph, the air remained filled with horrible cries and screams—sounds only a man could utter in a state of the fiercest barbarity.

The sounds quickly spread in every direction. Some called to their companions from the water's edge, and answers came from above. Cries echoed in the startling space between the two caves, mixing with hoarser yells rising from the abyss of the deep ravine. In short, the savage sounds diffused so rapidly across the barren rock that it wasn't hard for the anxious listeners to imagine they could be heard below, as in reality, they were above them on every side.

Amidst all the uproar, a triumphant yell rang out within a few yards of the cave's hidden entrance. Heyward threw away every hope, convinced it was the signal that they’d been discovered. The feeling vanished again as he heard voices gathering near where the white man had so reluctantly dropped his rifle. Amid the jargon of Indian dialects he now understood, it was easy to pick out not just words, but full sentences, in the patois of the Canadas. A chorus of voices shouted simultaneously, “La Longue Carabine!” causing the opposite woods to echo with a name that Heyward vividly recalled as having been given by his enemies to a celebrated hunter and scout of the English camp—and who, he learned for the first time, was his late companion

. “La Longue Carabine! La Longue Carabine!” the cry passed from one mouth to the next until the entire band seemed to gather around a trophy announcing the death of its formidable owner. After a loud consultation, which was sometimes drowned out by bursts of savage joy, they separated again, filling the air with the name of a foe whose body, Heywood could discern from their expressions, they hoped to find hidden in some crevice of the island

. “Now,” he whispered to the trembling sisters, “now is the moment of uncertainty! If our place of retreat escapes this scrutiny, we’re still safe! In any case, we’re assured by what our enemies have lost that our friends have escaped, and in just two hours, we might find help from Webb”

.A few minutes of fearful stillness settled over them, during which Heyward knew the savages were searching with sharper vigilance and method. More than once he could distinguish their footsteps as they brushed against the sassafras, rustling the faded leaves and snapping the branches. Eventually, the pile gave way slightly; a corner of a blanket slipped free, and a faint ray of light gleamed into the cave's interior. Cora folded Alice to her bosom in agony, and Duncan sprang to his feet. A shout then echoed, as if from the very heart of the rock, announcing that the neighboring cavern had finally been entered. In a minute, the number and volume of the voices revealed that the whole party was gathered in and around that secret place.

Since the inner passages to the two caves were so close, Duncan, convinced escape was impossible, moved David and the sisters to position himself between them and the first sign of the terrible meeting. Growing desperate, he drew close to the slight barrier separating him only a few feet from his relentless pursuers, and pressing his face to the casual opening, he gazed out with a kind of desperate indifference at their movements.

In his arm rested the massive shoulder of a giant Indian, whose deep, authoritative voice seemed to dictate the actions of his comrades. Beyond him, Duncan could gaze into the vault opposite, which was crammed with savages upturning and rifling the scout's humble furnishings. David’s wound had stained the sassafras leaves a hue the natives instinctively knew heralded the season. In celebration of this success, they let out a howl, like an opening from countless hounds that had finally found a lost trail. Following this cry of victory, they tore through the fragrant bed of the cavern, driving branches into the chasm, scattering the boughs as if they suspected them to be concealing the man they had long hated and feared. A fierce, wild-looking warrior approached the chief, carrying a load of brush, pointing exultantly at the deep red stains with which it was dusted, and roared his joy in Indian yells—a meaning Heyward could only grasp by the constant repetition of "La Longue Carabine!" When his triumph was over, he tossed the brush onto the slight mound Duncan had made before the entrance to the second cavern and blocked the view. Others followed his lead; as they drew branches from the scout's cave, they piled them up, unconsciously bolstering the security of those they sought. The defense’s very lightness was its greatest asset, for no one thought to disturb a heap of brush, which they all believed, in that moment of haste and confusion, had been accidentally raised by their own hands

.As the blankets gave way under the outward pressure, and the branches settled into the rock's fissure by their own weight, forming a compact mass, Duncan breathed freely once more. With a light step and a lighter heart, he returned to the cave's center, taking the spot he’d left—a vantage point where he could watch the opening next to the river. While he moved, the Indians, as if prompted by a shared impulse, broke away from the chasm in a single body, heard rushing back up the island toward their original descent point. Another wail betrayed that they had gathered around the bodies of their fallen comrades.

Duncan looked at his companions now; during the most perilous moments, he’d worried that the anxiety on his face might signal further alarm to those who couldn't bear it themselves.

“They’re gone, Cora!” he whispered. “Alice, they’ve come back! We’re saved! Heaven alone delivered us from such a merciless enemy—praise be to it!”

“Then I’ll return my thanks to Heaven!” the younger sister exclaimed, rising from Cora’s embrace and throwing herself in enthusiastic gratitude onto the bare rock. “To that Heaven that spared my gray-headed father's tears; to that Heaven that saved those I love so much.”

Both Heyward and the more temperate Cora watched the involuntary emotion with profound sympathy. Heyward secretly believed that piety had never worn a form so lovely as it now assumed in Alice’s youthful self. Her eyes shone with grateful feeling; the flush of her beauty settled on her cheeks, and her entire soul seemed poised, anxious to pour out its thanks through her eloquent features. But when her lips moved, the words they were meant to utter froze, chilled by some new, sudden dread. Her bloom faded to the pallor of death; her soft, melting eyes hardened, contracting with horror. As the hands she had raised, clasped toward heaven, dropped in horizontal lines before her, the fingers convulsed and pointed forward. Heyward turned the instant she gestured, his suspicions confirmed. Peering just above the ledge marking the cavern's opening, he beheld Le Renard Subtil’s malignant, fierce, and savage features

. In that moment of surprise, however, Heyward remained self-possessed. Observing the Indian’s vacant countenance, he realized that his eye, accustomed to open air, hadn't yet penetrated the dusky light pervading the cavern’s depths. He had even considered retreating behind a curve in the natural wall, which might still conceal him and his companions, but the sudden gleam of intelligence flashing across the savage’s face showed him it was too late; they had been betrayed

.The look of exultation and brutal triumph that heralded this terrible truth was utterly infuriating. Forgetting everything except the impulse of his hot blood, Duncan leveled his pistol and fired. The weapon’s report made the cavern bellow like an eruption from a volcano; when the smoke it vomited had been driven away by the current of air issuing from the ravine, the place that had so recently been occupied by the features of his treacherous guide was vacant. Rushing to the outlet, Heyward caught a glimpse of his dark figure stealing around a low, narrow ledge, which soon hid him entirely from sight.

Among the savages, a frightful stillness succeeded the explosion that had just burst from the bowels of the rock. But when Le Renard raised his voice in a long, intelligible whoop, it was answered by a spontaneous yell from every Indian within earshot.

The clamorous noises rushed down the island again; before Duncan could recover from the shock, his feeble barrier of brush scattered to the winds. The cavern was entered at both its extremities, and he and his companions were dragged from their shelter and borne into the daylight, where they stood surrounded by the entire band of triumphant Hurons.

CHAPTER X.

“I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn
As much as we this night have overwatched!”
—Midsummer Night’s Dream

The instant the shock of this sudden misfortune had abated, Duncan began to make his observations on the appearance and proceedings of their captors. Contrary to the usages of the natives in the wantonness of their success they had respected, not only the persons of the trembling sisters, but his own. The rich ornaments of his military attire had indeed been repeatedly handled by different individuals of the tribes with eyes expressing a savage longing to possess the baubles; but before the customary violence could be resorted to, a mandate in the authoritative voice of the large warrior, already mentioned, stayed the uplifted hand, and convinced Heyward that they were to be reserved for some object of particular moment.

While, however, these manifestations of weakness were exhibited by the young and vain of the party, the more experienced warriors continued their search throughout both caverns, with an activity that denoted they were far from being satisfied with those fruits of their conquest which had already been brought to light. Unable to discover any new victim, these diligent workers of vengeance soon approached their male prisoners, pronouncing the name “La Longue Carabine,” with a fierceness that could not be easily mistaken. Duncan affected not to comprehend the meaning of their repeated and violent interrogatories, while his companion was spared the effort of a similar deception by his ignorance of French. Wearied at length by their importunities, and apprehensive of irritating his captors by too stubborn a silence, the former looked about him in quest of Magua, who might interpret his answers to questions which were at each moment becoming more earnest and threatening.

The savage's actions stood as a stark exception among his companions. While the others were busy chasing their childish lust for luxury, plundering even the wretched remnants of the scout, or searching with bloodthirsty vengeance in their eyes for their missing owner, Le Renard stood a little distance from the prisoners. His demeanor was so quiet and satisfied that it betrayed the grand success of his treachery. When Heyward’s eyes first met those of his recent guide, he turned them away in horror at the sinister yet calm look he encountered. Conquering his disgust, however, he managed to address his successful enemy.

“Le Renard Subtil is too much of a warrior,” said the reluctant Heyward, “to refuse telling an unarmed man what his conquerors say.”

“They ask for the hunter who knows the paths through the woods,” Magua returned in broken English, laying his hand, and with a ferocious smile, on the bundle of leaves where a wound on his own shoulder was bandaged. “‘La Longue Carabine’! His rifle is good, and his eye never shut; but, like the short gun of the white chief, it means nothing against the life of Le Subtil.”

“Le Renard is too brave to remember the hurts received in war, or the hands that gave them.”

"Was it war, when the weary Indian rested by the sugartree to taste his corn? Who filled the bushes with creeping enemies? Who drew the knife, whose tongue was peace while his heart was stained with blood? Did Magua say that the hatchet had been dug from the ground, and that his hand had unearthed it?"

Duncan dared not reply to his accuser by reminding him of his own premeditated treachery, nor did he wish to soothe his resentment with any apology; he remained silent. Magua seemed content to let the controversy—and all further communication—rest there, resuming his leaning posture against the rock from which he had momentarily sprung. But the cry of "La Longue Carabine" was immediately renewed as the impatient savages perceived the brief exchange was over.

"Listen," Magua said with stubborn indifference, "the red Hurons demand the life of 'The Long Rifle,' or they will have the blood of the one who keeps him hidden!"

"He's gone—escaped; he's beyond their reach."

Renard smiled with cold contempt as he answered:

"When the white man dies, he thinks he’s at peace; but the red men know how to torture even the ghosts of their enemies. Where is his body? Let the Hurons see his scalp."

"He's not dead, but he's escaped."

Magua shook his head in disbelief.

"Is he a bird, spreading his wings; or is he a fish, swimming without air! The white chief read in his books and thinks the Hurons are fools!"

"Though 'The Long Rifle' can't swim, he drifted down the stream once the powder was all burned, and the Hurons’ eyes were hidden behind a cloud."

"And why did the white chief stay?" demanded the still incredulous Indian. "Is he a stone that sinks to the bottom, or does the scalp burn his head?"

"That I am not stone, your dead comrade who fell into the falls, might answer, if life still remained in him," the provoked young man retorted, using the boastful language most likely to earn an Indian's admiration in his anger. "The white man thinks none but cowards abandon their women."

Magua muttered a few words, inaudible between his teeth, before continuing aloud:

"Can the Delawares swim, too, or just crawl through the bushes? Where is 'Le Gros Serpent'?"

Duncan, who understood that these Canadian names meant his late companions were better known to his enemies than to him, answered reluctantly: "He's gone down with the water too."

"Is 'Le Cerf Agile' not here?"

"I don't know who you call 'The Nimble Deer,'" Duncan replied, gladly taking any excuse to stall.

"Uncas," Magua returned, pronouncing the Delaware name with even more difficulty than his English words. "'Bounding Elk' is what the white man calls when he calls out to the young Mohican."

“There’s some confusion in names between us, Le Renard,” Duncan said, hoping to spark a debate. “Daim is the French for deer, and cerf for stag; elan is the true term if you’re talking about an elk.”

“Yeah,” muttered the Indian in his native tongue. “Those pale faces are just prattling women! They have two words for everything, while a red-skin just lets his voice do the talking.” Then, switching languages, he continued, sticking to the imperfect names his provincial instructors used. “The deer is swift but weak; the elk is swift but strong; and the son of ‘Le Serpent’ is ‘Le Cerf Agile.’ Has he jumped the river into the woods?”

“If you mean the younger Delaware, he’s gone down with the water too.”

Since there was nothing improbable about an Indian escaping in that way, Magua admitted what he’d heard, showing a readiness that proved how little he valued such worthless captives. With his companions, however, the feeling was clearly different.

The Hurons had awaited the result of this short dialogue with characteristic patience, and with a silence that increased until there was a general stillness in the band. When Heyward ceased to speak, they turned their eyes, as one man, on Magua, demanding, in this expressive manner, an explanation of what had been said. Their interpreter pointed to the river, and made them acquainted with the result, as much by the action as by the few words he uttered. When the fact was generally understood, the savages raised a frightful yell, which declared the extent of their disappointment. Some ran furiously to the water’s edge, beating the air with frantic gestures, while others spat upon the element, to resent the supposed treason it had committed against their acknowledged rights as conquerors. A few, and they not the least powerful and terrific of the band, threw lowering looks, in which the fiercest passion was only tempered by habitual self-command, at those captives who still remained in their power, while one or two even gave vent to their malignant feelings by the most menacing gestures, against which neither the sex nor the beauty of the sisters was any protection. The young soldier made a desperate but fruitless effort to spring to the side of Alice, when he saw the dark hand of a savage twisted in the rich tresses which were flowing in volumes over her shoulders, while a knife was passed around the head from which they fell, as if to denote the horrid manner in which it was about to be robbed of its beautiful ornament. But his hands were bound; and at the first movement he made, he felt the grasp of the powerful Indian who directed the band, pressing his shoulder like a vise. Immediately conscious how unavailing any struggle against such an overwhelming force must prove, he submitted to his fate, encouraging his gentle companions by a few low and tender assurances, that the natives seldom failed to threaten more than they performed.

But as Duncan offered those words of comfort to soothe the sisters' fears, he wasn't so weak as to fool himself. He understood well that the authority of an Indian chief was hardly conventional; it was often upheld by sheer physical might rather than any moral superiority he might claim. The danger, therefore, was magnified precisely in proportion to the number of savage spirits surrounding them. Any positive command from him, the acknowledged leader, was liable to be violated at any moment by a rash hand choosing to sacrifice a victim to the spirit of some dead friend or relative. Thus, while he maintained an outward show of calm and fortitude, his heart hammered against his throat whenever any of their fierce captors drew near the helpless sisters, or fixed one of their sullen, wandering gazes upon those fragile forms so easily overwhelmed by the slightest assault.

His worries, however, eased considerably when he saw the leader had summoned his warriors for counsel. Their discussions were brief, and judging by the silence of most of the group, the decision seemed unanimous. The way the few speakers pointed toward Webb's encampment showed they feared danger from that direction. This surely hastened their resolve and sped up their subsequent movements.

During this brief conference, Heyward, finding a respite from his worst fears, had time to admire the cautious way the Hurons had approached, even after the fighting had stopped.

It has already been stated that the upper half of the island was a naked rock, and destitute of any other defenses than a few scattered logs of driftwood. They had selected this point to make their descent, having borne the canoe through the wood around the cataract for that purpose. Placing their arms in the little vessel a dozen men clinging to its sides had trusted themselves to the direction of the canoe, which was controlled by two of the most skillful warriors, in attitudes that enabled them to command a view of the dangerous passage. Favored by this arrangement, they touched the head of the island at that point which had proved so fatal to their first adventurers, but with the advantages of superior numbers, and the possession of firearms. That such had been the manner of their descent was rendered quite apparent to Duncan; for they now bore the light bark from the upper end of the rock, and placed it in the water, near the mouth of the outer cavern. As soon as this change was made, the leader made signs to the prisoners to descend and enter.

As resistance was impossible, and remonstrance useless, Heyward set the example of submission, by leading the way into the canoe, where he was soon seated with the sisters and the still wondering David. Notwithstanding the Hurons were necessarily ignorant of the little channels among the eddies and rapids of the stream, they knew the common signs of such a navigation too well to commit any material blunder. When the pilot chosen for the task of guiding the canoe had taken his station, the whole band plunged again into the river, the vessel glided down the current, and in a few moments the captives found themselves on the south bank of the stream, nearly opposite to the point where they had struck it the preceding evening.

[Illustration]

Another brief but serious consultation took place there. From the cover of the woods, the horses—whose panic their owners blamed for their worst misfortune—were led to a sheltered spot. The band then split. The great chief, frequently mentioned, mounted Heyward and led the way straight across the river, followed by most of his people into the woods, leaving the prisoners in charge of six savages, led by Le Renard Subtil. Duncan watched every move with renewed unease.

He'd been fond of believing that, due to the savages' uncommon forbearance, he was merely a prisoner to be delivered to Montcalm. Since the minds of those in misery rarely rest, and invention is always liveliest when sparked by hope—no matter how faint or distant—he had even imagined that Munro’s parental affections would be used to entice him away from his duty to the king. Though the French commander possessed high qualities of courage and enterprise, he was also known for political tactics that often disregarded moral obligations and generally disgraced European diplomacy of that era.

All those busy and ingenious speculations were instantly crushed by the actions of his captors. The part of the band that had followed the great warrior took the path toward the base of the Horican, and for himself and his companions, there was no other expectation than to be held as hopeless captives by their savage conquerors. Eager to know the worst, and in such an emergency, willing to test the potency of gold, he overcame his reluctance to speak with Magua. Addressing his former guide, who now assumed the authority and bearing of one who would direct the party's future movements, he said in tones as friendly and confiding as he could manage:

“I would speak to Magua, what is fit only for such a great chief to hear.”

The Indian turned his eyes scornfully upon the young soldier and replied:

“Speak; trees have no ears.”

“But the red Hurons are not deaf; and counsel fit for the great men of a nation would surely intoxicate the young warriors. If Magua won’t listen, the king's officer knows how to be silent.”

The savage spoke carelessly to his comrades, who were awkwardly busy preparing the horses for the arrival of the sisters, and moved slightly to one side, where he gestured cautiously for Heyward to follow.

“Now, speak,” he commanded, “if your words are what Magua should hear.”

"Le Renard Subtil has proven himself worthy of the honorable name bestowed upon him by his Canadian fathers," Heyward began. "I see his wisdom, and all he has done for us; we shall remember it when the time comes to reward him. Yes! Renard has shown that he is not just a great chief in council, but one who knows how to deceive his enemies!"

“What has Renard done?” coldly demanded the Indian.

“What!has he not seen that the woods were filled with outlying parties of the enemies, and that the serpent could not steal through them without being seen?Then, did he not lose his path to blind the eyes of the Hurons?Did he not pretend to go back to his tribe, who had treated him ill, and driven him from their wigwams like a dog?And, when we saw what he wished to do, did we not aid him, by making a false face, that the Hurons might think the white man believed that his friend was his enemy?Is not all this true?And when Le Subtil had shut the eyes and stopped the ears of his nation by his wisdom, did they not forget that they had once done him wrong, and forced him to flee to the Mohawks?And did they not leave him on the south side of the river, with their prisoners, while they have gone foolishly on the north?Does not Renard mean to turn like a fox on his footsteps, and to carry to the rich and gray-headed Scotchman his daughters?Yes, Magua, I see it all, and I have already been thinking how so much wisdom and honesty should be repaid.First, the chief of William Henry will give as a great chief should for such a service.The medal[1] of Magua will no longer be of tin, but of beaten gold; his horn will run over with powder; dollars will be as plenty in his pouch as pebbles on the shore of Horican; and the deer will lick his hand, for they will know it to be vain to fly from the rifle he will carry!As for me, I don't know how to surpass the Scotchman's gratitude, but—yes, I will—

[1] It’s long been a custom among the whites to soothe the important Indian leaders by presenting medals worn in place of their own rough ornaments. Those bestowed by the English usually bore the image of the reigning king, and those given by the Americans, the portrait of the president.

“What will the young chief, who hails from the sun, offer?” demanded the Huron, noticing Heyward falter in his desire to end the tally of favors with something that truly satisfied an Indian’s deepest wish.

“He will make the fire-water from the islands in the salt lake flow before Magua’s wigwam, until the Indian’s heart is lighter than a hummingbird's feathers, and his breath sweeter than wild honeysuckle.”

Le Renard listened gravely as Heyward slowly spoke in subtle tones. When the young man mentioned the artifice he supposed the Indians had practiced within their own nation, the listener’s face was veiled with cautious gravity. When Le Renard alluded to the injury Duncan believed had driven the Huron from their native tribe, a flash of ungovernable ferocity ignited in the other’s eyes, convincing the adventurous speaker he had struck the right chord. By the time Heyward reached the part where he so artfully blended the thirst for vengeance with the desire for gain, he had, at least, earned the savage's deepest attention. Le Renard’s question was calm and possessed all the dignity of an Indian; yet, by the thoughtful expression on the listener’s face, it was quite clear that the answer was cunningly devised. The Huron mused for a few moments, then laying a hand on the rough bandages of his wounded shoulder, he asked with some energy:

“Do friends make such marks?”

“Would ‘La Longue Carbine’ cut one so slight on an enemy?”

“Do the Delawares crawl upon those they love like snakes, twisting themselves to strike?”

“Would ‘Le Gros Serpent’ have been heard by the ears of one he wished to be deaf?”

“Does the white chief burn his powder in the faces of his brothers?”

“Does he ever miss his aim, when seriously bent to kill?” returned Duncan, smiling with well-acted sincerity.

Another long, deliberate pause followed those pithy questions and ready responses. Duncan noticed that the Indian hesitated. As he was in the middle of listing the spoils to secure his victory, Magua made an expressive gesture and spoke:

“Enough; Le Renard is a wise chief, and what he does will be seen. Go, and keep your mouth shut. When Magua speaks, that’s when you answer.”

Heyward, sensing his companion's wary gaze fixed on the rest of the band, immediately retreated to avoid any hint of an unwelcome alliance with their leader. Magua then approached the horses, appearing pleased with his comrades' diligence and cleverness. He signaled Heyward to help the sisters into the saddles, as he rarely deigned to use English unless prompted by a pressing need.

There was no longer any plausible excuse for delay, and Duncan was forced, however reluctantly, to comply. As he performed his duty, he whispered his rekindled hopes into the ears of the trembling women, who, fearing the savage visages of their captors, seldom lifted their eyes from the ground. David’s mare had been taken by the large chief’s followers; consequently, both its owner and Duncan were compelled to travel on foot. However, the latter didn't deeply regret this predicament, as it wouldn't slow the party down; he still cast longing glances toward Fort Edward, hoping for any sound from that part of the woods that might signal aid. When everyone was ready, Magua gave the signal to move, leading the group personally by advancing ahead. David followed next, gradually coming to a true sense of his condition as the effects of his wound faded. The sisters rode in his rear, with Heyward beside them, while the Indians flanked the group, bringing up the pace of the march with an unrelenting caution.

They proceeded in unbroken silence, save for the solitary words of comfort Heyward offered the women, or David’s sighs, which he released as piteous exclamations intended to convey a humble resignation. Their course was south, nearly opposite to the road leading to William Henry. Despite this apparent adherence by Magua to his conquerors' original determination, Heyward couldn't believe his tempting bait had been so quickly forgotten. He knew too well the winding paths of an Indian; he wouldn't assume that their apparent direction led straight to their goal when trickery was involved. Mile after mile, they passed through the endless woods, moving in this agonizing way with no end in sight. Heyward watched the sun as its rays pierced the tree branches, longing for the moment Magua’s policy would shift their route to one more favorable to his hopes. Sometimes he imagined the wary savage, desperate to evade Montcalm's army safely, was heading toward a known border settlement where a distinguished crown officer and favored friend of the Six Nations held his lands and his home. Being delivered into the hands of Sir William Johnson would be far better than being led into the wilderness of Canada; but achieving even that seemed to require traversing many weary leagues of forest, each step taking him further from the battlefield, and consequently, from both honor and duty

.Cora was the only one who recalled the scout's parting instructions, and whenever an opening appeared, she’d stretch out her arm to move aside the twigs brushing her hands. But the vigilance of the Indians made this precaution both difficult and perilous. She was often thwarted in her efforts by their watchful eyes when she needed to feign an alarm she didn't feel, using a gesture of feminine fear to occupy the limb. Once, and only once, she succeeded completely: when she broke the bough of a large sumach and, with a sudden thought, let her glove fall at the same moment. This signal, meant for those who might follow, was noticed by one of her guides, who retrieved the glove, broke the remaining branches in a way that suggested a beast was thrashing within them, and then placed his hand on his tomahawk with such a significant look that it effectively ended these stolen mementos of their passage.

Since there were horses, leaving tracks in both bands of the Indians, this interruption cut off any hope of aid being conveyed along their trail.

Heyward would have protested if there had been anything encouraging in the gloomy expanse of Magua. But the savage, throughout all this time, seldom looked at his followers, and never spoke. Guided only by the sun, or aided by those blind markers known only to a native’s wisdom, he navigated the pine barrens, crossing meager fertile valleys, brooks, and rivulets, and undulating hills. He moved with instinctual accuracy, almost as direct as a bird. He never seemed to hesitate. Whether the path was indistinct, vanished, or merely a beaten track before him made no difference to his speed or certainty. It seemed fatigue held him back. Whenever the weary travelers looked up from the decaying leaves beneath their feet, they could catch sight of his dark form flickering among the tree stems ahead, his head fixed forward, the light plume on his crest fluttering in the current of air created only by his own swift movement

. But all this diligence and speed had a purpose. After crossing a low vale where a brook rushed along, he suddenly climbed a hill so steep and difficult to ascend that the sisters were forced to stop and follow. Upon reaching the summit, they found themselves on a level spot, sparsely covered with trees, under one of which Magua had lain, as if ready to seek the rest the entire party so desperately needed

CHAPTER XI.

“Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him.”
—Shylock

The Indian had selected for this desirable purpose one of those steep, pyramidal hills, which bear a strong resemblance to artificial mounds, and which so frequently occur in the valleys of America. The one in question was high and precipitous; its top flattened, as usual; but with one of its sides more than ordinarily irregular. It possessed no other apparent advantage for a resting place, than in its elevation and form, which might render defense easy, and surprise nearly impossible. As Heyward, however, no longer expected that rescue which time and distance now rendered so improbable, he regarded these little peculiarities with an eye devoid of interest, devoting himself entirely to the comfort and condolence of his feebler companions. The Narragansetts were suffered to browse on the branches of the trees and shrubs that were thinly scattered over the summit of the hill, while the remains of their provisions were spread under the shade of a beech, that stretched its horizontal limbs like a canopy above them.

Notwithstanding the swiftness of their flight, one of the Indians had found an opportunity to strike a straggling fawn with an arrow, and had borne the more preferable fragments of the victim, patiently on his shoulders, to the stopping place. Without any aid from the science of cookery, he was immediately employed, in common with his fellows, in gorging himself with this digestible sustenance. Magua alone sat apart, without participating in the revolting meal, and apparently buried in the deepest thought.

This abstinence, so remarkable in an Indian who had the means to satisfy hunger, eventually caught Heyward's attention. The young man willingly believed that the Huron was figuring out the most effective way to evade his associates’ watch. To help his plans with a suggestion of his own and to strengthen the temptation, he left the beech and wandered aimlessly to where Le Renard was sitting.

“Has Magua kept the sun in his face long enough to escape all danger from the Canadians?” he asked, as if no longer doubting the good understanding they shared; “and won’t the chief of William Henry be happier to see his daughters before another night hardens his heart to their loss, making him less generous in his reward?”

“Do pale faces love their children less in the morning than at night?” the Indian asked, coldly.

“By no means,” Heyward replied, anxious to recall any mistake he might have made, “the white man can, and often does, forget the burial places of his fathers; he sometimes stops remembering those he should cherish and promise to protect, but a parent’s affection for their child is never allowed to die.”

“And is the heart of the white-headed chief soft? Will he think of the little ones his squaws have given him? He’s hard on his warriors, and his eyes are made of stone!”

“He is severe to the idle and wicked, but to the sober and deserving he is a leader, both just and humane. I have known many fond and tender parents, but never have I seen a man whose heart was softer toward his child. You have seen the gray-head in front of his warriors, Magua; but I have seen his eyes swimming in water when he spoke of those children who are now in your power!”

Heyward paused, unsure how to interpret the remarkable expression shining on the swarthy features of the attentive Indian. At first, he thought the memory of the promised reward was vivid as he listened to the sources of parental feeling that assured it; but as Duncan continued, the expression of joy became so fiercely malignant that it seemed inescapable that it stemmed from a passion more sinister than mere greed.

“Go,” said the Huron, instantly suppressing the alarming display with a death-like calmness in his face. “Go to the dark-haired daughter and tell her, ‘Magua waits to speak.’ The father will remember what the child promises.”

Duncan, who interpreted this as a plea for an extra guarantee that the promised gifts wouldn't be withheld, slowly and reluctantly returned to where the sisters lay resting from their fatigue, intending to convey its meaning to Cora.

“You understand the nature of an Indian’s wishes,” he concluded as he led her to where she was expected, “and you must be generous with your offers of powder and blankets. Ardent spirits are, however, the most prized by those like him; it wouldn't be wrong to add a gift from your own hand, with that grace you know so well how to employ. Remember, Cora, that on your quick wit and ingenuity, even your life—that of Alice too—may depend.”

“Heyward, and yours too!”

“Mine is of little consequence; it’s already sold to my king, and any enemy who gains power can seize it. I have no father to expect me, and few friends to mourn a fate I chased with the insatiable longings of youth for distinction. But hush! we’re approaching the Indian. Magua, the lady you wish to speak with, is here.”

The Indian rose slowly from his seat and stood motionless for nearly a minute. He then signaled for Heyward to leave, saying coldly:

“When the Huron speaks to the women, his tribe shuts their ears.”

Duncan, still lingering as if refusing to comply, said with a calm smile:

“You hear, Heyward, and common sense should urge you to leave. Go comfort Alice with our promising prospects.”

She waited until he had gone, then turned to the native, her voice and manner carrying the dignity of her sex, and added, “What would Le Renard say to Munro’s daughter?”

“Listen,” the Indian said, laying his hand firmly on her arm, as if demanding her complete attention; a gesture Cora quietly but firmly resisted, pulling her limb free from his grasp. “Magua was born a chief and a warrior among the red Hurons of the lakes; he watched the suns of twenty summers melt the snows of twenty winters in the streams before he saw a pale face, and he was happy! Then his Canada fathers came into the woods and taught him to drink the fire-water, and he became a rascal. The Hurons drove him from the graves of his fathers, just as they chased the hunted buffalo. He ran along the shores of the lakes, following their outlet to the ‘city of cannon.’ There he hunted and fished until the people chased him again through the woods into the arms of his enemies. The chief, born a Huron, was at last a warrior among the Mohawks!”

“I’ve heard something like this before,” Cora replied, noting how he paused to suppress the passions that began to blaze too brightly as he recalled those supposed injuries.

“Was it Le Renard’s fault his head wasn't made of rock? Who gave him the fire-water? Who made him a villain? It was the pale faces, the people of your own color.”

“And am I responsible for the existence of thoughtless and unprincipled men whose features might resemble mine?” Cora calmly demanded of the excited savage.

“No; Magua is a man, not a fool; you never open their lips to that burning stream: the Great Spirit has given you wisdom!”

“So what am I to do, or say, about your misfortunes, not to mention your errors?”

“Listen,” the Indian repeated, holding onto his earnestness; “when his English and French fathers started the feud, Le Renard attacked the Mohawks’ war camp and went against his own people. The pale faces drove the red-skins from their hunting grounds, and now when they fight, a white man leads the way. The old chief at Horican, your father, was the great captain of our war-party. He told the Mohawks what to do and what not to do, and he was determined. He established a law: if an Indian drank the fire-water and came into the tents of his warriors, it should not be forgotten. Magua foolishly opened his mouth, and the hot liquor led him into Munro’s cabin. What did the gray-head let his daughter say?”

“He didn’t forget his words, and he delivered justice by punishing the offender,” said the undaunted daughter.

“Justice!” the Indian repeated, casting a fierce glance at her unyielding face; “is it just to create evil and then punish for it? Magua wasn't himself; it was the fire-water that spoke and acted on his behalf! But Munro believed it. The Huron chief was bound before all the pale-faced warriors and whipped like a dog.”

Cora remained silent, for she didn’t know how to soften this imprudent severity from her father in a way an Indian would understand.

"See!" Magua continued, tearing aside the thin calico that imperfectly concealed his painted chest. "These are scars from knives and bullets—these a warrior can boast of before his nation; but the gray-head leaves marks upon the Huron chief that he must hide, like a squaw, beneath this painted cloth of the whites."

"I had thought," Cora resumed, "that an Indian warrior was patient, and that his spirit neither felt nor knew the pain his body endured."

"When the Chippewas tied Magua to the stake and cut this gash," the other said, laying a finger on a deep scar, "the Huron laughed in their faces and told them: 'Women struck so lightly! His spirit was then in the clouds! But when he felt Munro's blows, his spirit lay under the birch. The spirit of a Huron is never drunk; it remembers forever!"

"But it can be appeased. If my father has wronged you this injustice, show him how an Indian can forgive an injury and take back his daughters. You've heard from Major Heyward—"

Magua shook his head, forbidding the repetition of offers he so despised.

"What would you want?" Cora continued after a painful pause, the conviction forcing itself upon her that the overly sanguine and generous Duncan had been cruelly deceived by the savage's cunning.

"A Huron loves what is good—good for good; bad for bad!"

"You would then avenge the injury Munro inflicted upon his helpless daughters. Wouldn't it be more like a man to go before his face and claim the satisfaction of a warrior?"

“The arms of the pale faces are long, and their knives sharp!” the savage retorted with a malignant laugh, “why should Le Renard go among the muskets of his warriors when he holds the spirit of the gray-head in his hand?”

“Name your intention, Magua,” Cora said, struggling to keep her voice steady and calm. “Are you planning to lead us prisoners into the woods, or are you contemplating something far worse? Isn't there a reward, no way to soothe this wound, or soften your heart? At the very least, release my gentle sister, and pour all your malice on me. Buy wealth with her safety and satisfy your revenge with a single victim. Losing both his daughters might see the old man buried, and where then will Le Renard find his satisfaction?”

“Listen,” the Indian said again. “The light-eyed ones can return to the Horican and tell the old chief what has happened, if the dark-haired woman swears by the Great Spirit of her fathers that she will tell no lies.”

“What must I promise?” Cora demanded, still holding a secret authority over the fierce native through the collected dignity of her presence.

“When Magua left his people, his wife was given to another chief; he’s now made friends with the Hurons and will return to his tribe’s graves on the shores of the great lake. Let the daughter of the English chief follow and live in his wigwam forever.”

However revolting, a proposal of such a character might prove to Cora, despite her powerful disgust, still left enough self-control to reply without revealing her weakness.

“What pleasure would Magua find in sharing his cabin with a wife he didn't love; one who was of a different nation and color? It would be better to take Munro’s gold and buy the heart of some Huron girl with his gifts.”

The Indian remained silent for nearly a minute, but he fixed his fierce gaze on Cora with such wavering looks that her eyes sank in shame. She felt as though they had witnessed an expression no chaste woman could endure for the first time. As she shrank inward, dreading that some proposal even more shocking than the last might wound her ears, Magua’s voice cut through the silence with deepest malice:

“When the blows scorched the Huron’s back, he would know where to find a woman to feel the sting. Munro’s daughter would draw his water, hoe his corn, and cook his venison. The body of the gray-head would sleep among his cannons, but his heart would lie within the reach of Le Subtil’s knife.”

“Monster! You truly deserve such a treacherous name,” Cora cried out in an uncontrollable burst of filial outrage. “Only a fiend could devise such vengeance. But you overestimate your power! You’ll find that the heart of Munro you hold will defy your worst malice!”

The Indian answered this bold defiance by a ghastly smile, that showed an unaltered purpose, while he motioned her away, as if to close the conference forever. Cora, already regretting her precipitation, was obliged to comply, for Magua instantly left the spot, and approached his gluttonous comrades. Heyward flew to the side of the agitated female, and demanded the result of a dialogue that he had watched at a distance with so much interest. But, unwilling to alarm the fears of Alice, she evaded a direct reply, betraying only by her anxious looks fastened on the slightest movements of her captors. To the reiterated and earnest questions of her sister concerning their probable destination, she made no other answer than by pointing toward the dark group, with an agitation she could not control, and murmuring as she folded Alice to her bosom.

“There, there; read our fortunes in their faces; we shall see; we shall see!”

The action, and the choked utterance of Cora, spoke more impressively than any words, and quickly drew the attention of her companions on that spot where her own was riveted with an intenseness that nothing but the importance of the stake could create.

When Magua reached the cluster of lolling savages, who, gorged with their disgusting meal, lay stretched on the earth in brutal indulgence, he commenced speaking with the dignity of an Indian chief. The first syllables he uttered had the effect to cause his listeners to raise themselves in attitudes of respectful attention. As the Huron used his native language, the prisoners, notwithstanding the caution of the natives had kept them within the swing of their tomahawks, could only conjecture the substance of his harangue from the nature of those significant gestures with which an Indian always illustrates his eloquence.

At first, Magua’s language and actions seemed calm and measured. Once he had successfully captured his comrades' attention, Heyward thought, by pointing so often toward the great lakes, he was speaking of their fathers and their distant tribe. Applause escaped the listeners, who, as they cried out the expressive “Hugh!”, glanced at each other in commendation for the speaker. Le Renard was too clever to miss his advantage. He then spoke of the long, painful route by which they had left those spacious lands and happy villages to come and fight the enemies of their Canadian fathers. He listed the warriors of the party: their various merits, their frequent service to the nation, their wounds, and the number of scalps they had taken. Whenever he mentioned anything present (and the subtle Indian paid no mind), the flattered man’s dark face gleamed with elation; he didn't even hesitate to assert the truth of his words with gestures of applause and confirmation. Then, the speaker’s voice faded, losing the loud, animated tones of triumph with which he had recounted their deeds of success and victory. He described Glenn’s cataract, the impregnable position of its rocky island, with its caverns, rapids, and whirlpools; he named it “La Longue Carabine,” and paused until the forest above them sent up the last echo of a loud, long yell, which was the hated name received. He pointed toward the youthful military captive and described the death of a favorite warrior, who had been thrown into the deep ravine by his hand.He didn't just mention the fate of those suspended between heaven and earth, who had displayed such horror to the entire band; he wove the terrors of his own situation, his resolve, and his death onto the branches of a sapling. Then, he swiftly recounted how each of their friends had fallen, never omitting their courage or their most cherished virtues. When this recounting concluded, his voice shifted again, becoming plaintive and musical in its low, guttural tones. He then spoke of the wives and children of the slain—their destitution, their misery, both physical and moral, their distance, and finally, their unavenged wrongs. Suddenly raising his voice to a pitch of sheer energy, he concluded by demanding:

“Are the Hurons dogs to bear this?Who shall say to the wife of Menowgua that the fishes have his scalp, and that his nation have not taken revenge!Who will dare meet the mother of Wassawattimie, that scornful woman, with his hands clean!What shall be said to the old men when they ask us for scalps, and we have not a hair from a white head to give them!The women will point their fingers at us.There is a dark spot on the names of the Hurons, and it must be hid in blood!” His voice was no longer audible in the burst of rage which now broke into the air, as if the wood, instead of containing so small a band, was filled with the nation.During the foregoing address the progress of the speaker was too plainly read by those most interested in his success through the medium of the countenances of the men he addressed.They had answered his melancholy and mourning by sympathy and sorrow; his assertions, by gestures of confirmation; and his boasting, with the exultation of savages.When he spoke of courage, their looks were firm and responsive; when he alluded to their injuries, their eyes kindled with fury; when he mentioned the taunts of the women, they dropped their heads in shame; but when he pointed out their means of vengeance, he struck a chord which never failed to thrill in the breast of an Indian.With the first intimation that it was within their reach, the whole band sprang upon their feet as one man; giving utterance to their rage in the most frantic cries, they rushed upon their prisoners in a body with drawn knives and uplifted tomahawks.Heyward threw himself between the sisters and the foremost, whom he grappled with a desperate strength that for a moment checked his violence.This unexpected resistance gave Magua a moment to intercede, and with sharp articulation and animated gestures, he once again drew the band's attention to himself. In that language, he knew exactly how to assume the role, diverting his comrades from their immediate goals and inviting them to prolong their victims' misery. His proposal was met with acclamation and executed with breathtaking swiftness.

Two powerful warriors seized Heyward, while another focused on securing the less vocal singing-master. Neither captive, however, fought without a desperate, yet fruitless, struggle. Even David hurled his assailant to the ground; Heyward wasn't secured until the victory over his companion allowed the Indians to direct their unified force toward the objective. He was then bound and fastened to the body of the sapling, upon whose branches Magua had mimed the fall of the Huron. When the young soldier regained his senses, he had the agonizing certainty before his eyes that a shared fate awaited the entire group. To his right was Cora, enduring with a demeanor similar to his own—pale and agitated—but her steady gaze still read the maneuvers of their enemies. To his left, the vines binding her to a pine performed the task Alice’s trembling limbs couldn't manage, holding her fragile form afloat. Her hands were clasped in prayer, but instead of looking toward the power that alone could save them, her unconscious gaze drifted to Duncan’s face with infantile dependence. David had struggled, and the sheer strangeness of the situation left him silent, deliberating on the propriety of the unusual occurrence.

The Hurons' vengeance had taken a new turn, and they were gearing up to enact it with the barbaric ingenuity they’d learned through centuries of practice. Some aimed to knot materials to raise a blazing pile; others were ripping pine splinters to pierce their captives' flesh with burning shards; while still others bent saplings to the ground to suspend Heyward by his arms between the recoiling branches. But Magua’s vengeance sought something deeper, something more malignant.

While the lesser monsters of the band prepared these well-known and vulgar means of torture before those who would suffer, he approached Cora and, with the most malicious expression on his face, showed her the swift fate awaiting her:

“Ha!” he added. “What does Munro’s daughter say? Her head won't fit in Le Renard’s wigwam; she’ll surely like it better when it rolls around this hill like a toy for the wolves! Her chest won't nurse Huron children; she’ll watch Indians spit on it!”

“What does the monster mean!” Heyward demanded, astonished.

“Nothing!” was the firm reply. “He’s a savage—a barbaric, ignorant savage who doesn't know what he’s doing. Let’s find some time, with our dying breath, to beg for his penance and pardon.”

“Pardon!” roared the fierce Huron, mistaking the meaning of her words with his anger. “An Indian’s memory is no longer than the arm of pale faces; his mercy is shorter than their justice! Tell me; shall I send the yellow hair to her father, and will you follow Magua to the great lakes to carry his water and feed him with corn?”

Cora beckoned him away, an emotion of sheer disgust she couldn't contain.

“Leave me,” she commanded, a solemnity that briefly checked the savage’s barbarity. “You mix bitterness into my prayers; you stand between me and my God!”

The slight impression left on the savage was quickly forgotten, and he continued pointing, his irony tauntingly aimed at Alice.

“Look! The child is weeping! She’s too young to die! Send her to Munro to comb his gray hairs and keep life in the old man's heart.”

Cora couldn't resist the urge to look at her youthful sister, whose eyes met hers with an imploring glance that betrayed nature’s deep longings.

“What does he say, dearest Cora?” Alice asked, her voice trembling. “Did he speak of sending me to our father?”

For a few moments, the elder sister gazed at the younger with a countenance wavering with powerful, conflicting emotions. Finally, she spoke, though her tones lacked their rich calm, expressing a tenderness that felt maternal.

“Alice,” she said, “the Huron offers us both life, nay, more than both; he offers to restore Duncan, our invaluable Duncan, as well as you, to our friends—to our father—to our heart-stricken, childless father, if only I yield this rebellious, stubborn pride of mine and consent—”

Her voice caught, and clasping her hands, she looked up, seeking in her agony a wisdom that felt infinite.

“Say on,” Alice cried; “to what, dearest Cora? Oh! if only that offer had been made to me! to save you, to cheer our aged father, to restore Duncan—how gladly I would die!”

“Die!” Cora repeated, her voice calmer and firmer. “That would be easy! Perhaps the alternative isn't so much less so. He would have me,” she continued, her tone sinking under a deep awareness of the proposal’s degradation, “follow him to the wilderness; go to the Hurons’ homes; stay there; in short, become his wife! Speak then, Alice; child of my affections! sister of my love! And you too, Major Heyward, lend your counsel to my weak reason. Is life to be bought by such a sacrifice? Will you, Alice, accept it at my hands for such a price? And you, Duncan, guide me; control me between you; for I am wholly yours!”

“Never!” echoed the indignant and astonished youth. “Cora! Cora! you mock our misery! Don't name that dreadful alternative again; the thought itself is worse than a thousand deaths.”

“That would be your answer, I knew it!” Cora exclaimed, her cheeks flushing as her dark eyes once again sparkled with the lingering emotions of a woman. “What say my Alice? Shall I submit without another word?”

Though both Heyward and Cora listened with agonizing suspense and the deepest attention, no reply came. It seemed as if Alice’s delicate and sensitive form would shrink inward as she heard this proposal. Her arms fell straight down before her, her fingers twitching slightly; her head drooped onto her chest, and her entire being seemed suspended against the tree, resembling a beautiful emblem of wounded femininity, devoid of animation yet keenly aware. In a few moments, however, her head began to move slowly, a sign of deep, unconquerable disapproval.

“No, no, no; it’s better that we die as we have lived, together!”

[Illustration] “Then die!” shouted Magua, hurling his tomahawk with violence at the unresisting speaker

“Then die!” shouted Magua, hurling his tomahawk with violence at the unresisting speaker, and gnashing his teeth with a rage that could no longer be bridled at this sudden exhibition of firmness in the one he believed the weakest of the party. The axe cleaved the air in front of Heyward, and cutting some of the flowing ringlets of Alice, quivered in the tree above her head. The sight maddened Duncan to desperation. Collecting all his energies in one effort he snapped the twigs which bound him and rushed upon another savage, who was preparing, with loud yells and a more deliberate aim, to repeat the blow. They encountered, grappled, and fell to the earth together. The naked body of his antagonist afforded Heyward no means of holding his adversary, who glided from his grasp, and rose again with one knee on his chest, pressing him down with the weight of a giant. Duncan already saw the knife gleaming in the air, when a whistling sound swept past him, and was rather accompanied than followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. He felt his breast relieved from the load it had endured; he saw the savage expression of his adversary’s countenance change to a look of vacant wildness, when the Indian fell dead on the faded leaves by his side.

CHAPTER XII.

“Clo.—I am gone, sire,
And anon, sire, I’ll be with you again.”
—Twelfth Night

The Hurons stood aghast at this sudden visitation of death on one of their band. But as they regarded the fatal accuracy of an aim which had dared to immolate an enemy at so much hazard to a friend, the name of “La Longue Carabine” burst simultaneously from every lip, and was succeeded by a wild and a sort of plaintive howl. The cry was answered by a loud shout from a little thicket, where the incautious party had piled their arms; and at the next moment, Hawkeye, too eager to load the rifle he had regained, was seen advancing upon them, brandishing the clubbed weapon, and cutting the air with wide and powerful sweeps. Bold and rapid as was the progress of the scout, it was exceeded by that of a light and vigorous form which, bounding past him, leaped, with incredible activity and daring, into the very center of the Hurons, where it stood, whirling a tomahawk, and flourishing a glittering knife, with fearful menaces, in front of Cora. Quicker than the thoughts could follow those unexpected and audacious movements, an image, armed in the emblematic panoply of death, glided before their eyes, and assumed a threatening attitude at the other’s side. The savage tormentors recoiled before these warlike intruders, and uttered, as they appeared in such quick succession, the often repeated and peculiar exclamations of surprise, followed by the well-known and dreaded appellations of:

“Le Cerf Agile! Le Gros Serpent!”

But the wary and vigilant leader of the Hurons wasn't easily thrown off balance. Scanning the small plain with his keen eyes, he grasped the nature of the attack instantly. Encouraging his followers with his voice and his actions, he unsheathed his long, dangerous knife and charged with a loud whoop toward the expected Chingachgook. It was the signal for general combat. Neither side had firearms, so the contest would be decided in the deadliest way possible—hand-to-hand, using only offensive weapons, and no defenses whatsoever.

Uncas answered the whoop, and leaping on an enemy, with a single, well-directed blow of his tomahawk, cleft him to the brain. Heyward tore the weapon of Magua from the sapling, and rushed eagerly toward the fray. As the combatants were now equal in number, each singled an opponent from the adverse band. The rush and blows passed with the fury of a whirlwind, and the swiftness of lightning. Hawkeye soon got another enemy within reach of his arm, and with one sweep of his formidable weapon he beat down the slight and inartificial defenses of his antagonist, crushing him to the earth with the blow. Heyward ventured to hurl the tomahawk he had seized, too ardent to await the moment of closing. It struck the Indian he had selected on the forehead, and checked for an instant his onward rush. Encouraged by this slight advantage, the impetuous young man continued his onset, and sprang upon his enemy with naked hands. A single instant was enough to assure him of the rashness of the measure, for he immediately found himself fully engaged, with all his activity and courage, in endeavoring to ward the desperate thrusts made with the knife of the Huron. Unable longer to foil an enemy so alert and vigilant, he threw his arms about him, and succeeded in pinning the limbs of the other to his side, with an iron grasp, but one that was far too exhausting to himself to continue long. In this extremity he heard a voice near him, shouting:

“Extarminate the varlets! no quarter to an accursed Mingo!”

In an instant, Hawkeye’s rifle breech slammed onto the naked head of his opponent; the muscles there seemed to wither under the shock as he slumped from Duncan's arms, limp and unmoving.

When Uncas had brained his first antagonist, he turned, like a hungry lion, to seek another.The fifth and only Huron disengaged at the first onset had paused a moment, and then seeing that all around him were employed in the deadly strife, he had sought, with hellish vengeance, to complete the baffled work of revenge.Raising a shout of triumph, he sprang toward the defenseless Cora, sending his keen axe as the dreadful precursor of his approach.The tomahawk grazed her shoulder, and cutting the withes which bound her to the tree, left the maiden at liberty to fly.She eluded the grasp of the savage, and reckless of her own safety, threw herself on the bosom of Alice, striving with convulsed and ill-directed fingers, to tear asunder the twigs which confined the person of her sister.Any other than a monster would have relented at such an act of generous devotion to the best and purest affection; but the breast of the Huron was a stranger to sympathy.Seizing Cora by the rich tresses which fell in confusion about her form, he tore her from her frantic hold, and bowed her down with brutal violence to her knees.The savage drew the flowing curls through his hand, and raising them on high with an outstretched arm, he passed the knife around the exquisitely molded head of his victim, with a taunting and exulting laugh.But he purchased this moment of fierce gratification with the loss of the fatal opportunity.It was just then the sight caught the eye of Uncas.Bounding from his footsteps he appeared for an instant darting through the air and descending in a ball he fell on the chest of his enemy, driving him many yards from the spot, headlong and prostrate.The violence of the exertion cast the young Mohican at his side.They arose together, fought, and bled, each in his turn.But the conflict was swiftly decided; Heyward's tomahawk and Hawkeye's rifle struck the Huron's skull just as Uncas's knife reached his heart.

[Illustration]

The battle was finally over, save for the drawn-out struggle between "The Subtle Fox" and "The Great Serpent." These savage warriors certainly earned the grand names bestowed upon them for their deeds in past wars. As they clashed, a brief moment of evasion passed as they dodged the swift, vigorous thrusts aimed at their lives. Suddenly, darting toward one another, they closed in, settling upon the earth twisted together like coiling serpents in pliant, subtle folds. When the victors found themselves unengaged, the spot where these experienced and desperate fighters lay could only be discerned by a cloud of dust and leaves that drifted from the center of the small plain toward its edges, as if stirred by a whirlwind. Driven by filial affection, friendship, and gratitude, Heyward and his companions rushed to the spot in unison, encircling the small canopy of dust hanging above the warriors. Uncas darted around the cloud, wishing to stab his knife into his father's enemy; Hawkeye’s threatening rifle was raised and suspended fruitlessly, while Duncan tried to seize the Huron's limbs with hands that seemed to have lost all strength. Covered in dust and blood, the swift movements of the combatants seemed to merge their bodies into one. The death-like figure of the Mohican and the dark form of the Huron flashed before their eyes in quick, confused succession, leaving their friends unsure where to strike the fatal blow.There were moments, short and fleeting, when Magua’s fiery eyes glittered, much like the legendary organs of a basilisk glimpsed through the dusty wreath that enveloped him. In those brief, deadly glances, he read the fate of the combat unfolding before his enemies. But before any hostile hand could strike his devoted head, it was filled by the scowling visage of Chingachgook. In this way, the scene of the fight was pulled from the center of the small plain to its very edge. The Mohican seized the opportunity to deliver a powerful thrust with his knife; Magua suddenly released his grip and fell backward without movement, seemingly lifeless. His adversary sprang up, and the arches of the forest rang with the sounds of triumph.

“Well done for the Delawares! Victory to the Mohicans!” Hawkeye cried, once again raising the butt of his long, fatal rifle. “A finishing blow from a man without a cross will never diminish his honor or steal his right to the scalp.”

But just as the dangerous weapon was about to descend, the subtle Huron swiftly rolled from beneath the danger, over the edge of the precipice, and landed on his feet. He leaped in a single bound into the center of a thicket of low bushes clinging to its sides. The Delawares, who had believed their enemy dead, gasped in surprise, following with speed and clamor like hounds in the open view of a deer, until a shrill, peculiar cry from the scout instantly shifted their focus, recalling them to the summit of the hill.

“’Twas like himself!” cried the inveterate forester, whose prejudices contributed so largely to veil his natural sense of justice in all matters which concerned the Mingoes; “a lying and deceitful varlet as he is. An honest Delaware now, being fairly vanquished, would have lain still, and been knocked on the head, but these knavish Maquas cling to life like so many cats-o’-the-mountain. Let him go—let him go; ’tis but one man, and he without rifle or bow, many a long mile from his French commerades; and like a rattler that lost his fangs, he can do no further mischief, until such time as he, and we too, may leave the prints of our moccasins over a long reach of sandy plain. See, Uncas,” he added, in Delaware, “your father is flaying the scalps already. It may be well to go round and feel the vagabonds that are left, or we may have another of them loping through the woods, and screeching like a jay that has been winged.”

So saying the honest but implacable scout made the circuit of the dead, into whose senseless bosoms he thrust his long knife, with as much coolness as though they had been so many brute carcasses. He had, however, been anticipated by the elder Mohican, who had already torn the emblems of victory from the unresisting heads of the slain.

But Uncas, denying his habits, we almost revealed his true nature. With instinctive delicacy, accompanied by Heyward, we helped the females, quickly freeing Alice and placing her in Cora's arms. We couldn't describe our gratitude to the Almighty Disposer of Events, which shone in the sisters' chests, as they were unexpectedly restored to life and to each other. Their thanks were deep and silent; the offerings of their gentle spirits burned brightest and purest on the secret altars of their hearts; and their renewed, more earthly emotions showed themselves in long, fervent, yet speechless caresses. As Alice rose from her knees, where she had sunk beside Cora, she threw herself into Cora's embrace and sobbed aloud their aged father's name, her soft, dove-like eyes sparkling with hope.

“We’re saved! We’re saved!” she murmured. “To return to the arms of our dear, dear father, and his heart won't be broken by grief. And you too, Cora, my sister, my more than sister, my mother; you’re spared. And Duncan,” she added, looking around at the youth with a smile of ineffable innocence, “even our own brave and noble Duncan has escaped without harm.”

Cora offered no reply to those ardent, almost innocent words; instead, she simply drew the youthful speaker close to her heart, bending over him in melting tenderness. Heyward felt no shame in shedding tears over this spectacle of affectionate rapture; Uncas, fresh and blood-stained from the combat, stood as a calm observer—truly, he was unmoved—but his eyes had already lost their fierceness, beaming with a sympathy that lifted him far above mere intelligence, advancing him centuries ahead of his nation’s practices

. During this display of emotions so natural to their situation, Hawkeye, whose vigilant distrust had confirmed that the Hurons, who had disfigured the heavenly scene, no longer held the power to disrupt its harmony, approached David and freed him from the bonds he had endured with exemplary patience until that moment

. “There,” exclaimed the scout, casting the last withe behind him, “you are once more master of your own limbs, though you seem not to use them with much greater judgment than that in which they were first fashioned. If advice from one who is not older than yourself, but who, having lived most of his time in the wilderness, may be said to have experience beyond his years, will give no offense, you are welcome to my thoughts; and these are, to part with the little tooting instrument in your jacket to the first fool you meet with, and buy some we’pon with the money, if it be only the barrel of a horseman’s pistol. By industry and care, you might thus come to some prefarment; for by this time, I should think, your eyes would plainly tell you that a carrion crow is a better bird than a mocking-thresher. The one will, at least, remove foul sights from before the face of man, while the other is only good to brew disturbances in the woods, by cheating the ears of all that hear them.”

“Arms and the clarion for the battle, but the song of thanksgiving to the victory!” David answered, the liberator, “Friend,” he added, extending his lean, delicate hand toward Hawkeye with kindness, his eyes twinkling and moist, “I thank thee that the hairs of my head still grow where they were first rooted by Providence; for, though those of other men may be more glossy and curling, I have ever found mine own well suited to the brain they shelter. That I did not join myself to the battle was less due to disinclination than to the bonds of the heathen. Valiant and skillful thou hast proven thyself in the conflict, and I hereby thank thee, before proceeding to discharge other and more important duties, because thou hast proven thyself well worthy of a Christian’s praise.”

“It’s just a trifle,” the scout replied, greatly softened by this clear expression of gratitude, “and what you often see if you linger among us,” he added. “I’ve got my old companion back, ‘killdeer,’” he struck the breech of his rifle, “and that’s a victory. These Iroquois are cunning, but they outwitted themselves when they put their firearms out of reach; and had Uncas or his father been given only their common Indian patience, we would have caught the knaves with three bullets instead of one, which would have finished the whole pack; that’s all foreordained, and for the best.”

“You speak well,” David replied, “and you’ve grasped the true spirit of Christianity. Those who are to be saved will be saved, and those destined for damnation will be damned. This is the doctrine of truth, and it is most consoling and refreshing for the true believer.”

The scout, who was now seated, peered into his rifle with a kind of parental focus, then looked up at the other with undisguised displeasure, roughly cutting off further speech.

“Doctrine or no doctrine,” grumbled the sturdy woodsman, “it’s the belief of knaves and the curse of an honest man. I can attest that Huron fell by my hand; I saw it with my own eyes. But nothing short of being a witness will make me believe he received any reward, or that Chingachgook will be condemned on the final day.”

“You have no guarantee for such an audacious doctrine, nor any covenant to back it up,” David cried out, deeply steeped in the subtle distinctions—those drawn around the beautiful simplicity of revelation in his time and especially in his province—by trying to pierce the awful mystery of the divine nature, by substituting self-sufficiency for faith, and consequently involving those who reasoned from such human dogmas into absurdity and doubt. “Your temple is built on sand, and the first tempest will wash away its foundation. I demand your authorities for such an uncharitable assertion (as other proponents of a system, David wasn’t always precise in his terminology). Name the chapter and verse; in which holy books do you find language to support you?”

“Book!” Hawkeye snapped, his disdain clear and sharp. “Do you think I’m some whimpering boy hiding at the apronstring of one of your old women? And this good rifle on my knee for the feather of a goose’s wing, my ox’s horn for a bottle of ink, and my leather pouch for a cross-barred handkercher to carry my dinner? Book! What business have I, a warrior of the wilderness, though a man without a cross, with books? I’ve never read, but in one, the words are too simple and plain to require much schooling—though I can boast forty long and hard-working years.”

“What do you mean by ‘volume’?” David asked, clearly misunderstanding him.

“It’s open before your eyes,” the scout replied. “And the owner isn’t a miser with it. I’ve heard that some men read books just to convince themselves there’s a God. I don’t know, but man can so twist his works in society that what seems obvious in the wilderness becomes a matter of doubt among traders and priests. If such things exist, and he follows me from sunrise to sunset, through the forest’s winding paths, he’ll see enough to teach him he’s a fool—that the greatest folly is striving for a level they can never reach, whether it be in goodness or power.”

The instant David discovered that he battled with a disputant who imbibed his faith from the lights of nature, eschewing all subtleties of doctrine, he willingly abandoned a controversy from which he believed neither profit nor credit was to be derived. While the scout was speaking, he had also seated himself, and producing the ready little volume and the iron-rimmed spectacles, he prepared to discharge a duty, which nothing but the unexpected assault he had received in his orthodoxy could have so long suspended. He was, in truth, a minstrel of the western continent—of a much later day, certainly, than those gifted bards, who formerly sang the profane renown of baron and prince, but after the spirit of his own age and country; and he was now prepared to exercise the cunning of his craft, in celebration of, or rather in thanksgiving for, the recent victory. He waited patiently for Hawkeye to cease, then lifting his eyes, together with his voice, he said, aloud:

“I invite you, friends, to join in praise for this signal deliverance from the hands of barbarians and infidels, to the comfortable and solemn tones of the tune called ‘Northampton’.”

He next named the page and verse where the rhymes selected were to be found, and applied the pitch-pipe to his lips, with the decent gravity that he had been wont to use in the temple. This time he was, however, without any accompaniment, for the sisters were just then pouring out those tender effusions of affection which have been already alluded to. Nothing deterred by the smallness of his audience, which, in truth, consisted only of the discontented scout, he raised his voice, commencing and ending the sacred song without accident or interruption of any kind.

[Illustration]

Hawkeye listened, coolly adjusting his flint and reloading his rifle; but the sounds, lacking the extraneous aid of scene and sympathy, failed to stir his sleeping emotions. Never a minstrel, or by whatever name David should be known, drew upon his talents in front of more insensible listeners. Though considering the singularity and sincerity of his motive, it's likely no bard of profane song ever uttered notes that ascended so close to the throne where all homage and praise are due. The scout shook his head and muttered some unintelligible words—"throat" and "Iroquois" being the only ones audible—then walked away to collect and examine the state of the Hurons' captured arsenal. In this office, Chingachgook joined him, finding his own weapons, along with those of his son, among the arms. Even Heyward and David were furnished with weapons; not a single lack of ammunition rendered them powerless.

When the foresters had made their choices and distributed their prizes, the scout announced that the time for movement had come. By then, Gamut's song had ended, and the sisters had learned to hold back their emotions. Aided by Duncan and the younger Mohican, the two descended the steep slopes of the hill they had so recently climbed under such different circumstances, a summit that had nearly witnessed their massacre. At the base, they found the Narragansett people browsing the undergrowth. Having mounted up, they followed the movements of a guide who, in the most perilous situations, had often proven himself their ally. The journey, however, was short. Hawkeye, leaving the path the Hurons had taken, turned sharply to his right and entered the thicket. He crossed a babbling brook and stopped in a narrow dell, sheltered by a few water elms. They were only a few rods from the foot of the deadly hill, and the horses had served their purpose only in crossing the shallow stream

. The scout and the Indians seemed familiar with this secluded spot. Leaning their rifles against the trees, they began pushing aside the dry leaves and uncovering the blue clay, from which a clear, sparkling spring of bright, glancing water quickly bubbled forth. The white man then looked around, as if searching for something that wasn't as easily found as he had hoped

.“Those careless imps, the Mohawks, with their Tuscarora and Onondaga kin, have been here quenching their thirst,” he muttered, “and the vagabonds have tossed away the gourd! This is the way things go, when they’re given to such heedless hounds! Here, the Lord has laid his hand, in the midst of the howling wilderness, for their own good, raising a fountain of water from the very bowels of the earth, a spring that could mock the richest apothecary’s wares in all the colonies; and look! the knaves have trampled the clay, defiling the place, as if they were brute beasts rather than men.”

Uncas silently extended the gourd toward him, which Hawkeye’s spleen had hitherto prevented him from noticing on an elm branch. Filling it with water, he retreated a short distance to firmer, drier ground. Here he sat coolly, and after taking a long, seemingly grateful drink, he began a very strict examination of the scraps of food left by the Hurons, which were hanging in a wallet on his arm.

“Thank you, lad!” he continued, returning the empty gourd to Uncas; “now we’ll see how these rampaging Hurons lived when they were in ambush. Look at this! These little rascals know the deer’s best parts; you’d think they could carve and roast a saddle equal to the best cook in the land! But everything is raw, for the Iroquois are thorough savages. Uncas, take my steel and start a fire; a mouthful of tender roast will help nature after such a long trail.”

Heyward, perceiving that their guides now set about their repast in sober earnest, assisted the ladies to alight, and placed himself at their side, not unwilling to enjoy a few moments of grateful rest, after the bloody scene he had just gone through. While the culinary process was in hand, curiosity induced him to inquire into the circumstances which had led to their timely and unexpected rescue:

“How is it that we see you so soon, my generous friend,” he asked, “and without aid from the garrison of Edward?”

“Had we gone to the bend in the river, we might have been in time to rake the leaves over your bodies, but too late to have saved your scalps,” coolly answered the scout. “No, no; instead of throwing away strength and opportunity by crossing to the fort, we lay by, under the bank of the Hudson, waiting to watch the movements of the Hurons.”

“You were, then, witnesses of all that passed?”

“Not of all; for Indian sight is too keen to be easily cheated, and we kept close. A difficult matter it was, too, to keep this Mohican boy snug in the ambushment. Ah! Uncas, Uncas, your behavior was more like that of a curious woman than of a warrior on his scent.”

Uncas permitted his eyes to turn for an instant on the sturdy countenance of the speaker, but he neither spoke nor gave any indication of repentance. On the contrary, Heyward thought the manner of the young Mohican was disdainful, if not a little fierce, and that he suppressed passions that were ready to explode, as much in compliment to the listeners, as from the deference he usually paid to his white associate.

“You saw our capture?” Heyward next demanded.

“We heard it,” was the stark answer. “An Indian yell is plain language to men who’ve spent their lives in the woods. But when we landed, we were forced to crawl like serpents beneath the leaves; then we lost sight of you completely, until we finally spotted you again, bound to the trees and ready for an Indian massacre.”

“Our rescue was Providence itself. It was nearly a miracle that you didn't mistake the path, for the Hurons were divided, and each group had its own horses.”

“Ah! There we were lost the scent, and might, in truth, have lost the trail, had it not been for Uncas. We took the path however it led into the wilderness, for we judged—and judged rightly—that the savages would follow that course with their prisoners. But when we followed it for many miles without finding a single broken twig, as I’d advised, my mind played tricks on me; especially since all the footprints were moccasin prints.”

“Our captors were careful to see us shod like themselves,” Duncan said, raising a foot and showing the buckskin he wore.

“Aye, it was sensible and just like themselves; though we were too expert to be thrown off a trail by such a common trick.”

“So, what are we indebted to for our safety?”

“To what, as a white man with no taint of Indian blood, should I feel shame to admit? To the judgment of the young Mohican, in matters I should know better than he, yet which I can hardly believe, though my own eyes tell me it’s true.”

“’Tis extraordinary! will you not name the reason?”

“Uncas was bold enough to say, that the beasts ridden by the gentle ones,” continued Hawkeye, glancing his eyes, not without curious interest, on the fillies of the ladies, “planted the legs of one side on the ground at the same time, which is contrary to the movements of all trotting four-footed animals of my knowledge, except the bear. And yet here are horses that always journey in this manner, as my own eyes have seen, and as their trail has shown for twenty long miles.”

“’Tis the merit of the animal! They come from the shores of Narrangansett Bay, in the small province of Providence Plantations, and are celebrated for their hardihood, and the ease of this peculiar movement; though other horses are not unfrequently trained to the same.”

“It may be—it may be,” said Hawkeye, who had listened with singular attention to this explanation; “though I am a man who has the full blood of the whites, my judgment in deer and beaver is greater than in beasts of burden. Major Effingham has many noble chargers, but I have never seen one travel after such a sidling gait.”

“True; for he would value the animals for very different properties. Still is this a breed highly esteemed and, as you witness, much honored with the burdens it is often destined to bear.”

The Mohicans had suspended their operations about the glimmering fire to listen; and, when Duncan had done, they looked at each other significantly, the father uttering the never-failing exclamation of surprise. The scout ruminated, like a man digesting his newly-acquired knowledge, and once more stole a glance at the horses.

“I dare say there are even stranger sights to be seen in the settlements!” he said at length. “Nature is sadly abused by man when he gains mastery over it. But, go sideways or go straight; Uncas had seen the movement, and their trail led us to the broken bush. The outer branch, near the prints of one of the horses, was bent upward, as if a woman were breaking a flower from its stem, but everything else was ragged and broken down, as if a man’s strong hand had been tearing them! So I concluded that the cunning varmints had seen the twig bend and torn the rest, hoping to make us believe a buck had rubbed against the boughs with his antlers.”

“I do believe your wisdom didn't deceive you; something like that must have happened!”

“That was easy to see,” the scout added, without any pretense of showing extraordinary insight; “and it was nothing like a waddling horse! It then struck me the Mingoes would push for this spring, for the knaves well know the virtue of its waters!”

“Is it, then, so famous?” Heyward demanded, examining the secluded dell with its bubbling fountain, surrounded, as it was, by earth of a deep, dingy brown.

“Few redskins who travel south and east of the great lakes have heard of its qualities. Will you taste for yourself?”

Heyward took the gourd, swallowed a little of the water, and tossed it aside with a grimace of discontent. The scout laughed in a silent but heartfelt way and shook his head in sheer satisfaction.

“Ah! You want the flavor you get by habit; back when I liked it as much as you do; but I've come to my taste, and now I crave it, just as a deer licks [1]. Your high-spiced wines aren't much preferred over a red-skin that savors this water, especially when his nature is ailing. But Uncas has made his fire, and it’s time we think of food, for our journey is long, and so much lies ahead of us.”

[1] Many animals in the American forests seek out places where salt springs are found. These spots are known as “licks” or “salt licks” in the country, because the quadrupeds are often forced to lick the earth to get the saline particles. These licks are great havens for hunters who stake out their game near the paths that lead to them.

This abrupt shift cut the dialogue short, giving the scout immediate access to the scraps of food that had escaped the Hurons' voracious appetite. He quickly managed the simple cooking, and then he and the Mohicans began their humble meal, eating with the silence and focused diligence of men enduring great, unrelenting toil

. Once this necessary, and thankfully grateful, duty was done, each of the foresters bent down to take a long, parting draught from that solitary, silent spring [2], around which its sister fountains had gathered the wealth, beauty, and talents of a hemisphere over fifty years in the pursuit of health and pleasure. Then Hawkeye announced his resolve to move on. The sisters readjusted their saddles; Duncan and David gripped their rifles and followed in stride; the scout led the advance, with the Mohicans trailing behind. The entire party moved swiftly through the narrow path north, leaving the healing waters to mingle unheeded with adjacent streams and the bodies of the dead festering on the neighboring mount, without any rites of burial—a fate too common for the woodland warriors to inspire either pity or comment

[2]. This scene unfolded right where the village of Ballston now sits; one of America's two principal watering places

CHAPTER XIII.

“I’ll seek a readier path.”
—Parnell

The route taken by Hawkeye lay across those sandy plains, relived by occasional valleys and swells of land, which had been traversed by their party on the morning of the same day, with the baffled Magua for their guide. The sun had now fallen low toward the distant mountains; and as their journey lay through the interminable forest, the heat was no longer oppressive. Their progress, in consequence, was proportionate; and long before the twilight gathered about them, they had made good many toilsome miles on their return.

The hunter, like the savage whose place he filled, seemed to select among the blind signs of their wild route, with a species of instinct, seldom abating his speed, and never pausing to deliberate. A rapid and oblique glance at the moss on the trees, with an occasional upward gaze toward the setting sun, or a steady but passing look at the direction of the numerous water courses, through which he waded, were sufficient to determine his path, and remove his greatest difficulties. In the meantime, the forest began to change its hues, losing that lively green which had embellished its arches, in the graver light which is the usual precursor of the close of day.

While the eyes of the sisters were endeavoring to catch glimpses through the trees, of the flood of golden glory which formed a glittering halo around the sun, tinging here and there with ruby streaks, or bordering with narrow edgings of shining yellow, a mass of clouds that lay piled at no great distance above the western hills, Hawkeye turned suddenly and pointing upward toward the gorgeous heavens, he spoke:

“That is the sign given to man to seek sustenance and natural rest,” he said; “it would be better and wiser if he could understand nature’s signs, and learn from the birds of the air and the beasts of the field! But our night will soon be over; with the moon, we must rise and move again. I recall having four Maquas, outlaws, in the first war where I ever drew blood from man; and we threw up a barricade of blocks to keep the ravenous varmints from grabbing our scalps. If my aim holds true, we’ll find the spot a few rods to our left.”

Without waiting for any assent or reply, the sturdy hunter boldly plunged into a dense thicket of young chestnuts, shoving aside the exuberant shoots that nearly blanketed the ground, as if expecting to find some familiar object at every step. The scout’s memory didn't betray him. After pushing through the brush, matted with briars, for a few hundred feet, he entered an open space surrounded by a low, green knoll, crowned by the decayed blockhouse in question. This rough and neglected building was one of those deserted structures, hastily erected in an emergency and subsequently abandoned once the danger passed, now quietly crumbling in the forest's solitude—neglected and nearly forgotten, much like the circumstances that brought it into being. Such memorials of human passage and struggle are still abundant across the vast wilderness that once separated hostile provinces, forming a kind of ruin intimately tied to colonial history and fitting the gloomy character of the surrounding scenery. The bark roof had long since collapsed and mingled with the soil, but the huge pine logs, hastily jammed together, still held their relative positions, though one corner had given way under the pressure, threatening a swift collapse for the rest of the rustic edifice. While Heyward and his companions hesitated to approach such a decayed structure, Hawkeye and the Indians entered within the low walls, not only without fear but with obvious interest.As the former surveyed the ruins, both inside and out, his memories revving at every turn, Chingachgook related to his son, in the Delawares' tongue, the brief history of the skirmish fought in that secluded spot during his youth, with the pride of a conqueror. A touch of melancholy, however, mingled with his triumph, rendering his voice, as always, soft and musical.

Meanwhile, the sisters gladly dismounted and prepared to enjoy their halt in the evening's coolness, feeling secure as if nothing but the forest beasts could invade them.

“Wouldn’t our resting place have been more secluded, my worthy friend?” demanded the more vigilant Duncan, sensing the scout had already finished his brief survey, “if we had chosen a spot even less known, and one rarely visited?”

“Few live who know the blockhouse was ever raised,” was the slow and musing answer; “’tis not often that books are made, and narratives written of such a scrimmage as was here fou’t atween the Mohicans and the Mohawks, in a war of their own waging. I was then a younker, and went out with the Delawares, because I know’d they were a scandalized and wronged race. Forty days and forty nights did the imps crave our blood around this pile of logs, which I designed and partly reared, being, as you’ll remember, no Indian myself, but a man without a cross. The Delawares lent themselves to the work, and we made it good, ten to twenty, until our numbers were nearly equal, and then we sallied out upon the hounds, and not a man of them ever got back to tell the fate of his party. Yes, yes; I was then young, and new to the sight of blood; and not relishing the thought that creatures who had spirits like myself should lay on the naked ground, to be torn asunder by beasts, or to bleach in the rains, I buried the dead with my own hands, under that very little hillock where you have placed yourselves; and no bad seat does it make neither, though it be raised by the bones of mortal men.”

Heyward and the sisters emerged in an instant from the grassy burial ground; despite the terrifying scenes they had just witnessed, the two could not entirely suppress a feeling of natural horror upon finding themselves in such familiar proximity to the grave of the dead Mohawks. The gray light, the gloomy patch of dark grass bordered by brush, beyond which the pines rose in a silent, breathing manner toward the clouds, and the deathlike stillness of the vast forest all conspired to deepen this sensation. “They’re gone, and they’re harmless,” Hawkeye continued, waving his hand with a melancholic smile at their obvious alarm. “They’ll never shout the war-whoop or strike a blow with the tomahawk again! And out of all those who helped place them where they lie, Chingachgook and I are the only ones still alive! The Mohican brothers and family formed our war party; and you see before you all what remains of his race.”

The listeners’ eyes involuntarily sought the forms of the Indians, filled with compassionate interest in their desolate fate. Their dark figures remained visible within the shadows of the blockhouse, the son listening to his father's story with an intensity born from a narrative that honored the courage and savage virtues of those whose names he had long revered.

“I thought the Delawares were a peaceful people,” Duncan said, “and that they never waged war personally; trusting in the defense of their hands by those very Mohawks whom you slew!”

“It’s true in part,” the scout replied, “but at the core, it’s a wicked lie. That treaty was struck in ages past, through the machinations of the Dutch, who sought to disarm the natives who had the rightful claim to that land where they had settled. The Mohicans, though part of the same nation, dealt with the English and never entered into that foolish bargain; they held fast to their manhood, just as the Delawares did when they finally saw the folly of it all. Look, you see a chief of the great Mohican Sagamores! Once his family could herd their deer across stretches of land wider than what belongs to the Albany territory, without crossing any brook or hill that wasn't theirs. But what remains of their descendants? They might find their six feet of earth when God wills it and keep it peaceful, perhaps, if they have a friend willing to sink his head so low that the plowshares can’t reach it!”

“Enough!” Heyward said, worried that the topic might spoil the harmony essential for keeping his good companions in peace; “we’ve traveled far, and few of us are blessed with forms like yours, which seem to know neither weariness nor weakness.”

“A man’s sinews and bones carry him through it all,” the hunter remarked, surveying his muscular limbs with a simplicity that betrayed the honest pleasure of the compliment; “there are larger, heavier men in the settlements, but you might spend many days in a city before meeting one who can walk fifty miles without stopping for breath, or who keeps the hounds within hearing during a chase of hours. Still, since flesh and blood aren't always the same, it’s only reasonable to suppose that the gentler ones are willing to rest, after all they’ve seen and done today. Uncas, clear out the spring while your father and I cover their tender heads of these chestnut shoots with grass and leaves.”

The conversation fell silent as the hunter and his companions began preparing for the comfort and protection of those they guided. A spring, which many long years prior had led the natives to choose for their temporary fortification, was swiftly cleared of leaves, and a fountain of crystal water gushed from its bed, spreading its flow over the verdant mound. A section of the structure was then roofed to keep out the heavy dew of the climate, and piles of sweet shrubs and dry leaves were laid beneath it for the sisters to rest upon.

While the diligent woodsmen were at work, Cora and Alice shared in that refreshment, which required more than mere inclination for them to accept. They retired within the walls, first offering their thanks for past mercies and asking for continued divine favor throughout the coming night. Then, they laid their tender forms upon the fragrant couch, and despite their recollections and forebodings, they soon sank into the slumber nature so imperiously demanded, sweetened by hopes for the morrow. Duncan had prepared himself to watch near them all night, just without the ruin, but the scout, sensing his intent, pointed toward Chingachgook as he coolly settled himself on the grass and said:

“A white man’s eyes are too heavy and too blind for such a watch! The Mohican will be our sentinel, so let us sleep.”

“I proved myself a sluggard on post during the last night,” Heyward admitted, “and I don't need as much rest as you, who have more credit for being a soldier. Let everyone in the party seek rest now, while I hold the guard.”

“If we lay among the white tents of the Sixtieth, and before an enemy like the French, I couldn't ask for a better watchman,” the scout retorted; “but in the darkness and amid the signs of the wilderness, your judgment would be as foolish as a child’s, and your vigilance tossed aside. So sleep, just like Uncas and I, safely.”

Heyward sensed that the younger Indian had thrown himself onto the side of the hillock while they talked, as if trying to maximize their allotted rest. David followed suit, his voice literally “clove to his jaws,” sharpened by the fever of his wound and the strain of their arduous march. Unwilling to drag on a pointless discussion, the young man complied, leaning his back against the logs of the blockhouse in a half-reclined posture. Yet, he was resolutely determined not to close an eye until he had delivered his precious charge into Munro's arms. Hawkeye, believing he’d won, soon drifted off, and a silence as deep as the solitude they had found settled over the retired spot.

For several minutes, Duncan managed to keep his senses sharp, attuned to every moan that drifted from the forest. As the shadows of evening deepened over the place, his vision sharpened; even with the stars glimmering overhead, he could still discern the still shapes of his companions lying on the grass. He noticed Chingachgook, who sat upright and motionless like one of the trees forming the dark barrier around them. He could still hear the soft breaths of the sisters nearby, and not a single leaf was stirred by the passing air, which carried no whisper to his ear. Eventually, however, the mournful notes of a whip-poor-will merged with the hooting of an owl. His heavy eyes occasionally sought the starlight, and he fancied he saw them through his drooping lids. In moments of brief wakefulness, he mistook a bush for his companion; his head settled onto his shoulder, which in turn sought the support of the earth. Finally, his entire body relaxed and yielded, and the young man sank into a deep sleep, dreaming he was a knight of ancient chivalry, guarding his midnight vigil before the tent of a recaptured princess—a favor he no longer feared losing through such devotion and watchfulness.

How long the weary Duncan lay in that senseless state, unaware of himself, his slumbering visions utterly lost to forgetfulness, until a light tap on the shoulder roused him. Stirred by this signal—so slight, yet so potent—he sprang to his feet, a confused memory of the duty he’d taken upon himself when night began.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his hands instinctively searching for his sword where it usually hung. “Speak! Friend or foe?”

“Friend,” replied Chingachgook’s low voice. Pointing upward at the light shedding its soft glow through the opening in the trees right above their camp, he immediately added in rough English, “The moon comes and the white man’s fort is far—far off; it’s time to move, while the Frenchman sleeps!”

“You speak truth! Call your allies, and bridle the horses while I ready my companions for the march!”

“We’re awake, Duncan,” Alice’s soft, silvery tones drifted from within the building. “And ready to travel fast after such a refreshing sleep; but you watched through this tedious night for us, enduring so much fatigue all day long!”

“Well, I would have watched, but my treacherous eyes betrayed me. Twice I’ve proven myself unworthy of the trust I bear.”

“No, Duncan, don’t deny it,” Alice interrupted, stepping from the building’s shadows into the moonlight, her beauty refreshed and luminous. “I know you, my dear; you’re heedless when you focus on yourself, yet overly watchful for others. Can’t we linger here a bit longer while you find what you need? Cora and I will cheerfully keep watch while you and all these brave men manage to snatch some sleep!”

“If shame could cure my drowsiness, I never would close my eyes again,” the uneasy youth admitted, gazing at Alice’s innocent face. Yet, in her sweet solicitude, he found nothing to confirm his half-awakened suspicion. “It’s only true that by leading you into danger through my carelessness, I haven't even earned the right to guard your pillows like a soldier.”

“Only Duncan should accuse Duncan of such weakness. Go on, sleep; believe me, neither of us, weak girls as we are, will betray our watch.”

The young man felt relieved from the awkwardness of admitting any further faults by Chingachgook’s exclamation and his son's fixed gaze.

“The Mohicans hear an enemy!” Hawkeye whispered, now awake and stirring along with the rest of the party. “They smell danger in the wind!”

“God forbid!” Heyward exclaimed. “We’ve had enough bloodshed!”

While he spoke, however, the young soldier seized his rifle, and advancing toward the front, prepared to atone for his venial remissness, by freely exposing his life in defense of those he attended.

“’Tis some creature of the forest prowling around us in quest of food,” he said, in a whisper, as soon as the low, and apparently distant sounds, which had startled the Mohicans, reached his own ears.

“Hist!” returned the attentive scout; “’tis man; even I can now tell his tread, poor as my senses are when compared to an Indian’s! That Scampering Huron has fallen in with one of Montcalm’s outlying parties, and they have struck upon our trail. I shouldn’t like, myself, to spill more human blood in this spot,” he added, looking around with anxiety in his features, at the dim objects by which he was surrounded; “but what must be, must! Lead the horses into the blockhouse, Uncas; and, friends, do you follow to the same shelter. Poor and old as it is, it offers a cover, and has rung with the crack of a rifle afore to-night!”

He was instantly obeyed, the Mohicans leading the Narrangansetts within the ruin, whither the whole party repaired with the most guarded silence.

The sound of approaching footsteps was now so distinct that it left no doubt about the nature of the interruption. These steps quickly mingled with voices calling to one another in an Indian dialect, which the hunter whispered to Heyward was the language of the Hurons. When the party reached the spot where the horses had entered the thicket surrounding the blockhouse, they were clearly at fault, having lost the markers that had guided their pursuit up to that point

. By the voices, it seemed twenty men were soon gathered in that one spot, their various opinions and advice mixed in a noisy clamor

. “The knaves know our weakness,” Hawkeye whispered, standing beside Heyward in the deep shade, peering through a gap in the logs, “or they wouldn’t waste their time on such a squaw’s march. Listen to the reptiles! Each man among them seems to have two tongues and but a single leg”

.Duncan, though brave in combat, couldn't offer a reply to the scout’s cool and characteristic remark in that moment of painful suspense. He simply gripped his rifle tighter and fixed his eyes on the narrow opening, gazing at the moonlight with growing anxiety. The deeper tones of someone speaking with authority followed next, swallowed by a silence that showed how respectfully his orders—or rather, his advice—were received. Then, the rustling of leaves and the crackle of dry twigs revealed that the savages were breaking into pursuit of the lost trail. Luckily for those being pursued, the moonlight, while casting a mild glow on the area around the ruin, wasn't bright enough to pierce the forest’s deep arches, where objects remained hidden in deceptive shadow. The search proved fruitless; the passage from the faint path into the thicket had been so short and sudden that every trace of their footsteps vanished into the woods

. It wasn't long before the restless savages began beating the brush, gradually closing in on the inner edge of the dense border of young chestnuts encircling the area

. “They’re coming,” Heyward muttered, trying to shove his rifle through the gap in the logs. “Let’s fire on their approach.”

“Keep everything in the shade,” the scout replied, “the snap of flint, or even the scent of a single kernel of brimstone, would bring the hungry varmints upon us in one body. If God wills that we must give battle for the heads, trust the experience of men who know the ways of the savages, and who aren't always slow to heed when the war-whoop sounds.”

Duncan glanced behind him and saw the trembling sisters huddled in the far corner of the building. The Mohicans stood in the shadow, like two upright posts, ready—and apparently willing—to strike when the blow was necessary. Curbing his impatience, he looked out at the area again, waiting in silence for the outcome. At that moment, the thicket parted, and a tall, armed Huron advanced a few paces into the open space. As he stared at the silent blockhouse, the moonlight struck his dark face, betraying its surprise and curiosity. He let out the exclamation usually accompanying that emotion in an Indian, and, calling in a low voice, soon drew a companion to his side.

The children of the woods stood together for a few moments, pointing at the crumbling edifice and conversing in the unintelligible tongue of their tribe. Then they approached, moving slowly and cautiously, pausing every instant to gaze at the building, much like startled deer whose curiosity wrestled fiercely with their dawning apprehension about mastery. One of them suddenly set down his foot on the mound and stopped to examine its nature. At that moment, Heyward noticed the scout loosen the knife in its sheath and lower the muzzle of his rifle. Mimicking these actions, the young man prepared himself for the struggle that now seemed inevitable

. The savages were so close that the slightest movement from one of the horses, or even a breath louder than usual, would have betrayed the fugitives. But upon discovering the character of the mound, the Hurons’ attention shifted to something else. They spoke together, their voices low and solemn, as if steeped in a reverence deeply mingled with awe. Then they drew back warily, keeping their eyes fixed on the ruin, as if expecting apparitions of the dead to emerge from its silent walls, until they reached the edge of the area, then slowly melted into the thicket

. Hawkeye dropped the breech of his rifle to the earth and drew a long, free breath, exclaiming in an audible whisper:

“Aye! they respect the dead, and it has saved their lives this time, and perhaps the lives of better men too.”

Heyward gave his companion a fleeting moment of attention, but offered no reply, instead turning back to those who had drawn his focus more intensely. He heard the two Hurons depart the thicket, and it soon became clear that all the pursuers were gathered there, keenly focused on their report. After a few minutes of earnest, solemn dialogue—a stark contrast to the clamor with which they had first gathered information about the spot—the sounds grew fainter and more distant, finally swallowed by the depths of the forest

. Hawkeye waited for a signal from the listening Chingachgook confirming that every sound from the retreating party was completely lost in the distance. He motioned to Heyward to lead the horses and help the sisters into their saddles. As soon as this was done, they slipped through the broken gateway, disappearing in a direction opposite to their entry point, leaving the spot. The sisters cast furtive glances at the silent, grave ruin, and as they left the moonlight behind, they melted into the gloom of the woods

CHAPTER XIV.

“Guard.—Qui est la?
Puc. —Paisans, pauvres gens de France.”
—King Henry VI

[Illustration] The scout resumed his post in the advance

During the rapid movement from the blockhouse, and until the party was deeply buried in the forest, each individual was too much interested in the escape to hazard a word even in whispers. The scout resumed his post in advance, though his steps, after he had thrown a safe distance between himself and his enemies, were more deliberate than in their previous march, in consequence of his utter ignorance of the localities of the surrounding woods. More than once he halted to consult with his confederates, the Mohicans, pointing upward at the moon, and examining the barks of the trees with care. In these brief pauses, Heyward and the sisters listened, with senses rendered doubly acute by the danger, to detect any symptoms which might announce the proximity of their foes. At such moments, it seemed as if a vast range of country lay buried in eternal sleep; not the least sound arising from the forest, unless it was the distant and scarcely audible rippling of a water-course. Birds, beasts, and man, appeared to slumber alike, if, indeed, any of the latter were to be found in that wide tract of wilderness. But the sounds of the rivulet, feeble and murmuring as they were, relieved the guides at once from no trifling embarrassment, and toward it they immediately held their way.

When they reached the banks of the little stream, Hawkeye stopped again. Taking off his moccasins, he invited Heyward and Gamut to follow suit. Then, he stepped into the water, and for nearly an hour, they traveled in the brook’s bed, leaving no trace behind. The moon had already sunk into a vast mass of black clouds looming over the western horizon when they emerged from the low, winding watercourse to rise again to the light and level of the sandy, wooded plain. Here, the scout felt at home once more; he followed this route with the certainty and diligence of a man secure in his own knowledge. The path soon grew rougher, and the travelers could plainly see that the mountains were drawing closer on both sides, and they were, in truth, about to enter one of their gorges. Suddenly, Hawkeye paused. Waiting until the whole party was with him, he spoke, though his tones were so low and cautious they added to the solemnity of his words in the quiet darkness.

“It’s easy to know the trails and find the water-courses of the wilderness,” he said; “but who could dare say that a mighty army was resting among those silent trees and barren mountains?”

“Then we’re not far from William Henry?” Heyward asked, moving closer to the scout.

"It's still a long, weary road, and where and when to strike it is our biggest problem now," he said, pointing through the trees toward a spot where a small basin of water reflected the stars from its calm surface, "here is the 'bloody pond'; and I'm on ground I haven't just traveled, but over which I've fought the enemy, from sunrise to sunset."

"Ha! that dull, dreary water is the grave of the brave men who fell in the fight. I've heard of it, sure, but I've never stood on its banks."

"We fought three battles with the Dutch-Frenchman[1] in a single day," Hawkeye continued, chasing his own thoughts instead of answering Duncan. "He met us hard as we marched out to ambush his advance, and scattered us like wild deer through the wilderness to the shores of Horican. Then we rallied behind our fallen trees and stood up to him, under Sir William—who earned that title for that very deed; and we certainly made him pay for the morning's disgrace! Hundreds of Frenchmen saw the sun for the last time that day; even their leader, Dieskau himself, fell into our hands, so cut and torn by the lead, that he returned to his homeland, unfit for any more fighting."

[1] Baron Dieskau was German, serving France. A few years before the story took place, this officer had been defeated by Sir William Johnson of Johnstown, New York, on the shores of Lake George.

“What a noble repulsion!” Heyward exclaimed, fueled by his youthful fervor; “the fame of it reached us early, in our southern army.”

“Aye! but that wasn't the end of it. I was sent by Major Effingham, at Sir William’s express command, to outflank the French and carry the news of their disaster across the portage to the fort on the Hudson. Just over there, where you see the trees rise into a mountain swell, I met a group coming to our aid, and I led them right where the enemy were taking their meal, without realizing they hadn’t finished the bloody work of the day.”

“And you surprised them?”

“If death can surprise men consumed only by their appetites. We gave them barely time to breathe, for they had fought hard against us in the morning, and many in our party had lost friends or relatives by their hands.”

“When everything was over—the dead, and some say the dying—they were thrown into that little pond. These eyes have seen its waters stained with blood, as natural water has never yet flowed from the bowels of the earth.”

“It was a convenient, and I trust, a peaceful grave for a soldier. You've seen much service on this frontier, haven't you?”

“Ay!” the scout declared, puffing out his chest with military pride. “There aren't many echoes in these hills that haven’t been shaken by the crack of my rifle, nor is there a square mile between Horican and the river where a ‘killdeer’ hasn’t dropped a living body—be it an enemy or some brute beast. As for the grave being as quiet as you say, that’s another story. There are folks in the camp who reckon that if you want to lie still, you shouldn't be buried while the breath is still in your body; and you can bet that in the rush of that evening, the doctors had hardly time to tell who was living and who was dead. Hist! See you walking on the shore of the pond?”

“It's not likely that any of us are as homeless as we are in this dreary forest.”

“He cares little for house or shelter, and night dew can never wet a body that has spent its days in the water,” the scout retorted, gripping Heyward’s shoulder with such force that the young soldier painfully realized how much superstitious terror had taken hold of a man usually so fearless.

“By heaven, there’s a human form, and it’s coming! Stand to attention, friends; we don't know who we’re meeting.”

“Qui vive?” demanded a stern, sharp voice, sounding like a challenge from another world, issuing from that solitary, solemn place.

“What does it say?” the scout whispered; “it speaks neither Indian nor English.”

“Qui vive?” the same voice repeated, quickly followed by the rattling of arms and a menacing stance.

“France!” cried Heyward, stepping from the shadow of the trees to the shore of the pond, mere yards from the sentinel

. “Where are you from—where are you going, at such an early hour?” demanded the grenadier, speaking in the language and accent of an old Frenchman

. “I come from the discovery, and I am going to bed.”

“Are you a captain of the King?”

“No doubt, my comrade; do you think I’m some provincial! I am a captain of hunters (Heyward knew the other was from a regiment in the line); I have the commandant's girls here with me. Aha! You’ve heard of them! I took them prisoner near the other fort, and I am leading them to the general.”

“By my soul! Ladies; I am angry with you,” exclaimed the young soldier, gracefully touching his cap; “but—the fortune of war! You’ll find our general a brave man, and very well mannered with the ladies.”

“That’s the nature of soldiers,” said Cora, with admirable self-possession. “Farewell, my friend; I wish you a more pleasant duty to fulfill.”

The soldier offered a low, humble nod of respect; Heyward added, "Bonne nuit, mon camarade," and they moved forward deliberately. The sentinel remained pacing the banks of the silent pond, little suspecting an enemy of such effrontery, as he hummed to himself those words, recalled by the sight of women and perhaps by memories of his own distant and beautiful France:

"Vive le vin, vive l’amour," and so on, and so forth.

"You understood the rogue well!" the scout whispered once they had gained a little distance, letting his rifle fall back into his arm. "I soon saw he was one of those uneasy Frenchers; and well for him, his speech was friendly and his wishes kind, or there might have been a place for his bones among those of his countrymen."

He was interrupted by a long, heavy groan that arose from the little basin, as if the spirits of the departed truly lingered about their watery sepulcher.

“Surely it was of flesh,” continued the scout; “no spirit could handle its arms so steadily.”

“It was of flesh; but whether the poor fellow still belongs to this world may well be doubted,” said Heyward, glancing his eyes around him, and missing Chingachgook from their little band. Another groan more faint than the former was succeeded by a heavy and sullen plunge into the water, and all was still again as if the borders of the dreary pool had never been awakened from the silence of creation. While they yet hesitated in uncertainty, the form of the Indian was seen gliding out of the thicket. As the chief rejoined them, with one hand he attached the reeking scalp of the unfortunate young Frenchman to his girdle, and with the other he replaced the knife and tomahawk that had drunk his blood. He then took his wonted station, with the air of a man who believed he had done a deed of merit.

The scout dropped one end of his rifle to the earth, and leaning his hands on the other, he stood musing in profound silence. Then, shaking his head in a mournful manner, he muttered:

“’Twould have been a cruel and an unhuman act for a white-skin; but ’tis the gift and natur’ of an Indian, and I suppose it should not be denied. I could wish, though, it had befallen an accursed Mingo, rather than that gay young boy from the old countries.”

“Enough!” Heyward said, worried the unconscious sisters might grasp the reason for their detention, chasing away his disgust with a reflection much like that of a hunter; “it’s done; and though it were better left undone, it can’t be changed. See, we are, too obviously, within the enemy’s watch; what course do you propose to take?”

“Yes,” Hawkeye replied, stirring himself awake; “you’re right, it’s too late to dwell on it. Aye, the French have gathered around the fort with serious intent, and we have a delicate needle to thread in between them.”

“And little time to do it!” Heyward added, glancing up at the vapor that hid the setting moon.

“And little time to do it!” the scout repeated. “The task can be done in two ways: with Providence’s help, or it may not be done at all.”

“Name them quickly; time is pressing.”

“We could dismount the gentle ones and let their beasts roam the plain; by sending the Mohicans ahead, we might cut a path through their sentries and enter the fort over the dead bodies.”

“It won’t work—it won’t work!” Heyward interrupted, generous with his concern; “a soldier might force his way in this way, but never with such a convoy.”

“It would be, indeed, a bloody path for such tender feet to wade in,” the equally reluctant scout returned, “but I thought it fit my manhood to name it. We must, then, turn our trail and get clear of their lookouts before we bend west and enter the mountains; that’s where I can hide you, so all the devil’s hounds in Montcalm’s pay will be chasing the scent for months.”

“Let it be done, and that instantly.”

No further words were needed; for Hawkeye, simply uttering the command to “follow” moved them along the route they’d just entered—a critical and perilous situation. Their progress was guarded and silent, as no one dared know when a passing patrol or an enemy picket might rise up on their path. As they kept their quiet way along the pond's edge, Heyward and the scout stole furtive glances at its dreadful gloom. They searched in vain for the shape they’d seen earlier stalking across the silent shores, while the low, regular wash of the little waves, announcing the water hadn't subsided, offered a frightful reminder of the bloodshed they’d just witnessed. Like the entire passing, gloomy scene, the shallow basin quickly melted away in the darkness, blending into the mass of black objects behind the travelers.

Hawkeye soon veered off their retreat, striking toward the mountains that formed the western edge of the narrow plain. With swift steps, he led his followers deep into the shadows cast by their high, broken summits. The route was now grueling; they trudged over ground ragged with rocks and carved by ravines, making their progress painfully slow. Bleak, black hills flanked them on every side, offering some sense of security that partially compensated for the added toil of the march. Eventually, the party began a slow ascent up a steep, rugged incline, following a path that curiously wound among rocks and trees, cleverly avoiding and supporting one another—a trail clearly devised by men long practiced in the wilderness arts. As they gradually climbed above the valleys, the thick darkness that usually preceded dawn began to dissipate, and objects appeared in the plain with the vibrant colors nature had bestowed upon them. When they emerged from the stunted woods clinging to the barren mountain slopes, onto a flat, mossy rock forming the summit, they met the morning, blushing above the green pines of a hill on the opposite side of the Horican valley

. The scout then told the sisters to dismount. Taking the bridles from their mouths and the saddles from the backs of the weary beasts, he released them to forage for meager sustenance among the shrubs and sparse herbage of that elevated region

. “Go,” he commanded, “and seek your food where nature provides it; and watch out that you don't become food for ravenous wolves yourselves among these hills”

.“Do we need them any further?” Heyward demanded.

“See for yourselves,” the scout said, moving toward the eastern ridge of the mountain where he beckoned the whole party to follow. “If looking into the heart of man is as easy as spotting Montcalm’s camp from here, hypocrites would vanish, and a Mingo’s cunning would prove a losing game against Delaware’s honesty.”

When the travelers reached the edge of the precipice, they saw, at a glance, the truth of the scout’s words and the admirable foresight with which he had led them to their commanding position.

The mountain on which they stood, elevated perhaps a thousand feet in the air, was a high cone that rose a little in advance of that range which stretches for miles along the western shores of the lake, until meeting its sisters miles beyond the water, it ran off toward the Canadas, in confused and broken masses of rock, thinly sprinkled with evergreens.Immediately at the feet of the party, the southern shore of the Horican swept in a broad semicircle from mountain to mountain, marking a wide strand, that soon rose into an uneven and somewhat elevated plain.To the north stretched the limpid, and, as it appeared from that dizzy height, the narrow sheet of the “holy lake,” indented with numberless bays, embellished by fantastic headlands, and dotted with countless islands.At the distance of a few leagues, the bed of the water became lost among mountains, or was wrapped in the masses of vapor that came slowly rolling along their bosom, before a light morning air.But a narrow opening between the crests of the hills pointed out the passage by which they found their way still further north, to spread their pure and ample sheets again, before pouring out their tribute into the distant Champlain.To the south stretched the defile, or rather broken plain, so often mentioned.For several miles in this direction, the mountains appeared reluctant to yield their dominion, but within reach of the eye they diverged, and finally melted into the level and sandy lands, across which we have accompanied our adventurers in their double journey.Along both ranges of hills, which bounded the opposite sides of the lake and valley, clouds of light vapor were rising in spiral wreaths from the uninhabited woods, looking like the smoke of hidden cottages; or rolled lazily down the declivities, to mingle with the fogs of the lower land.A single, solitary, snow-white cloud hung above the valley, marking the spot beneath which lay the silent pool of the “bloody pond.”

Directly on the shore of the lake, and closer to its west than its east, were the extensive earthen ramparts and low buildings of William Henry. Two sweeping bastions seemed to rest upon the water that washed their bases, while a deep ditch and vast morasses guarded the other sides and angles. The land had been cleared of trees for a decent distance around the work, but every other part of the scene remained in nature's green hues, except where the clear water softened the view, or where bold rocks thrust their black, bare heads above the rolling outline of the mountain ranges. In the foreground, scattered sentinels stood watch against their many foes; within the walls themselves, the travelers looked down upon men still drowsy from a night of vigilance. To the southeast, and immediately adjoining the fort, an entrenched camp was posted on a rocky prominence—a place far more suitable for the work itself, as Hawkeye pointed out the presence of those auxiliary regiments that had so recently left the Hudson in their company. From the woods, a little further south, numerous dark and lurid smokes rose, easily distinguishable from the cleaner exhalations of the springs, and the scout showed Heyward these as evidence that the enemy was in force in that direction.

But the spectacle that most troubled the young soldier lay on the western bank of the lake, though quite close to its southern end. On a strip of land that seemed too narrow to hold such an army, it actually stretched for hundreds of yards from the shores of the Horican to the foot of the mountain. There, they could see the white tents and military machinery of an encampment numbering ten thousand men. Batteries were already set up in front, and even as the spectators above them looked down with such varied emotions at a scene laid out like a map beneath their feet, the roar of artillery rose from the valley and echoed off the eastern hills.

“Morning is just touching them below,” mused the deliberate scout. “And those watchers intend to wake the sleepers with the sound of cannon. We’re a few hours too late! Montcalm has already filled the woods with his cursed Iroquois.”

“The place is, indeed, occupied,” Duncan replied. “But isn't there a better way in? Capturing them alive would be much preferable to falling into the hands of roving Indians.”

“Look!” exclaimed the scout, unintentionally drawing Cora’s attention to her father’s quarters. “See how that shot has sent stones flying from the commandant’s house! Aye! these Frenchies will tear it down faster than it was put together, no matter how solid they are!”

“Heyward, I feel sick at the sight of danger I can't share,” said the undaunted but anxious daughter. “Let’s go to Montcalm and demand entry: he can’t deny a child what they deserve.”

“You’d hardly find a Frenchman's tent with hair on his head,” the scout said bluntly. “If I had just one of the thousand empty boats along that shore, we could do it! Ha! The fighting will soon end; a fog is coming that will turn day into night, making an Indian arrow more deadly than a molded cannon. Now, if you’re up for the work and will follow, I’ll push; I long to get into that camp just to scatter those Mingo dogs I see lurking in the edges of that thicket of birch.”

“We’re equal,” Cora said firmly. “On a mission like this, we follow any danger.”

The scout turned to her with a smile of honest approval as he answered:

“If I had a thousand men with strong limbs and quick eyes who feared death as little as you! I’d send them back into their den with jabbering Frenchers before the week was out, howling like so many chained hounds or hungry wolves. But hurry,” he added, turning from her to the rest of the party, “the fog is rolling in so fast; we’ll have just enough time to meet it on the plain and use it for cover. Remember, if anything happens to me and I need to keep the air blowing on your left cheeks—or rather, follow the Mohicans; they’d track their way, whether it be day or night.”

He waved his hand for them to follow, then slid down the steep slope with sure, careful steps. Heyward helped the sisters down, and in just a few minutes, they were far below a mountain whose sides they had scaled with such toil and pain.

Hawkeye's direction quickly brought the travelers to the plain, almost directly opposite a sally-port in the western curtain of the fort, situated about half a mile from where he had stopped to let Duncan make his charge. In their eagerness, and aided by the terrain, they expected the fog rolling down the lake, forcing them to pause until the mists enveloped the enemy camp in their soft mantle. The Mohicans took advantage of this delay to sneak out of the woods and survey the surroundings. A little distance behind them, the scout followed, keen to profit from their report and gain some faint knowledge of the nearby areas.

In moments, he returned, his face flushed with vexation, muttering his disappointment in words that weren't very kind.

"Here the cunning Frenchman has posted a picket right in our path," he said. "Redskins and whites; we'll be just as likely to stumble into their midst as to slip past them in the fog!"

"Can't we make a detour to avoid the danger," Heyward asked, "and come into our path again when it's clear?"

“Who that once bends from the line of his march in a fog can tell when or how to find it again! The mists of Horican are not like the curls from a peace-pipe, or the smoke which settles above a mosquito fire.”

He was yet speaking, when a crashing sound was heard, and a cannon-ball entered the thicket, striking the body of a sapling, and rebounding to the earth, its force being much expended by previous resistance. The Indians followed instantly like busy attendants on the terrible messenger, and Uncas commenced speaking earnestly and with much action, in the Delaware tongue.

“It may be so, lad,” muttered the scout, when he had ended; “for desperate fevers are not to be treated like a toothache. Come, then, the fog is shutting in.”

“Stop!” cried Heyward; “first explain your expectations.”

“’Tis soon done, and a small hope it is; but it is better than nothing. This shot that you see,” added the scout, kicking the harmless iron with his foot, “has plowed the ’arth in its road from the fort, and we shall hunt for the furrow it has made, when all other signs may fail. No more words, but follow, or the fog may leave us in the middle of our path, a mark for both armies to shoot at.”

Heyward perceiving that, in fact, a crisis had arrived, when acts were more required than words, placed himself between the sisters, and drew them swiftly forward, keeping the dim figure of their leader in his eye. It was soon apparent that Hawkeye had not magnified the power of the fog, for before they had proceeded twenty yards, it was difficult for the different individuals of the party to distinguish each other in the vapor.

They had made their little circuit to the left, and were already inclining again toward the right, having, as Heyward thought, got over nearly half the distance to the friendly works, when his ears were saluted with the fierce summons, apparently within twenty feet of them, of:

“Qui va là?”

“Push on!” whispered the scout, once more bending to the left.

“Push on!” repeated Heyward; when the summons was renewed by a dozen voices, each of which seemed charged with menace.

“C’est moi,” cried Duncan, dragging rather than leading those he supported swiftly onward.

“Bête!—qui?—moi!”

“Ami de la France.”

“Tu m’as plus l’air d’un ennemi de la France; arrete ou pardieu je te ferai ami du diable. Non! feu, camarades, feu!”

The order was instantly obeyed, and the fog was stirred by the explosion of fifty muskets. Happily, the aim was bad, and the bullets cut the air in a direction a little different from that taken by the fugitives; though still so nigh them, that to the unpractised ears of David and the two females, it appeared as if they whistled within a few inches of the organs. The outcry was renewed, and the order, not only to fire again, but to pursue, was too plainly audible. When Heyward briefly explained the meaning of the words they heard, Hawkeye halted and spoke with quick decision and great firmness.

“Let’s unleash our fire,” he said. “They’ll think it’s a sortie and break, or they’ll wait for reinforcements.”

The plan was brilliant, but it fell flat. The moment the French heard the signal, it felt as if the plain itself roared with men, muskets rattling across every inch of it, from the lake shore to the edge of the woods.

“We’ll draw their whole army onto us and launch a general assault,” Duncan called out. “Lead on, my friend, for your own sake and ours.”

The scout seemed ready to go; however, in the rush and the shift in position, he lost his bearing. In vain, he turned toward the light air; it felt just as cool. Faced with this dilemma, Uncas focused on the furrow of the cannonball, where it had carved the ground into three neighboring hollows.

“Give me the range!” Hawkeye commanded, bending down to catch a glimpse of the direction, and then immediately moving on.

Cries, oaths, voices calling out, and the reports of muskets were now quick and ceaseless, apparently from every direction. Suddenly, a brilliant glare of light flashed across the scene, the fog rolled up in thick wreaths, and several cannons roared across the plain, their sound thrown back by the booming echoes of the mountains.

“It’s from the fort!” Hawkeye exclaimed, stopping abruptly. “And we, like fools, were rushing into the woods under the very blades of the Maquas.”

The instant their mistake was rectified, the whole party retraced the error with the utmost diligence. Duncan willingly relinquished the support of Cora to the arm of Uncas and Cora as readily accepted the welcome assistance. Men, hot and angry in pursuit, were evidently on their footsteps, and each instant threatened their capture, if not their destruction.

“Point de quartier aux coquins!” cried an eager pursuer, who seemed to direct the operations of the enemy.

“Stand firm, and be ready, my gallant Sixtieths!” suddenly exclaimed a voice above them; “wait to see the enemy, fire low and sweep the glacis.”

“Father! father!” exclaimed a piercing cry from out the mist: “it is I! Alice! thy own Elsie! Spare, oh! save your daughters!”

“Hold!” shouted the former speaker, in the awful tones of parental agony, the sound reaching even to the woods, and rolling back in solemn echo. “’Tis she! God has restored me to my children! Throw open the sally-port; to the field, Sixtieths, to the field; pull not a trigger, lest ye kill my lambs! Drive off these dogs of France with your steel.”

Duncan heard the grating of the rusty hinges, and darting to the spot, directed by the sound, he met a long line of dark red warriors, passing swiftly toward the glacis. He knew them for his own battalion of the Royal Americans, and flying to their head, soon swept every trace of his pursuers from before the works.

For an instant, Cora and Alice stood trembling and bewildered by the unexpected desertion; but before either could speak or even think, an officer of gigantic frame, whose hair was bleached by years of service yet whose military grandeur had been softened rather than destroyed by time, rushed out of the mist. He folded them to his bosom while large, scalding tears streamed down his pale, wrinkled cheeks, and he exclaimed in a peculiar Scottish accent:

“For this I thank thee, Lord! Let danger come as it will; thy servant is now prepared!”

CHAPTER XV.

“Then go we in, to know his embassy;
Which I could, with ready guess, declare,
Before the Frenchmen speak a word of it.”
—King Henry V

A few succeeding days were passed amid the privations, the uproar, and the dangers of the siege, which was vigorously pressed by a power, against whose approaches Munro possessed no competent means of resistance. It appeared as if Webb, with his army, which lay slumbering on the banks of the Hudson, had utterly forgotten the strait to which his countrymen were reduced. Montcalm had filled the woods of the portage with his savages, every yell and whoop from whom rang through the British encampment, chilling the hearts of men who were already but too much disposed to magnify the danger.

Not so, however, with the besieged. Driven by their words and spurred by examples of their leaders, they found their courage and upheld their ancient reputation with a zeal that matched their commander's stern character. As if content with the arduous march through the wilderness to meet their foe, the French general, despite his commendable skill, neglected to seize the adjacent mountains—mountains from which the besieged could have been exterminated with impunity, and which would not have been ignored for a single hour in the country's modern warfare. This disregard for height, or rather the dread of scaling them, might be called the defining weakness of the warfare of the period. It stemmed from the simplicity of the Indian campaigns, where, due to the nature of the fighting and the dense forests, fortresses were scarce, and artillery proved nearly useless. The carelessness born from these practices bled into the Revolutionary War, causing the States to lose the vital fortress of Ticonderoga and allowing Burgoyne's army into the heart of the country. We look back at this ignorance, or infatuation, whatever you call it, with wonder. We know that neglecting an eminence—whose difficulties, much like those of Mount Defiance, have been so greatly exaggerated—would now prove fatal to the reputation of the engineer who planned the works there, or to the general tasked with defending them.

The tourist, the valetudinarian, or the amateur of the beauties of nature, who, in the train of his four-in-hand, now rolls through the scenes we have attempted to describe, in quest of information, health, or pleasure, or floats steadily toward his object on those artificial waters which have sprung up under the administration of a statesman[1] who has dared to stake his political character on the hazardous issue, is not to suppose that his ancestors traversed those hills, or struggled with the same currents with equal facility.The transportation of a single heavy gun was often considered equal to a victory gained; if happily, the difficulties of the passage had not so far separated it from its necessary concomitant, the ammunition, as to render it no more than a useless tube of unwieldy iron.

[1] Evidently the late De Witt Clinton, who died governor of New York in 1828.

The evils of this state of things pressed heavily on the fortunes of the resolute Scotsman who now defended William Henry. Though his adversary neglected the hills, he had planted his batteries with judgment on the plain, and caused them to be served with vigor and skill. Against this assault, the besieged could only oppose the imperfect and hasty preparations of a fortress in the wilderness.

It was the afternoon of the fifth day of the siege, and his fourth day serving in it, when Major Heyward gained an advantage from a just-beaten parley. He made his way to the ramparts of one of the water bastions to repair himself, to breathe the cool air from the lake, and to survey the progress of the siege. He was alone, save for the solitary sentinel pacing the mound; the artillerymen had also hastened to profit by temporarily suspending their arduous duties. The evening was delightfully calm, and the air drifting off the limpid water was fresh and soothing. It seemed as if, with the roar of the artillery ceasing and the shot plunging away, nature had seized the moment to assume her mildest and most captivating form. The sun poured its parting glory upon the scene, unburdened by the oppressive rays of the climate and season. The mountains appeared green, fresh, and lovely, tempered by the softer light or softened in shadow as thin vapors drifted between them and the sun. The numerous islands rested on the bosom of the Horican—some low and sunken, as if embedded in the water, and others appearing to hover above it in little hillocks of green velvet. Among these, the fishermen of the beleaguered army rowed their skiffs peacefully or rested still on the glassy mirror in quiet pursuit of their livelihood

. The scene was both animated and still. Everything pertaining to nature was sweet or simply grand, while the aspects dependent on the temper and movements of man were lively and playful

.Two pristine flags fluttered abroad—one angled sharply from the fort, the other atop the besiegers' advanced battery; emblems of truth that seemed to resonate not just with their actions, but with the very enmity of the combatants.

Behind these, the rival standards of England and France swung in silken folds, opening and closing heavily.

A hundred cheerful, thoughtless young Frenchmen were casting a net on the pebbly beach, dangerously close to the fort's sullen, silent cannons, while the eastern mountain echoed with the loud shouts and merriment accompanying their sport. Some eagerly rushed to enjoy the lake's aquatic games, while others were already climbing the neighboring hills, driven by their nation's restless curiosity. To all these pursuits—those of the enemy watching the siege, the besieged, and themselves—they were merely idle spectators, sympathizing observers. Here and there, a picket had indeed raised a song or joined a dance that drew the dusky savages from their forest lairs. In short, everything appeared to be a day of pleasure rather than an hour stolen from the danger and toil of a bloody and vindictive war.

Duncan had stood in a musing attitude, contemplating this scene a few minutes, when his eyes were directed to the glacis in front of the sally-port already mentioned, by the sounds of approaching footsteps. He walked to an angle of the bastion, and beheld the scout advancing, under the custody of a French officer, to the body of the fort. The countenance of Hawkeye was haggard and careworn, and his air dejected, as though he felt the deepest degradation at having fallen into the power of his enemies. He was without his favorite weapon, and his arms were even bound behind him with thongs, made of the skin of a deer. The arrival of flags to cover the messengers of summons, had occurred so often of late, that when Heyward first threw his careless glance on this group, he expected to see another of the officers of the enemy, charged with a similar office but the instant he recognized the tall person and still sturdy though downcast features of his friend, the woodsman, he started with surprise, and turned to descend from the bastion into the bosom of the work.

The sounds of other voices, however, caught his attention, and for a moment caused him to forget his purpose. At the inner angle of the mound he met the sisters, walking along the parapet, in search, like himself, of air and relief from confinement. They had not met from that painful moment when he deserted them on the plain, only to assure their safety. He had parted from them worn with care, and jaded with fatigue; he now saw them refreshed and blooming, though timid and anxious. Under such an inducement it will cause no surprise that the young man lost sight for a time, of other objects in order to address them. He was, however, anticipated by the voice of the ingenuous and youthful Alice.

"Ah! you tyrant, you deceitful knight! he who deserts his damsels right in the midst of the fray!" she cried. "We have waited here for days, nay, ages, expecting you at our feet, begging for mercy and the oblivion of your craven backsliding—or I should say, your flight—for truly, you fled in a manner no stricken deer, as our worthy friend the scout would attest, could ever equal!"

"Alice means our thanks and our blessings," added Cora, who was graver and more thoughtful. "In truth, we wonder why you so rigidly avoid a place where the daughters' gratitude might receive a parent’s thanks."

"Your father himself could tell you that, though you were absent, I never forgot your safety," the young man returned. "The mastery of that village of huts," he gestured toward the neighboring entrenched camp, "has been hotly contested; and whoever holds it is surely in possession of this fort and everything within it. My days and nights have all passed there since we parted, because I thought duty called me there. But," he added, with an air of chagrin he tried, though unsuccessfully, to hide, "if I had known that what I then thought was a soldier’s conduct could be so construed, shame would have been added to the list of reasons."

“Heyward! Duncan!” Alice cried, leaning in to read his half-hidden face, a strand of her golden hair brushing her flushed cheek and nearly concealing the tear welling in her eye. “Did I think this idle tongue of mine had caused you pain? I would silence it forever. Cora can attest, if she would, how justly we have valued your service, and how deep—I almost said, how fervent—our gratitude.”

“And will Cora bear witness to this?” Duncan cried, the cloud from his face chased away by a smile of open pleasure. “What does our elder sister say? Will she find an excuse for neglecting the knight in the duty of a soldier?”

Cora offered no immediate reply but turned her gaze to the water, as if contemplating the surface of the Horican. When her dark eyes finally met the young man’s, they were still brimming with an anguish that banished every thought save one of tender solicitude from his mind.

“You aren't well, dearest Miss Munro!” he exclaimed. “We’ve trifled while you are in suffering!”

“’Tis nothing,” she answered, refusing his support with feminine reserve. “That I cannot see the sunny side of the picture of life, like this artless but ardent enthusiast,” she added, laying her hand lightly, but affectionately, on the arm of her sister, “is the penalty of experience, and, perhaps, the misfortune of my nature. See,” she continued, as if determined to shake off infirmity, in a sense of duty; “look around you, Major Heyward, and tell me what a prospect is this for the daughter of a soldier whose greatest happiness is his honor and his military renown.”

“Neither ought nor shall be tarnished by circumstances over which he has had no control,” Duncan warmly replied. “But your words recall me to my own duty. I go now to your gallant father, to hear his determination in matters of the last moment to the defense. God bless you in every fortune, noble—Cora—I may and must call you.” She frankly gave him her hand, though her lip quivered, and her cheeks gradually became of ashly paleness. “In every fortune, I know you will be an ornament and honor to your sex. Alice, adieu”—his voice changed from admiration to tenderness—“adieu, Alice; we shall soon meet again; as conquerors, I trust, and amid rejoicings!”

Without waiting for an answer from either, the young man threw himself down the grassy steps of the bastion, and moving rapidly across the parade, he was quickly in the presence of their father. Munro was pacing his narrow apartment with a disturbed air and gigantic strides as Duncan entered.

“You have anticipated my wishes, Major Heyward,” he said; “I was about to request this favor.”

“I am sorry to see, sir, that the messenger I so warmly recommended has returned in custody of the French! I hope there is no reason to distrust his fidelity?”

“I know ‘The Long Rifle’s’ loyalty well,” Munro replied, “and it’s beyond suspicion; though his usual good fortune appears, at last, to have soured. Montcalm has him, and with the damned politeness of his nation, he sent him in with a mournful story: that he couldn't keep him because he knew how much I valued the fellow. A Jesuitical way to tell a man of his misfortunes!”

“But what of the general and his support?”

“When you entered, didn’t you look south and see them?” the old soldier said, laughing bitterly. “Hoot! Hoot! You’re an impatient boy, sir, and you can’t afford to give the gentlemen leisure for their march!”

“They’re coming, then? The scout has said so?”

“When? And by what route? The dunce hasn't told me. There’s a letter, it seems, and that’s the only pleasant bit of it. For your Marquis of Montcalm’s customary attentions—I warrant you, Duncan, that he of Lothian would buy a dozen such marquisates—but if the news in the letter were bad, the gentility of this French fellow would surely compel him to let us know.”

“He keeps the letter, then, while he releases the messenger?”

“Aye, he does, and all for the sake of what you call your ‘bonhommie.’ I would venture, if the truth were known, that the fellow’s grandfather taught the noble science of dancing.”

“But what does the scout say? He has eyes, ears, and a tongue. What report does he give?”

“Oh! sir, he lacks nothing in natural organs, and he is free to tell everything he has seen and heard. The whole matter is this: there is a fort of His Majesty’s on the banks of the Hudson, called Edward, in honor of his gracious highness of York, you’ll know; and it is well filled with armed men, as such a structure should be.”

“But was there no movement, no sign of an intention to advance to our aid?”

“There were the morning and evening parades; and when one of the provincial loons—you’ll know, Duncan, you’re half a Scotsman yourself—when one of them dropped his powder over his poncho, if it touched the coals, it just burned!” Then, suddenly shifting to a more grave and thoughtful tone, he continued, “and yet there might, and must be, something in that letter which it would be well to know!”

“Our decision should be swift,” said Duncan, gladly taking advantage of this change in mood to press the more important points of their interview; “I can’t hide from you, sir, that the camp won’t hold much longer; and I regret to add that things look no better in the fort; more than half the guns are spent.”

"And how else should it be? Some were hauled from the bottom of the lake; some have been rusting in the woods since the country's discovery; and some were never guns at all—just privateers' toys! Do you imagine, sir, that you can have Woolwich Warren stranded in the middle of a wilderness, three thousand miles from Great Britain?"

"The walls are crumbling around our ears, and supplies are running low," Heyward continued, ignoring the fresh surge of outrage; "even the men are showing signs of discontent and fear."

"Major Heyward," Munro said, turning to his younger associate with the dignity of his age and superior rank, "I should have served His Majesty for half a century and earned these gray hairs in vain, had I been ignorant of everything you say and the pressing nature of our situation. Still, there is everything owed to the honor of the King's arms, and something for ourselves. While succor is possible, this fortress I will defend, even if it means doing it with pebbles gathered from the lake shore. It is a matter of principle, therefore, that we want—to know the intentions of the man the Earl of Loudon has left among us as his substitute."

"And can I be of service in this matter?"

“Sir, you may; the Marquis of Montcalm has, besides his other courtesies, invited me to a private interview among his works and his camp; in order, as he says, to impart some further information. Now, I don't think it's wise to show any undue eagerness to meet him, and I'd use you, an officer of rank, as my substitute; it wouldn't quite comport with the honor of Scotland to let it be said one of her gentlemen was outmatched in civility by a native of any other country on earth.”

Without taking on the burdensome task of debating the comparative merits of national courtesy, Duncan cheerfully agreed to fill the veteran's place in the forthcoming interview. A long, confidential communication then followed, during which the young man gained some extra insight into his duty from his commander's experience and keen perception, and then the former departed.

Since Duncan could only act as the representative of the commandant of the fort, the ceremonies that would normally accompany a meeting between the heads of opposing forces were, naturally, waived. The truce remained in effect, and with a roll and beat of the drum, and a small white flag, Duncan left the sally-port within ten minutes of receiving his orders. He was received by the French officer in advance with the customary formalities and immediately escorted to a distant marquee of the renowned soldier who led France's forces.

The enemy general received the young messenger, surrounded by his principal officers and a swarthy band of native chiefs who had followed him to the field, along with the warriors of their various tribes. Heyward paused abruptly; as he rapidly glanced over the dark group, he caught sight of Magua’s malignant countenance, fixing him with a calm yet sullen attention that betrayed that subtle savagery. A slight gasp of surprise escaped the young man’s lips, but instantly, recalling his mission and the setting in which he stood, he suppressed all emotion and turned to the hostile leader, who had already taken a step toward him.

The Marquis de Montcalm was, at the time we are writing, in the prime of his age and, perhaps, at the zenith of his fortune. Yet, even in that enviable position, he was affable, distinguished as much for his attention to courtesy as for the chivalrous courage that, just two short years later, drove him to throw away his life on the plains of Abraham. Duncan, turning his eyes from Magua’s hostile expression, allowed them to rest upon the smiling, polished features and noble military air of the French general.

“Sir,” the latter said, “I am greatly pleased to—well!—where is this interpreter?”

“I believe, sir, it is not necessary,” Heyward replied modestly; “I speak a little French.”

“Ah! I am very pleased,” Montcalm said, taking Duncan familiarly by the arm and leading him deep into the marquee, just out of earshot; “I detest those swindlers; you never know what trap they’re setting.” He continued, still speaking in French, “though I should have been proud to receive your commandant, I am very happy that he has seen fit to employ such a distinguished and, I am sure, as amiable officer as yourself.”

Duncan bowed low, pleased by the compliment despite his heroic determination not to let any artifice lure him into forgetting his prince’s interest; Montcalm paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, before continuing:

“Your commandant is brave and well-qualified to repel my assault. But, sir, is it not time to begin consulting more with humanity and less with courage? The latter characterizes the hero just as strongly as the former.”

“We consider those qualities inseparable,” Duncan replied, smiling; “but while we find in your excellence every motive to stimulate the other, we can’t yet see a particular need for exercising it.”

Montcalm, in turn, offered a slight bow, but it was with the air of a man too practiced to remember the language of flattery. After a moment’s musing, he added:

“Perhaps my spectacles have misled me, and that your works resist our cannon better than I had supposed. Do you know our force?”

“Our numbers vary,” Duncan said carelessly, “but the highest force doesn't exceed twenty thousand men.”

The Frenchman bit his lip and fixed his gaze keenly on the other, as if reading his mind. Then, with a peculiar readiness, he continued, as if agreeing with an enumeration that doubled his army:

“It’s hardly a compliment to the vigilance of us soldiers, monsieur, that we can never conceal our numbers, no matter what we do. If it were possible, one would think it might succeed in these woods. Though you think it too soon to listen to the calls of humanity,” he added, smiling archly, “I may be permitted to believe that gallantry isn't forgotten by someone as young as yourself. I hear the daughters of the commandant have taken refuge in the fort since it was occupied?”

“That’s true, monsieur; but far from weakening our efforts, they set us an example of courage through their own fortitude. If mere resolution wasn’t enough to repel a soldier as accomplished as M. de Montcalm, I would gladly trust William Henry's defense to those ladies.”

“We have a wise ordinance in our Salique laws, which states, ‘The crown of France shall never degrade the lance to the distaff,’” Montcalm said dryly, with a touch of hauteur, but immediately softened his tone with his former frankness. “As all nobler qualities are hereditary, I can easily credit you; though, as I said before, courage has limits, and we mustn't forget humanity. I trust, monsieur, you are authorized to treat for the surrender of the place?”

“Has your excellency found our defense so weak that you believe the measure necessary?”

“I would regret having the defense dragged out in a way that would irritate my red friends there,” Montcalm continued, glancing at the group of grave and attentive Indians without addressing the other questions; “I find it difficult, even now, to limit them to the usages of war.”

Heyward fell silent; a painful recollection of the dangers he had so recently escaped flooded his mind, bringing to mind the images of those defenseless beings who had shared in all his suffering.

“These gentlemen,” Montcalm said, building on the advantage he thought he’d gained, “are most formidable when perplexed; and there’s no need to tell you how much difficulty they face in restraining their anger. Well then, monsieur! shall we speak of the terms?”

“I fear your excellency has been misled about William Henry’s strength and the resources of its garrison!”

“I haven’t settled down before Quebec, but an earthenwork defended by two thousand three hundred gallant men,” was the laconic reply.

“Our mounds are earthen, certainly—they aren't seated on the rocks of Cape Diamond; rather, they stand on that shore which proved so destructive to Dieskau and his army. There’s also a powerful force within a few hours’ march of us, which we count as part of our means.”

“Some six or eight thousand men,” Montcalm returned, with marked indifference, “whom their leader wisely judges are safer in their works than in the field.”

Now it was Heyward's turn to bite his lip in vexation as the other so coolly hinted at a force the young man knew was overrated. They pondered in silence for a moment, until Montcalm resumed the conversation in a manner that suggested he believed his guest’s visit was purely to propose terms of capitulation. Meanwhile, Heyward tried to throw various inducements in the French general's path, hoping to betray the discoveries he’d made from the intercepted letter. But neither ploy worked; after a lengthy and fruitless interview, Duncan departed, favorably impressed by an assessment of the enemy captain's courtesy and talent, yet as ignorant of what he learned as when he arrived. Montcalm followed him to the entrance of the marquee, renewing his invitations to the fort's commandant for an immediate meeting in the open ground between the two armies

. They parted there, and Duncan returned to the French advanced post, accompanied as before; he immediately proceeded to the fort and then to his own commander's quarters

CHAPTER XVI.

“EDG.—Before you fight the battle ope this letter.”
—Lear

Major Heyward found Munro attended only by his daughters. Alice sat upon his knee, parting the gray hairs on the forehead of the old man with her delicate fingers; and whenever he affected to frown on her trifling, appeasing his assumed anger by pressing her ruby lips fondly on his wrinkled brow. Cora was seated nigh them, a calm and amused looker-on; regarding the wayward movements of her more youthful sister with that species of maternal fondness which characterized her love for Alice. Not only the dangers through which they had passed, but those which still impended above them, appeared to be momentarily forgotten, in the soothing indulgence of such a family meeting. It seemed as if they had profited by the short truce, to devote an instant to the purest and best affection; the daughters forgetting their fears, and the veteran his cares, in the security of the moment. Of this scene, Duncan, who, in his eagerness to report his arrival, had entered unannounced, stood many moments an unobserved and a delighted spectator. But the quick and dancing eyes of Alice soon caught a glimpse of his figure reflected from a glass, and she sprang blushing from her father’s knee, exclaiming aloud:

“Major Heyward!”

“What of the lad?” demanded her father; “I have sent him to crack a little with the Frenchman. Ha, sir, you are young, and you’re nimble! Away with you, ye baggage; as if there were not troubles enough for a soldier, without having his camp filled with such prattling hussies as yourself!”

Alice laughed softly as she followed her sister, who instantly led the way from an apartment where she felt their presence was no longer welcome. Munro, instead of pressing for the young man’s mission results, paced the room for a few moments, hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed as if lost in thought. At last, he raised his eyes, glistening with paternal fondness, and exclaimed, "

They are a pair of excellent girls, Heyward, and such as any one may boast of.

" "You are not now to learn my opinion of your daughters, Colonel Munro."

"True, lad, true," the impatient old man interrupted. "You were about to open your mind more fully on that matter the day you arrived, but I didn't think it was fitting for an old soldier to discuss nuptial blessings and wedding jokes when the enemies of his king might be unbidden guests at the feast. But I was wrong, Duncan, boy, I was wrong there; and I am now ready to hear what you have to say."

"Despite the pleasure your assurance gives me, dear sir, I have just received a message from Montcalm—"

“Let the Frenchman and all his company go to the devil, sir!” cried the hasty veteran. “He isn’t yet master of William Henry, nor ever will he be, provided Webb proves himself the man he ought to be. No, sir, thank God we aren't in a position where Munro is too pressed to handle the little domestic chores of his own family. Your mother was the only child of my close friend, Duncan; and I’ll give you a hearing, though all the knights of St. Louis were gathered at the sally-port, with the French saint leading them, begging for a word of favor. A decent amount of knighthood, sir, is something you can buy with sugar hogsheads! And then your two marquisates. The thistle signifies dignity and antiquity; it’s the true ‘no one does impune me’ of chivalry. You had ancestors in that rank, Duncan, and they were an ornament to the nobles of Scotland.”

Heyward, who sensed his superior took malicious pleasure in showing contempt for the French general's message, merely tried to swallow a spleen he knew wouldn't last; he so replied with as much indifference as he could muster on the subject:

“My request, as you know, sir, went so far as to presume to be your son.”

“Aye, boy, you found words to make yourself very clearly understood. But, let me ask you, sir, have you been as clear to the girl?”

“On my honor, no,” Duncan exclaimed warmly, “there would have been an abuse of a confided trust had I taken advantage of my situation for such a purpose.”

“Those notions are certainly those of a gentleman, Major Heyward, and well placed. But Cora Munro is also a maiden, and she possesses a mind too elevated and refined to require even the guardianship of a father.”

“Cora!”

“Yes—Cora! we’re talking about your pretensions to Miss Munro, aren’t we, sir?”

“I—I—I wasn’t aware I had mentioned her name,” Duncan stammered.

“And whom, precisely, did you wish my consent for, Major Heyward?” the old soldier demanded, straightening up in the dignity of offense.

“You have another, and not less lovely, child.”

“Alice!” the father exclaimed, astonished by the very same surprise that Duncan had just shown when repeating his sister’s name.

“That was the direction of my wishes, sir.”

The young man waited in silence for the result of the extraordinary effect produced by a communication, which, as it now seemed, was so unexpected. For several minutes, Munro paced the chamber with long, rapid strides, his rigid features convulsing, every faculty seemingly absorbed in his own musings. At length, he stopped directly in front of Heyward, riveted his eyes upon the other man’s, and said, his lip trembling violently:

“Duncan Heyward, I have loved you for the sake of the blood that runs in your veins; I have loved you for your own good qualities; and I have loved you because I believed you would bring happiness to my child. But all this love would turn to hatred if I were certain that what I so deeply feel is true.”

“God forbid that any act or thought of mine should lead to such a change!” the young man exclaimed, his eye never wavering under the penetrating gaze it met. Without acknowledging the impossibility of the other’s understanding the feelings hidden deep within his own heart, Munro allowed himself to be soothed by the unaltered countenance he faced, and with a voice sensibly softened, he continued:

“You will be my son, Duncan, and you are ignorant of the history of the man you wish to call your father. Sit down, young man, and I will open to you the wounds of a seared heart in as few words as are suitable.”

By then, Montcalm’s message was as much forgotten by him who bore it as by the man for whom it was intended. They each drew a chair, and while the veteran communed with his own thoughts, seemingly sad, the youth suppressed his impatience with a look and attitude of respectful attention. At length, the former spoke:

“You’ll know, already, Major Heyward, that my family was both ancient and honorable,” commenced the Scotsman; “though it might not altogether be endowed with that amount of wealth that should correspond with its degree. I was, maybe, such an one as yourself when I plighted my faith to Alice Graham, the only child of a neighboring laird of some estate. But the connection was disagreeable to her father, on more accounts than my poverty. I did, therefore, what an honest man should—restored the maiden her troth, and departed the country in the service of my king. I had seen many regions, and had shed much blood in different lands, before duty called me to the islands of the West Indies. There it was my lot to form a connection with one who in time became my wife, and the mother of Cora. She was the daughter of a gentleman of those isles, by a lady whose misfortune it was, if you will,” said the old man, proudly, “to be descended, remotely, from that unfortunate class who are so basely enslaved to administer to the wants of a luxurious people. Ay, sir, that is a curse, entailed on Scotland by her unnatural union with a foreign and trading people. But could I find a man among them who would dare to reflect on my child, he should feel the weight of a father’s anger! Ha! Major Heyward, you are yourself born at the south, where these unfortunate beings are considered of a race inferior to your own.”

“’Tis most unfortunately true, sir,” said Duncan, unable any longer to prevent his eyes from sinking to the floor in embarrassment.

“And you cast it on my child as a reproach! You scorn to mingle the blood of the Heywards with one so degraded—lovely and virtuous though she be?” fiercely demanded the jealous parent.

“Heaven protect me from a prejudice so unworthy of my reason!” Duncan retorted, feeling that sentiment as deeply rooted as if it were grafted into his very nature. “The sweetness, the beauty, the enchantment surrounding your younger daughter, Colonel Munro, might explain my motives without unjustly accusing me.”

“You are right, sir,” the old man replied, shifting his tone to one of gentleness—or rather, softness. “The girl is the reflection of what her mother was in her youth, before she knew grief. When death took my wife, I returned to Scotland, enriched by the marriage; and would you believe it, Duncan! The suffering angel remained in a state of heartlessness for twenty long years, just for the sake of a man who could forget her! She did more, sir; she overlooked my lack of faith, and, with all difficulties gone, she took me as her husband.”

“And she became Alice’s mother?” Duncan exclaimed, his eagerness perhaps dangerous at a moment when Munro’s thoughts were less pressing.

“She did,” the old man confirmed, “and she paid dearly for the blessing she gave. But she is a saint in heaven, sir; it's ill for one who treads on a grave to mourn so much.”

There was such a commanding weight in the old man's distress that Heyward dared not utter a single word of comfort. Munro sat utterly unaware of the other’s presence, his features etched with the anguish of regret as heavy tears streamed from his eyes, rolling unheeded down his cheeks to the floor. Finally, he moved, and as if suddenly regaining his awareness, taking a single turn across the room, he approached his companion with an air of military grandeur and demanded:

“Haven’t you received some communication from the Marquis de Montcalm, Major Heyward?”

Duncan turned, and immediately began in an embarrassed voice, reciting the half-forgotten message. There was no need to dwell on the evasive yet polite manner in which the French general had evaded every attempt by Heyward to extract the meaning of the communication he had proposed delivering, or the decided, though still polished message by which he now made his enemy understand that unless he chose to receive it in person, he should not receive it at all. As Munro listened to Duncan’s account, the father’s excited feelings gradually yielded to the obligations of his station. When Duncan finished, Munro saw before him nothing but the veteran, swelling with the wounded feelings of a soldier.

“You’ve said enough, Major Heyward,” the angry old man exclaimed; “enough to write a volume on French civility. This gentleman has invited me to a conference, and when I sent him a capable substitute—which is all that matters, Duncan, though your years are few—he answered me with a riddle.”

"He may have held the substitute in less regard, my dear sir; and you must remember that the invitation he now repeats was meant for the commandant of the works, not for his second."

"Well, sir, isn't a substitute clothed with all the power and dignity of the one who grants the commission? He wants to confer with Munro! Faith, sir, I have a strong inclination to indulge the man, if it is only to let him see the firm countenance we maintain despite his numbers and their summons. There might be no bad policy in such a move, young man."

Duncan, who believed it was of the utmost importance that they quickly learn the contents of the letter carried by the scout, gladly encouraged this idea.

"Without doubt, he could gather no confidence by witnessing our indifference," he said.

"You never said a truer word. I could wish, sir, that he would visit the works on open day, in the form of a storming party; that would be the least failing way to prove an enemy's countenance, and it would be far preferable to the battering system he has chosen. The beauty and manhood of warfare have been greatly deformed, Major Heyward, by the arts of your Monsieur Vauban. Our ancestors were far above such scientific cowardice!"

"It may be very true, sir; but we are now obliged to repel art by art. What is your pleasure in this interview?"

"I shall meet the Frenchman, and that without fear or delay; promptly, sir, as a servant of my royal master. Go, Major Heyward, and give them a flourish of the music; and send out a messenger to let them know who is coming. We'll follow with a small guard, for such respect is due to one who holds the honor of his king in keeping; and hark, Duncan," he added, in a half-whisper, though they were alone, "it may be prudent to have some aid at hand, in case there should be treachery at the bottom of it all."

The young man took this order to leave the apartment. As the day was drawing to a close, he hastened without delay to make the necessary arrangements. It took only a few minutes to parade a few files and dispatch an orderly with a flag to announce the approach of the fort's commandant. When Duncan had completed these tasks, he led the guard to the sally-port, where he found his superior ready, awaiting him. As soon as the customary formalities of a military departure were observed, the veteran and his more youthful companion left the fortress, attended by the escort.

They had advanced only a hundred yards from the works when they spotted the small group attending the French general at the conference emerging from the hollow way where a brook ran between the besiegers' batteries and the fort. Ever since Munro had left his own position to face his enemy, his bearing had been magnificent, and his stride and expression intensely military. The moment he caught sight of the white plume waving in Montcalm’s hat, his eyes lit up, and age seemed to lose all hold over his vast, still, muscular frame.

“Tell the lads to stay alert, sir,” he murmured to Duncan; “and keep an eye on their flintlocks and steel. You never trust a servant of these Louis's; at the same time, we’ll show them men in deep security. You’ll get me, Major Heyward!”

[Illustration]

The clamor of a drum from the approaching Frenchmen interrupted him. Immediately, each party advanced, pushing an orderly ahead and bearing a white flag, while the wary Scotsman held his guard close to his back. As soon as this brief gesture passed, Montcalm moved toward them with a quick, graceful step, raising his head to the veteran and letting his spotless plume nearly touch the earth in courtesy. If Munro’s air were more commanding and manly, it craved both the ease and polished demeanor of the Frenchman. They remained silent for a few moments, each studying the other with curious and interested eyes. Then, as their rank and the nature of the interview became clear, Montcalm broke the silence. After offering his usual greetings, he turned to Duncan and continued, smiling in recognition, speaking only French:

“I am rejoiced, monsieur, that you have given us the pleasure of your company on this occasion. There will be no necessity to employ an ordinary interpreter; for, in your hands, I feel the same security as if I spoke your language myself.”

Duncan accepted the compliment, and Montcalm, turning to his guard—who, mimicking their enemies, pressed close upon him—continued:

“En arriere, mes enfants—il fait chaud—-retirez-vous un peu.”

Before Major Heyward could imitate this display of confidence, he glanced around the plain and saw with unease the numerous dusky groups of savages, peering out from the margin of the surrounding woods, curious spectators to the interview.

“Monsieur de Montcalm will readily acknowledge the difference in our situation,” he said, a touch embarrassed, pointing simultaneously at those dangerous foes who were visible in nearly every direction. “If we should relax our guard, we’d be left at the mercy of our enemies.”

“Sir, you have the faith of a ‘gentilhomme Français’ for your safety,” Montcalm replied, placing his hand impressively over his heart; “that ought to be enough.”

“It will be so,” Duncan added to the officer leading the escort. “Fall back, sir, out of sight, and await further orders.”

Munro watched this movement with palpable unease; he didn't hesitate to demand an immediate explanation.

“Isn’t it our interest, sir, to harbor no distrust?” Duncan countered. “Monsieur de Montcalm pledges his word for our safety, and I’ve ordered the men to withdraw slightly, just to demonstrate how much we rely on his assurance.”

“It might be all right, sir, but I don’t place my complete reliance on the faith of these marquesses and marquis, as they call themselves. Their patents of nobility are too common to guarantee that they carry true honor.”

“You forget, dear sir, that we consult with an officer, distinguished in both Europe and America for his deeds. We have nothing to fear from a soldier of his reputation.”

The old man made a gesture of resignation, yet his rigid features still betrayed his obstinate adherence to a distrust, one he derived not from any present sign warranting such uncharitable feeling, but from a sort of hereditary contempt for his enemy. Montcalm waited patiently until this little dialogue in a low voice concluded before drawing nearer and opening the subject of their conference.

“I have sought this interview from your superior, monsieur,” he said, “because I believe he will be persuaded that he has already done everything necessary for his prince's honor, and will now heed humanity’s admonitions. I will always bear witness that his resistance was gallant and continued as long as hope existed.”

When this opening was translated to Munro, he replied with dignity, yet with sufficient courtesy:

“However I may prize such testimony from Monsieur Montcalm, it will be more valuable when it is better merited.”

The French general smiled as Duncan conveyed the meaning of this reply and observed:

“What is now freely granted to approved courage may be denied to useless obstinacy. Monsieur would wish to see my camp and witness for himself our numbers, and the impossibility of his resisting us successfully?”

“I know that the King of France is well served,” the unmoved Scotsman returned as soon as Duncan finished translating; “but my own royal master has as many and as faithful troops.”

“Though not at hand, fortunately for us,” Montcalm said without waiting, filled with ardor, “there is a destiny in war, to which a brave man knows how to submit with the same courage he shows his foes.”

“If I had known Monsieur Montcalm was fluent in English, I wouldn't have wasted time on such an awkward translation,” Duncan replied dryly, instantly recalling his recent game with Munro.

“Pardon me, monsieur,” the Frenchman rejoined, a slight flush creeping onto his dark cheek. “There’s a vast gulf between understanding and speaking a foreign tongue; you’ll, therefore, assist me still.” After a brief pause, he added, “These hills give us every chance to scout your positions, messieurs, and I am perhaps as familiar with their weakness as you are.”

“Ask the French general if his glasses can reach the Hudson,” Munro said proudly, “and if he knows when and where to expect Webb’s army.”

“Let General Webb be his own interpreter,” Montcalm returned, suddenly thrusting an open letter toward Munro as he spoke, “you'll learn there that his movements won’t cause any trouble for my army.”

The veteran snatched the offered paper without waiting for Duncan to translate the speech, his eagerness betraying how vital he thought its contents were. As his eyes skimsed over the words, his expression shifted from military pride to profound chagrin; his lip began to tremble, and as the paper slipped from his grasp, his head dropped onto his chest, like that of a man whose hopes had been crushed in a single blow. Duncan scooped the letter from the ground, reading its cruel meaning in an instant without apology for taking it. Their common superior, who hadn't encouraged them to resist, simply advised a swift surrender, urging in plain terms that sending a single man to rescue them was utterly impossible

. “There’s no deception!” Duncan exclaimed, scrutinizing the note inside and out; “this is Webb’s signature; it must be the captured letter.”

“He’s betrayed me!” Munro finally burst out bitterly; “he’s brought dishonor to a place where disgrace was never known to reside, and shame has heaped itself upon my gray hair.”

“Don’t say that,” Duncan cried; “we’re still masters of the fort, and our honor. Let’s sell our lives at a price that’ll make our enemies think it’s too expensive.”

“Boy, I thank you,” the old man exclaimed, rousing from his stupor; “you’ve reminded Munro of his duty for once. We’ll go back and dig our graves behind those ramparts.”

“Gentlemen,” Montcalm said, stepping toward them with generous interest, “you little know Louis de St. Veran, but do you believe he can profit from this letter to humble brave men, or build a dishonest reputation for himself? Listen to my terms before you leave me.”

“What does the Frenchman say?” the veteran demanded sternly; “has he earned the capture of a scout, with a note from headquarters? Sir, he had better raise this siege and go sit down with Edward if he wishes to frighten his enemy with words.”

Duncan explained the other's meaning.

“Monsieur de Montcalm, we will hear you,” the veteran added more calmly as Duncan finished.

“Retaining the fort is now impossible,” said his liberal enemy; “it is in my master’s interest that it be destroyed; but as for yourselves and your brave comrades, there is no privilege dear to a soldier that can be denied.”

“Our colours?” Heyward demanded.

“Carry them to England, and show them to your king.”

“Our arms?”

“Keep them; none can use them better.”

“Our march; the surrender of the place?”

“All of this shall be done in a way most honorable to yourselves.”

Duncan then turned to explain these proposals to his commander, who heard him with astonishment and a sensibility deeply touched by such unusual and unexpected generosity.

“Go you, Duncan,” he said; “go with this marquess, as, indeed, marquess he should be; go to his marquee and arrange it all. I have lived to see two things in my old age that never did I expect to behold. An Englishman afraid to support a friend, and a Frenchman too honest to profit by his advantage.”

So saying, the veteran again dropped his head to his chest, and returned slowly toward the fort, exhibiting, by the dejection of his air, to the anxious garrison, a harbinger of evil tidings.

From the shock of this unexpected blow the haughty feelings of Munro never recovered; but from that moment there commenced a change in his determined character, which accompanied him to a speedy grave. Duncan remained to settle the terms of the capitulation. He was seen to re-enter the works during the first watches of the night, and immediately after a private conference with the commandant, to leave them again. It was then openly announced that hostilities must cease—Munro having signed a treaty by which the place was to be yielded to the enemy, with the morning; the garrison to retain their arms, the colors and their baggage, and, consequently, according to military opinion, their honor.

CHAPTER XVII.

“Weave we the woof.
The thread is spun.
The web is wove.
The work is done.”—Gray

The hostile armies, which lay in the wilds of the Horican, passed the night of the ninth of August, 1757, much in the manner they would, had they encountered on the fairest field of Europe. While the conquered were still, sullen, and dejected, the victors triumphed. But there are limits alike to grief and joy; and long before the watches of the morning came the stillness of those boundless woods was only broken by a gay call from some exulting young Frenchman of the advanced pickets, or a menacing challenge from the fort, which sternly forbade the approach of any hostile footsteps before the stipulated moment. Even these occasional threatening sounds ceased to be heard in that dull hour which precedes the day, at which period a listener might have sought in vain any evidence of the presence of those armed powers that then slumbered on the shores of the “holy lake.”

It was in those moments of profound silence that the canvas concealing the entrance to a spacious marquee in the French encampment was pushed aside, and a man emerged from beneath the drapery into the open air. He was wrapped in a cloak that might have been meant to ward off the chilling dampness of the woods, yet it also served as a mantle to conceal him. He was allowed to pass the grenadier, who kept watch over the French commander's slumber, without interruption, the man offering the customary salute that signaled military deference, as the other moved swiftly through the little city of tents toward William Henry. Whenever this unknown individual encountered one of the countless sentinels in his path, his response was immediate and, it seemed, acceptable; he was always permitted to pass without further questioning

. Aside from these brief, repeated interruptions, he moved silently from the center of the camp to its most advanced outposts, when he reached the soldier on watch nearest the enemy's works. As he approached, he was met with the usual challenge:

“Who lives?”

“France,” was the reply.

“The order?”

“Victory,” the other said, drawing close enough to be heard in a loud whisper.

“That is right,” the sentinel returned, throwing his musket from the charge to his shoulder; “you walk well in the morning, sir!”

"You must be vigilant, my son," the other observed, letting a fold of his cloak fall, and meeting the soldier’s gaze as he passed him, still heading toward the British fortification. The soldier started; his arms rattled heavily as he threw them forward in the lowest and most respectful salute. When he regained his composure, he turned to walk his post, muttering between his teeth:

"You have to be vigilant, truly! I think we have a corporal here who never sleeps!"

The officer continued without bothering to hear the words the sentinel had uttered in surprise; nor did he pause until he reached the low strand, standing in a somewhat perilous vicinity of the fort's western water bastion. The faint light of an obscure moon was just enough to make objects perceptible, though dim, in their outlines. He took the precaution of leaning against a tree for many minutes, seeming to contemplate the dark, silent mounds of the English works with profound attention. His gaze upon the ramparts wasn't that of a curious or idle spectator; instead, his eyes moved from point to point, signaling his knowledge of military usages and betraying that his search was not free of distrust. Finally, he seemed satisfied. Having impatiently cast his eyes upward toward the summit of the eastern mountain, as if anticipating the morning's approach, he began to turn on his heels when a faint sound on the nearest angle of the bastion caught his ear, compelling him to stay

. Just then a figure was seen to approach the edge of the rampart, where it stood, apparently contemplating in its turn the distant tents of the French encampment. Its head was then turned toward the east, as though equally anxious for the appearance of light, when the form leaned against the mound, and seemed to gaze upon the glassy expanse of the waters, which, like a submarine firmament, glittered with its thousand mimic stars. The melancholy air, the hour, together with the vast frame of the man who thus leaned, musing, against the English ramparts, left no doubt as to his person in the mind of the observant spectator. Delicacy, no less than prudence, now urged him to retire; and he had moved cautiously round the body of the tree for that purpose, when another sound drew his attention, and once more arrested his footsteps. It was a low and almost inaudible movement of the water, and was succeeded by a grating of pebbles one against the other. In a moment he saw a dark form rise, as it were, out of the lake, and steal without further noise to the land, within a few feet of the place where he himself stood. A rifle next slowly rose between his eyes and the watery mirror; but before it could be discharged his own hand was on the lock.

“Hugh!” exclaimed the savage, whose treacherous aim was so singularly and so unexpectedly interrupted.

Without a reply, the French officer placed his hand on the Indian's shoulder and led him in profound silence to a distance from the spot, a place where their subsequent dialogue might prove dangerous, a place where it seemed one of them sought a victim. Then, throwing open his cloak to expose his uniform and the cross of St. Louis hanging at his breast, Montcalm sternly demanded:

“What does this mean? Does my son not know that the hatchet is buried between the English and his Canadian Father?”

“What can the Hurons do?” the savage returned, speaking also, though imperfectly, in French.

“No warrior has a scalp, and pale faces make friends!”

“Ha, Le Renard Subtil! I think this is an excess of zeal for a friend who was so late an enemy! How many suns have set since Le Renard struck the English war-post?”

“Where is that sun?” demanded the sullen savage. “Behind the hill; it's dark and cold. But when he comes again, it will be bright and warm. Le Subtil is the sun of his tribe. There have been clouds and many mountains between him and his nation; but now he shines, and the sky is clear!”

“I know that Le Renard has power with his people,” said Montcalm; “for yesterday he hunted for their scalps, and today they hear him at the council-fire.”

“Magua is a great chief.”

“Let him prove it by teaching his people how to conduct themselves toward our new friends.”

“Why did the chief of the Canadas bring his young men into the woods and fire his cannon at the earthen house?” demanded the subtle Indian.

“To subdue it. My master owns the land, and your father was ordered to drive off these English squatters. They’ve agreed to go, and now he calls them enemies no longer.”

“That’s right. Magua took the hatchet and stained it with blood. It’s bright now; when it’s red, it will be buried.”

“But Magua is pledged not to soil the lilies of France. The enemies of the great king across the salt lake are his enemies; his friends are the friends of the Hurons.”

“Friends!” the Indian repeated with scorn. “Let his father give Magua a hand.”

Montcalm, who felt that his influence over the warlike tribes he’d gathered should be maintained by concession rather than brute force, reluctantly agreed to the other’s request. The savage placed the fingers of the French commander on a deep scar in his bosom and then exultantly demanded:

“Does my father know that?”

“What warrior doesn’t? It’s where a leaden bullet has cut.”

“And this?” continued the Indian, turning his naked back to the other, his body stripped of its usual calico mantle.

“This!—my son has been sadly injured here; who has done this?”

“Magua slept soundly in the English wigwams, and the sticks have left their mark,” the savage returned with a hollow laugh that didn't hide the fierce temper nearly choking him. Then, gathering himself, with sudden, native dignity, he added, “Go; teach your young men it is peace. Le Renard Subtil knows how to speak to a Huron warrior.”

Without deigning to offer more words or wait for a reply, the savage slid his rifle into his arm and moved silently through the camp toward the woods where his own tribe was known to reside. Every few yards, the sentinels challenged him, but he stalked sullenly on, completely ignoring the soldiers' summons, who only spared his life because they understood the air and tread no less than the obstinate daring of an Indian.

Montcalm lingered long and mournfully on the shore where his companion had left him, brooding deeply over the temper his ungovernable ally had just uncovered. His reputation had already been sullied by one horrid scene, circumstances eerily similar to his own predicament now. As he mused, he keenly sensed the profound responsibility they assumed who disregard the means to reach the end, and the sheer danger of setting in motion an engine beyond human control. Shaking off a string of reflections he deemed a weakness in such a moment of triumph, he retraced his steps to his tent, issuing the order as he passed to make the signal that should rouse the army from its slumber.

The first tap of the French drums was echoed from the bosom of the fort, and presently the valley was filled with the strains of martial music, rising long, thrilling and lively above the rattling accompaniment. The horns of the victors sounded merry and cheerful flourishes, until the last laggard of the camp was at his post; but the instant the British fifes had blown their shrill signal, they became mute. In the meantime the day had dawned, and when the line of the French army was ready to receive its general, the rays of a brilliant sun were glancing along the glittering array. Then that success, which was already so well known, was officially announced; the favored band who were selected to guard the gates of the fort were detailed, and defiled before their chief; the signal of their approach was given, and all the usual preparations for a change of masters were ordered and executed directly under the guns of the contested works.

A very different scene presented itself within the lines of the Anglo-American army. As soon as the warning signal was given, it exhibited all the signs of a hurried and forced departure. The sullen soldiers shouldered their empty tubes and fell into their places, like men whose blood had been heated by the past contest, and who only desired the opportunity to revenge an indignity which was still wounding to their pride, concealed as it was under the observances of military etiquette.

Women and children ran from place to place, some bearing the scanty remnants of their baggage, and others searching in the ranks for those countenances they looked up to for protection.

Munro appeared among his silent troops firm but dejected. It was evident that the unexpected blow had struck deep into his heart, though he struggled to sustain his misfortune with the port of a man.

Duncan was touched at the quiet and impressive exhibition of his grief. He had discharged his own duty, and he now pressed to the side of the old man, to know in what particular he might serve him.

“My daughters,” was the brief but expressive reply.

“Good heavens! are not arrangements already made for their convenience?”

“To-day I am only a soldier, Major Heyward,” said the veteran. “All that you see here, claim alike to be my children.”

Duncan had heard enough. Without losing one of those moments which had now become so precious, he flew toward the quarters of Munro, in quest of the sisters. He found them on the threshold of the low edifice, already prepared to depart, and surrounded by a clamorous and weeping assemblage of their own sex, that had gathered about the place, with a sort of instinctive consciousness that it was the point most likely to be protected. Though the cheeks of Cora were pale and her countenance anxious, she had lost none of her firmness; but the eyes of Alice were inflamed, and betrayed how long and bitterly she had wept. They both, however, received the young man with undisguised pleasure; the former, for a novelty, being the first to speak.

“The fort is lost,” she said, with a melancholy smile; “though our good name, I trust, remains.”

"It's brighter than ever. But, dearest Miss Munro, it's time to think less about others and make some provisions for yourself. Military service—that pride on which you value yourself so highly—demands that your father and I continue with the troops for a little while. Then where will you find a proper protector against the confusion and dangers of such a scene?"

"No one is necessary," Cora replied. "Who would dare insult or harm the daughter of such a father at a time like this?"

"I wouldn't leave you alone," the young man continued, glancing around him in a hurried manner. "For the command of the best regiment in the king's pay. Remember, Alice isn't as firm as you, and God knows the terror she might endure."

"You might be right," Cora answered, smiling again, but far more sadly this time. "Listen! Chance has already sent us a friend when he's most needed."

Duncan listened, instantly grasping her meaning. The low, serious sounds of the sacred music, well known in the eastern provinces, caught his ear, and he immediately moved toward an apartment in an adjacent building that had already been vacated by its usual tenants. There, he found David pouring out his pious feelings through the only medium he ever indulged in. Duncan waited until the movement of his hand ceased, believing the strain was over, before touching his shoulder and drawing the other's attention to himself, explaining his wishes in a few words.

“Even so,” replied the disciple of the King of Israel, once the young man had finished; “I’ve found much beautiful and melodious in the maidens, and it suits us, who have shared so much danger, to remain in peace. I’ll join them after my morning praise is done—all that’s left now is the doxology. Will you join us, friend? The melody is common; it’s ‘Southwell’.”

Then, spreading out the little volume and re-tuning the air with careful attention, David resumed and finished his strains, with such certainty that it was hard to interrupt. Heyward was eager to wait until the verse concluded; when he saw David relieve himself of his spectacles and replace the book, he continued.

“It will be your job to ensure no one dares approach the ladies rudely, or insult them or taunt them about their brave father’s misfortune. The household staff will support you in this task.”

“Still so.”

“The Indians and stragglers of the enemy might intrude; in that case, you’ll remind them of the terms of capitulation and threaten to report their actions to Montcalm. One word will be enough.”

“If not,” David returned, showing his book with an air blending meekness and confidence, “I have this which shall…”

“‘Why rage the heathen furiously’?”

“Enough,” Heyward cut in, breaking the flow of his musical invocation. “We understand each other; it’s time we assume our duties.”

Gamut cheerfully agreed, and together they sought out the women. Cora graciously accepted her new and rather extraordinary protector, at least; even Alice’s pale features lit up with some of their innate haughtiness as she thanked Heyward for his care. Duncan seized the opportunity to assure them he had done the best his circumstances allowed—more than enough to secure their feelings; there was no danger at all. He then happily spoke of his intention to rejoin them the moment he had led the advance a few miles toward the Hudson, and promptly took his leave.

By then, the departure signal had been given, and the head of the English column was moving. The sisters started at the sound, and as they glanced around, they saw the white uniforms of the French grenadiers, who had already seized control of the fort's gates. Suddenly, an enormous cloud seemed to sweep over them, and looking up, they realized they stood beneath the vast folds of the French standard.

“Let’s go,” Cora said. “This isn’t a suitable place for an English officer’s children.”

Alice clung to her sister's arm, and together they left the parade, swept away by the moving crowd that surrounded them.

As they passed through the gates, the French officers, keenly aware of their rank, bowed frequently and low, deliberately refraining from drawing the attention they saw, knowing it might be unwelcome. Since every vehicle and every beast of burden was occupied by the sick and wounded, Cora decided to endure the fatigue of a foot march instead of disrupting their comfort. In fact, many maimed and feeble soldiers were forced to drag their exhausted limbs in the rear of the columns due to the lack of proper transport in that wilderness. Yet, the whole group was moving: the weak and wounded groaned in suffering; their comrades were silent and sullen; and the women and children were filled with terror, unsure of what lay ahead.

As the confused and timid throng left the fort's protective mounds and moved onto the open plain, the entire scene unfolded before their eyes. A little distance to the right and somewhat in the rear, the French army stood at attention; Montcalm had gathered his troops as soon as his guards secured the works. They watched the proceedings of the vanquished with quiet attentiveness, observing every military honor without offering a single taunt or insult to their less fortunate foes. Living masses of the English, numbering nearly three thousand in total, slowly crossed the plain, converging toward a central point—a vista carved through the lofty trees where the road to the Hudson entered the forest. Along the sweeping borders of the woods hung a dark cloud of savages, eyeing their enemies' passage. They hovered at a distance like vultures, held back from swooping by the presence and restraint of the superior army. A few had strayed among the conquered columns, stalking with sullen discontent, yet they remained passive observers of the moving multitude.

The advance, led by Heyward, had already reached the defile and was slowly vanishing when Cora's attention was snagged by sounds of contention. A provincial truant was paying the price for his disobedience by having his possessions plundered—the very things that had caused him to desert his ranks. The man was powerfully built and too greedy to let go of his goods without a fight. Members from both sides intervened; one group sought to stop the act, the other to aid the robbery. Voices escalated into shouts and anger, and suddenly, as if by magic, a hundred savages appeared where only a dozen had been seen a minute before. It was then that Cora saw Magua gliding among his countrymen, speaking with a fatal and artful eloquence. The mass of women and children froze, hovering together like alarmed, fluttering birds. But the Indian's greed was soon satisfied, and the various bodies continued their slow onward movement.

The savages now fell back, and seemed content to let their enemies advance without further molestation. But, as the female crowd approached them, the gaudy colors of a shawl attracted the eyes of a wild and untutored Huron. He advanced to seize it without the least hesitation. The woman, more in terror than through love of the ornament, wrapped her child in the coveted article, and folded both more closely to her bosom. Cora was in the act of speaking, with an intent to advise the woman to abandon the trifle, when the savage relinquished his hold of the shawl, and tore the screaming infant from her arms. Abandoning everything to the greedy grasp of those around her, the mother darted, with distraction in her mien, to reclaim her child. The Indian smiled grimly, and extended one hand, in sign of a willingness to exchange, while, with the other, he flourished the babe over his head, holding it by the feet as if to enhance the value of the ransom.

“Here—here—there—all—any—everything!” exclaimed the breathless woman, tearing the lighter articles of dress from her person with ill-directed and trembling fingers; “take all, but give me my babe!”

The savage rejected the worthless rags, and seeing the shawl had already become another's prize, his mocking but sullen smile twisted into a gleam of ferocity. He smashed the infant's head against a rock and cast its trembling remains at her feet. For a moment, the mother froze, like a statue carved from despair, staring wildly at the indecent object that had so recently rested in her bosom and smiled upon her face. Then she raised her eyes and her face to heaven, as if imploring God to curse the perpetrator of the foul deed. She escaped the sin of such a prayer, maddened by his disappointment and excited by the sight of blood, when the Huron mercifully drove his tomahawk into her own brain. The mother slumped under the blow, falling, grasping at her child in death with the same consuming love that had made her cherish him while he lived.

At that dangerous moment, Magua clamped his hands over his mouth and let out the fatal, appalling whoop. The scattered Indians started at the familiar cry, like runners bound to the signal to quit the race; and suddenly, a yell arose across the plain, bursting through the arches of the wood as if it were a sound seldom uttered by human lips before. Those who heard it listened with a curdling horror in their hearts, little less than the dread one expects from the final summons.

More than two thousand raving savages burst from the forest at the signal and threw themselves across the deadly plain with instinctive haste. We won't dwell on the revolting horrors that followed. Death was omnipresent, in all its most terrifying and repulsive forms. Resistance only served to inflame the murderers, who kept inflicting their furious blows long after their victims were beyond the reach of any resentment. The flow of blood was like a breaking torrent; as the natives grew heated and maddened by the sight, many knelt to the earth and drank freely, exultantly, and devilishly of the crimson tide.

The troops, trained bodies, quickly collapsed into solid masses, attempting to intimidate their attackers with the imposing sight of a military line. The experiment had some success, though far too many lost their unloaded muskets in vain hopes of appeasing the savages.

In such a scene none had leisure to note the fleeting moments. It might have been ten minutes (it seemed an age) that the sisters had stood riveted to one spot, horror-stricken and nearly helpless. When the first blow was struck, their screaming companions had pressed upon them in a body, rendering flight impossible; and now that fear or death had scattered most, if not all, from around them, they saw no avenue open, but such as conducted to the tomahawks of their foes. On every side arose shrieks, groans, exhortations and curses. At this moment, Alice caught a glimpse of the vast form of her father, moving rapidly across the plain, in the direction of the French army. He was, in truth, proceeding to Montcalm, fearless of every danger, to claim the tardy escort for which he had before conditioned. Fifty glittering axes and barbed spears were offered unheeded at his life, but the savages respected his rank and calmness, even in their fury. The dangerous weapons were brushed aside by the still nervous arm of the veteran, or fell of themselves, after menacing an act that it would seem no one had courage to perform. Fortunately, the vindictive Magua was searching for his victim in the very band the veteran had just quitted.

“Father—father—we are here!” shrieked Alice, as he passed, at no great distance, without appearing to heed them. “Come to us, father, or we die!”

The cry echoed again, carrying tones that could have melted a heart of stone, yet it went unanswered. Once, the old man seemed to catch the sound, pausing to listen; but Alice had fallen senseless to the earth, and Cora lay beside her, hovering with tireless tenderness over her lifeless form. Munro shook his head in disappointment, moving on, bent on the high duty of his station.

“Lady,” Gamut said, helpless and useless as he was, having not yet dreamed of betraying his trust, “this is the jubilee of the devils, and this is no place for Christians to linger. Let us rise and fly.”

“Go,” Cora replied, still gazing at her unconscious sister, “save yourself. You can’t be of any further use to me.”

David grasped the unyielding nature of her resolve through the simple yet expressive gesture accompanying her words. He looked for a moment at the dusky forms enacting their hellish rites on all sides of him, and his tall frame straightened as his chest heaved; every feature swelled, seemingly speaking the power of the emotions that governed him.

“If the Jewish boy could tame Saul’s great spirit with the sound of his harp and sacred song, it wouldn't be amiss,” he remarked, “to test the potency of music here.”

Raising his voice to its absolute peak, he unleashed a sound so potent it cut through the din of the bloody field. More than one savage surged toward them, intending to rifle through the unprotected sisters' clothing and tear their scalps; but when they found the strange, unmoving figure fixed to his post, they paused to listen. Astonishment quickly morphed into admiration, and they turned their attention to other, less courageous victims, openly savoring the firmness with which the white warrior sang his death song. Encouraged and deluded by his success, David exerted every ounce of his strength to extend what he considered a holy influence. The strange sounds caught the ear of a distant savage, who fled wildly from group to group, like one scorning the vulgar herd, hunting for a victim more worthy of his renown. It was Magua who let out a yell of pleasure upon seeing his ancient prisoners once again at his mercy.

“Come,” he commanded, laying his soiled hands on Cora’s dress, “the Huron wigwam is still open. Isn't this place better?”

“Away!” Cora shrieked, covering her eyes at his revolting appearance.

The Indian laughed tauntingly, raising his reeking hand, and answered, “It’s red, but it comes from white veins!”

“Monster! There is blood, oceans of blood, upon your soul; your spirit has stirred this scene.”

“Magua is a great chief!” the exulting savage retorted, “will the dark-hair go to his tribe?”

[Illustration]

“Never! strike if thou wilt, and complete thy revenge.” He hesitated a moment, and then catching the light and senseless form of Alice in his arms, the subtle Indian moved swiftly across the plain toward the woods.

“Hold!” shrieked Cora, following wildly on his footsteps; “release the child! wretch! what is’t you do?”

But Magua was deaf to her voice; or, rather, he knew his power, and was determined to maintain it.

“Stay—lady—stay,” called Gamut, after the unconscious Cora. “The holy charm is beginning to be felt, and soon shalt thou see this horrid tumult stilled.”

Perceiving that, in his turn, he was unheeded, the faithful David followed the distracted sister, raising his voice again in sacred song, and sweeping the air to the measure, with his long arm, in diligent accompaniment. In this manner they traversed the plain, through the flying, the wounded and the dead. The fierce Huron was, at any time, sufficient for himself and the victim that he bore; though Cora would have fallen more than once under the blows of her savage enemies, but for the extraordinary being who stalked in her rear, and who now appeared to the astonished natives gifted with the protecting spirit of madness.

Magua, who knew how to avoid the more pressing dangers, and also to elude pursuit, entered the woods through a low ravine, where he quickly found the Narragansetts, which the travelers had abandoned so shortly before, awaiting his appearance, in custody of a savage as fierce and malign in his expression as himself. Laying Alice on one of the horses, he made a sign to Cora to mount the other.

Despite the horror sparked by her captor's presence, a sense of relief washed over Cora as they escaped the bloody scene on the plain—a sight she couldn't entirely ignore. She took her seat and held out her arms to her sister, offering an entreaty and love that even the Huron couldn't refuse. Then, placing Alice on the same animal as Cora, he gripped the bridle and plunged deeper into the forest. David, sensing he was left alone, utterly disregarded as a subject too worthless to even destroy, threw his long limb across the saddle of the beast they had abandoned, making progress in the pursuit as the terrain allowed.

They soon started to climb; but as the movement seemed to stir her sister's dormant faculties, Cora’s attention was split between the tender concern for her sister and listening to the cries that were still audible on the plain, trying to discern their direction of travel. When they finally reached the flattened surface of the mountaintop and neared the eastern precipice, she recognized the spot where she had once been led under the scout's kinder guidance. There, Magua allowed them to dismount; and despite their own captivity, a curiosity, inseparable from horror, made them stare at the sickening sight below.

The cruel work continued unchecked. On all sides, the captives flew before their relentless persecutors, while the armed columns of the Christian king stood in an inexplicable apathy that left an unshakeable stain upon their leader's otherwise fair banner. The sword of death remained unhalted until avarice mastered revenge. Then, indeed, the screams of the wounded and the yells of their murderers grew less frequent, until the cries of horror were lost to their ears, or were drowned out by the loud, long, and piercing whoops of the triumphant savages.

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Why, anything;
An honorable murderer, if you will;
For naught I did in hate, but all in honor.”
—Othello

The bloody and inhuman scene rather incidentally mentioned than described in the preceding chapter, is conspicuous in the pages of colonial history by the merited title of “The Massacre of William Henry.” It so far deepened the stain which a previous and very similar event had left upon the reputation of the French commander that it was not entirely erased by his early and glorious death. It is now becoming obscured by time; and thousands, who know that Montcalm died like a hero on the plains of Abraham, have yet to learn how much he was deficient in that moral courage without which no man can be truly great. Pages might yet be written to prove, from this illustrious example, the defects of human excellence; to show how easy it is for generous sentiments, high courtesy, and chivalrous courage to lose their influence beneath the chilling blight of selfishness, and to exhibit to the world a man who was great in all the minor attributes of character, but who was found wanting when it became necessary to prove how much principle is superior to policy. But the task would exceed our prerogatives; and, as history, like love, is so apt to surround her heroes with an atmosphere of imaginary brightness, it is probable that Louis de Saint Veran will be viewed by posterity only as the gallant defender of his country, while his cruel apathy on the shores of the Oswego and of the Horican will be forgotten. Deeply regretting this weakness on the part of a sister muse, we shall at once retire from her sacred precincts, within the proper limits of our own humble vocation.

The third day since the fort's capture was drawing to a close, yet the narrative still needed to hold the reader on the shores of the “holy lake.” When they were last sighted, the surrounding area was filled with violence and uproar. Now, stillness and death had taken their place. The blood-stained conquerors had left; their camp, which had so recently throbbed with the merry rejoicings of a victorious army, lay as a silent, deserted city of huts. The fortress was a smoldering ruin: charred rafters, fragments of exploded artillery, and rent masonry lay in confused disarray over its earthen mounds

. A frightful change had also struck the season. The sun had hidden its warmth behind an impenetrable mass of vapor, and hundreds of human forms, blackened by the fierce August heat, were stiffening in their deformity before the blasts of an early November. The swirling, spotless mists, which had been seen drifting north over the hills, were now returning as an endless, dusky sheet, driven along by a tempest's fury. The crowded reflection of the Horican was gone; in its place, the green, angry waters lashed the shores, as if indignantly casting back their impurities onto the polluted strand. The clear fountain still held some of its charmed influence, but it only mirrored the somber gloom descending from the impending heavens. That humid, congenial atmosphere that usually softened the harshness of the view had vanished; the northern air poured across the water's waste so harsh and unmingled that nothing remained to be guessed by the eye or fashioned by the mind

.The fiercer element had clawed the plain's verdure, looking as though it had been scorched by consuming lightning. Yet, here and there, a dark green tuft emerged from the desolation—the earliest fruits of soil fattened with human blood. The entire landscape, bathed in a favorable light and genial warmth, which once appeared so lovely, now resembled some painted allegory of life, where objects were arrayed in their harshest yet truest colors, devoid of any shadow

. The solitary, arid blades of grass rose up from the gusts that passed, fearfully perceptible. The bold, rocky mountains stood starkly barren, and the eye sought relief in vain by trying to pierce the limitless void of heaven, which was sealed off from its gaze by the dusky sheet of ragged, driving vapor

. The wind blew unevenly; sometimes sweeping heavily across the ground, it seemed to whisper its moans into the cold ears of the dead. Then, rising in a shrill, mournful whistle, it burst into the forest with a rush that filled the air with leaves and branches it scattered in its wake. Amid this unnatural shower, a few hungry ravens struggled against the gale; but as soon as the green ocean of woods beneath them swept by, they gladly paused, randomly, for their hideous feast

.In short, it was a scene of wildness and desolation; it looked as if everyone who had profanely entered it had been struck, by the relentless arm of death. But the ban had lifted; and for the first time since those who had committed those foul deeds that had disfigured the scene were gone, living people now dared to approach.

About an hour before sunset on that day, the shapes of five men might have appeared emerging from the narrow vista of trees where the path to the Hudson entered the forest, moving toward the ruined works. At first, their progress was slow and cautious, as if they were entering with reluctance amidst the horrors of the aftermath or dreading a return of those terrible events. One figure preceded the rest of the group, moving with the alertness and activity of a native; he climbed every rise to scout, gesturing to his companions about the route he deemed safest. The others were just as wary and farsighted as any seasoned frontiersman. One of them was Indian, moving slightly to one side while watching the edge of the woods with eyes accustomed to reading the smallest sign of danger. The remaining three were white, dressed in clothing suited both in quality and color to their perilous pursuit—clinging to the skirts of a retreating army in the wilderness.

The effects produced by the appalling sights that constantly arose in their path to the lake shore, were as different as the characters of the respective individuals who composed the party. The youth in front threw serious but furtive glances at the mangled victims, as he stepped lightly across the plain, afraid to exhibit his feelings, and yet too inexperienced to quell entirely their sudden and powerful influence. His red associate, however, was superior to such a weakness. He passed the groups of dead with a steadiness of purpose, and an eye so calm, that nothing but long and inveterate practise could enable him to maintain. The sensations produced in the minds of even the white men were different, though uniformly sorrowful. One, whose gray locks and furrowed lineaments, blending with a martial air and tread, betrayed, in spite of the disguise of a woodsman’s dress, a man long experienced in scenes of war, was not ashamed to groan aloud, whenever a spectacle of more than usual horror came under his view. The young man at his elbow shuddered, but seemed to suppress his feelings in tenderness to his companion. Of them all, the straggler who brought up the rear appeared alone to betray his real thoughts, without fear of observation or dread of consequences. He gazed at the most appalling sight with eyes and muscles that knew not how to waver, but with execrations so bitter and deep as to denote how much he denounced the crime of his enemies.

The reader will perceive at once, in these respective characters, the Mohicans, and their white friend, the scout; together with Munro and Heyward. It was, in truth, the father in quest of his children, attended by the youth who felt so deep a stake in their happiness, and those brave and trusty foresters, who had already proved their skill and fidelity through the trying scenes related.

When Uncas, who had moved ahead, reached the center of the plain, he let out a cry that drew his companions to the spot. The young warrior had stopped over a cluster of females lying in a confused mass of dead. Despite the revolting horror of the sight, Munro and Heyward flew toward the festering heap, trying, with a love that no indecency could quench, to discover if any remnants of those they sought could be seen among the tattered, many-colored garments. The father and the lover found immediate relief in the search; though each was once again condemned to experience the misery of an uncertainty as unbearable as the most revolting truth. They stood there, silent and thoughtful, around the mournful pile when the scout approached. Glaring at the sad spectacle with an angry expression, the sturdy woodsman, for the first time since entering the plain, spoke intelligibly and aloud:

“I’ve been in many a shocking place, and followed trails of blood for weary miles,” he said, “but I’ve never seen the devil so plainly as it is right before our eyes! Revenge isn't an Indian feeling, and everyone who knows me knows there’s no cross in my veins; but I will tell you this—here, facing heaven, with the Lord’s power so obvious in this howling wilderness—that if these Frenchers dare trust themselves again within range of a ragged bullet, there’s one rifle that will play its part as long as flint ignites or powder burns! I leave the tomahawk and knife to whoever has the natural gift to use them. What do you say, Chingachgook,” he added, in Delaware; “will the Hurons boast of this to their women when the deep snows come?”

A gleam of resentment flashed across the Mohican chief’s dark features; he loosened his knife in its sheath; and then, turning calmly away from view, his face settled into a repose as if he understood the instigation of passion.

“Montcalm! Montcalm!” the scout, deeply resentful and unrestrained, continued, “they say a time will come when all deeds done in the flesh will be seen at a single glance, free from mortal infirmities. Woe betide the wretch born to behold this plain, with judgment hanging over his soul! Ha—as I am a man of white blood, there lies a red-skin without the hair where nature rooted it! Look to him, Delaware; he might be one of your missing people; he should have the burial of a stout warrior. I see it in your eye, Sagamore; a Huron pays for this before the fall winds have blown away the scent of blood!”

Chingachgook approached the mutilated form and, turning it over, found the distinguishing marks of one of those six allied tribes or nations, as they were known. These groups were so deadly hostile to his own people that, though they fought in the English ranks, they were enemies to him. Spurning the loathsome object with his foot, he turned away with the same indifference he would show a brute carcass. The scout understood his action and deliberately pursued his own path, continuing his denunciations against the French commander in that same resentful tone.

“Only vast wisdom and unlimited power should dare to sweep men off in multitudes,” he added; “for it is only the one who knows the necessity of judgment; and what is there, short of the other, that can replace the creatures of the Lord? I consider it a sin to kill the second buck before the first is eaten, unless a march ahead or an ambush is planned. It’s a different matter with a few warriors in open, rugged combat, as they are gifted to die with their rifles or tomahawks in hand; no matter if their natures are white or red. Uncas, come this way, lad, and let the ravens settle on the Mingo. I know, from seeing it often, that they crave the flesh of an Oneida; it’s best to let the bird follow its natural appetite.”

“Hugh!” cried the young Mohican, springing up on his toes and staring intently ahead, startling the ravens into chasing some other prey with a sound and a movement.

“What is it, boy?” the scout whispered, lowering his tall frame into a crouch, like a panther about to pounce; “Godsend it be a tardy Frencher, skulking for plunder. I reckon ‘killdeer’ would have an uncommon range today!”

Uncas didn't reply, bounding away from the spot, and in the next instant, he was seen tearing from a bush, waving in triumph with a fragment of Cora’s green riding-veil. The movement, the display, and the cry that erupted again from the young Mohican’s lips instantly drew the whole party toward him.

“My child!” said Munro, speaking quickly and wildly; “give me my child!”

“Uncas will try,” was the short and touching answer.

The simple but meaning assurance was lost on the father, who seized the piece of gauze, and crushed it in his hand, while his eyes roamed fearfully among the bushes, as if he equally dreaded and hoped for the secrets they might reveal.

“Here are no dead,” said Heyward; “the storm seems not to have passed this way.”

“That’s manifest; and clearer than the heavens above our heads,” returned the undisturbed scout; “but either she, or they that have robbed her, have passed the bush; for I remember the rag she wore to hide a face that all did love to look upon. Uncas, you are right; the dark-hair has been here, and she has fled like a frightened fawn, to the wood; none who could fly would remain to be murdered. Let us search for the marks she left; for, to Indian eyes, I sometimes think a humming-bird leaves his trail in the air.”

The young Mohican darted away at the suggestion, and the scout had hardly done speaking, before the former raised a cry of success from the margin of the forest. On reaching the spot, the anxious party perceived another portion of the veil fluttering on the lower branch of a beech.

“Softly, softly,” said the scout, extending his long rifle in front of the eager Heyward; “we now know our work, but the beauty of the trail must not be deformed. A step too soon may give us hours of trouble. We have them, though; that much is beyond denial.”

“Bless you, bless you, worthy man!” Munro exclaimed, “where have they gone, and where are my darlings?”

“The path they took depends on many factors. If they went alone, they’re just as likely to be circling as straight, and they might be within a dozen miles of us. But if the Hurons or any of the French Indians have touched them, then they’re probably near the borders of the Canadas. But what does that matter?” the deliberate scout continued, noticing the powerful anxiety and disappointment on the listeners’ faces. “Here are the Mohicans and I at one end of the trail, and trust me, we find the other, even though they should be a hundred leagues apart! Slow down, slow down, Uncas, you’re as impatient as any man in the settlements; you forget that light feet leave only faint tracks!”

“Hugh!” Chingachgook exclaimed, who had been busy examining an opening in the low underbrush bordering the forest. He stood up straight, pointing down, with the look and air of a man who had just seen a repulsive serpent.

“Here’s the clear impression of a man’s footstep,” cried Heyward, bending over the spot indicated; “he stepped right across this pool, and the mark can’t be missed. They are captives.”

“Better than starving in the wilderness,” the scout replied, “and we’ll leave a wider trail. I'd bet fifty beaver skins against as many flints that the Mohicans and I can get into their wigwams within a month! Get to it, Uncas, and try what you can make from the moccasin; for it is plainly just hide, not a shoe.”

The young Mohican bent over the track, gathering the scattered leaves around the area, examining it with the kind of scrutiny a money dealer in these times of financial uncertainty would give a suspected due-bill. Finally, he stood up from his knees, satisfied with the result of his inspection.

“Well, boy,” the attentive scout demanded, “what does it say? Can you make anything out of that?”

[Illustration] “Well, boy,” the attentive scout demanded, “what does it say? Can you make anything out of that?”

“The Subtle Fox!”

“Ha! that rampaging devil again! his loping will never cease until 'killdeer' says something friendly to him.”

Heyward reluctantly admitted the intelligence, expressing more hope than doubt by saying:

“One moccasin is just like another; there's probably some mistake.”

"One moccasin is no more like another! You might as well say one foot is like another; though we all know some are long, and some short; some broad and some narrow; some with high insteps, and some with low; some intoed, and some out. One moccasin is no more alike than one book is like another: those who can read one seldom discern the marks of the other. It's all ordered for the best, giving every man his natural advantages. Let me get to it, Uncas; neither a book nor a moccasin is worse for holding two opinions instead of just one." The scout got down to work and immediately added:

"You're right, boy; here’s the patch we saw so often in the other chase. And the fellow'll drink when he gets a chance; your drinking Indian always learns to walk with a wider toe than the natural savage—it's the drunkard's gift to straddle, whether white or red skin. It's just the length and breadth, too! Look at it, Sagamore; you measured the prints more than once when we hunted varmints from Glenn’s to the health springs."

Chingachgook agreed; after finishing his brief examination, he stood up and quietly pronounced the word:

"Magua!"

"Aye, it's settled then; here, then, the dark-hair and Magua."

"And not Alice?" Heyward demanded.

“We haven’t seen any signs of her yet,” the scout replied, scanning the trees, bushes, and ground intently. “What’s this? Uncas, bring me the thing you see hanging from that thorn-bush.”

When the Indian complied, the scout took the prize, holding it aloft, and laughed in a silent, heartfelt way.

“It’s the song of the singer! Now we’ll have a trail a priest could follow,” he said. “Uncas, look for the marks of a shoe long enough to support six-foot-two of stumbling human flesh. I'm starting to hope for the fellow, since he’s traded his whining for some better trade.”

“At least he’s been faithful to his trust,” Heyward remarked. “And Cora and Alice aren’t without friends.”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye replied, dropping his rifle and resting on it with an air of visible disdain, “he’ll handle their singing. Can he take down a buck for their dinner? Or should he journey by the moss on the beeches, or perhaps cut the throat of a Huron? If not, the first catbird[1] he meets is the cleverer of the two. Well, boy, any sign of such a foundation?”

[1] The capabilities of the American mocking-bird are generally known. But the true mocking-bird isn’t found north of New York, where it has, however, two substitutes of lesser quality: the catbird, so often named by the scout, and the bird vulgarly called a ground-thresher. Either of these latter two birds outshine the nightingale or the lark, though generally, American birds are less musical than their European counterparts.

“Here’s something like the footprint of someone who’s worn a shoe; could it be our friend?”

“Touch the leaves lightly, or you’ll disrupt the formation. That! That’s a footmark, but it belongs to the dark-hair; and it’s small enough, considering such a noble height and grand bearing. The singer would just cover it with his heel.”

“Where! let me look upon my child's footsteps,” said Munro, shoving aside the bushes and bending over the nearly erased impression with fondness. Though the tread that had left the mark had been light and swift, it was still plainly visible. The aged soldier examined it with eyes that grew dim as he gazed; he didn't rise from his stoop until Heyward saw that he had watered the trace of his daughter’s passage with a scalding tear. To divert the distress threatening to break through the restraint of appearances by giving the veteran something to do, the young man told the scout:

“Now that we have these infallible signs, let us begin our march. A moment, at such a time, will reveal an age to the captives.”

“It isn't the swiftest leaping deer that wins the longest chase,” Hawkeye retorted, without moving his eyes from the various marks before him; “we know the rampaging Huron and the dark-hair and the singer, but where is she with yellow locks and blue eyes? Though small, and not as bold as her sister, she is fair to look at and pleasant in conversation. Does she have no friends who don't care for her?”

“God forbid she would want hundreds! Aren't we already in her pursuit? For one thing, I will never cease the search until she’s found.”

“In that case, we might have to take different paths; for here she hasn't passed, light and small as her footsteps would be.”

Heyward drew back, all his drive to continue seeming to vanish in an instant. Without acknowledging the sudden shift in the other’s mood, the scout mused for a moment and continued:

“No woman in this wilderness could leave such a mark, but the dark-haired one or her sister. We know the first has been here, but where are the signs of the other? Let's push deeper on the trail, and if nothing offers, we must backtrack to the plain and search for another scent. Move on, Uncas, and keep your eyes on the dried leaves. I’ll watch the bushes while your father noses the ground. Keep moving, friends; the sun’s dipping behind the hills.”

“Can’t I do anything?” Heyward demanded, anxious.

“You?” the scout repeated, and with his red companions, he was already advancing in the order he’d set: “yes, you can stay in our rear and watch out for crossing the trail.”

Before they had gone many rods, the Indians stopped, gazing at some signs on the earth with more than their usual keenness. Father and son spoke quickly and loudly, now looking at what they admired, and then toward each other with the most obvious pleasure.

“They’ve found the little foot!” the scout exclaimed, moving ahead without paying attention to his own duties. “What have we here? An ambush has been set up right here! No, by the truest rifle on the frontiers, these are one-sided horses again! Now the whole secret is out, and everything is as clear as the North Star at midnight. Yes, they’ve mounted here. The beasts have been tied to a sapling, waiting; and over there runs the wide path north, sweeping all the way for the Canadas.”

“But there are still no signs of Alice, or the younger Miss Munro,” Duncan said.

“Unless the shining bauble Uncas has just been lifted from the ground, that would prove it. Pass it this way, lad, so we can see it.”

Heyward instantly recognized it as a trinket Alice loved, one he remembered with the tenacious memory of a lover, having seen on the fatal morning of the massacre dangling from his mistress’s fair neck. He snatched the highly prized jewel; and as he announced the truth, it vanished from the eyes of the bewildered scout, who searched the ground in vain long after it had been warm against Duncan’s heart.

“Pshaw!” snapped the disappointed Hawkeye, stopping his raking of the leaves with the butt of his rifle. “It’s a sure sign of age when the sight starts to fade. Such a flashy trinket, and impossible to spot! Well, I can still see down a clouded barrel, and that settles all arguments between me and the Mingoes. I’d like to find the thing too, if only it could be brought to the right owner, and that would tie the two ends of what I call a long trail together, for by now, the St. Lawrence, or maybe even the Great Lakes themselves, are between us.”

“That’s all the more reason we shouldn't wait to march,” Heyward replied. “Let’s go.”

“Young blood and hot blood, they say, are much the same. We aren’t about to hunt squirrels or drive deer into the Horican; we’re setting out for days and nights across a wilderness where men seldom tread, and where no bookish knowledge would save you. An Indian never starts such an expedition without smoking around his council-fire. Though I have white blood, I respect their customs in this regard, as they are deliberate and wise. So, we’ll go back, light our fire tonight in the ruins of the old fort, and in the morning, we’ll be fresh and ready to do our work like men, not like babbling women or eager boys.”

Heyward saw, by the scout's demeanor, that an argument would be pointless. Munro had once again fallen into that apathy that had plagued him since his recent misfortunes, and it seemed he’d only be roused by some new, potent excitement. Making the most of this necessity, the young man took the veteran by the arm and followed in the footsteps of the Indians and the scout, who had already begun retracing the path that led them to the plain.

CHAPTER XIX.

“Salar.—Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh; what’s that good for?
Shy.—To bait fish withal; if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.”
—Merchant of Venice

The shades of evening had come to increase the dreariness of the place, when the party entered the ruins of William Henry. The scout and his companions immediately made their preparations to pass the night there; but with an earnestness and sobriety of demeanor that betrayed how much the unusual horrors they had just witnessed worked on even their practised feelings. A few fragments of rafters were reared against a blackened wall; and when Uncas had covered them slightly with brush, the temporary accommodations were deemed sufficient. The young Indian pointed toward his rude hut when his labor was ended; and Heyward, who understood the meaning of the silent gestures, gently urged Munro to enter. Leaving the bereaved old man alone with his sorrows, Duncan immediately returned into the open air, too much excited himself to seek the repose he had recommended to his veteran friend.

As Hawkeye and the Indians built their fire and ate their evening meal—a frugal bite of dried bear meat—the young man visited that curtain of the dilapidated fort overlooking the expanse of the Horican. The wind had died down, and the waves were already rolling onto the sandy beach beneath him in a more regular, tempered rhythm. The clouds, as if weary of their furious chase, were breaking apart; the heavier masses gathered as black forms near the horizon, while lighter streaks still raced above the water or threaded among the mountain peaks, like broken flocks of birds hovering over their roosts. Here and there, a red, fiery star struggled through the drifting vapor, casting a lurid gleam upon the dull sky. Within the embrace of the surrounding hills, an impenetrable darkness had already settled; the plain lay like a vast, deserted charnel-house, untouched by any omen or whisper to disturb the slumber of its numerous and hapless inhabitants

.In that scene, chillingly aligned with the past, Duncan stood for several minutes, a rapt observer. His gaze drifted from the mound's base, where the foresters sat around their flickering fire, to the fainter light lingering in the sky, and then settled, long and anxious, upon the embodied gloom that lay like a dreary void on the side of him where the dead rested. He soon began to sense inexplicable sounds emanating from the place, though so indistinct and stolen that they rendered not only their nature but even their existence uncertain. Mortified by his unease, the young man turned toward the water, striving to divert his attention to the mimic stars glimmering on its moving surface. Still, his hyper-aware ears performed their ungrateful duty, as if to warn him of some lurking peril. Eventually, a swift trampling seemed to rush across the darkness, audibly. Unable to quell his disquiet, Duncan spoke in a low voice to the scout, asking him to climb the mound where he stood. Hawkeye threw his rifle across an arm and obeyed, yet with an air so unmoved and calm that it proved how much he valued their security.

“Listen!” Duncan said when the other deliberately moved to his elbow. “There are suppressed noises on the plain that might show Montcalm hasn't entirely abandoned his conquest.”

“Ears are better than eyes,” the undisturbed scout said, his voice thick and slow, as if his mouth were double-occupied. “I saw him caged in Ty, with his whole host. For your Frenchers, when they pull off a clever move—a dance, some merry-making—they have a way to get back.”

“I don’t know. Indians rarely sleep through a war, and plunder can keep a Huron here after his tribe has gone.”

“It would be wise to put the fire out and keep watch—listen! You hear the noise I mean!” “An Indian seldom lingers near graves. Though ready to kill, and careless of method, he usually settles for the scalp, unless blood is boiling and temper is high; but once the spirit has fled, he forgets his enmity and lets the dead find their peace. Speaking of spirits, major, do you believe the heavens of red-skin and us white are the same?”

“No doubt—no doubt. I thought I heard it again! Or was it just the leaves rustling in the beech tops?”

"As for me," Hawkeye continued, turning his face briefly in the direction Heyward indicated, his manner vacant and careless, "I believe paradise is set up for happiness; and men will be allowed to enjoy it according to their natures and talents. Therefore, I judge that a red-skin isn't far from the truth when he believes his traditions tell him he’ll find glorious hunting grounds; nor do I think it would be disparaging to a man without a cross to pass the time—"

"You hear that again?" Duncan interrupted.

"Aye, aye; when food is scarce and when food is abundant, a wolf grows bold," said the unmoved scout. "There would be picking among the skins of devils, if there were light and time for the sport. But as for the life to come, major; I've heard preachers say in the settlements that heaven was a place of rest. Now, people differ on what constitutes enjoyment. For myself, and I say this with reverence for Providence, it wouldn't be a great indulgence to be confined to those mansions they preach about, when one has a natural longing for motion and the chase."

Duncan, now understanding the nature of the sound he'd heard, replied, focusing on the topic the scout had chosen to discuss:

"It's hard to explain the feelings that come with the last great change."

“It would be a change, indeed, for a man who has spent his days in the open air,” the single-minded scout replied; “and who has often broken his fast on the waters of the Hudson, to sleep to the sound of the roaring Mohawk. But it is a comfort to know we serve a merciful Master, even though we do so after his command, and with vast wilderness between us—what is there?”

“Is it not the howling of the wolves you mentioned?”

Hawkeye slowly shook his head and beckoned Duncan to follow him to a spot where the firelight did not reach. Taking this precaution, the scout settled into an attitude of intense focus, listening long and keenly for a repetition of the low sound that had so unexpectedly startled him. Yet, this vigilance seemed fruitless; after a fruitless pause, he whispered to Duncan:

“We must call Uncas. The boy has Indian senses; he might hear what is hidden from us; and being white-skinned, I won’t deny my nature.”

The young Mohican, who had been conversing quietly with his father, started when he heard the owl's moan, springing to his feet and looking toward the black mounds, as if seeking the source of the sounds. The scout repeated the call, and in a few moments, Duncan saw Uncas cautiously creeping along the rampart toward their position.

Hawkeye explained his wishes in just a few words, spoken in the Delaware tongue. As soon as Uncas understood why he had been summoned, he threw himself flat on the ground; to Duncan’s eyes, he lay perfectly still and motionless. Surprised by the young warrior’s unmoving posture and curious about how he used his wits to get the information, Heyward advanced a few steps and bent over the dark object that held his gaze. Then he discovered that Uncas’s form had vanished, and all he saw was the dark outline of an inequality in the embankment

. “What happened to the Mohican?” he demanded of the scout, stepping back in astonishment; “it was right here I saw him fall, and I thought he was still there.”

“Hush! Speak softer; we don’t know what ears are open, and the Mingoes are quick-witted. As for Uncas, he’s out on the plain, and if any Maquas are around us, they’ll find their match.”

“Do you think Montcalm hasn't called off all his Indians? Let’s sound the alarm for our companions so we can stand ready. There are five of us here, and we’re not new to facing an enemy.”

“No word to either of you, as you value your lives. Look at the Sagamore, how much like a grand Indian chief he sits by the fire. If any skulkers are lurking in the dark, they’ll never sense our suspicion of danger just by his face.”

"But if they find him, it will confirm his death. His figure can be seen too clearly in the light of that fire, and he’ll become the first and surest victim."

"You've spoken the truth now," the scout replied, betraying more anxiety than usual. "But what can we do? A single suspicious glance might trigger an attack before we’re ready. He knows, thanks to my call to Uncas, that we've caught a scent; I’ll tell him we're tracking the Mingoes, and his Indian nature will teach him how to react."

The scout touched his mouth and let out a low hiss, causing Duncan to flinch, thinking he’d heard a serpent. The head of Chingachgook rested in his hand as he sat lost in thought. But the moment he caught the warning from the animal that bore his name, he straightened up, his dark eyes sweeping swiftly and keenly across everything around him. With that sudden, perhaps involuntary movement, any trace of surprise or alarm vanished. His rifle lay untouched, seemingly unnoticed, within easy reach. The tomahawk, which he’d loosened in his belt for convenience, even dropped to the ground, and his body seemed to slump, as if his nerves and sinews had finally relaxed into rest. Cunningly regaining his composure, though with a change of hand, as if merely relieving a muscle, the native awaited the outcome with a calmness and fortitude that only an Indian warrior could possess.

But Heyward saw that, to a less observant eye, the Mohican chief seemed to be dozing; his nostrils flared, his head tilted slightly, as if tuning his hearing, and his quick, darting glances swept ceaselessly across everything in his sight.

“Look at that noble fellow!” Hawkeye whispered, pressing Heyward’s arm; “he knows a look or a gesture could throw our plans off track, putting us at the mercy of those imps—”

He was abruptly cut off by the flash and report of a rifle. Sparks filled the air around where Heyward’s eyes remained fixed, alight with admiration and wonder. A second glance confirmed that Chingachgook had vanished in the confusion. Meanwhile, the scout had thrust his rifle forward, ready for action, impatiently awaiting the moment an enemy might surface. But with that solitary, futile attempt to end Chingachgook’s life, the attack seemed to have ceased. Once or twice, the listeners thought they heard the distant rustling of bushes, as if unknown bodies were rushing through them; it wasn't long before Hawkeye pointed out the “scampering of the wolves” as they fled swiftly from some intruder on their land. After an impatient, breathless pause, a splash was heard in the water, immediately followed by another rifle shot.

“There goes Uncas!” the scout called out; “the boy has a smart piece! I know its crack as well as a father knows his child’s language, for I carried the gun myself until someone offered a better one.”

“What does this mean?” Duncan demanded. “We’re being watched, and it looks like we’re marked for destruction.”

“That scattered brand proves no good was intended, and this Indian will testify that no harm has been done,” the scout replied, dropping his rifle across his arm once more, and following Chingachgook, who just then reappeared within the circle of light, into the heart of the camp. “What’s the situation, Sagamore? Are the Mingoes serious, or is it just one of those reptiles clinging to a war-party, going to scalp the dead, and boast about the brave deeds done on pale faces?”

Chingachgook quietly resumed his seat; he offered no reply until he had examined the firebrand that had been struck by the bullet which had nearly killed him. Then, content, he raised a single finger to indicate, uttering the English monosyllable:

“One.”

“I figured so,” Hawkeye returned, settling down. “And since he had the cover of the lake before Uncas pulled him in, it’s more than likely the rogue will sing his lies about some great ambush, having been tracking two Mohicans and a white hunter—for the officers are hardly better than idle fools in a skirmish. Well, let him—let him. There are always some honest men in every nation, though heaven knows they're scarce among the Maquas; you don't look down on an upstart when he’s bragging in plain sight of reason. The varlet sent his warning right to your ears, Sagamore.”

Chingachgook turned a calm, curious eye toward the spot where the ball had struck, then resumed his usual composure, utterly undisturbed by such a trivial incident. Just then, Uncas glided into the circle and sat down by the fire, mirroring his father's air of indifference.

For all these moments, Heyward remained a deeply interested and wondering observer. It seemed to him that the foresters possessed some secret intelligence, knowledge that had slipped beyond the reach of his own faculties. Instead of the eager, garrulous narration a white youth would have attempted—and perhaps exaggerated—to communicate what had transpired in the plain's darkness, the young warrior was content to let his deeds speak for themselves. In fact, it wasn't the moment or the occasion for an Indian to boast of his exploits; had Heyward refrained from asking, no other word would have been uttered on the subject then.

“What’s happened to our enemy, Uncas?” Duncan demanded, “we heard your rifle; we hoped you didn't fire in vain.”

The young chief removed a fold of his hunting skirt and quietly revealed the fatal tuft of hair, which he bore as a symbol of victory. Chingachgook laid his hand on the scalp and considered it for a moment with intense focus. Then, dropping it with undisguised disgust etched on his strong features, he spat:

“Oneida!”

“Oneida!” the scout repeated, his interest in the scene rapidly fading, an apathy nearly shared by his red associates, yet he advanced with uncommon earnestness to regard the bloody badge. “By God, if the Oneidas are out there on the trail, we’ll be flanked by devils on every side! Now, to white eyes, there’s no difference between this bit of skin and any other Indian, and yet the Sagamore claims it came from a Mingo; he even names the tribe of the poor bastard with such ease, as if the scalp were a leaf in a book, each hair a letter. What right do Christian whites have to boast of their learning when a savage can read a language that would prove too much for the wisest among them! What do you say, lad, about what people was the knave?”

Uncas raised his eyes to the scout's face and answered in a soft voice:

“Oneida.”

“Oneida, again! When one Indian makes a declaration, it’s usually true; but when supported by his people, treat it as gospel!”

“The poor fellow mistook us for French,” said Heyward; “or he wouldn’t have attempted the life of a friend.”

“He mistook a Mohican in his paint for a Huron! You’d be just as likely to mistake the white-coated grenadiers of Montcalm for the scarlet jackets of the Royal Americans,” the scout retorted. “No, no, the sarpent knew his objective; there wasn't much error in it, for there’s little love between a Delaware and a Mingo. Let their tribes go out to fight for whomever they please, in a white quarrel. Though the Oneidas do serve his sacred majesty, who is my sovereign lord and master, I wouldn’t have dwelled long on letting off ‘killdeer’ at the imp myself, had luck put him in my way.”

“That would have been an abuse of our treaties, and unworthy of your character.”

“When a man associates closely with a people,” Hawkeye continued, “if they are honest and he’s no knave, love grows between them. It’s true that white cunning has thrown the tribes into great confusion regarding friends and enemies; the Hurons and the Oneidas, who speak the same tongue, or what might be called the same, take each other’s heads, and the Delawares are divided among themselves—a few hanging around their council-fire on their own river, fighting with the Mingoes while most are in the Canadas, driven by natural enmity toward the Maquas. This throws everything into disarray and destroys the harmony of warfare. Yet a red nature isn’t likely to change with every shift in policy; so the affection between a Mohican and a Mingo is much like the regard between a white man and a sarpent.”

"I regret hearing that; for I had believed those natives who lived within our borders found us too just and liberal to fully identify with our squabbles."

"Well, I suppose it’s natural to favor one's own disputes over those of strangers. I do love justice, though; so I wouldn't say I hate a Mingo, as that might be unsuited to my complexion and creed. Still, I’ll repeat, perhaps the night was the cause, for ‘killdeer’ had no part in this skulking Oneida's demise."

Then, seemingly content with his own logic, whatever effect it might have on the other disputant's views, the honest but unyielding woodsman turned from the fire, content to let the controversy lie dormant. Heyward retreated to the rampart, too unsettled and not accustomed enough to woodland warfare to remain at ease under the possibility of such insidious attacks. Not so, however, with the scout and the Mohicans. Those acute, long-honed senses, whose powers often surpassed ordinary credulity, had allowed them to gauge the danger's scope and duration once they detected it. None of the three appeared to doubt their absolute safety, as shown by the preparations swiftly made to deliberate on their future actions.

The confusion among nations, even tribes, to which Hawkeye alluded, was at its most potent during that time. The great bond of language—and naturally, common origin—had been broken in many places. A consequence of this fragmentation was that the Delaware and the Mingo (as the Six Nations called themselves) were fighting side-by-side, with the latter seeking the scalp of the Huron, even though they believed the Huron were the root of their own lineage. The Delawares were even divided among themselves. Despite their love for the land inherited from their ancestors, the Sagamore of the Mohicans kept a small band of followers with him who served at Edward under the English king; far more of his nation were known as allies to Montcalm. The reader probably knows, if they haven't already gathered enough from this story, that the Delaware, or Lenape, claimed descent from those numerous peoples who once ruled most of the eastern and northern states of America—a community which included the Mohicans as an ancient and highly honored member.

It was, of course, with a perfect understanding of the minute and intricate interests which had armed friend against friend, and brought natural enemies to combat by each other’s side, that the scout and his companions now disposed themselves to deliberate on the measures that were to govern their future movements, amid so many jarring and savage races of men. Duncan knew enough of Indian customs to understand the reason that the fire was replenished, and why the warriors, not excepting Hawkeye, took their seats within the curl of its smoke with so much gravity and decorum. Placing himself at an angle of the works, where he might be a spectator of the scene without, he awaited the result with as much patience as he could summon.

After a short and impressive pause, Chingachgook lighted a pipe whose bowl was curiously carved in one of the soft stones of the country, and whose stem was a tube of wood, and commenced smoking. When he had inhaled enough of the fragrance of the soothing weed, he passed the instrument into the hands of the scout. In this manner the pipe had made its rounds three several times, amid the most profound silence, before either of the party opened his lips. Then the Sagamore, as the oldest and highest in rank, in a few calm and dignified words, proposed the subject for deliberation. He was answered by the scout; and Chingachgook rejoined, when the other objected to his opinions. But the youthful Uncas continued a silent and respectful listener, until Hawkeye, in complaisance, demanded his opinion. Heyward gathered from the manners of the different speakers, that the father and son espoused one side of a disputed question, while the white man maintained the other. The contest gradually grew warmer, until it was quite evident the feelings of the speakers began to be somewhat enlisted in the debate.

Despite the growing warmth of the friendly contest, even the most proper Christian gathering, including those where its reverend ministers were present, might have learned a valuable lesson in moderation from the disputants' forbearance and courtesy. Uncas’s words were received with the same deep attention as those drawn from his father's mature wisdom; he didn't show any impatience and remained silent until a few moments of silent meditation seemed to pass as he deliberated on what had already been said.

The Mohicans' language was accompanied by gestures so direct and natural that Heyward barely struggled to follow their argument. Conversely, the scout was obscure; stemming from a lingering pride in his complexion, he carried the cold, artificial manner characteristic of all Anglo-Americans when unexcited. By how often the Indians described the signs of a forest trial, it was clear they were advocating a land pursuit, while Hawkeye's repeated sweep of his arm toward the Horican indicated his desire for passage across its waters.

The latter was to every appearance fast losing ground, and the point was about to be decided against him, when he arose to his feet, and shaking off his apathy, he suddenly assumed the manner of an Indian, and adopted all the arts of native eloquence. Elevating an arm, he pointed out the track of the sun, repeating the gesture for every day that was necessary to accomplish their objects. Then he delineated a long and painful path, amid rocks and water-courses. The age and weakness of the slumbering and unconscious Munro were indicated by signs too palpable to be mistaken. Duncan perceived that even his own powers were spoken lightly of, as the scout extended his palm, and mentioned him by the appellation of the “Open Hand”—a name his liberality had purchased of all the friendly tribes. Then came a representation of the light and graceful movements of a canoe, set in forcible contrast to the tottering steps of one enfeebled and tired. He concluded by pointing to the scalp of the Oneida, and apparently urging the necessity of their departing speedily, and in a manner that should leave no trail.

[Illustration] The Mohicans listened gravely, and with countenances that reflected the sentiments of the speaker.

The Mohicans listened gravely, and with countenances that reflected the sentiments of the speaker. Conviction gradually wrought its influence, and toward the close of Hawkeye’s speech, his sentences were accompanied by the customary exclamation of commendation. In short, Uncas and his father became converts to his way of thinking, abandoning their own previously expressed opinions with a liberality and candor that, had they been the representatives of some great and civilized people, would have infallibly worked their political ruin, by destroying forever their reputation for consistency.

The moment the matter under discussion was settled, the debate, and everything tied to it, save the outcome, seemed to vanish. Hawkeye, without glancing around to read his triumph in applauding eyes, calmly stretched his tall frame before the dying embers and slipped into sleep.

Left alone, the Mohicans, whose time had been so devoted to others' interests, seized the opportunity to focus on themselves. Casting off the grave and austere demeanor of an Indian chief, Chingachgook began speaking to his son in soft, playful tones of affection. Uncas gladly met his father’s familiar air; before the scout announced his slumber with a hard breath, a complete shift occurred in the manner of his two companions.

It's impossible to describe the music of their language while they laughed and showed endearments; it’s beyond comprehension for those who've never heard its melody. The range of their voices, especially that of the youth, was wondrous—ranging from the deepest bass to tones so soft they were almost feminine. The father followed his son's clever and ingenious movements with open delight, always smiling in response to the other’s contagious, low laughter. Under the influence of these gentle, natural feelings, no trace of ferocity showed in the Sagamore's softened features. His array of death looked more like a mockery than a fierce declaration of a desire to tread paths of destruction.

After an hour of indulging in their better feelings, Chingachgook abruptly announced his desire to sleep, pulling his head under his blanket and stretching himself upon the naked earth. The merriment of Uncas instantly died down; carefully raking the coals so they would impart their warmth to his father’s feet, the youth sought his own pillow among the ruins of the place

. Drinking renewed confidence from these experienced foresters, Heyward soon imitated their example; and long before night had fully settled, those lying within the embrace of the ruined structure seemed to slumber as heavily as the unconscious multitude whose bones were already beginning to bleach upon the surrounding plain

CHAPTER XX.

“Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes
On thee; thou rugged nurse of savage men!”
—Childe Harold

The heavens were still studded with stars, when Hawkeye came to arouse the sleepers. Casting aside their cloaks Munro and Heyward were on their feet while the woodsman was still making his low calls, at the entrance of the rude shelter where they had passed the night. When they issued from beneath its concealment, they found the scout awaiting their appearance nigh by, and the only salutation between them was the significant gesture for silence, made by their sagacious leader.

“Think over your prayers,” he whispered, as they approached him; “for He to whom you make them, knows all tongues; that of the heart, as well as those of the mouth. But speak not a syllable; it is rare for a white voice to pitch itself properly in the woods, as we have seen by the example of that miserable devil, the singer. Come,” he continued, turning toward a curtain of the works; “let us get into the ditch on this side, and be regardful to step on the stones and fragments of wood as you go.”

His companions complied, though to two of them the reasons of this extraordinary precaution were yet a mystery. When they were in the low cavity that surrounded the earthen fort on three sides, they found that passage nearly choked by the ruins. With care and patience, however, they succeeded in clambering after the scout, until they reached the sandy shore of the Horican.

“That’s a trail only a nose can follow,” the satisfied scout said, looking back along their arduous path. “Grass is a treacherous carpet for a party to tread on, but wood and stone leave no mark from a moccasin. If you’d worn your armed boots, there might have been something to fear; but with deer-skin suitably prepared, a man can generally trust himself on rocks safely. Push in the canoe nearer to the land, Uncas; this sand will yield as easily as the Jarmans' butter on the Mohawk. Softly, lad, softly; it mustn’t touch the beach, or the knaves will know where we’ve fled.”

The young man observed this precaution, and the scout, laying a board from the ruins to the canoe, signaled for the two officers to enter. When this was done, everything was studiously restored to its former disarray; then Hawkeye managed to reach his little birchen vessel, leaving behind none of the marks he seemed so much to dread. Heyward remained silent until the Indians had cautiously paddled the canoe some distance from the fort, settling into the broad, dark shadows cast by the eastern mountain upon the glassy lake surface; then he demanded:

“What need have we for this stolen and hurried departure?”

“If the blood of an Oneida could stain such pure water as this we float on,” the scout retorted, “your two eyes would answer your own question. Have you forgotten the skulking reptile Uncas slew?”

“By no means. But he was said to be alone, and dead men give no cause for fear.”

“He was alone in his deviltry!” an Indian whose tribe boasted so many warriors seldom feared his blood wouldn't run, though death shrieks might soon follow from some of his enemies.

“But our presence—the authority of Colonel Munro—would prove sufficient protection against the anger of our allies, especially in a case where the wretch so deserved his fate. I trust in Heaven you haven’t deviated a single foot from the direct line of our course for such a slight reason!”

“Do you think the bullet from that rogue’s rifle would have turned aside, even though his sacred majesty the king stood in its path?” the stubborn scout retorted. “Why didn't the grand Frenchman, who is captain-general of the Canadas, bury the Hurons’ tomahawks if a word from a white man worked so powerfully on the nature of an Indian?”

Heyward’s reply was cut short by a groan from Munro; but after a moment’s pause, out of deference to his aged friend’s sorrow, he resumed the topic.

“The marquis of Montcalm can only settle that error with his God,” the young man said solemnly.

“Ay, ay, now there is reason in your words, for they are bottomed on religion and honesty. There is a vast difference between throwing a regiment of white coats atwixt the tribes and the prisoners, and coaxing an angry savage to forget he carries a knife and rifle, with words that must begin with calling him your son. No, no,” continued the scout, looking back at the dim shore of William Henry, which was now fast receding, and laughing in his own silent but heartfelt manner; “I have put a trail of water atween us; and unless the imps can make friends with the fishes, and hear who has paddled across their basin this fine morning, we shall throw the length of the Horican behind us before they have made up their minds which path to take.”

“With foes in front, and foes in our rear, our journey is like to be one of danger.”

“Danger!” Hawkeye repeated calmly, “no, not absolutely dangerous; with vigilant ears and quick eyes, we can keep a few hours ahead of the rogues. Or, if we have to use the rifle, there are three of us who understand its power as well as anyone on the borders. No, not danger, but we’ll get what you might call a brisk shove, that’s probable; it might be a brush, a skirmish, or some diversion, but always where cover is good and ammunition is plentiful.”

It was possible Heyward's assessment of danger differed somewhat from the scout's. Instead of replying, he just sat in silence as the canoe glided over several miles of water. Just as dawn broke, they entered the lake’s narrows [1] and swiftly and cautiously slipped among their countless little islands. It was along this route that Montcalm had retreated with his army, and the adventurers didn't know, but he had left some of his Indians in ambush to guard the rear of his forces and collect stragglers. They approached the passage with the customary silence born of their guarded habits.

[1] The beauty of Lake George is well known to every American tourist. Amidst the surrounding mountains and man-made features, it’s inferior to the finest Swiss and Italian lakes, yet in outline and water purity, it is equal; and in the sheer number and arrangement of its isles and islets, it surpasses them all combined. There are rumored to be hundreds of islands in a sheet of water less than thirty miles long.The narrows, which in truth connect what might be called two lakes, are crammed with islands so tightly that the passages between them are often only a few feet wide. The lake itself varied in breadth from one to three miles.

Chingachgook set aside his paddle. As Uncas and the scout steered the light vessel through crooked and intricate channels, every foot they advanced exposed them to the risk of a sudden rise at any moment. The Sagamore’s eyes darted warily from islet to islet, from copse to copse, as the canoe moved. When a clearer sheet of water appeared, his keen vision focused on the bare rocks and looming forests that frowned upon the narrow strait.

Heyward, who was doubly interested in both the beauty of the place and the natural apprehension of his situation, simply believed he hadn't provoked unnecessary fear when the paddle stilled, following Chingachgook’s signal.

“Hugh!” Uncas exclaimed, nearly at the moment the light tap his father had made on the side of the canoe signaled danger.

“What now?” the scout asked. “The lake is as smooth as if the winds had never blown, and I can see for miles; there isn't even the black head of a loon dotting the water.”

The Indian gravely raised his paddle and pointed in the direction his steady gaze was fixed. Duncan followed the motion. A few rods ahead lay another wooded islet, appearing as calm and peaceful as if its solitude had never been disturbed by human presence.

“I see nothing,” he said, “only land and water; and a beautiful sight it is.”

“Hold!” interrupted the scout. “Ay, Sagamore, there’s always a reason for what you do. It’s just a shadow, yet it’s not natural. You see the mist rising above the island, major? You can’t call it fog; it’s more like a streak of thin cloud—”

“It’s vapor from the water.”

“A child could tell that. But what about the edging of blacker smoke hanging along its lower side, which you can trace down into the hazel thicket? That’s from a fire; one that, in my judgment, has been allowed to burn low.”

“Let’s push for the spot and settle our doubts,” said impatient Duncan. “The party has to be small enough to lie on such a patch of land.”

“If you judge Indian cunning by the rules in books or white wisdom, they'll lead you astray, if not to your death,” Hawkeye returned, examining the signs of the place with the keenness that set him apart. “If I may speak on this, it’s simply that we have only two choices: either we return and give up all thought of following the Hurons—”

“Never!” exclaimed Heyward, his voice far too loud for the situation.

“Well, well,” continued Hawkeye, making a hasty sign to repress his impatience; “I am much of your mind myself; though I thought it becoming my experience to tell the whole. We must, then, make a push, and if the Indians or Frenchers are in the narrows, run the gauntlet through these toppling mountains. Is there reason in my words, Sagamore?”

The Indian made no other answer than by dropping his paddle into the water, and urging forward the canoe. As he held the office of directing its course, his resolution was sufficiently indicated by the movement. The whole party now plied their paddles vigorously, and in a very few moments they had reached a point whence they might command an entire view of the northern shore of the island, the side that had hitherto been concealed.

“There they are, by all the truth of signs,” whispered the scout, “two canoes and a smoke. The knaves haven’t yet got their eyes out of the mist, or we should hear the accursed whoop. Together, friends! we are leaving them, and are already nearly out of whistle of a bullet.”

The well-known crack of a rifle, whose ball came skipping along the placid surface of the strait, and a shrill yell from the island, interrupted his speech, and announced that their passage was discovered. In another instant several savages were seen rushing into canoes, which were soon dancing over the water in pursuit. These fearful precursors of a coming struggle produced no change in the countenances and movements of his three guides, so far as Duncan could discover, except that the strokes of their paddles were longer and more in unison, and caused the little bark to spring forward like a creature possessing life and volition.

“Hold them there, Sagamore,” Hawkeye said coolly looking back over his left shoulder while still paddling; “keep them right there. The Hurons don’t have a single one in their nation that can execute at this distance; but ‘killdeer’ has a barrel on which a man can calculate.”

[Illustration]

The scout had figured out the Mohicans could hold the necessary distance themselves. He deliberately set aside his paddle and raised the rifle. He brought the piece to his shoulder several times, and when his companions waited for the shot, he often lowered it, asking the Indians to let their enemies get a little closer. Finally, his sharp and meticulous eye seemed satisfied. Throwing his left arm over the barrel, he slowly raised the muzzle when an exclamation from Uncas, seated in the bow, made him hold the shot.

“What now, lad?” Hawkeye demanded; “you save a Huron from a death-shriek with that word; what’s your reasoning?”

Uncas pointed toward a rocky shore ahead where another war canoe was darting directly across their path. It was now obvious that their situation was perilously dangerous, so there was no need for words to confirm it. The scout put down his rifle and picked up the paddle again, while Chingachgook angled the canoe bows slightly toward the western shore, trying to increase the distance between themselves and this new enemy. Meanwhile, they heard wild, exultant shouts from those pressing on their rear. The stirring scene even woke Munro from his apathy.

“Let’s head for the rocks on the main,” he said, with the air of a weary soldier, “and give those savages a fight. God forbid I, or anyone with me, should ever have to trust the faith of any servant of Louis!”

“Anyone who wants to thrive in Indian warfare,” the scout replied, “can’t be too proud to learn from a native’s cleverness. Lay her further along the land, Sagamore; we’re doubling up on the varlets, and they might try to track our trail through long calculation.”

Hawkeye was right. When the Hurons found their path likely to throw them off their chase, they made it less direct. By gradually steering more and more obliquely, the two canoes soon glided in parallel lines, less than two hundred yards apart. It became a pure test of speed then. The light vessels moved so fast that the lake curved ahead of them in miniature waves, and their motion rippled with their own velocity. Perhaps this, along with the need to keep every hand on the paddles, meant the Hurons couldn't immediately resort to their firearms. The fugitives were exerting themselves too much to last long, and the pursuers had the advantage of numbers. Duncan watched uneasily as the scout began to glance around him, searching for another way to help their escape.

“Angle her a bit more from the sun, Sagamore,” insisted the stubborn woodsman. “I see those rogues are holding back a man for the rifle. One broken bone could cost us our heads. Angle further from the sun, and we’ll put the island between us.”

The expedient wasn't without its use. A long, low island lay a short distance ahead, and as they closed on it, the pursuing canoe was forced to take a side opposite the one the pursued passed. The scout and his companions didn't miss this advantage; the moment they were hidden by the bushes, they redoubled efforts that had previously seemed prodigious. The two canoes rounded the last low point like two runners at full speed, the fugitives taking the lead. This maneuver brought them closer, though it altered their relative positions

. “You showed knowledge in shaping birch bark, Uncas, when you chose this from among the Huron canoes,” the scout said, smiling—more pleased by their superiority in the race than by the prospect of escape that was now opening up for them. “The imps have put all their strength back into the paddles, and we’ll have to struggle for our lives with pieces of flattened wood instead of clouded barrels and true eyes. A long stroke, and together, friends”

. “They’re preparing a shot,” Heyward said. “And since we’re in line with them, it can hardly fail”

. “Get you into the bottom of the canoe then,” the scout replied. “You and the colonel; it’ll take away the size of the mark”

. Heyward smiled as he answered

: “It would be poor example for the highest in rank to dodge while the warriors are under fire”

.“Lord! Lord! That’s a white man’s courage!” the scout exclaimed. “And like many of his notions, it can’t be sustained by reason. Do you think the Sagamore, or Uncas, or even I, who carry no cross, would deliberate about finding cover in the scrimmage when an exposed body does no good? Why did the Frenchers build Quebec if fighting is always done in the clearings?”

“All that you say is true, my friend,” Heyward replied. “Still, our customs must stop us from doing as you wish.”

A volley from the Hurons broke the talk. As the bullets whistled past them, Duncan saw Uncas’s head turn back to him and Munro. Despite the enemy’s nearness and his own great personal peril, the young warrior’s face showed no other emotion than astonishment at finding men willing to face such useless exposure. Chingachgook probably knew more about white men, as he didn't even glance away from the fixed look in his eye that guided their course. Soon, a ball struck the light, and the chief polished his paddle, throwing it high into the air. A shout erupted from the Hurons, who seized the chance to fire another volley. Uncas drew an arc in the water with his blade, and as the canoe sped by, Chingachgook retrieved his paddle, raised it high, and let out the war-whoop of the Mohicans before lending his strength and skill to the crucial task.

The clamorous sounds of “Le Gros Serpent!” “La Longue Carabine!” “Le Cerf Agile!” burst at once from the canoes behind, and seemed to give new zeal to the pursuers. The scout seized “killdeer” in his left hand, and elevating it about his head, he shook it in triumph at his enemies. The savages answered the insult with a yell, and immediately another volley succeeded. The bullets pattered along the lake, and one even pierced the bark of their little vessel. No perceptible emotion could be discovered in the Mohicans during this critical moment, their rigid features expressing neither hope nor alarm; but the scout again turned his head, and, laughing in his own silent manner, he said to Heyward:

“The knaves love to hear the sounds of their pieces; but the eye is not to be found among the Mingoes that can calculate a true range in a dancing canoe! You see the dumb devils have taken off a man to charge, and by the smallest measurement that can be allowed, we move three feet to their two!”

Duncan, who was not altogether as easy under this nice estimate of distances as his companions, was glad to find, however, that owing to their superior dexterity, and the diversion among their enemies, they were very sensibly obtaining the advantage. The Hurons soon fired again, and a bullet struck the blade of Hawkeye’s paddle without injury.

“That will do,” said the scout, examining the slight indentation with a curious eye; “it would not have cut the skin of an infant, much less of men, who, like us, have been blown upon by the heavens in their anger. Now, major, if you will try to use this piece of flattened wood, I’ll let ‘killdeer’ take a part in the conversation.”

Heyward grabbed the paddle, diving into the work with an eagerness that betrayed his skill, while Hawkeye inspected his rifle's priming. Hawkeye then aimed swiftly and fired. The Huron in the lead canoe had risen with a similar intent and tumbled backward, letting his gun slip from his grasp into the water. Instantly, however, he regained his footing, though his movements were wild and bewildered. At that moment, his companions ceased their efforts, and the chasing canoes clustered together, freezing in place. Chingachgook and Uncas seized the pause to regain their wind, but Duncan kept working with relentless industry. The father and son exchanged calm, questioning glances, trying to gauge if either had been injured by the fire; they both knew no cry or exclamation would be allowed in such a moment of necessity to reveal the accident. A few large drops of blood trickled down the Sagamore's shoulder. When he sensed Uncas’s eyes lingered on his sight, he raised some water in his hand and, wiping away the stain, quietly showed the slightness of the wound.

"Softly, softly, major," the scout said, having reloaded his rifle by this time. "We're already too far for a rifle to show off its beauty, and you see those imps holding a council over there. Let them come within striking distance—my eye can be trusted in such matters—and I'll trail the varlets the length of the Horican, guaranteeing that none of their shots will do more than break the skin, while 'killdeer' will touch a life twice in three attempts."

"We're forgetting our mission," Duncan replied, diligent as ever. "For heaven's sake, let's use this advantage and get further from the enemy."

"Give me my children," Munro rasped. "No longer trifle with a father's agony; just give me my babes."

Long and customary deference to his superiors had taught the scout the virtue of obedience. He cast one last, lingering glance at the distant canoes, set down his rifle, and, easing the weary Duncan’s burden, resumed paddling with sinews that never tired. His efforts were joined by those of the Mohicans, and in just a few minutes, they managed to place a sheet of water between themselves and their enemies, allowing Heyward to breathe freely once more.

The lake began to spread out, their route tracing a wide expanse bordered, as before, by high, ragged mountains. But the islands were few and easy to bypass. The strokes of the paddles grew more measured and regular as they continued their labor after the close and deadly chase from which they had just escaped, moving with a coolness as if their speed were exercised in sport rather than under such pressing, almost desperate circumstances.

Instead of following the western shore, where their journey led them, the wary Mohican steered toward the hills behind which Montcalm was known to have led his army into the formidable fortress of Ticonderoga. As the Hurons seemed to have abandoned the pursuit, there was no apparent reason for this extra caution. They maintained it for hours until they reached a bay, near the northern end of the lake. Here, the canoe was beached, and the entire party landed. Hawkeye and Heyward climbed an adjacent bluff, and the former, considering the expanse of water beneath him, pointed out to the latter a small, black object hovering beneath a headland, several miles away.

“Do you see it?” the scout demanded. “What would you make of that spot if you were left alone to white experience to find your way through this wilderness?”

“But given its distance and size, I’d say it’s a bird. Can it be a living thing?”

“It’s a canoe made of fine birch bark, paddled by fierce and cunning Mingoes. Though Providence has gifted those who live in the woods eyes that would be useless to men in the settlements—even with inventions to aid sight—no human eye can perceive all the dangers that constantly surround us. These varlets pretend to be focused on their supper, but as soon as it’s dark, they’ll be on our trail, as true as hounds on a scent. We have to drive them off, or our chase for Le Renard Subtil will be abandoned. These lakes are useful sometimes, especially when the game is in the water,” the scout continued, gazing around him with concern; “but they offer no cover, except to the fish. God knows what the country would look like if the settlements ever spread far from those two rivers. Both hunting and war would lose their beauty.”

“Let’s not delay a moment without some good and obvious reason.”

“I don’t like that smoke you see curling up along the rock above the canoe,” interrupted the preoccupied scout. “My life on it, other eyes than ours see it, and know what it means. Words won’t fix anything; it’s time we acted.”

Hawkeye moved away from the lookout and descended, pondering deeply to the shore. He shared his observations with his companions in Delaware, and a brief, earnest consultation followed. When it ended, the three immediately set about carrying out their new plans.

The canoe was hauled from the water and carried on the shoulders of the group as they moved into the woods, making the broadest possible trail. They soon reached a watercourse, crossed it, and continued until they came to an extensive, bare rock. At this point, where their footprints were likely no longer visible, they carefully retraced their steps back to the brook, walking backward with extreme caution. They then followed the stream bed to the lake, where they immediately launched the canoe once more. A low point hid them from the headland, and the edge of the lake was lined for some distance with dense, overhanging bushes. Under the cover of these natural advantages, they worked their way onward with patient industry until the scout declared he felt it safe to land again.

They stopped there until evening made objects indistinct and uncertain to the eye. Then they resumed their journey, and, aided by the darkness, pushed silently and vigorously toward the western shore. Although the rugged outline of the mountain they were steering offered no distinct features to Duncan’s eyes, the Mohican entered the small haven he had chosen with the confidence and accuracy of an experienced pilot.

The boat was lifted again and carried into the woods, where it was carefully hidden beneath a pile of brush. The adventurers secured their arms and packs, and the scout announced to Munro and Heyward that he and the Indians were finally ready to go.

CHAPTER XXI.

“If you find a man there, he shall die a flea’s death.”
—Merry Wives of Windsor.

The party had landed on the border of a region that is, even to this day, less known to the inhabitants of the States than the deserts of Arabia, or the steppes of Tartary. It was the sterile and rugged district which separates the tributaries of Champlain from those of the Hudson, the Mohawk, and the St. Lawrence. Since the period of our tale the active spirit of the country has surrounded it with a belt of rich and thriving settlements, though none but the hunter or the savage is ever known even now to penetrate its wild recesses.

As Hawkeye and the Mohicans had, however, often traversed the mountains and valleys of this vast wilderness, they did not hesitate to plunge into its depth, with the freedom of men accustomed to its privations and difficulties. For many hours the travelers toiled on their laborious way, guided by a star, or following the direction of some water-course, until the scout called a halt, and holding a short consultation with the Indians, they lighted their fire, and made the usual preparations to pass the remainder of the night where they then were.

Imitating the example, and emulating the confidence of their more experienced associates, Munro and Duncan slept without fear, if not without uneasiness. The dews were suffered to exhale, and the sun had dispersed the mists, and was shedding a strong and clear light in the forest, when the travelers resumed their journey.

After traveling a few miles, Hawkeye’s advance grew more deliberate and watchful. He often paused to examine the trees, and he never crossed a stream without carefully assessing the volume, speed, and color of its waters. Mistrusting his own instincts, he frequently sought Chingachgook’s opinion with earnest appeals. During one such meeting, Heyward noticed that Uncas remained patient and silent, though Hawkeye imagined him to be an interested listener. He was strongly tempted to address the young chief and demand his assessment of their progress; however, the native's calm and dignified demeanor led him to believe that, like himself, the other relied entirely on the sagacity and intelligence of the party's elders. Finally, the scout spoke English, immediately explaining their predicament.

“When I found that the Huron home path ran north,” he said, “it didn’t take many years of judgment to tell them they would follow the valleys, keeping between the waters of the Hudson and the Horican, until they hit the springs of the Canada streams, leading them into the heart of the French territory. Yet here we are, close to the Scaroons, and we haven't crossed a trail! Human nature is weak, and we might not have caught the right scent.”

“Heaven protect us from such an error!” Duncan exclaimed. “Let’s retrace our steps and examine everything as we go, with sharper eyes. Does Uncas have no counsel to offer in this tight spot?”

The young Mohican glanced at his father but kept silent, maintaining his quiet and reserved demeanor. Chingachgook caught the look and gestured with his hand, commanding him to speak. The moment permission was granted, Uncas's expression shifted from grave composure to a gleam of intelligence and joy. Bounding forward like a deer, he sprang up the side of a slight incline, a few rods ahead, and stood exultantly over a patch of fresh earth that looked as if it had been recently turned by some heavy animal. The eyes of the whole party followed this unexpected movement, reading the triumph in the youth's air.

“It’s the trail!” exclaimed the scout, moving to the spot; “the lad has keen sight and quick wit for his age.”

“It's extraordinary that he held back his knowledge for so long,” Duncan muttered beside him.

“It would have been more wonderful had he spoken without prompting. No, no; your young white, who gathers his learning from books and measures what he knows by the page, might think his knowledge outruns that of his fathers, but where experience is the master, the scholar learns to value years and respects them accordingly.”

“See!” Uncas said, pointing north and south at the clear signs of the broad trail on either side of him, “the dark-hair has gone toward the forest.”

"Hound never ran on a more beautiful scent," the scout replied, dashing forward immediately along the indicated route, "we are favored, greatly favored, and can follow with keen noses. Ay, here are both your waddling beasts: this Huron travels like a white general. The fellow is struck by a judgment, and is mad! Watch for wheels, Sagamore," he continued, looking back and laughing in his newly awakened satisfaction, "we'll soon have the fool journeying in a coach, and that with three of the best pairs of eyes on the borders in his rear."

The scout’s spirits, and the astonishing success of the chase—over a circuitous distance of more than forty miles—did not fail to instill hope in the whole party. Their advance was swift, made with the confidence a traveler would have when following a wide highway. If a rock, a stream, or even just a patch of earth tougher than common severed the path they followed, the scout’s true sight recovered them from afar, and seldom required a single moment's delay. Their progress was greatly aided by the certainty that Magua had found it necessary to traverse the valleys, which made the general direction of the route sure. Furthermore, the Huron hadn't entirely ignored the methods the natives employed when retreating before an enemy. False trails and sudden turns were common wherever a brook or changes in terrain allowed them passage; yet, his pursuers were rarely fooled, never failing to detect their error before they lost either time or distance on the deceptive track.

By mid-afternoon, they had passed the Scaroons, following the path of the setting sun. After descending an eminence to a low valley, through which a swift stream glided, they suddenly arrived at a place where Le Renard’s party had halted. Extinguished brands lay scattered around a spring, deer offals were strewn about, and the trees bore clear marks of having been browsed by the horses. A short distance away, Heyward discovered, and contemplated with tender emotion, the small bower under which he dared to believe Cora and Alice had rested. But while the earth was trodden, and the tracks of men and beasts were so plainly visible, the trail seemed to have abruptly ended.

It was easy to follow the Narragansett tracks, but they appeared to have wandered without guides, driven only by the pursuit of food. Eventually, Uncas, along with his father, who had tried to trace the horses’ route, came upon evidence of their recent presence. Before following this clue, he shared his success with his companions; as they discussed the matter, the youth reappeared, leading the two fillies, their saddles broken and their harnesses soiled, as if they’d been allowed to run freely for several days.

“What does this prove?” Duncan asked, turning pale, glancing around him as if fearing the brush and leaves were about to reveal some horrid secret.

“That our march is come to a quick end, and that we are in an enemy’s country,” returned the scout. “Had the knave been pressed, and the gentle ones wanted horses to keep up with the party, he might have taken their scalps; but without an enemy at his heels, and with such rugged beasts as these, he would not hurt a hair of their heads. I know your thoughts, and shame be it to our color that you have reason for them; but he who thinks that even a Mingo would ill-treat a woman, unless it be to tomahawk her, knows nothing of Indian natur’, or the laws of the woods. No, no; I have heard that the French Indians had come into these hills to hunt the moose, and we are getting within scent of their camp. Why should they not? The morning and evening guns of Ty may be heard any day among these mountains; for the Frenchers are running a new line atween the provinces of the king and the Canadas. It is true that the horses are here, but the Hurons are gone; let us, then, hunt for the path by which they parted.”

Hawkeye and the Mohicans now applied themselves to their task in good earnest. A circle of a few hundred feet in circumference was drawn, and each of the party took a segment for his portion. The examination, however, resulted in no discovery. The impressions of footsteps were numerous, but they all appeared like those of men who had wandered about the spot, without any design to quit it. Again the scout and his companions made the circuit of the halting place, each slowly following the other, until they assembled in the center once more, no wiser than when they started.

“Such cunning is not without its deviltry,” exclaimed Hawkeye, when he met the disappointed looks of his assistants.

“We have to get down to it, Sagamore, starting at the spring, moving over the ground inch by inch. The Huron will never boast in his tribe that he has a foot that leaves no mark.”

Setting an example, the scout engaged in the scrutiny with fresh vigor. Not a single spot was left unturned. They removed the sticks and lifted the stones; Indian cunning often used these items as covers, working with incredible patience and industry to hide every footfall as they moved. Still, nothing was found. Eventually, Uncas, whose work had allowed him to complete his part of the task swiftly, raked the earth across the murky little stream flowing from the spring and rerouted its course into another channel. As soon as the narrow bed below the dam dried up, he peered over it with keen, curious eyes. A cry of triumph immediately announced the young warrior’s success. The whole party gathered where Uncas pointed out the impression of a moccasin in the damp silt.

“This lad will be an honor to his people,” Hawkeye said, looking at the trail with the same awe a naturalist reserves for a mammoth tusk or a mastodon rib; “yes, and a thorn in the side of the Hurons. But that’s not an Indian footstep! The weight is too much on the heel, and the toes are squared, as if one of the French dancers had been in there, pigeon-winging his tribe! Run back, Uncas, and bring me the size of the singer’s foot. You’ll find a beautiful print of it right opposite that rock, up the hillside.”

While the youth was engaged in this commission, the scout and Chingachgook were attentively considering the impressions. The measurements agreed, and the former unhesitatingly pronounced that the footstep was that of David, who had once more been made to exchange his shoes for moccasins.

“I can now read the whole of it, as plainly as if I had seen the arts of Le Subtil,” he added; “the singer being a man whose gifts lay chiefly in his throat and feet, was made to go first, and the others have trod in his steps, imitating their formation.”

“But,” cried Duncan, “I see no signs of—”

“The gentle ones,” interrupted the scout; “the varlet has found a way to carry them, until he supposed he had thrown any followers off the scent. My life on it, we see their pretty little feet again, before many rods go by.”

The whole party now proceeded, following the course of the rill, keeping anxious eyes on the regular impressions. The water soon flowed into its bed again, but watching the ground on either side, the foresters pursued their way content with knowing that the trail lay beneath. More than half a mile was passed, before the rill rippled close around the base of an extensive and dry rock. Here they paused to make sure that the Hurons had not quitted the water.

They were fortunate they had done so. The quick and active Uncas soon found the impression of a foot on a patch of moss, as if an Indian had accidentally stepped there. Following this clue, he entered the neighboring thicket and discovered the trail—as fresh and obvious as it had been before they reached the spring. Another shout announced the youth’s good luck to his companions, instantly ending the search.

“It was planned with Indian cunning,” the scout remarked when the party gathered around the spot, “and would have blinded white eyes.”

“Shall we go on?” Heyward demanded.

“Softly, softly, we know our way; but it is good to examine the nature of things. This is my schooling, my main lesson; and if one ignores the book, there’s little chance of learning from the open land of Providence. Everything is clear except for one thing: the way the rogue managed to lead the gentle ones along the hidden path. Even a Huron would be too proud to let their soft feet touch the water.”

“Will this help explain the difficulty?” asked Heyward, pointing toward the remnants of a kind of handbarrow, crudely fashioned from branches and tied with vines, which now seemed carelessly discarded as useless.

“It’s explained!” exclaimed the delighted Hawkeye. “If those ruffians have passed a minute, they’ve spent hours trying to fabricate a false end to their trail! Look here—three pairs of moccasins and two little feet. It’s astonishing that mortal beings can travel on such small limbs! Pass me the buckskin thong, Uncas, and let me take this foot. By God, it’s no bigger than a child’s, yet the maidens are tall and lovely. Providence is partial in its gifts; for its own wise reasons, the best and most contented among us must accept it.”

“My daughters’ delicate limbs can’t handle these hardships,” Munro said, gazing at his children’s light footsteps with a parent’s love. “We’ll find their fading forms in this desert.”

“There’s little cause for fear there,” the scout replied, shaking his head slowly. “This step is firm and straight, though light, and not long. See, the heel barely touched the ground; and there the dark-haired one made a small hop, from root to root. No, no; by my knowledge, neither of them were faint here. Now, the singer was starting to get sore and weary in his legs, as his trail showed. There, you see, he slipped; there he stumbled; and there again it looks as if he walked on snowshoes. Aye, aye, a man who uses his throat so much can hardly train his legs properly.”

From such undeniable testimony, the seasoned woodsman arrived at the truth, with nearly as much certainty and precision as if he had witnessed every event his ingenuity so easily revealed. Cheered by these assurances and satisfied by a reasoning that was so obvious, simple even, the party resumed its course after a brief halt to take a hasty meal.

When the meal was over, the scout glanced up at the setting sun and pushed forward with such speed that Heyward and the still vigorous Munro had to strain every muscle to keep pace. Their path now followed the route already mentioned. Since the Hurons hadn't made any further efforts to mask their footsteps, the pursuers’ progress was no longer held up by doubt. However, within an hour, Hawkeye’s pace noticeably slowed, and his head, instead of maintaining its usual direct gaze, began to dart from side to side, as if sensing impending danger. He stopped again and waited for the rest of the group to catch up.

“I smell the Hurons,” he told the Mohicans. “The sky is open through the treetops, and we’re getting too close to their camp. Sagamore, you take the hillside to the right; Uncas will follow the stream to the left, and I’ll try the trail. If anything happens, the signal will be three crow calls. I saw one of the birds fanning itself in the air, just past that dead oak—another sign we're near an encampment.”

The Indians left without a reply, while Hawkeye cautiously followed the two men. Heyward quickly moved to the side of their guide, eager to catch a glimpse of the enemies he’d pursued with such toil and anxiety. His companion told him to sneak to the edge of the woods, which, as usual, was bordered by thicket, and wait for him, as he wished to examine certain suspicious signs on one side. Duncan obeyed, and soon found himself in a vantage point that he found as extraordinary as it was new.

The trees of many acres had been felled, and the glow of a mild summer’s evening had fallen on the clearing, in beautiful contrast to the gray light of the forest. A short distance from the place where Duncan stood, the stream had seemingly expanded into a little lake, covering most of the low land, from mountain to mountain. The water fell out of this wide basin, in a cataract so regular and gentle, that it appeared rather to be the work of human hands than fashioned by nature. A hundred earthen dwellings stood on the margin of the lake, and even in its waters, as though the latter had overflowed its usual banks. Their rounded roofs, admirably molded for defense against the weather, denoted more of industry and foresight than the natives were wont to bestow on their regular habitations, much less on those they occupied for the temporary purposes of hunting and war. In short, the whole village or town, whichever it might be termed, possessed more of method and neatness of execution, than the white men had been accustomed to believe belonged, ordinarily, to the Indian habits. It appeared, however, to be deserted. At least, so thought Duncan for many minutes; but, at length, he fancied he discovered several human forms advancing toward him on all fours, and apparently dragging in the train some heavy, and as he was quick to apprehend, some formidable engine. Just then a few dark-looking heads gleamed out of the dwellings, and the place seemed suddenly alive with beings, which, however, glided from cover to cover so swiftly, as to allow no opportunity of examining their humors or pursuits. Alarmed at these suspicious and inexplicable movements, he was about to attempt the signal of the crows, when the rustling of leaves at hand drew his eyes in another direction.

The young man started, and recoiled a few paces instinctively, when he found himself within a hundred yards of a stranger Indian. Recovering his recollection on the instant, instead of sounding an alarm, which might prove fatal to himself, he remained stationary, an attentive observer of the other’s motions.

An instant of calm observation served to assure Duncan that he was undiscovered. The native, like himself, seemed occupied in considering the low dwellings of the village, and the stolen movements of its inhabitants. It was impossible to discover the expression of his features through the grotesque mask of paint under which they were concealed, though Duncan fancied it was rather melancholy than savage. His head was shaved, as usual, with the exception of the crown, from whose tuft three or four faded feathers from a hawk’s wing were loosely dangling. A ragged calico mantle half encircled his body, while his nether garment was composed of an ordinary shirt, the sleeves of which were made to perform the office that is usually executed by a much more commodious arrangement. His legs were, however, covered with a pair of good deer-skin moccasins. Altogether, the appearance of the individual was forlorn and miserable.

Duncan was still curiously observing the person of his neighbor when the scout stole silently and cautiously to his side.

“You see we have reached their settlement or encampment,” whispered the young man; “and here is one of the savages himself, in a very embarrassing position for our further movements.”

Hawkeye started, and dropped his rifle, when, directed by the finger of his companion, the stranger came under his view. Then lowering the dangerous muzzle he stretched forward his long neck, as if to assist a scrutiny that was already intensely keen.

“He’s not a Huron,” he said, “nor any of the Canadian tribes; yet look at his clothes—this rogue has been plundering a white man. Ay, Montcalm cleared the woods for his path, and he’s gathered a howling, murdering band of rogues. Can you see where he stashed his rifle or his bow?”

“He seems to have no arms; nor does he look vicious. Unless he alerts his crew—who are dodging around the water, as you can see—we have little cause for alarm.”

The scout turned to Heyward and regarded him for a moment with unconcealed amazement. Then, opening his mouth wide, he burst into unrestrained laughter, though in that silent, peculiar way that danger had long taught him to practice.

Repeating the words, “Fellows dodging by the water!” he added, “so much for schooling and passing a boyhood in the settlements! This rogue has long legs, though, and he won’t be trusted. Keep him under your rifle while I sneak in behind, through the brush, and take him alive. No shooting, under any circumstances.”

Heyward had already let his companion bury part of himself in the thicket when, stretching out his arm, he stopped him to ask:

“If I see you in danger, can I not risk a shot?”

Hawkeye regarded him for a moment, as if he didn't know how to answer; then, nodding his head, he replied, still laughing, though barely audible:

“Fire a whole platoon, major.”

In the next moment he was concealed by the leaves. Duncan waited several minutes in feverish impatience, before he caught another glimpse of the scout. Then he reappeared, creeping along the earth, from which his dress was hardly distinguishable, directly in the rear of his intended captive. Having reached within a few yards of the latter, he arose to his feet, silently and slowly. At that instant, several loud blows were struck on the water, and Duncan turned his eyes just in time to perceive that a hundred dark forms were plunging, in a body, into the troubled little sheet. Grasping his rifle his looks were again bent on the Indian near him. Instead of taking the alarm, the unconscious savage stretched forward his neck, as if he also watched the movements about the gloomy lake, with a sort of silly curiosity. In the meantime, the uplifted hand of Hawkeye was above him. But, without any apparent reason, it was withdrawn, and its owner indulged in another long, though still silent, fit of merriment. When the peculiar and hearty laughter of Hawkeye was ended, instead of grasping his victim by the throat, he tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and exclaimed aloud:

“How now, friend! have you a mind to teach the beavers to sing?”

“Even so,” was the ready answer. “It would seem that the Being that gave them power to improve His gifts so well, would not deny them voices to proclaim His praise.”

CHAPTER XXII.

“Bot.—Abibl we all met?
Qui.—Pat—pat; and here’s a marvelous convenient place for our rehearsal.”
—Midsummer Night’s Dream

The reader may better imagine, than we describe the surprise of Heyward. His lurking Indians were suddenly converted into four-footed beasts; his lake into a beaver pond; his cataract into a dam, constructed by those industrious and ingenious quadrupeds; and a suspected enemy into his tried friend, David Gamut, the master of psalmody. The presence of the latter created so many unexpected hopes relative to the sisters that, without a moment’s hesitation, the young man broke out of his ambush, and sprang forward to join the two principal actors in the scene.

The merriment of Hawkeye was not easily appeased. Without ceremony, and with a rough hand, he twirled the supple Gamut around on his heel, and more than once affirmed that the Hurons had done themselves great credit in the fashion of his costume. Then, seizing the hand of the other, he squeezed it with a grip that brought tears into the eyes of the placid David, and wished him joy of his new condition.

“You were about opening your throat-practisings among the beavers, were ye?” he said. “The cunning devils know half the trade already, for they beat the time with their tails, as you heard just now; and in good time it was, too, or ‘killdeer’ might have sounded the first note among them. I have known greater fools, who could read and write, than an experienced old beaver; but as for squalling, the animals are born dumb! What think you of such a song as this?”

David shut his sensitive ears, and even Heyward, knowing the nature of the cry, looked up for the bird, as the cawing of a crow echoed in the air around them.

“See!” the laughing scout continued, pointing toward the rest of the party, who were already approaching in response to the signal. “This is music with its own virtues; it brings two good rifles to my elbow, not to mention the knives and tomahawks. But we see you’re safe now; tell us what has happened to the maidens.”

“They are captives to the heathen,” David replied. “And though greatly troubled in spirit, they enjoy comfort and safety in their bodies.”

“Both!” demanded the breathless Heyward.

“Even so. Though our journey has been arduous and our provisions scarce, we’ve had little else to complain about, except the violence inflicted upon our feelings by being led into captivity to a distant land.”

“Bless you for these words!” exclaimed the trembling Munro. “Then I shall receive my babes, spotless and angel-like, just as I lost them!”

“I don't know if their delivery is imminent,” returned the doubtful David. “The leader of these savages is possessed by an evil spirit that no power short of Omnipotence can tame. I’ve tried both waking and sleeping him, but neither sound nor language seem to touch his soul.”

“Where is the knave?” the scout bluntly interrupted.

“He hunts the moose today, with his young men; and tomorrow, as I hear, they'll pass further into the forests, nearer to the borders of Canada. The elder maiden is conveyed to a neighboring people, whose lodges sit beyond that black pinnacle of rock; while the younger is kept among the Hurons, whose dwellings are but two short miles away, on a tableland where the fire has served as an axe and prepared the spot for their reception.”

“Alice, my gentle Alice!” murmured Heyward; “she’s lost the comfort of her sister’s presence!”

“Still. But praise and thanksgiving in psalmody can temper the spirit through affliction; she hasn't suffered.”

“Does she then have a heart for music?”

“Of a graver and more solemn sort. Though I must admit, despite all my efforts, the maiden weeps more often than she smiles. In those moments, I refrain from pressing holy songs; but there are many sweet, comfortable times of satisfactory communication, when the savages are astounded by the upliftings of our voices.”

“And why are you permitted to go at large, unwatched?”

David composed his features to suggest modest humility before he meekly replied:

“Let praise be little for such a worm as I. But though the power of psalmody was suspended in the terrible business of that field of blood through which we have passed, it has regained its influence even over the souls of the heathen, and I am allowed to go and come as I please.”

The scout laughed, tapping his forehead meaningfully, perhaps explaining the singular indulgence more satisfactorily when he said:

“The Indians never harm a non-composer. But why, when the path lay open before your eyes, did you not strike back on your own trail (it is not so blind as that which a squirrel would make), and bring in the tidings to Edward?”

The scout, remembering only his own sturdy and iron nature, had likely exacted a task that David, under no circumstances, could have accomplished. Yet, without losing his meek demeanor, David was content to reply:

“Though my soul would rejoice to visit the habitations of Christendom once more, my feet would rather follow the gentle spirits entrusted to me, even into the idolatrous province of the Jesuits, than take a step backward while they languish in captivity and sorrow.”

Although David's figurative language wasn't immediately clear, the sincere steadiness in his eyes and the glow of his honest countenance were unmistakable. Uncas moved closer to him, looking at the speaker with commendation, while his father expressed his approval with a simple, pithy exclamation. The scout shook his head as he rejoined:

“The Lord never intended for a man to pour all his efforts into his throat, neglecting other, better gifts! But he has fallen into the hands of some foolish woman when he ought to be gathering his education under a blue sky, among the beauties of the forest. Here, friend; I meant to kindle a fire with your tooting whistle; but since you value it, take it, and blow your best into it.”

Gamut received his pitch-pipe with an expression of pleasure as strong as he could muster, compatible with the grave functions he was performing. After repeatedly testing its merits against his own voice and ensuring that none of its melody was lost, he made a serious attempt to achieve a few stanzas from one of the longest effusions in the small volume often mentioned.

Heyward, however, quickly interrupted this pious aim by continuing questions about the past and present situation of his fellow captives, in a manner more methodical than his feelings would have allowed at the start of their interview. David, though longing eyes reflected his treasure, was forced to answer, especially as the venerable father participated in the questioning, with an interest that was simply too compelling to ignore. The scout didn't fail to interject a pertinent inquiry whenever the opportunity arose. In this way, despite frequent interruptions filled with threatening sounds from the recovered instrument, the pursuers gained the leading circumstances likely useful for accomplishing their great and engrossing objective—the recovery of the sisters. David’s account was simple, and the facts were few.

Magua waited on the mountain until a safe moment to retire appeared, then he descended, taking the route along the western side of the Horican toward the Canadas. Since the subtle Huron knew the paths well and there was no immediate threat of pursuit, their progress was moderate and far from tiring. David’s plain statement suggested that his own presence had been endured rather than welcomed; even Magua hadn't been entirely exempt from the reverence the Indians held for those touched by the Great Spirit in their minds. At night, the captives were guarded with the utmost care to prevent injury from the woods' dampness and to stop any escape. At the spring, the horses were released, as was customary; and despite the remoteness and length of their trail, the already named artifices were used to cut off every clue to their retreat. Upon reaching his people's camp, Magua separated his prisoners, following a policy seldom broken. Cora had been sent to a tribe occupying an adjacent valley, though David was too ignorant of the natives' customs and history to offer anything meaningful about their name or character. He only knew they hadn't joined the recent expedition against William Henry; like the Hurons themselves, they were allies of Montcalm, maintaining an amicable but watchful relationship with the warlike and savage people whom chance had brought into such close and unpleasant contact with them.

The Mohicans and the scout listened to his interrupted and imperfect narrative, their interest obviously growing as he continued; it was while he was trying to explain the community's pursuits under which Cora was held that the latter abruptly demanded:

“Did you see the fashion of their knives? Were they English or French in formation?”

“I wasn't thinking of such vanities, but rather mingled comfort with those of the maidens.”

“Time will come when you won't see the knife of a savage as such a despicable vanity,” the scout retorted, his expression thick with contempt for the other’s dullness. “Had they held their corn feast—or can you tell me anything about the tribe’s totems?”

“We had many and plenty of feasts for corn; the grain, being in the milk, is both sweet on the tongue and comforting to the stomach. As for totems, I don't know the meaning; but if they relate to the art of Indian music, there’s no need to ask them. They never join their voices in praise, and it seems they are among the most profane of idolaters.”

“In that you misrepresent the nature of an Indian. Even the Mingo adore only the true and loving God. It's a wicked fabrication by the whites, and I say this to the shame of my color: why should the warrior bow before images of his own creation? They do seek truces with the wicked one—as anyone would when facing an enemy they can’t conquer! But they look up only for favor and aid from the Great and Good Spirit.”

“It might be,” David said, “but I’ve seen strange and fantastic images painted in their colors, which filled them with a kind of spiritual pride and care; especially one, and that too, a foul and loathsome thing.”

“Was it a serpent?” the scout demanded quickly.

“Much like it. It was shaped like an abject, creeping tortoise.”

“Hugh!” exclaimed both of the attentive Mohicans in one breath, while the scout shook his head, as if he had made a discovery that was important but by no means pleasing. Then the father spoke in the language of the Delawares, with such calmness and dignity that it instantly captured the attention even of those to whom his words were unintelligible. His gestures were impressive, sometimes energetic. He raised his arm high; as it fell, the movement swept aside the folds of his light mantle, a finger resting on his chest, as if the gesture alone would enforce his meaning. Duncan’s eyes followed the motion, and he perceived that the animal just mentioned was beautifully, though faintly, rendered in a blue tint across the chief’s dark chest. All the stories he had ever heard about the violent separation of the vast Delawares rushed through his mind, and he waited for the right moment to speak, a suspense almost unbearable due to his interest in the stake. However, his wish was anticipated by the scout, who turned from his red friend and said:

“We’ve discovered what may be good or evil to us, as heaven wills it. The Sagamore is of the high blood of the Delaware, and he’s the great chief of their Tortoises! Some of this stock are among the people the singer speaks of, plain by his words; and if he had spent half his breath in careful questions instead of blowing a trumpet from his throat, we might have known how many warriors they numbered. We’re on a dangerous path, all of it; for a friend whose face is turned away from you often has a bloodier mind than the enemy who seeks your scalp.”

“Explain,” Duncan said.

“It’s a long and melancholy tradition, one I don't particularly like to think about; it can’t be denied that most of the evil was done by men with white skins. But it ended up turning the tomahawk of brother against brother, bringing the Mingo and the Delaware onto the same path.”

“So, you suspect it’s a part of that people where Cora lives?”

The scout nodded, though he seemed eager to drop the further discussion of a subject that felt painful. Impatient Duncan then made several hasty and desperate suggestions in an attempt to free the sisters. Munro seemed to shake off his apathy and listened to the young man’s wild schemes with a deference his gray hair and long years shouldn't have allowed. But after suffering the lover’s fervor enough to expend some energy, the scout found a way to convince him of the folly of jumping to conclusions in a way that demanded their coolest judgment and utmost fortitude.

“It would be best,” he added, “to let this man go in again, as usual, and have him linger in the lodges, giving a signal to the gentle ones approaching us until we call him out, by signal, to consult. You know the cry of a crow, friend, from the whistle of the whip-poor-will?”

“‘Tis a pleasing bird,” David replied, “with a soft and melancholy tone! though the time is rather fast and ill-measured.”

“He speaks of the wish-ton-wish,” the scout said; “well, since you like his whistle, it shall be your signal. Remember this: when you hear the whip-poor-will’s call repeated three times, you are to come into the bushes where the bird is presumed to be—”

“Stop,” Heyward interrupted; “I’ll go with him.”

“You!” Hawkeye exclaimed, astonished, “are you tired of watching the sun rise and set?”

“David is living proof that the Hurons can be merciful.”

“Aye, but David can use his throat; no man in his senses would alter that gift.”

“I too can play the madman, the fool, the hero; in short, anything or everything to save her—I love it. Name your objections no longer: I am resolved.”

Hawkeye stared at the young man for a moment, speechless with amazement. But Duncan, having hitherto submitted somewhat implicitly to his dictation out of deference to the other’s skill and services, now assumed superiority in a manner that was hard to resist. He waved his hand, signaling his disdain for any protest, and then, in a more measured tone, he continued:

“You have the means to disguise yourself; change me; paint me, if you like; in short, alter me into anything—a fool.”

“It's not for someone like me to suggest that he who is already shaped by such a powerful hand as Providence needs changing,” muttered the discontented scout. “When you send your groups abroad to war, it’s wiser, at least, to arrange the camps and locations so that those fighting on your side know when and where to expect a friend.”

“Listen,” Duncan interrupted. “You've heard from this faithful follower of the captives that the Indians are two tribes, if not different nations. With one, whom you think is a branch of the Delawares, is she you call the ‘dark-hair’; the other, and younger, belongs to our declared enemies, the Hurons. It becomes my youth and rank to attempt the latter adventure. While you’re negotiating with your allies for one sister’s release, I will secure the other, or I’ll die.”

The awakened spirit of the young soldier gleamed in his eyes, and his form grew imposing under its influence. Hawkeye, though accustomed to Indian methods and thus able to foresee the danger of the experiment, struggled to figure out how to combat this sudden resolve.

Perhaps something in the proposal appealed to his hardy nature and that secret love of desperate adventure—a love that had grown stronger with experience until hazard and danger felt, in some way, necessary for his existence. Instead of opposing Duncan’s scheme, his humor suddenly shifted, and he agreed to carry it out.

“Come,” he said with a good-humored smile. “The buck that’s going into the water needs to be headed, not followed. Chingachgook has as many paints as the engineer officer’s wife, who can sketch nature onto scraps of paper, turning mountains into cocks of rusty hay, and bringing the blue sky right into your hand. The Sagamore can use them too. Sit on the log; and I can soon make a natural fool of you, and that suits you just fine.”

Duncan agreed. The Mohican, who had been an attentive listener, readily accepted the task. Long practiced in all the subtle arts of his people, he drew with great dexterity and speed the fantastic shadow the natives were used to viewing as proof of a friendly and playful disposition. He carefully avoided every line that could be read as a secret inclination toward war; instead, he focused on those conceits that suggested amity.

In short, he had completely abandoned every trace of warrior to play the part of a buffoon. Such displays weren't unusual among the Indians, and since Duncan was already well-disguised in his clothing, there was certainly cause to believe that, with his knowledge of French, he could pass as a juggler from Ticonderoga, wandering among the allied and friendly tribes.

When he was thought sufficiently painted, the scout offered him much friendly advice: concerted signals and an appointed meeting place in case they succeeded mutually. The parting between Munro and his young friend was more melancholy; still, the former accepted the separation with an indifference that his warm and honest nature would never have allowed in a healthier state of mind. The scout led Heyward aside and informed him of his intention to leave the veteran in a safe camp, in charge of Chingachgook, while he and Uncas pursued their inquiries among the people they believed to be the Delawares. Then, renewing his cautions and advice, he concluded with a solemnity and warmth of feeling that deeply touched Duncan:

"And now, God bless you! You possess a spirit I admire; it is the gift of youth, especially one born of warm blood and a stout heart. But heed the warning of a man who knows enough to know what he says is true. You will have your finest manhood, and a sharper wit than anything found in books, before you outsmart cunning or gain the courage of a Mingo. God bless you! If the Hurons take your scalp, rely on the promise of one backed by two stalwart warriors. They'll pay for their victory with a life for every hair they take. I say to you, young gentleman, may Providence bless your endeavor, for it is entirely for good; and remember, outwitting knaves allows you to practice things that aren't naturally gifted to a white-skin."

Duncan shook his worthy and reluctant companion warmly by the hand, once more entrusting his aged friend to his care, and as he returned his good wishes, he gestured for David to go. Hawkeye watched the high-spirited and adventurous young man for several moments, openly admiring him; then, shaking his head in doubt, he turned and led his own part of the party into the cover of the forest.

The path Duncan and David took crossed directly over the beaver clearing and along the edge of their pond.

When he found himself alone with someone so simple, so little equipped to offer aid in a desperate emergency, he first began to grasp the true difficulty of the task at hand. The fading light deepened the gloom of the bleak and savage wilderness stretching on all sides, and there was even a fearful quality to the stillness of those small huts—huts that he knew were teeming with people. Gazing at the admirable structures and the clever precautions of their wise inhabitants struck him: even the brute inhabitants of these vast wilds possessed an instinct nearly equal to his own reason. He couldn't help but feel anxious, reflecting on the unequal contest he had so rashly courted. Then Alice’s glowing image appeared; her distress, her real danger—all the peril of his situation vanished. Cheering David, he moved on with the light, vigorous steps of youth and enterprise.

After circling the pond almost a semicircle, they left the watercourse and began to climb to a slight rise in that low land, over which they traveled. In half an hour, they reached the edge of another opening, clearly made by beavers, which those clever animals had probably abandoned by accident for the more advantageous position they now occupied. A very natural feeling made Duncan hesitate for a moment, unwilling to leave the cover of their bushy path, as a man pauses to gather his strength before attempting any hazardous experiment in which he secretly knew everyone would be needed. He benefited from this pause, gathering whatever information his short, hasty glances could yield.

On the opposite side of the clearing, and near the point where the brook tumbled over some rocks, from a still higher level, some fifty or sixty lodges, rudely fabricated of logs brush, and earth intermingled, were to be discovered. They were arranged without any order, and seemed to be constructed with very little attention to neatness or beauty. Indeed, so very inferior were they in the two latter particulars to the village Duncan had just seen, that he began to expect a second surprise, no less astonishing that the former. This expectation was in no degree diminished, when, by the doubtful twilight, he beheld twenty or thirty forms rising alternately from the cover of the tall, coarse grass, in front of the lodges, and then sinking again from the sight, as it were to burrow in the earth. By the sudden and hasty glimpses that he caught of these figures, they seemed more like dark, glancing specters, or some other unearthly beings, than creatures fashioned with the ordinary and vulgar materials of flesh and blood. A gaunt, naked form was seen, for a single instant, tossing its arms wildly in the air, and then the spot it had filled was vacant; the figure appearing suddenly in some other and distant place, or being succeeded by another, possessing the same mysterious character. David, observing that his companion lingered, pursued the direction of his gaze, and in some measure recalled the recollection of Heyward, by speaking.

“There is much fruitful soil uncultivated here,” he said; “and, I may add, without the sinful leaven of self-commendation, that, since my short sojourn in these heathenish abodes, much good seed has been scattered by the wayside.”

“The tribes are fonder of the chase than of the arts of men of labor,” Duncan replied, still gazing at the objects of his wonder.

“It’s more joy than toil to the spirit, to raise a voice in praise; but sadly, these boys abuse their gifts. I’ve rarely found any of their age on whom nature has so freely bestowed the elements of psalmody; and surely, surely, there are none who neglect them more. I have now stayed here three nights, and on several occasions I’ve gathered the urchins to join in sacred song; and as often as they answered my efforts with whoops and howls that chilled my soul!”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Of those children of the devil, who waste precious moments in idle antics. Ah! The wholesome restraint of discipline is poorly known among this self-abandoned people. In a country of birches, a rod isn't seen, and it shouldn't strike me as a marvel that the choicest blessings of Providence are wasted in such cries.”

David pressed his ears against the juvenile pack, whose yell then rang shrilly through the forest; Duncan, twisting his lip in mock mockery of his own superstition, said firmly:

“We'll go on.”

Without removing the safeguards from his ears, the master of song obeyed, and together they headed toward what David sometimes called the “tents of the Philistines.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

“But though the beast of game
The privilege of chase may claim;
Though space and law the stag we lend
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend;
Whoever recked, where, how, or when
The prowling fox was trapped or slain?”
—Lady of the Lake.

It is unusual to find an encampment of the natives, like those of the more instructed whites, guarded by the presence of armed men. Well informed of the approach of every danger, while it is yet at a distance, the Indian generally rests secure under his knowledge of the signs of the forest, and the long and difficult paths that separate him from those he has most reason to dread. But the enemy who, by any lucky concurrence of accidents, has found means to elude the vigilance of the scouts, will seldom meet with sentinels nearer home to sound the alarm. In addition to this general usage, the tribes friendly to the French knew too well the weight of the blow that had just been struck, to apprehend any immediate danger from the hostile nations that were tributary to the crown of Britain.

When Duncan and David found themselves in the middle of the children, who were already performing the antics mentioned, it was without any prior hint of their approach. But as soon as they observed the entire juvenile pack raise a shrill, warning whoop by common agreement, they seemed to vanish, as if by magic, before the visitors' sight. The naked, tawny bodies of the crouching urchins blended so perfectly with the withered grass at that hour that it seemed as though the earth had truly swallowed them; yet when surprise allowed Duncan to look more closely at the spot, he found dark, quick, and rolling eyeballs everywhere.

Gathering no encouragement from this startling premonition of the scrutiny they would likely face from the men's more mature judgments, there was an instant when the young soldier wished to retreat. Still, it was too late to show any hesitation. The children's cry had drawn a dozen warriors to the nearest lodge, where they stood clustered in a dark, savage group, gravely awaiting the arrival of those who had unexpectedly joined them.

David, somewhat familiarized with the scene, led the way with a steadiness that no minor obstacle could unsettle, into this very building. It was the village's main structure, though crudely fashioned from tree bark and branches; it served as the lodge where the tribe held its councils and public meetings during their temporary stay on the fringes of the English province. Duncan found it hard to maintain an expression of indifference as he brushed past the dark, formidable frames of the savages gathered at the threshold; yet, knowing his survival depended on his clear-headedness, he trusted in his companion’s discretion, following his footsteps closely as he tried to focus on the occasion as he moved forward. A chill ran through him when he made absolute contact with such fierce and relentless enemies; but he managed his emotions well enough to proceed into the center of the lodge, maintaining an exterior that betrayed no weakness. Imitating the example of the deliberate Gamut, he drew a bundle of fragrant brush from beneath a pile in the corner of the hut and sat in silence.

As soon as their visitor passed, the observant warriors retreated from the entrance and arranged themselves around him, seeming to patiently await the moment for the stranger to speak with dignity. The larger group leaned against the upright posts supporting the crooked building in lazy, lounging postures, while three or four of the oldest and most distinguished chiefs moved a little further forward onto the earth.

[Illustration]

A flaring torch burned in the spot, casting a red glare from face to face and figure to figure as it swayed in the air currents. Duncan used that light to gauge the probable character of his hosts by observing their countenances. But his cleverness offered little defense against the cold machinations of the people he met. The chiefs before him barely glanced at him, keeping their eyes fixed on the ground—an expression that might have been respect, but which was easily read as distrust. The men in the shadows were less reserved. Duncan soon picked up on their searching, stolen looks, which secretly scanned his person and attire inch by inch, registering no emotion in their faces, no gesture, no line of paint, nor even the style of a garment, left unremarked and unvoiced.

Finally, one whose hair was beginning to gray but whose sinewy limbs and firm tread still announced manhood stepped out of the gloom of a corner—the spot where he had likely hidden to make his observations unseen—and spoke. He used the language of the Wyandots or Hurons; his words were thus unintelligible to Heyward, though the gestures accompanying them suggested courtesy rather than anger. Heyward shook his head and made a gesture signaling his inability to reply.

"Don't any of my brothers speak French or English?" he asked in the former tongue, looking from face to face in the hope of gaining an assent.

Though more than one had turned, seemingly trying to grasp his meaning, they offered no reply.

“I should be grieved to think,” continued Duncan, speaking slowly, and using the simplest French of which he was the master, “to believe that none of this wise and brave nation understand the language that the ‘Grand Monarque’ uses when he talks to his children. His heart would be heavy did he believe his red warriors paid him so little respect!”

A long and grave pause succeeded, during which no movement of a limb, nor any expression of an eye, betrayed the expression produced by his remark. Duncan, who knew that silence was a virtue among his hosts, gladly had recourse to the custom, in order to arrange his ideas. At length the same warrior who had before addressed him replied, by dryly demanding, in the language of the Canadas:

“When our Great Father speaks to his people, is it with the tongue of a Huron?”

“He knows no difference in his children, whether the color of the skin be red, or black, or white,” returned Duncan, evasively; “though chiefly is he satisfied with the brave Hurons.”

“In what manner will he speak,” demanded the wary chief, “when the runners count to him the scalps which five nights ago grew on the heads of the Yengeese?”

“They were his enemies,” said Duncan, shuddering involuntarily; “and doubtless, he will say, it is good; my Hurons are very gallant.”

“Our Canada father does not think it. Instead of looking forward to reward his Indians, his eyes are turned backward. He sees the dead Yengeese, but no Huron. What can this mean?”

“A great chief, like him, has more thoughts than tongues. He looks to see that no enemies are on his trail.”

“The canoe of a dead warrior won’t float on the Horican,” the savage replied gloomily. “His ears are tuned to the Delawares, who aren’t our friends, and they fill them with lies.”

“That can’t be true. Look; he asked me—a man who knows the art of healing—to go to his children, the red Hurons of the great lakes, and ask if any were sick!”

A silence followed this revelation Duncan had assumed. Every eye was fixed on him, as if judging the truth or falsehood of the statement with an intelligence and sharpness that made the subject tremble for the outcome. Yet, he felt a wave of relief from the previous speaker.

“Do the cunning men of the Canadas paint their skins?” the Huron continued coldly. “We’ve heard them boast that their faces were pale.”

“When an Indian chief comes among his white fathers,” Duncan returned with great steadiness, “he sets aside his buffalo robe to carry the shirt offered to him. My brothers gave me paint, and I wear it.”

A low murmur of applause announced that the tribe’s compliment was well-received. The elder chief made a gesture of commendation, which was met by most of his companions, who each raised a hand and let out a brief exclamation of pleasure. Duncan could finally breathe easier, believing his examination was over; since he’d already prepared a simple, plausible story to back up his assumed role, his hopes for success only grew brighter.

After a few moments of silence, as if gathering his thoughts to formulate an appropriate reply to the declaration his guests had just made, another warrior rose and prepared to speak. Just as his lips parted, a low, fearful sound emerged from the forest, instantly followed by a high, shrill yell that stretched out into the longest and most plaintive howl of a wolf. This sudden and terrible interruption made Duncan jump from his seat, oblivious to everything except the shock of the dreadful cry. Simultaneously, the warriors flowed from the lodge, filling the outer air with loud shouts that nearly drowned out those awful sounds still echoing beneath the canopy of the woods. Unable to hold himself any longer, the youth broke free and found himself in the center of a chaotic throng, encompassing nearly every living thing within the encampment. Men, women, and children; the old, the young, the active, and the strong—everyone was there. Some cried out, others clapped their hands with a frantic joy, and all expressed their savage delight at some unexpected event. Though stunned by the uproar initially, Heyward soon found his explanation in the scene that unfolded next.

Enough light still hung in the heavens to reveal those bright gaps among the treetops, where different paths led from the clearing into the depths of the wilderness. From beneath one of these openings, a line of warriors emerged from the woods, advancing slowly toward the dwellings. The lead warrior carried a short pole from which, as it later turned out, several human scalps hung. The startling sounds Duncan had heard were what the whites had wrongly dubbed the "death-hallo"; each cry was meant to signal the fate of an enemy to the tribe. Heyward’s knowledge helped him understand this so far, and now that he knew the interruption was due to the unexpected return of a successful war-party, every unpleasant feeling dissolved into inner congratulations, for it offered him timely relief and rendered himself insignificant.

A few hundred feet from the lodges, the newly arrived warriors stopped. Their plaintive and terrifying cries, meant to represent both the wailing of the dead and the triumph of the victors, had fallen silent. One of them then called out, his words far from appalling, though no more intelligible to those for whom they were meant than their expressive yells. It was hard to capture the savage ecstasy with which this news was received. In an instant, the entire encampment erupted into a scene of violent bustle and commotion. The warriors drew their knives, and as they flashed them, they formed two lines, creating a path stretching from the war-party to the lodges. The squaws grabbed clubs, axes, or whatever weapon first appeared in their hands, eager to participate in the cruel game unfolding before them. Even the children weren't left out; boys, unable to wield the implements themselves, tore the tomahawks from their fathers' belts and rushed into the ranks, eager imitators of the savage traits displayed by their parents.

Large piles of brush lay scattered about the clearing, and a wary and aged squaw was occupied in firing as many as might serve to light the coming exhibition.As the flame arose, its power exceeded that of the parting day, and assisted to render objects at the same time more distinct and more hideous.The whole scene formed a striking picture, whose frame was composed of the dark and tall border of pines.The warriors just arrived were the most distant figures.A little in advance stood two men, who were apparently selected from the rest, as the principal actors in what was to follow.The light was not strong enough to render their features distinct, though it was quite evident that they were governed by very different emotions.While one stood erect and firm, prepared to meet his fate like a hero, the other bowed his head, as if palsied by terror or stricken with shame.The high-spirited Duncan felt a powerful impulse of admiration and pity toward the former, though no opportunity could offer to exhibit his generous emotions.He watched his slightest movement, however, with eager eyes; and, as he traced the fine outline of his admirably proportioned and active frame, he endeavored to persuade himself, that, if the powers of man, seconded by such noble resolution, could bear one harmless through so severe a trial, the youthful captive before him might hope for success in the hazardous race he was about to run.Insensibly the young man drew nigher to the swarthy lines of the Hurons, and scarcely breathed, so intense became his interest in the spectacle.Just then the signal yell was given, and the momentary quiet which had preceded it was broken by a burst of cries, that far exceeded any before heard.The more abject of the two victims continued motionless; but the other bounded from the place at the cry, with the activity and swiftness of a deer.Instead of rushing through the hostile lines, as had been expected, he just entered the dangerous defile, and before time was given for a single blow, turned short, and leaping the heads of a row of children, he gained at once the exterior and safer side of the formidable array.The artifice was answered by a hundred voices raised in imprecations; and the whole of the excited multitude broke from their order, and spread themselves about the place in wild confusion.

A dozen blazing piles now shed their lurid brightness on the place, which resembled some unhallowed and supernatural arena, in which malicious demons had assembled to act their bloody and lawless rites. The forms in the background looked like unearthly beings, gliding before the eye, and cleaving the air with frantic and unmeaning gestures; while the savage passions of such as passed the flames were rendered fearfully distinct by the gleams that shot athwart their inflamed visages.

It will easily be understood that, amid such a concourse of vindictive enemies, no breathing time was allowed the fugitive. There was a single moment when it seemed as if he would have reached the forest, but the whole body of his captors threw themselves before him, and drove him back into the center of his relentless persecutors. Turning like a headed deer, he shot, with the swiftness of an arrow, through a pillar of forked flame, and passing the whole multitude harmless, he appeared on the opposite side of the clearing. Here, too, he was met and turned by a few of the older and more subtle of the Hurons. Once more he tried the throng, as if seeking safety in its blindness, and then several moments succeeded, during which Duncan believed the active and courageous young stranger was lost.

Nothing could be distinguished but a dark mass of human forms tossed and involved in inexplicable confusion. Arms, gleaming knives, and formidable clubs, appeared above them, but the blows were evidently given at random. The awful effect was heightened by the piercing shrieks of the women and the fierce yells of the warriors. Now and then Duncan caught a glimpse of a light form cleaving the air in some desperate bound, and he rather hoped than believed that the captive yet retained the command of his astonishing powers of activity. Suddenly the multitude rolled backward, and approached the spot where he himself stood. The heavy body in the rear pressed upon the women and children in front, and bore them to the earth. The stranger reappeared in the confusion. Human power could not, however, much longer endure so severe a trial. Of this the captive seemed conscious. Profiting by the momentary opening, he darted from among the warriors, and made a desperate, and what seemed to Duncan a final effort to gain the wood. As if aware that no danger was to be apprehended from the young soldier, the fugitive nearly brushed his person in his flight. A tall and powerful Huron, who had husbanded his forces, pressed close upon his heels, and with an uplifted arm menaced a fatal blow. Duncan thrust forth a foot, and the shock precipitated the eager savage headlong, many feet in advance of his intended victim. Thought itself is not quicker than was the motion with which the latter profited by the advantage; he turned, gleamed like a meteor again before the eyes of Duncan, and, at the next moment, when the latter recovered his recollection, and gazed around in quest of the captive, he saw him quietly leaning against a small painted post, which stood before the door of the principal lodge.

Fearing that the part he had taken in the escape might prove fatal to him, Duncan left without delay. He followed the crowd, which drew near the lodges—gloomy and sullen, like any other multitude disappointed by an execution. Curiosity, or maybe a stronger impulse, drove him toward the stranger. He found him standing, one arm draped over the protective post, breathing heavily and hard from his exertion, yet refusing to show even a flicker of pain. His person was now shielded by immemorial and sacred custom, until the tribe in council had deliberated and decided his fate. However, it wasn't difficult to foresee the outcome if any premonition could be drawn from the feelings of those who gathered there.

There was no term of abuse known in the Huron vocabulary that the disappointed women didn't lavishly direct toward the successful stranger. They mocked his efforts, sneering that his feet were superior to his hands, and that he deserved wings, though he knew nothing of an arrow or a knife. The captive offered no reply; instead, he settled into an attitude where dignity was perfectly mingled with disdain. As exasperated by his composure as by his good fortune, their words became unintelligible, followed by shrill, piercing yells. Just then, the crafty squaw, who had taken the necessary precaution to set the piles ablaze, moved through the throng and cleared a space before the captive. This squalid, withered hag might well possess more than human cunning. Throwing back her light vestment, she stretched out her long, thin arm in derision, and using the Lenape language—more intelligible to the subject of her mockery—she began aloud:

[Illustration]

“Look, Delaware,” she snapped, clicking her fingers in his face. “Your nation is a race of women, and the hoe suits your hands better than a gun. Your squaws are the mothers of deer; but if a bear, or a wildcat, or a serpent were born among you, you’d run. The Huron girls will make you petticoats, and we'll find you a husband.”

A burst of savage laughter followed the attack, in which the soft, musical merriment of the younger women strangely mingled with the cracked voice of their older, more malicious companion. But the stranger was superior to all their efforts. His head remained unmoving; he betrayed no hint of consciousness of any presence, except when his haughty eye flicked toward the dusky forms of the warriors, who stalked in the background as silent, sullen observers of the scene.

Infuriated by the captive's self-command, the woman crossed her arms; throwing herself into a posture of defiance, she erupted anew in a torrent of words that no art in their possession could successfully commit to paper. Yet, her breath was spent in vain; although renowned in her nation for proficiency in cruelty, she managed to channel such fury that her mouth foamed, without causing a muscle to vibrate in the stranger's motionless figure. The effect of his indifference spread to the other spectators; a young man, just crossing the threshold into manhood, attempted to aid the termagant by brandishing his tomahawk before their victim, adding his empty boasts to the women's taunts. Then, the captive turned his face toward the light and looked down upon the youth with an expression that bordered on contempt. The next moment, he resumed his quiet, reclining pose against the post. But this shift in posture allowed Duncan to exchange glances with Uncas's firm, piercing eyes.

Breathless with astonishment, and deeply weighed down by the critical situation of his friend, Heyward recoiled at the gaze, trembling lest its meaning might somehow hasten the prisoner’s fate. There was no immediate cause for such fear, however. Just then, a warrior forced his way into the exasperated crowd. With a stern gesture, he moved the women and children aside, took Uncas by the arm, and led him toward the council-lodge door. All the chiefs and most of the distinguished warriors followed; among them, anxious Heyward found a way to enter without drawing any dangerous attention to himself

. A few minutes were spent dealing with those present in a manner befitting their rank and influence in the tribe. An order very similar to that given in the preceding interview was observed: the aged and superior chiefs occupied the area of the spacious apartment, bathed in the powerful light of a glaring torch, while their juniors and inferiors were arranged in the background, presenting dark outlines of swarthy and marked visages. Right in the center of the lodge, beneath an opening that admitted the twinkling light of one or two stars, stood Uncas, calm, elevated, and collected. His high and haughty bearing was not lost on his captors, who often fixed their eyes on him—eyes that, though losing none of their fixed purpose, plainly betrayed their admiration for the stranger’s audacity

.The situation was different concerning the individual Duncan had watched stand apart from his friend during the desperate race for speed. Instead of joining the chase, he remained, throughout the turbulent commotion, like a cringing statue, full of shame and disgrace. Though no hand reached out to greet him, nor did any eye condescend to watch his movements, he nonetheless entered the lodge, as if compelled by a fate to which he submitted, seemingly without a struggle. Heyward seized the first chance to look at his face, secretly fearing he might find another acquaintance; but they were the features of a stranger, and what was even more baffling, those of someone who bore all the distinct marks of a Huron warrior. Rather than mingling with his tribe, however, he sat apart, a solitary being in a multitude, his form shrinking into a crouching and abject posture, as if desperate to occupy as little space as possible. When everyone had taken their place and silence settled over the area, the gray-haired chief, already introduced to the reader, spoke aloud in the language of the Lenni Lenape.

“Delaware,” he said, “though one of a nation of women, you have proven yourself a man. I would give you food; but he who eats with a Huron should become his friend. Rest in peace until the morning sun, when our last words shall be spoken.”

“I have fasted on the trail of the Hurons for seven nights and as many summer days,” Uncas replied coldly; “the children of the Lenape know how to travel the path of the just without lingering to eat.”

“Two of my young men are hunting your companion,” the other resumed, without acknowledging his captive's boast; “when they return, then our wise man will tell you whether to ‘live’ or ‘die’.”

“Does a Huron have no ears?” Uncas scoffed; “twice since he’s been your prisoner, has the Delaware not heard a gun he knows. Your young men won't come back!”

A brief, sullen silence followed this bold assertion. Duncan, who understood the Mohican’s reference to the scout’s deadly rifle, leaned forward in earnest observation of its potential effect on the conquerors; but the chief was content simply to retort:

“If the Lenape are so skilled, why is one of their bravest warriors here?”

“He followed the steps of a coward who flew and fell into a trap. The cunning beaver might be caught.”

As Uncas replied thus, he pointed a finger toward the lone Huron, but offered no further notice to such an unworthy object. The words and the speaker's demeanor sent a strong sensation through his listeners. Every eye rolled sullenly toward the individual indicated by the simple gesture, and a low, threatening murmur swept through the crowd. The ominous sounds reached the outer door, and the women and children pressing into the throng had left no gap between shoulder and shoulder that wasn't now filled with the dark lines of some eager and curious human face.

Meanwhile, the older chiefs in the center communicated amongst themselves in short, broken sentences. Nothing was uttered that didn't convey the speaker's meaning in the simplest and most energetic form. Then, a long, deeply solemn pause settled over them. Everyone present knew this was the brave prelude to a weighty and important judgment. Those forming the outer circle of faces peered furtively; even the culprit, for an instant, forgot his shame, revealing his abject features as he cast an anxious, troubled glance at the dark assembly of chiefs. The silence was finally broken by the aged warrior, so often named. He rose from the earth and moved past Uncas’s immovable form, assuming a dignified posture before the offender. At that moment, the withered squaw already mentioned entered the circle, moving in a slow, sidling dance while holding the torch and muttering indistinct words that might have been some kind of incantation. Though her presence was an intrusion, it went unnoticed.

Approaching Uncas, she held the blazing brand so that its red glare illuminated his person and exposed the slightest flicker of emotion on his face. The Mohican maintained his firm and haughty demeanor; his eyes, refusing to meet her inquisitive gaze, fixed steadily on the distance, as if piercing the obstacles blocking his view and gazing into the future. Satisfied with her scrutiny, she let him go, a slight expression of pleasure on her face, and proceeded to repeat the same probing experiment on her delinquent countryman.

The young Huron was adorned in his war paint, and very little of a finely molded form was hidden beneath his attire. The light revealed every limb and joint, and Duncan turned away in horror when he saw them writhing in irrepressible agony. The woman began to emit a low, plaintive howl at the sad and shameful spectacle, but the chief raised his hand and gently pushed her aside

. “Reed-that-bends,” he said, addressing the young culprit by name, and in his proper tongue, “though the Great Spirit has made you pleasant to the eyes, it would have been better if you hadn't been born. Your tongue is loud in the village, but in battle, it is silent. None of my young men strike the tomahawk deeper into the war-post—none of them so lightly on the Yengeese. The enemy knows the shape of your back, but they have never seen the color of your eyes. They have called for you three times, and as often as you forget to answer, your name will never be mentioned again in your tribe—it is already forgotten.”

As the chief slowly uttered these words, pausing impressively between each sentence, the culprit lifted his face in deference to the other's rank and age. Shame, horror, and pride wrestled within him. His eye, contracted with inward anguish, gleamed upon those whose breath was his fame; this latter emotion momentarily predominated. He rose to his feet, bare-chested, and gazed steadily at the keen, glittering knife already held by his inexorable judge. As the weapon slowly passed into his heart, he even smiled, as if finding death less dreadful than he'd expected, and fell heavily onto the ground at Uncas's rigid, unyielding feet

. The squaw let out a loud, plaintive yell, smashed the torch into the earth, and plunged everything into darkness. The whole shuddering group of spectators glided from the lodge like troubled sprites; Duncan thought that he and the still-throbbing body of the victim of an Indian judgment had become its only occupants

CHAPTER XXIV.

“Thus spoke the sage: the kings without delay
Dissolve the council, and their chief obey.”
—Pope’s Iliad

A single moment served to convince the youth that he was mistaken. A hand was laid, with a powerful pressure, on his arm, and the low voice of Uncas muttered in his ear:

“The Hurons are dogs. The sight of a coward’s blood can never make a warrior tremble. The ‘Gray Head’ and the Sagamore are safe, and the rifle of Hawkeye is not asleep. Go—Uncas and the ‘Open Hand’ are now strangers. It is enough.”

Heyward would gladly have heard more, but a gentle push from his friend urged him toward the door, and admonished him of the danger that might attend the discovery of their intercourse. Slowly and reluctantly yielding to the necessity, he quitted the place, and mingled with the throng that hovered nigh. The dying fires in the clearing cast a dim and uncertain light on the dusky figures that were silently stalking to and fro; and occasionally a brighter gleam than common glanced into the lodge, and exhibited the figure of Uncas still maintaining its upright attitude near the dead body of the Huron.

A knot of warriors soon reentered the place, and in doing so, they carried the senseless remains into the adjacent woods. After this spectacle concluded, Duncan wandered among the lodges, unnoticed and unquestioned, searching for any trace of her in whose name he had risked everything. In the tribe's current mood, he could have easily fled and rejoined his companions had such a thought crossed his mind. But, alongside the constant anxiety over Alice, a fresher, though weaker, interest in Uncas's fate held him fast to the spot. Thus, he continued from hut to hut, finding only further disappointment at each stop, until he had completed the entire circuit of the village. Abandoning an inquiry that proved utterly fruitless, he retraced his steps to the council-lodge, resolved to seek and question David to settle his doubts.

Upon reaching the building, which served as both the seat of judgment and execution, the young man found the excitement had already died down. The warriors had reassembled, calmly smoking while gravely discussing the main events of their recent expedition to the head of the Horican. Though Duncan's return might have reminded them of his character and the suspicious circumstances of his visit, it elicited no visible reaction. The terrible scene that had just unfolded proved favorable to his views, and he needed no further prompt than his own feelings to convince him of the expediency of profiting from such an unexpected advantage.

Without seeming to hesitate, he walked into the lodge and took his seat with a gravity that perfectly matched the bearing of his hosts. A quick but searching glance confirmed that although Uncas was still where he had left him, David had not reappeared. No other restraint was placed upon the former than the watchful gaze of a young Huron who had positioned himself nearby; an armed warrior leaned against the post forming one side of the narrow doorway. In every other way, the captive seemed free; yet he was excluded from all discussion and possessed more the air of a finely carved statue than a man possessing life and will.

Heyward had only recently witnessed the brutal punishments meted out by the people to whom he had fallen, merely by daring to be boldly officious. He would have greatly preferred silence and meditation over speech, lest a discovery of his true condition prove instantly fatal. Unfortunately for this prudent resolve, his entertainers appeared otherwise disposed. He had not long occupied the seat wisely shaded when another of the elder warriors, who spoke French, addressed him:

“My Canadian father does not forget his children,” the chief said; “I thank him. An evil spirit lives in the wife of one of my young men. Can the cunning stranger frighten him away?”

Heyward had some knowledge of the charade practiced by the Indians regarding such supposed visitations. At a glance, he saw that the situation could perhaps be manipulated to further his own goals. Therefore, it would have been difficult to offer a proposal that would satisfy him more at that moment. Knowing he needed to maintain the dignity of his imagined character, however, he suppressed his feelings and answered with suitable mystery:

“Spirits differ; some yield to the power of wisdom, while others are too strong.”

“My brother is a great medicine,” the cunning savage said, “will he try?”

A gesture of assent was the reply. The Huron was satisfied with the assurance and, resuming his pipe, waited for the right moment to act. Impatient Heyward, inwardly scorning the savages' cold customs that required such displays, was eager to adopt an air of indifference, the same one the chief maintained—a man who was, in fact, a near relative of the afflicted woman. The minutes dragged on, seeming like an hour to the empiricist adventurer, when the Huron put down his pipe and drew his robe across his chest, as if preparing to lead the way to the invalid’s lodge. Just then, a powerfully built warrior darkened the door, and silently stalking through the attentive group, he settled himself on one end of the low pile of brush that supported Duncan. The latter cast an impatient look at his neighbor and felt a wave of uncontrollable horror as he made actual contact with Magua.

The sudden reappearance of this artful and feared chief caused the Huron’s departure to stall. Several pipes, which had been put out, were lit anew. Without a word, the newcomer drew his tomahawk from his belt, and as he began to inhale the vapors of the weed through the hollow handle, he did so with an indifference as if he hadn't been absent for two weary days on a long and toilsome hunt. Ten minutes, which seemed like ages to Duncan, might have passed in that manner; the warriors were fairly enveloped in a cloud of white smoke before any of them spoke.

“Welcome!” someone finally said; “has my friend found the moose?”

“The young men are staggering under their burdens,” Magua replied. “Let ‘Reed-that-bends’ continue on the hunting path; he'll meet them.”

A deep and awful silence succeeded the utterance of the forbidden name. Each pipe dropped from the lips of its owner as though all had inhaled an impurity at the same instant. The smoke wreathed above their heads in little eddies, and curling in a spiral form it ascended swiftly through the opening in the roof of the lodge, leaving the place beneath clear of its fumes, and each dark visage distinctly visible. The looks of most of the warriors were riveted on the earth; though a few of the younger and less gifted of the party suffered their wild and glaring eyeballs to roll in the direction of a white-headed savage, who sat between two of the most venerated chiefs of the tribe. There was nothing in the air or attire of this Indian that would seem to entitle him to such a distinction. The former was rather depressed, than remarkable for the bearing of the natives; and the latter was such as was commonly worn by the ordinary men of the nation. Like most around him for more than a minute his look, too, was on the ground; but, trusting his eyes at length to steal a glance aside, he perceived that he was becoming an object of general attention. Then he arose and lifted his voice in the general silence.

“It was a lie,” he said; “I had no son. He who was called by that name is forgotten; his blood was pale, and it came not from the veins of a Huron; the wicked Chippewas cheated my squaw. The Great Spirit has said, that the family of Wiss-entush should end; he is happy who knows that the evil of his race dies with himself. I have done.”

The speaker, father to the young Indian, scanned his surroundings, as if soliciting praise for his stoicism from the auditors. Yet, the harsh customs of his people had demanded too much from the frail old man. The expression in his eye clashed with his figurative and boastful words, and every muscle on his wrinkled face betrayed anguish. Standing a moment to savor his bitter triumph, he turned away, as if repulsed by the gaze of men, and, pulling his face into his blanket, he walked from the lodge with the silent tread of an Indian seeking, in the privacy of his own home, the sympathy of one like himself—aged, forlorn, and childless.

The Indians, who believed virtues and flaws were passed down hereditarily, allowed him to leave in silence. Then, with a refinement of breeding that many in a more civilized society might envy, one of the chiefs drew the young men’s attention away from the weakness they had just witnessed by saying, in a cheerful voice, addressing Magua, the newest arrival, with courtesy:

“The Delawares have been like bears after the honey pots, prowling around my village. But who has ever found a Huron asleep?”

The darkness of the approaching cloud that precedes a thunderclap was not darker than Magua’s brow, as he exclaimed:

“The Delawares of the Lakes!”

“Not so. Those who wear the petticoats of squaws, on their own river. One of them has been passing the tribe.”

“Did my young men take his scalp?”

“His legs are fine, but his arm’s better suited for a hoe than a tomahawk,” the other replied, gesturing toward Uncas’s unmoving form

. Instead of letting any feminine curiosity draw him in with the sight of a captive from a people he was known to despise, Magua continued smoking, maintaining the meditative air he usually kept, as there was no immediate need to deploy his cunning or eloquence. Though secretly astounded by the words of the aged father, he held back his questions, saving them for a more opportune moment. Only after a suitable pause did he shake the ashes from his pipe, replace the tomahawk, tighten his girdle, and rise. For the first time, he cast a glance toward the prisoner standing just behind him. Uncas, wary yet seemingly detached, caught the movement, and as he turned suddenly toward the light, their gazes met. For nearly a minute, these two bold, untamed spirits regarded one another steadily, neither flinching before the fierce look they exchanged. Uncas’s form seemed to widen, his nostrils flared like a tiger in distress; yet, his posture remained rigid and unyielding, so easily imagined as an exquisite and flawless depiction of his tribe’s warlike deity. The lines on Magua’s trembling features proved more yielding; his face gradually lost its defiant character, melting into an expression of ferocious joy. Drawing a breath from the very bottom of his chest, he pronounced aloud the formidable name:

“Le Cerf Agile!”

As soon as the well-known name was uttered, each warrior leaped to his feet, momentarily stunned by surprise at the natives' stoic stillness. The hated yet respected name echoed once, carrying its sound beyond the limits of the lodge. The women and children lingering by the entrance mimicked the words, first with an echo, then a shrill, plaintive howl that continued until the sensation among the men completely subsided. Then, one by one, they sat down, as if ashamed of their outburst. But it took several minutes before their eyes stopped rolling toward their captive, instead fixing on a warrior who had so often demonstrated prowess for the pride and glory of their nation. Uncas enjoyed his victory, content to merely smile quietly—a symbol of scorn belonging to all time and every nation.

Magua caught the expression. Raising his arm, he shook it at the captive; the silver ornaments on his bracelet rattled with the limb's trembling agitation as he exclaimed in a tone of vengeance in English:

“Mohican, you die!”

“The healing waters will never bring the dead Hurons back to life,” Uncas retorted in the music of the Delawares; “the tumbling river washes their bones; their men are squaws: their women owls. Go! call for the Huron dogs, let them see a warrior—my nostrils are offended; they smell the blood of a coward.”

The latter allusion struck deep, and the wound stung. Many of the Hurons grasped the strange tongue in which the captive spoke, including Magua. This cunning savage observed, instantly capitalizing on his advantage. Shedding the light skin from his shoulder, he extended his arm and unleashed a burst of his dangerous and artful eloquence. Though his influence among his people had been weakened by his intermittent weakness and desertion of the tribe, his courage and renown as an orator remained undeniable. He never spoke without an audience, and rarely without winning over others to his views. On this occasion, his native powers were stirred by a thirst for revenge.

He recounted again the events of the attack on Glenn’s island, the deaths of his associates, and the escape of their most formidable enemies. Then he described the nature and location of the mount from which he had led those who had fallen into their hands. He made no mention of his bloody intentions toward the maidens or his baffled malice, but swiftly moved on to the party with “La Longue Carabine,” and its fatal end. Here he paused, glancing around him with feigned reverence for the dead, but in truth, he was noting the impact of his opening tale. As always, every eye was fixed on his face. Each dusky figure seemed a breathing statue; the posture was so still, the attention of the individual so intense.

Then Magua dropped his voice, which had hitherto been clear, strong, and elevated, and touched upon the merits of the dead. No quality likely to command Indian sympathy escaped his notice. One had never followed a chase in vain; another had been indefatigable in tracking their enemies. This was brave, that generous. In short, he managed his allusions so skillfully that in a nation composed of so few families, he contrived to strike every chord that might find a breast to vibrate in return.

“Are the bones of my young men,” he concluded, “in the burial-place of the Hurons? You know they are not. Their spirits are gone toward the setting sun, and are already crossing the great waters, to the happy hunting-grounds. But they departed without food, without guns or knives, without moccasins, naked and poor as they were born. Shall this be? Are their souls to enter the land of the just like hungry Iroquois or unmanly Delawares, or shall they meet their friends with arms in their hands and robes on their backs? What will our fathers think the tribes of the Wyandots have become? They will look on their children with a dark eye, and say, ‘Go! a Chippewa has come hither with the name of a Huron.’ Brothers, we must not forget the dead; a red-skin never ceases to remember. We will load the back of this Mohican until he staggers under our bounty, and dispatch him after my young men. They call to us for aid, though our ears are not open; they say, ‘Forget us not.’ When they see the spirit of this Mohican toiling after them with his burden, they will know we are of that mind. Then will they go on happy; and our children will say, ‘So did our fathers to their friends, so must we do to them.’ What is a Yengee? we have slain many, but the earth is still pale. A stain on the name of Huron can only be hid by blood that comes from the veins of an Indian. Let this Delaware die.”

The effect of such a harangue, delivered in the nervous language and emphatic manner of a Huron orator, was unmistakable. Magua had so skillfully blended natural sympathies with religious superstition among his audience that their minds, already conditioned to sacrifice a victim to the manes of their countrymen by custom, lost all semblance of humanity in their desire for revenge. One warrior, bearing a wild and ferocious mien, stood out for his rapt attention to the speaker's words. His face shifted with every passing emotion until it settled into a look of deadly malice. As Magua concluded, he rose and, with the cry of a demon, his polished little axe flashed in the torchlight as he swung it above his head. The motion and the cry were too sudden for any words to interrupt his bloody intent. It seemed as if a bright gleam shot from his hand, simultaneously crossed by a dark, powerful line. The former was the tomahawk in its passage; the latter was the arm Magua darted forward to deflect its aim. The chief's swift and ready movement was not entirely too late. The keen weapon severed the war plume from Uncas’s scalping tuft and passed through the lodge's fragile wall as if hurled from some formidable engine

.Duncan saw the menacing action and leaped to his feet, his heart swelling with a generous resolve for his friend as it seized his throat. A look told him the blow had missed, and terror instantly morphed into admiration. Uncas stood motionless, meeting his enemy’s gaze with features seemingly above emotion. Marble could not have been colder, calmer, or steadier than the expression he wore during that sudden, vindictive attack. Then, as if pitying a lack of skill that had proven so fortunate to him, he smiled and muttered a few words of contempt in his own tongue.

“No!” Magua cried after ensuring the captive was safe. “The sun must shine on his shame; the squaws must see his flesh tremble, or our revenge will be like a game of boys. Go! Take him where there is silence; let’s see if a Delaware can sleep at night, and in the morning die.”

The young men tasked with guarding the prisoner instantly passed strips of bark across his arms and led him from the lodge, moving through a profound and ominous silence. It was only when Uncas stood in the doorway that his firm step faltered. He turned, and in the sweeping, haughty glance he threw around his enemies, Duncan caught a look he was glad to interpret as a sign that he wasn't entirely without hope.

Magua was content with his success, or perhaps too preoccupied with his secret aims to pursue his inquiries further. Shaking off his cloak and folding it across his chest, he also left the place, foregoing any topic that might have proven fatal to the man beside him. Despite his rising resentment, his innate composure, and his worry for Uncas, Heyward felt a genuine sense of relief at the absence of such a dangerous and subtle adversary. The excitement from the speech gradually faded. The warriors settled back into their seats, and smoke once again filled the lodge. For nearly half an hour, not a single word was spoken, or even a glance exchanged; a solemn, meditative silence was the natural follow-up to every scene of violence and commotion among these beings, who were equally impetuous yet self-restrained.

When the chief, having sought Duncan's aid, finished with his pipe, he made a final, successful movement toward departure. A mere gesture from a finger was the signal he gave the supposed physician to follow; and passing through the smoke, Duncad was glad, on more than one occasion, to finally breathe the pure air of a cool and refreshing summer evening.

Instead of pursuing his way among those lodges where Heyward had already made his unsuccessful search, his companion turned aside, and proceeded directly toward the base of an adjacent mountain, which overhung the temporary village.A thicket of brush skirted its foot, and it became necessary to proceed through a crooked and narrow path.The boys had resumed their sports in the clearing, and were enacting a mimic chase to the post among themselves.In order to render their games as like the reality as possible, one of the boldest of their number had conveyed a few brands into some piles of tree-tops that had hitherto escaped the burning.The blaze of one of these fires lighted the way of the chief and Duncan, and gave a character of additional wildness to the rude scenery.At a little distance from a bald rock, and directly in its front, they entered a grassy opening, which they prepared to cross.Just then fresh fuel was added to the fire, and a powerful light penetrated even to that distant spot.It fell upon the white surface of the mountain, and was reflected downward upon a dark and mysterious-looking being that arose, unexpectedly, in their path.The Indian paused, as if doubtful whether to proceed, and permitted his companion to approach his side.A large black ball, which at first seemed stationary, now began to move in a manner that to the latter was inexplicable.Again the fire brightened and its glare fell more distinctly on the object.Then even Duncan knew it, by its restless and sidling attitudes, which kept the upper part of its form in constant motion, while the animal itself appeared seated, to be a bear.Though it growled loudly and fiercely, and there were instants when its glistening eyeballs might be seen, it gave no other indications of hostility.The Huron, at least, seemed assured that the intentions of this singular intruder were peaceable, for after giving it an attentive examination, he quietly pursued his course.

Duncan, who knew that the animal was often domesticated among the Indians, followed the example of his companion, believing that some favorite of the tribe had found its way into the thicket, in search of food. They passed it unmolested. Though obliged to come nearly in contact with the monster, the Huron, who had at first so warily determined the character of his strange visitor, was now content with proceeding without wasting a moment in further examination; but Heyward was unable to prevent his eyes from looking backward, in salutary watchfulness against attacks in the rear. His uneasiness was in no degree diminished when he perceived the beast rolling along their path, and following their footsteps. He would have spoken, but the Indian at that moment shoved aside a door of bark, and entered a cavern in the bosom of the mountain.

Profiting by so easy a method of retreat, Duncan stepped after him, and was gladly closing the slight cover to the opening, when he felt it drawn from his hand by the beast, whose shaggy form immediately darkened the passage. They were now in a straight and long gallery, in a chasm of the rocks, where retreat without encountering the animal was impossible. Making the best of the circumstances, the young man pressed forward, keeping as close as possible to his conductor. The bear growled frequently at his heels, and once or twice its enormous paws were laid on his person, as if disposed to prevent his further passage into the den.

How long the nerves of Heyward would have sustained him in this extraordinary situation, it might be difficult to decide, for, happily, he soon found relief. A glimmer of light had constantly been in their front, and they now arrived at the place whence it proceeded.

A large cavity in the rock had been crudely adapted to house many apartments. The subdivisions were simple yet ingenious, woven from stone, sticks, and bark, all intermingled. Openings above let in daylight, and at night, fires and torches provided the place of the sun. The Hurons had brought most of their valuables here, especially those pertaining to the nation; and it seemed that the sick woman, believed to be victim of supernatural power, had also been brought here. They thought her tormentor would find walls of stone more difficult to breach than the leafy coverings of the lodges. The dwelling into which Duncan and his guide first entered was exclusively hers. The latter approached her bedside, surrounded by women, where Heyward was surprised to find his missing friend David.

A single glance was enough for the supposed leech to realize the invalid was far beyond his healing power. She lay in a kind of paralysis, unconcerned with the objects crowding her view, blissfully unaware of pain. Heyward wasn't sorry that his charades were meant for someone too ill to care about their success or failure. The slight guilt sparked by the intended deception vanished instantly, and he started gathering his thoughts, ready to play his part with spirit, when he realized music was about to prove its power over him.

Gamut, who had been ready to pour his spirit into song the moment the visitors arrived, paused for a beat, drew a puff from his pipe, and began a hymn that might have worked a miracle, had faith in its power been enough. He was allowed to finish, the Indians respecting his imagined frailty, and Duncan, too pleased with the delay to risk any interruption. As the dying notes of his strains fell upon Duncan's ears, he started aside, hearing them repeated behind him in a voice half human and half sepulchral. Looking around, he saw the shaggy monster sitting bolt upright in a shadow of the cavern. As his restless body swung in the animal's uneasy motion, it repeated, in a low growl that was more sound than word, noises bearing a slight resemblance to the singer's melody.

The effect of such a strange echo on David could be better imagined than described. His eyes snapped open as if questioning their reality; his voice instantly went mute with sheer wonder. A deep-seated plan—to convey some vital intelligence to Heyward—vanished from his memory, replaced by an emotion that felt almost like fear, yet he was determined to call it admiration. Under this influence, he exclaimed aloud, "She expects you, and she's near!" and hastily fled the cavern.

CHAPTER XXV.

“Snug.—Have you the lion’s part written? Pray you, if it be, give it to me, for I am slow of study.

Quince.—You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.”
—Midsummer Night’s Dream.

There was a strange blending of the ridiculous with that which was solemn in this scene. The beast still continued its rolling, and apparently untiring movements, though its ludicrous attempt to imitate the melody of David ceased the instant the latter abandoned the field. The words of Gamut were, as has been seen, in his native tongue; and to Duncan they seem pregnant with some hidden meaning, though nothing present assisted him in discovering the object of their allusion. A speedy end was, however, put to every conjecture on the subject, by the manner of the chief, who advanced to the bedside of the invalid, and beckoned away the whole group of female attendants that had clustered there to witness the skill of the stranger. He was implicitly, though reluctantly, obeyed; and when the low echo which rang along the hollow, natural gallery, from the distant closing door, had ceased, pointing toward his insensible daughter, he said:

“Now let my brother show his power.”

Unequivocally called upon to embody his assumed persona, Heyward feared that even the slightest hesitation could prove fatal. He began gathering his thoughts, preparing to perform that kind of spell and those crude rites the Indian conjurers used to mask their ignorance and powerlessness. It was highly probable that, in his clouded state, he would soon make some suspicious, perhaps fatal, error had his initial attempts not been interrupted by a fierce growl from the quadruped. He tried to proceed several times, but each time he met the same inexplicable resistance; every interruption felt more savage and threatening than the last.

“The cunning ones are jealous,” the Huron said. “I’m leaving. Brother, the woman is one of my bravest young men’s wives; be fair to her. Peace!” he added, beckoning the discontented beast to quiet down. “I'm going.”

The chief was trustworthy, and Duncan now found himself alone in that wild, desolate dwelling with the helpless invalid and the fierce, dangerous brute. The latter watched the Indian’s movements with the sagacity a bear is known for, until another sound announced he had also left the cavern. When it turned and waddled up to Duncan, sitting before him in its natural posture, it stood upright like a man. The youth anxiously scanned his surroundings for some weapon to resist the attack he now seriously expected.

It seemed, however, as if the animal's humor had suddenly shifted. Instead of continuing its discontented growls or showing further signs of anger, its entire shaggy body shook violently, as if stirred by some strange internal convulsion. Its huge, unwieldy talons pawed stupidly at the grinning muzzle, and while Heyward kept his eyes fixed on its movements with jealous watchfulness, the grim head tilted to one side, revealing the scout's honest, sturdy countenance—a look born from indulging a peculiar merriment deep in his soul.

[Illustration]

“Halt!” snapped the wary woodsman, cutting off Heyward’s exclamation of surprise. “The youngsters are near, and any sound not natural to witchcraft will bring them upon us.”

“Tell me the meaning of this masquerade; and why you dared such a desperate adventure?”

“Ah, reason and calculation are often outdone by accident,” the scout replied. “But, as a story should always start at the beginning, I’ll tell you everything in order. After we parted, I put the commandant and the Sagamore in an old beaver lodge, where they’re safer from the Hurons than they would be in Edward’s garrison; since your high north-west Indians hadn't yet brought the traders among them, they continued to revere the beaver. Then Uncas and I moved toward the other camp as agreed. Have you seen the lad?”

“Good heavens! He is captive, condemned to die at sunrise.”

"I had doubts that such would be his fate," the scout resumed, his tone less confident but tinged with joy. But soon, regaining his naturally firm voice, he continued, "His misfortune is the true reason I'm here; it wouldn't be right to leave such a boy to the Hurons. It’s a rare time when knaves would agree to tie 'The Bounding Elk' and 'The Long Carabine'—as they call me—to the same stake! Though I never know why they gave me such a name, there's little resemblance between the gifts of 'killdeer' and the act of firing one of your real Canadian carabines, just as there is between a pipe-stone and flint."

"Stick to your story," said the impatient Heyward; "we don't know when the Hurons might come back."

"No fear of them. A conjurer has his time, just like a priest wandering in the settlements. We're as safe from interruption as a missionary would be at the start of a two-hour sermon. Uncas and I joined a return party of the varlets; the lad was too bold for a scout—no, not really. Being of hot blood, he wasn't so much to blame; and, after all, one of the Hurons turned out to be a coward, and in fleeing, he led him into an ambush."

"And he paid dearly for that weakness."

The scout significantly passed a hand across his throat and nodded, as if to say, "I get what you mean." Then he continued, in a voice that was more audible but barely more intelligible:

After losing the boy, I turned on the Hurons, as you can judge. There were skirmishes between one or two of their outlanders and myself; but that's beside the point. So, after I shot the imps, I got into the lodges without further fuss. Then what luck could do in my favor but lead me right to the spot where one of the tribe's most famous conjurers was dressing up for a great battle with Satan—though why call it luck? It now seems like an order from Providence. A judging rap across the head momentarily stiffened the lying impostor, and leaving him a bit of walnut for supper to prevent any uproar, I strung him between two saplings and took the bear's hide myself so that the operation could proceed.

"And you played that character admirably; the animal itself might have been ashamed by the representation."

"Lord, major," the flattered woodsman replied, "I should be a poor scholar for having spent so long in the wilderness; didn't I know how to describe the movements or nature of such a beast? If it had been a catamount or even a full-sized panther, I would have embellished a performance worthy of regard. But it’s no marvel to display the feats of such a dull animal; besides, a bear can be overacted. Yes, yes; not every imitator knows nature as easily as she is equaled. But all our work is yet ahead. Where is the gentle one?"

“Heaven knows. I’ve checked every lodge in the village, but haven’t found the slightest sign of her in the tribe.”

“You heard what the singer left us: ‘She is at hand, and she expects you’?”

“I was forced to believe he was alluding to this unfortunate woman.”

“The simpleton was frightened and stumbled through his message; but there was a deeper meaning. Here are walls to keep the whole settlement separate. A bear ought to climb; so I'll take a look above them. There might be honey-pots hidden in these rocks, and I’m a beast, you know, with a craving for sweets.”

The scout looked behind him, laughing at his own arrogance, as he scrambled up the partition, mimicking the clumsy movements of the beast he represented; but the moment he reached the summit, he made a gesture for silence and slid down with incredible speed.

“She’s here,” he whispered, “and you’ll find her by that door. I wanted to offer some comfort to the afflicted soul; but seeing such a monster might unsettle her mind. Though, major, you're not exactly the most inviting person to be in your paint.”

Duncan, who had already swung forward eagerly, instantly drew back upon hearing those discouraging words.

“Am I, then, so repulsive?” he demanded, with a touch of chagrin.

You might not startle a wolf, or turn the Royal Americans from a discharge; but I have seen the time when you had a better-favored look. Your streaked countenances aren't ill-judged by squaws, but young women of white blood give preference to their own color. See,” he added, pointing to where water trickled from a rock, forming a little crystal spring before it found an exit through the adjacent crevices; “you can easily wash off the Sagamore’s daub, and when you return, I'll try a new embellishment. It’s as common for a conjurer to alter his paint as for a buck in the settlements to change his finery.”

The deliberate woodsman had little need to hunt for arguments to back up his advice. He was still speaking when Duncan took advantage of the water. In an instant, every frightful or offensive mark vanished, and the youth reappeared in the features bestowed by nature. Prepared for an interview with his mistress, he quickly left his companion and slipped through the indicated passage. The scout watched him go with ease, nodding after him and muttering his good wishes; then he coolly began to examine the larder among the Hurons, the cavern, and other spaces used to store the fruits of their hunts.

Duncan had no guide save a distant, glimmering light, which served as a polar star for the lover. With its help, he managed to enter the haven of his hopes—just another room in the cavern, one that had been entirely claimed for safekeeping by such an important captive as the daughter of the commandant of William Henry. It was strewn with the spoils of that unlucky fortress. Amidst this disarray, he found the woman he sought: pale, anxious, and terrified, yet beautiful. David had prepared her for such a visit.

“Duncan!” she cried out, her voice trembling at the sounds it made.

“Alice!” he replied, leaping carelessly among trunks, boxes, arms, and furniture until he stood beside her.

“I knew you’d never leave me,” she said, looking up with a momentary gleam on her otherwise dejected face. “But you’re alone! Though I’m grateful to be remembered like this, I wish you weren't entirely alone.”

Duncan observed her trembling—a gesture that betrayed her inability to stand—and gently coaxed her to sit while recounting the preceding events, a task they had been assigned. Alice listened with breathless interest; though the young man touched lightly upon her father’s sorrows, carefully avoiding wounding her self-love, tears streamed down the daughter’s cheeks as if she had never wept before. Duncan’s soothing tenderness, however, soon quieted the initial burst of emotion, and she heard him out completely, if not composedly.

“And now, Alice,” he added, “you will see how much is still expected of you. By the assistance of our experienced and invaluable friend, the scout, we may find our way from this savage people, but you will have to exert your utmost fortitude. Remember that you fly to the arms of your venerable parent, and how much his happiness, as well as your own, depends on those exertions.”

“Can I do otherwise for a father who has done so much for me?”

“And for me, too,” continued the youth, gently pressing the hand he held in both his own.

The look of innocence and surprise which he received in return convinced Duncan of the necessity of being more explicit.

“This is neither the place nor the occasion to detain you with selfish wishes,” he added; “but what heart loaded like mine would not wish to cast its burden? They say misery is the closest of all ties; our common suffering in your behalf left but little to be explained between your father and myself.”

“And, dearest Cora, Duncan; surely Cora was not forgotten?”

“Not forgotten! no; regretted, as woman was seldom mourned before. Your venerable father knew no difference between his children; but I—Alice, you will not be offended when I say, that to me her worth was in a degree obscured—”

“Then you knew not the merit of my sister,” said Alice, withdrawing her hand; “of you she ever speaks as of one who is her dearest friend.”

“I would gladly believe her such,” returned Duncan, hastily; “I could wish her to be even more; but with you, Alice, I have the permission of your father to aspire to a still nearer and dearer tie.”

Alice trembled violently, and there was an instant during which she bent her face aside, yielding to the emotions common to her sex; but they quickly passed away, leaving her mistress of her deportment, if not of her affections.

“Heyward,” she said, looking him full in the face with a touching expression of innocence and dependency, “give me the sacred presence and the holy sanction of that parent before you urge me further.”

“Though more I should not, less I could not say,” the youth was about to answer, when he was interrupted by a light tap on his shoulder. Starting to his feet, he turned, and, confronting the intruder, his looks fell on the dark form and malignant visage of Magua. The deep guttural laugh of the savage sounded, at such a moment, to Duncan, like the hellish taunt of a demon. Had he pursued the sudden and fierce impulse of the instant, he would have cast himself on the Huron, and committed their fortunes to the issue of a deadly struggle. But, without arms of any description, ignorant of what succor his subtle enemy could command, and charged with the safety of one who was just then dearer than ever to his heart, he no sooner entertained than he abandoned the desperate intention.

“What is your purpose?” said Alice, meekly folding her arms on her bosom, and struggling to conceal an agony of apprehension in behalf of Heyward, in the usual cold and distant manner with which she received the visits of her captor.

The exultant Indian resumed his stern expression, though he instinctively recoiled from the young man’s fiery gaze. He fixed a steady look upon both his captives for a moment, then stepped aside and tossed a log across a door other than the one by which Duncan had entered. Duncan instantly grasped the nature of the maneuver and, feeling utterly lost, drew Alice close and braced himself for a fate he barely regretted, as it was to be endured in such company. But Magua intended no immediate violence. His initial moves were clearly aimed at securing his new prisoners; he didn't even spare a second glance for the motionless forms in the cavern’s center until he had completely severed every hope of escape through the private exit he himself had used. Heyward watched all his movements, yet remained steadfast, still folding Alice into his heart—too proud and too hopeless to beg a favor from an enemy so often thwarted. When Magua had achieved his goal, he approached his prisoners and spoke in English:

“Pale faces trap cunning beavers; but red-skins know how to take the Yengeese.”

“Huron, do your worst!” Heyward exclaimed with excitement, forgetting that a double stake was involved in his life; “you and your vengeance are alike despised.”

“Will the white man speak these words at the stake?” Magua asked, his sneer revealing just how little faith he had in the other’s resolve.

“Here; singly to your face, or in the presence of your nation.”

“Le Renard Subtil is a great chief!” the Indian replied. “He’ll go and bring his young men to see how bravely a pale face can laugh at torture.”

He turned away mid-sentence, about to leave through the avenue Duncan had taken, when a growl caught his attention, making him pause. The bear’s figure appeared in the doorway, where it sat, rolling restlessly from side to side. Magua, much like the father of the sick woman, eyed it keenly for a moment, as if assessing its nature. He was far above his tribe's more vulgar superstitions, and as soon as he recognized the conjurer’s well-known attire, he prepared to dismiss it with cool contempt. But a louder, more menacing growl made him stop again. Then he seemed suddenly resolved not to trifle anymore, and he moved forward resolutely.

The mimic animal, having advanced slightly, retreated slowly in front of him until it reached the pass. Then, rearing up on its hind legs, it beat the air with its paws, just as its brutal prototype did.

“Fool!” the chief exclaimed in Huron. “Go play with the children and squaws; leave men to their wisdom.”

He tried once more to slip past the supposed empirical reality, scorning even the threat of the knife or tomahawk hanging from his belt. Suddenly, the beast extended its limbs and ensnared him in a grip that rivaled the famed power of a "bear’s hug." Heyward had watched the whole thing with breathless interest, focusing intently on Hawkeye's actions. First, he let go of Alice; then he snatched a strip of buckskin used to bind some bundle. When he saw his enemy with both arms pinned to his sides by the scout's iron muscles, he charged forward and effectively bound them there. Arms, legs, and feet were encircled in twenty folds of the thong in less time than it took us to record the event. When the formidable Huron was completely restrained, the scout released his hold, and Duncan laid his enemy on his back, utterly helpless.

Throughout this sudden and extraordinary operation, Magua, though he struggled violently, remained silent until he was sure he was in the hands of someone with nerves far sharper than his own. But when Hawkeye removed the beast's shaggy jaws and revealed his rugged, earnest face to the Huron’s gaze, the latter’s philosophy was so thoroughly grasped that it allowed him to utter the never-failing:

“Hugh!”

“Well, you’ve found your tongue,” said his undisturbed conqueror. “Now, so you don't use it to ruin us, I must free your mouth.”

With no time to waste, the scout immediately took the necessary precaution; once he had silenced the Indian, his enemy could safely be considered "hors de combat."

"Where did the imp enter?" the industrious scout asked once his task was done. "Not a soul has passed by me since you left."

Duncan pointed to the door by which Magua had entered, a passage now presenting too many obstacles for a swift retreat.

"Bring on the gentle one, then," his friend continued. "We must push into the woods through the other opening."

"It's impossible!" Duncan protested. "Fear has overcome her; she is helpless. Alice! my sweet, my own Alice, wake up! Now is the moment to fly. It's useless! She hears, but cannot follow. Go, noble and worthy friend; save yourself, and leave me to my fate."

"Every trail has an end, and every disaster brings its lesson!" the scout retorted. "There, wrap her in those Indian cloths. Conceal her entire form. No, that foot has no companion in the wilderness; it will betray her. Every part. Now take her in your arms and follow. Leave the rest to me."

Duncan was eagerly obeying, as his companion's words suggested. As the other finished speaking, he took Alice, the lighter of the two, into his arms and followed the scout. They found the sick woman where they had left her, still alone, and swiftly passed by the natural gallery to the entrance. As they neared the little door of bark, a murmur of voices arose, revealing that the invalid's friends and relatives were gathered there, patiently awaiting a summons to re-enter

. “If I open my lips to speak,” Hawkeye whispered, “my English, which is the genuine tongue of a white-skin, will tell the varlets that an enemy is among them. You must give ’em your jargon, major; say we've shut the evil spirit in the cave and are taking the woman to the woods to find strengthening roots. Practice all your cunning, for it’s a lawful undertaking”

. The door opened just a crack, as if someone within was listening to the proceedings, and the scout was compelled to halt his directions. A fierce growl repelled the eavesdropper, and then the scout boldly threw open the bark covering, leaving the place while enacting the character of a bear. Duncan kept close at his heels and soon found himself in the center of a cluster of twenty anxious relatives and friends

. The crowd backed off slightly, allowing the father and the man who appeared to be the woman’s husband to approach

. “Has my brother driven away the evil spirit?” demanded the former. “What does he have in his arms?”

“Your child,” Duncan returned gravely, “the sickness has left her; it is sealed away in the rocks. I’ll take the woman to a distance, where I can fortify her against any further assault. She’ll be in the young man’s shelter when the sun rises again.”

When the father had translated the stranger’s words into Huron, a hushed murmur announced their satisfaction with which this intelligence was received. The chief himself waved Duncan forward, speaking aloud in a firm, lofty tone:

“Go; I am a man, and I will enter the rock and fight the wicked one.”

Heyward had gladly obeyed and was already past the small group when these startling words arrested him.

“Is my brother mad?” he exclaimed. “Is he cruel? He’ll meet the sickness and it will take him; or he’ll drive the sickness out, and it will chase his daughter into the woods. No; let my children wait outside, and if the spirit appears, let him beat him with clubs. He is cunning and will hide in the mountain when he sees how many are ready to fight him.”

This singular warning achieved the desired effect. Instead of entering the cavern, the father and husband drew their tomahawks and stood ready to exact vengeance on the imaginary tormentor of their sick relative, while the women and children broke branches from the bushes or seized fragments of rock with similar intent. At this opportune moment, the counterfeit conjurers vanished.

Hawkeye, despite his assumptions about Indian superstitions, wasn't naive; he knew they were tolerated, if not fully relied upon, by the wisest chiefs. He understood the preciousness of time in that present emergency. Whatever self-deception his enemies harbored, and however much it had aided his schemes, the slightest suspicion, acting on the subtle nature of an Indian mind, could prove fatal. Therefore, he took the path that would least invite notice, carefully skirting rather than entering the village. The warriors were still visible in the distance, silhouetted by the dying firelight, moving from lodge to lodge. But the children had abandoned their games for their skins, and the stillness of night was already starting to settle over the turbulence and excitement of such a busy and important evening.

Alice revived under the open air's revitalizing influence, and since her physical, not her mental, powers had been the source of weakness, she needed no further explanation for what had happened.

“Now let me try to walk,” she said as they entered the forest, blushing even though they were unseen, that she could finally break free from Duncan’s grip; “I'm fine now.”

“No, Alice, you’re still too weak.”

The maiden struggled gently to release herself, and Heyward was forced to relinquish his precious burden. The bear's representative had certainly been a stranger to the lover's delicious emotions while his arms encircled his mistress; he was perhaps also a stranger to the nature of that ingenuous shame that gripped trembling Alice. But when he found himself at a suitable distance from the lodges, he paused and spoke on a subject he thoroughly mastered.

“This path will lead you to the brook,” he said; “follow its northern bank until you reach a waterfall; climb the hill to your right, and you'll see the fires of the other people. You must go there and demand protection; if they are true Delawares, you'll be safe. A hasty flight with that gentle one, just now, is impossible. The Hurons would follow our trail and take our scalps before we’d covered a dozen miles. Go, and may Providence be with you.”

“And you!” Heyward demanded in surprise, “surely we aren't parting here?”

“The Hurons hold the pride of the Delawares; they command the last high blood of the Mohicans,” the scout returned. “I go to see what can be done in his favor. Had they mastered your scalp, major, a knave should have fallen for every hair it held, as I promised; but if the young Sagamore is to be led to the stake, the Indians shall see also how a man without a cross can die.”

Duncan wasn't at all offended by the sturdy woodsman's decided preference for someone who might, to some extent, be considered his adopted child. Still, he kept pushing those arguments against such a desperate effort as they presented it. Alice helped him, weaving her pleas with Heyward's insistence that he abandon a resolution promising so much danger with so little chance of success. Their eloquence and ingenuity proved utterly useless. The scout listened intently, though impatiently, and finally shut down the discussion by answering in a tone that instantly silenced Alice, telling Heyward how fruitless any further appeals would be.

“I have heard,” he said, “that there is a feeling in youth which binds man to woman closer than the father is tied to the son. It may be so. I have seldom been where women of my color dwell; but such may be the gifts of nature in the settlements. You have risked life, and all that is dear to you, to bring off this gentle one, and I suppose that some such disposition is at the bottom of it all. As for me, I taught the lad the real character of a rifle; and well has he paid me for it. I have fou’t at his side in many a bloody scrimmage; and so long as I could hear the crack of his piece in one ear, and that of the Sagamore in the other, I knew no enemy was on my back. Winters and summer, nights and days, have we roved the wilderness in company, eating of the same dish, one sleeping while the other watched; and afore it shall be said that Uncas was taken to the torment, and I at hand—There is but a single Ruler of us all, whatever may the color of the skin; and Him I call to witness, that before the Mohican boy shall perish for the want of a friend, good faith shall depart the ’arth, and ‘killdeer’ become as harmless as the tooting we’pon of the singer!”

Duncan released his hold on the arm of the scout, who turned, and steadily retraced his steps toward the lodges. After pausing a moment to gaze at his retiring form, the successful and yet sorrowful Heyward and Alice took their way together toward the distant village of the Delawares.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXVI.

“Bot.—Let me play the lion too.”
—Midsummer Night’s Dream

Notwithstanding the high resolution of Hawkeye he fully comprehended all the difficulties and danger he was about to incur. In his return to the camp, his acute and practised intellects were intently engaged in devising means to counteract a watchfulness and suspicion on the part of his enemies, that he knew were, in no degree, inferior to his own. Nothing but the color of his skin had saved the lives of Magua and the conjurer, who would have been the first victims sacrificed to his own security, had not the scout believed such an act, however congenial it might be to the nature of an Indian, utterly unworthy of one who boasted a descent from men that knew no cross of blood. Accordingly, he trusted to the withes and ligaments with which he had bound his captives, and pursued his way directly toward the center of the lodges. As he approached the buildings, his steps become more deliberate, and his vigilant eye suffered no sign, whether friendly or hostile, to escape him. A neglected hut was a little in advance of the others, and appeared as if it had been deserted when half completed—most probably on account of failing in some of the more important requisites; such as wood or water. A faint light glimmered through its cracks, however, and announced that, notwithstanding its imperfect structure, it was not without a tenant. Thither, then, the scout proceeded, like a prudent general, who was about to feel the advanced positions of his enemy, before he hazarded the main attack.

Hawkeye settled into a posture suitable for the beast he represented, inching toward a small opening to gain a view of the interior. This proved to be David Gamut's lasting place. Here, the faithful singing-master had brought himself, along with all his sorrows, apprehensions, and his humble reliance on Providence’s protection. Precisely as his awkward form came into the scout’s sight in that manner, the woodsman himself, despite his assumed guise, became the subject of the solitary being’s deep reflections.

Though David's faith in ancient miracles was implicit, he rejected any belief in direct supernatural agency governing modern morality. In other words, while he implicitly trusted Balaam’s ass to speak, he remained skeptical about a bear singing; yet, he had been assured of the latter through his own exquisite organs. There was something in his bearing and demeanor that betrayed the scout about the utter confusion of his mind. He sat on a pile of brush, occasionally feeding his low fire with a few twigs, his head resting on his arm in a posture of melancholy musing. The costume of the music votary remained unchanged from the last description, save for the triangular beaver covering his bald head, which hadn't proven alluring enough to excite the cupidity of any of his captors.

The ingenious Hawkeye, recalling how quickly the other had abandoned his post by the sick woman’s bedside, couldn't help but harbor suspicions about the subject of such solemn discussion. First, making a circuit of the hut to confirm it stood isolated and that its occupant likely guarded it from visitors, he ventured through the low door into Gamut's presence. This move ignited the tension between them; when Hawkeye sat up abruptly, a minute passed in which they simply stared at each other without uttering a word. The abruptness and nature of the surprise nearly overwhelmed—we won't say philosophy—but rather David’s pitch and resolve. He fumbled for his pitch-pipe and rose with a confused aim to attempt a musical exorcism.

“Dark and mysterious monster!” he cried out, quickly hiding his auxiliary eyes, and sought his surest remedy in distress: the gifted version of the psalms. “I don’t know your nature or intentions; but if you meddle against the person and rights of even the humblest servant of the temple, listen to the inspired words of Israel's youth, and repent.”

The bear shook his shaggy sides, and then a well-known voice responded:

“Put down the blaring pipe and teach your throat some modesty. Five words of plain and understandable English are worth more than an hour of whining.”

“What are you?” David demanded, completely derailed from his original intent, nearly breathless.

"A man like you, whose blood is as untainted by the cross of a bear or an Indian as your own. Have you so soon forgotten from whom you received the foolish instrument you hold in your hand?"

"Can these things be?" David replied, breathing easier as the truth dawned on him. "I've seen many marvels during my time with the heathen, but surely nothing compares to this."

"Come on," Hawkeye returned, revealing his honest face, better solidifying his companion's wavering confidence. "You may see a skin that, if it isn't as white as that of the gentle folk, bears no tinge of red that the winds and sun haven't bestowed. Now, let's get to business."

"First, tell me about the maiden and the youth who so bravely sought her," David interrupted.

"Yes, they are happily free from these varlets' tomahawks. But can you put me on the scent of Uncas?"

"The young man is enslaved, and I fear his death is already sealed. I mourn greatly that someone so well-meaning should perish through ignorance, and I’ve sought a fitting hymn—"

"Can you lead me to him?"

"The task won't be hard," David replied, hesitating. "Though I dread your presence might worsen his unhappy fate."

"No more words, just lead," Hawkeye replied, concealing his face once more, setting the example by immediately leaving the lodge.

As they moved on, the scout figured out that his companion had managed to gain access to Uncas, thanks to an imaginary illness he claimed, coupled with a favor from one of the guards. Because that guard spoke a little English, David had selected him as the subject of a religious conversion. How much the Huron truly understood his new friend's intentions is debatable; but since exclusive attention flatters any savage as much as it does a civilized person, it had worked. There’s no need to go over the clever way the scout got these details from simple David; we won't dwell on the nature of the instruction he gave, as he clearly knew all the necessary facts, since everything will be explained to the reader throughout the story.

The lodge where Uncas was kept sat right in the center of the village, and perhaps in a spot more difficult to approach or leave without being noticed than any other. But Hawkeye wasn't one to seek the slightest hiding spot. Relying on his disguise and his ability to maintain the persona he’d adopted, he took the most obvious path to the place. The hour, however, offered him just a little of the protection he seemed so much to despise. The boys were already asleep, and all the women and most of the warriors had retreated to their lodges for the night. Only four or five of the latter lingered by Uncas's prison door, watching warily but closely what their captive was doing.

Seeing Gamut, accompanied by one of their most distinguished conjurers in the well-known masquerade, they readily made way for them both. Yet, they showed no intention of leaving. On the other hand, they were clearly keen to stay, drawn by an added interest in the mysterious mummeries they naturally expected from such a visit.

Since the scout was completely unable to address the Hurons in their own tongue, he had to entrust the conversation entirely to David. Despite his simplicity, David did a fine job of conveying the instructions he had received, more than meeting the strongest hopes of his teacher.

“The Delawares are women!” he exclaimed to the savage who had a slight grasp of the language he spoke; “the Yengeese, my foolish countrymen, have told them to take up the tomahawk and strike their fathers in the Canadas, and they have forgotten their sex. Does my brother wish to hear ‘Le Cerf Agile’ ask for his petticoats and see him weep before the Hurons at the stake?”

The exclamation, “Hugh!” delivered with a strong tone of agreement, announced the satisfaction the savage would derive from witnessing such an exhibition of weakness in an enemy so deeply hated and feared.

“Then let him step aside; the cunning man will blow upon the dog. Tell it to my brothers.”

The Huron explained David's meaning to his companions, who listened with a satisfaction that suggested their untamed spirits expected such a refinement in cruelty. They stepped back from the entrance and gestured to the supposed conjurer to enter. But the bear didn't obey; it held its spot and growled:

“The cunning man fears his breath will blow upon his brothers and steal their courage,” David continued, refining the hint he received; “they must stand further off.”

The Hurons, who would have considered such a misfortune the gravest calamity imaginable, retreated as one, taking a position out of earshot while still keeping a view of the lodge entrance. Then, as if satisfied with their safety, the scout left his place and slowly entered. It was silent and gloomy, occupied only by the captive, illuminated by the dying embers of a fire that had been used for cooking.

Uncas was tucked away in a distant corner, lying still and rigidly bound by strong, painful ropes around both his hands and feet. When the terrifying object first appeared before the young Mohican, he didn't spare the animal a single glance. The scout, who had left David at the door to confirm they weren't being watched, figured it best to keep his disguise intact until privacy was guaranteed. Instead of speaking, he simply acted out one of the animal's antics. The young Mohican, who initially thought his enemies had sent a real beast to torment him and test his nerves, noticed in those performances certain flaws that betrayed the imitation—flaws that Heyward had found so convincing. If Hawkeye had known how little Uncas valued his representations, he probably would have let the show run a little longer out of spite. But the scornful look in the young man's eye allowed for so many interpretations that the worthy scout escaped the mortification of being discovered. So, as soon as David gave the prearranged signal, a low hiss replaced the bear's fierce growls in the lodge.

[Illustration] His keen eye settled on the shaggy monster.

Uncas pressed his body back against the hut's wall and shut his eyes, as if trying to banish the contemptible and disagreeable thing from his sight. But the moment he heard the serpent’s noise, he sprang up, scanning both sides of him, lowering his head and turning it in every direction until his sharp eye fixed on the shaggy monster, remaining glued there as if held by some spell. The sounds repeated, clearly coming from the beast's mouth. Once again, the young man swept his gaze across the interior of the lodge and returned to his original spot. In a deep, muffled voice, he uttered:

“Hawkeye!”

“Cut his bands,” Hawkeye told David, who had just approached them.

The singer obeyed and Uncas felt his limbs loosen. At that very moment, the dried skin of the animal rattled, and soon the scout rose before him, fully formed. The Mohican seemed to grasp the nature of his friend's attempt intuitively, neither his tongue nor his features betraying another sign of surprise. When Hawkeye removed his shaggy covering, which he had done by simply releasing certain strips of hide, he drew a long, glittering knife and placed it in Uncas’s hands.

“The red Hurons are gone,” he said; “let’s get ready.” Simultaneously, he placed a significant finger on another similar weapon, both having been spoils from his exploits against their enemies that evening.

“We'll go,” Uncas said.

“Where to?”

“To the tortoises; they are the children of my grandfathers.”

“Aye, lad,” the scout replied in English—a tongue he favored when his mind was a bit adrift; “the same blood runs in your veins, I reckon; but time and distance have shifted its hue. What do we do with the Mingoes at the door? There are six of them, and this singer is worth nothing.”

“The Hurons are boastful,” Uncas remarked scornfully; “their ‘totem’ is a moose, and they move like snails. The Delawares are children of the tortoise, and they outpace the deer.”

“Aye, lad, there's truth in what you say; I doubt you'd cover the whole nation in a hurry, and in a straight two-mile race, you’d be in, catching your breath before any rogue from them heard of the other village. But a white man's gift lies more in his arms than his legs. As for me, I can kill a Huron just as well as a better man; but in a race, the rogues would prove too much for me.”

Uncas, who had already moved to the door to lead the way, recoiled instead, sinking back into the bottom of the lodge. But Hawkeye, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice the shift, kept talking more to himself than to his companion.

“After all,” he said, “it’s unreasonable to keep one man bound by the gifts of another. So, Uncas, you had better take the lead, while I’ll put on the hide again, and rely on cunning rather than speed.”

The young Mohican offered no reply, merely folding his arms quietly and leaning against one of the upright posts supporting the hut's wall.

“Well,” the scout looked up at him, “why do you dawdle? There’ll be plenty of time for me; the knaves will give chase to you first.”

“Uncas will stay,” was the calm reply.

“For what?”

“To fight with his father’s brother, and die with the Delaware friend.”

“Aye, lad,” Hawkeye returned, squeezing Uncas's hand between his own iron fingers; “it would’ve been more like a Mingo than a Mohican had you left me. But I thought I’d make the offer, seeing that youth usually loves life. Well, what can’t be done with true courage in war must be done by circumvention. Put on the hide; I don't doubt you can play the bear nearly as well as I do.”

Whatever Uncas might have privately thought of their respective abilities in this particular situation, his grave expression showed no sense of superiority. He silently and swiftly wrapped himself in the beast’s skin, then waited for whatever movements his older companion deemed appropriate to dictate.

“Now, friend,” Hawkeye said to David, “swapping clothes will be a great help for you, since you’re not used to the wild’s changes. Take my hunting shirt and cap, and give me your blanket and hat. You must trust me with the book and spectacles, and the tooter too; if we ever meet again, in better times, you’ll have everything back, with many thanks.”

David parted with the items named with a readiness that would have been very generous if he hadn't certainly gained so much from the trade. Hawkeye quickly put on his borrowed clothes; when his restless eyes were hidden behind the glasses and his head was crowned with the triangular beaver—their figures looked alike enough—he might easily have passed for the singer under the starlight. As soon as he had made these arrangements, the scout turned to David and gave him his final instructions.

“Are you much of a coward?” he asked bluntly, seeking a clear understanding of the whole situation before offering any advice.

“My pursuits are peaceful, and I trust my temper is filled with mercy and love,” David replied, slightly stung by such a direct jab at his manhood; “but no one can say I’ve ever forgotten my faith in the Lord, even in the direst times.”

Your greatest peril will arrive the moment the savages realize they’ve been duped. If you don't get knocked on the head, being a non-composer will shield you; then you'll have a solid reason to expect death in your bed. If you stay, you must sit here in the shadow and play the part of Uncas until the Indians’ cunning reveals the deception—when, as I’ve already stated, your trials will arrive. So choose for yourself: make a swift exit or linger here.

"Even so," David said firmly, "I'll remain in the place of the Delaware. He's bravely and generously fought for me, and I dare to serve him in this and all that follows."

"You've spoken like a man, one who, with better education, would have been led toward something better. Keep your head down and draw your legs in; their shape might reveal the truth too soon. Be silent for as long as you can; and when you do speak, it would be wise to suddenly shout—a sound that reminds the Indians you aren't entirely responsible as men should be. If, however, they take your scalp—as I trust they won't—depend on it, Uncas and I won't forget the deed, but we'll seek revenge as true warriors and trusted friends."

“Hold!” David exclaimed, realizing that this assurance meant they were about to leave him. “I am an unworthy and humble follower of one who didn’t teach the damnable principle of revenge. If I must fall, then I seek no victims for my manes, but rather forgive those who destroy me; and if you remember them at all, let it be in prayers for the enlightenment of their minds and their eternal well-being.”

The scout hesitated, appearing to muse.

“There’s a principle in that,” he admitted. “It’s different from the law of the woods, yet it’s fair and noble to consider.” Then, letting out a heavy sigh—perhaps one of the last he'd drawn in longing for a state he'd long since abandoned—he added, “It’s what I wish to practice myself, as one without a cross of blood, though dealing with an Indian isn't always as easy as dealing with a fellow Christian. God bless you, friend; I do think your scent isn’t entirely wrong when you consider things properly and keep eternity in sight, even though much depends on natural gifts and the force of temptation.”

With that, the scout returned and shook David’s hand cordially. Following this gesture of friendship, he immediately left the lodge, accompanied by the new representative of the beast.

The moment Hawkeye found himself under the scrutiny of the Hurons, he straightened his tall frame in David's rigid posture, extended an arm as if marking a beat, and began to perform what he intended as an imitation of psalmody. Luckily for this delicate venture, he had to deal with ears unskilled in the harmony of sweet sounds, or the miserable effort would surely have been spotted. He had to move into dangerous proximity with the dark group of savages, and the scout's voice grew louder as they drew nearer. At the closest point, the Huron who spoke English thrust out an arm and stopped the supposed singing-master.

"The Delaware dog!" he said, leaning forward and peering through the dim light to catch the other's expression; "is he afraid? Will the Hurons hear his groans?"

A growl, so fierce and natural, rumbled from the beast, causing the young Indian to release his hold and step aside, as if to confirm that what was rolling before him was no real bear, but no imitation. Hawkeye, who feared his voice might betray him to his subtle enemies, gladly seized the interruption to burst forth anew in a musical display that, in a more refined society, might have been called "a grand crash." Among his actual audience, however, it simply gave him an extra claim to the respect they never withheld from those believed to be subjects of mental alienation. The small knot of Indians drew back, and as they thought, the conjurer and his inspired assistant proceeded.

No great fortitude was required from Uncas and the scout to maintain the dignified and deliberate pace they had adopted while passing the lodge, especially since they immediately sensed that curiosity had already eclipsed fear, compelling the watchers to approach the hut to see the effects of the incantations. Any injudicious or impatient movement from David might have betrayed them, and time was absolutely essential to ensure the scout's safety. The loud noise the latter felt it was proper to continue drew many curious gazers to the doors of the various huts as they passed. Once or twice, a dark-looking warrior stepped across their path, leading to the action through superstition and watchfulness. They weren't interrupted, however, by the darkness of the hour and the boldness of the attempt, which proved their primary allies

. The adventurers had cleared the village and were now quickly approaching the shelter of the woods when a loud, long cry erupted from the lodge where Uncas had been confined. The Mohican sprang to his feet and shook his shaggy covering, as if the animal he was mimicking were about to make some desperate effort

. “Hold!” the scout commanded, gripping his friend’s shoulder. “Let them yell again! It was nothing but wonderment.”

He had no need to delay, for in the next instant, a burst of cries filled the outer air, running across the entire village. Uncas cast his skin and stepped forth in his own beautiful proportions. Hawkeye tapped him lightly on the shoulder and glided ahead

.“Now let the devils strike our scent!” the scout yelled, ripping two rifles and all their gear from beneath a bush, flashing a killdeer as he handed Uncas his weapon; “two of them will find it to their deaths.”

Then, tossing their pieces onto the trail like sportsmen ready for their hunt, they dashed forward and were quickly swallowed by the somber darkness of the forest.

CHAPTER XXVII.

“Ant. I'll remember this: when Caesar says
‘Do this,’ it is done.”
—Julius Caesar

The impatience of the savages lingering near Uncas’s prison had finally eclipsed their fear of the conjurer’s breath. They crept cautiously, hearts pounding, toward a crevice where the faint firelight glimmered. For several minutes, they mistook David’s form for that of the prisoner; but the very accident Hawkeye had foreseen then transpired. Tired of keeping the extremities of his long body close, the singer gradually allowed his lower limbs to extend until one of his misshapen feet actually touched and pushed aside the embers of the fire. At first, the Hurons believed the Delaware had been deformed by witchcraft. But when David, unseeing of observation, turned his head and revealed his simple, mild face instead of their prisoner’s haughty features, it would have exceeded the credulity of even a native to doubt any longer. They rushed into the lodge and, with little ceremony, laid their hands upon their captive, immediately sensing the imposition. Then came the cry first heard by the fugitives, followed by frantic displays of vengeance. David, however, determined to cover his friends’ retreat, felt compelled to believe that his own final hour had arrived. Deprived of his book and pipe, he had to rely on a memory that rarely failed him on such matters; breaking forth in a loud, impassioned strain, he tried to smooth his passage into the other world by singing the opening verse of a funeral anthem. The Indians were suitably reminded of his frailty, and as they rushed into the open air, they aroused the village in the manner described.

A warrior fought in his sleep, utterly defenseless. The alarm was barely a whisper before two hundred men were on their feet, ready for either battle or pursuit, depending on what the situation demanded. The escape was immediately clear; the entire tribe converged around the council-lodge, anxiously awaiting their chiefs' orders. Faced with such an abrupt demand for wisdom, the presence of the cunning Magua seemed absolutely necessary. His name was invoked, and all looked around in astonishment that he wasn't present. Messengers were then dispatched to his lodge to summon him.

Meanwhile, some of the swiftest and most discreet young men were ordered to scout the clearing, moving through the woods to confirm that their suspected neighbors, the Delawares, intended no harm. Women and children darted about; the whole camp displayed another scene of wild and savage confusion. Gradually, however, this disorder subsided, and in mere minutes, the oldest and most distinguished chiefs were gathered in the lodge for grave consultation.

The clamor of many voices soon announced an approaching party—those who might bring intelligence to explain the novel surprise. The crowd yielded, and several warriors entered the area, bringing with them the hapless conjurer, who had been left there by the scout under duress.

Even though this man was held in very unequal esteem by the Hurons—some believing implicitly in his power, others seeing him as an impostor—he was now listened to by everyone with the deepest attention. When his brief story concluded, the father of the sick woman stepped forward and, with a few pithy expressions, recounted what he knew. These two accounts provided a proper direction for the subsequent inquiries, which were now conducted with the characteristic cunning of savages.

Instead of rushing into a confused and disorderly crowd toward the cavern, ten of the wisest and firmest chiefs were chosen to lead the investigation. Since no time could be wasted, the moment the selection was made, the chosen men rose as one and left without a word. Upon reaching the entrance, the younger men yielded to their seniors; the whole group proceeded along the low, dark gallery, moving with the resolve of warriors ready to serve the public good, even as they secretly doubted the very nature of the power they were about to challenge.

The outer chamber of the cavern was silent and gloomy. The woman lay in her usual position, though some present claimed they had seen her carried into the woods by the supposed “medicine of the white men.” This direct contradiction of the father's tale drew all eyes to him. Chafed by this unspoken accusation and inwardly troubled by such an inexplicable circumstance, the chief moved to the side of the bed and, stooping, cast an incredulous look at her features, as if doubting their reality. His daughter was dead.

For a moment, the unerring feeling of nature took over, and the old warrior hid his eyes in sorrow. Then, regaining his composure, he faced his companions and pointed toward the corpse, speaking in his people's tongue:

“My young man’s wife has abandoned us! The Great Spirit is furious with his children.”

The mournful intelligence was met with solemn silence. After a brief pause, one of the elder Indians was about to speak when a dark object rolled out of an adjoining apartment and into the very center of the room where they stood. Unknowing what kind of beings they were dealing with, the whole group recoiled slightly, rising up on their toes, displaying Magua's distorted but still fierce and sullen features. The discovery was followed by a general exclamation of astonishment.

But as soon as the chief’s true situation was understood, several knives appeared, and his limbs and tongue were quickly freed. The Huron rose up and shook himself like a lion emerging from its lair. No sound escaped him, though his hand convulsively gripped the knife handle as his lowered eyes scanned the whole group, as if searching for something fit for the first burst of his vengeance.

It was a happy thing for Uncas, the scout, and even David, that they were all beyond his grasp at that moment; surely, no further cruelty would have postponed their deaths, in spite of the fierce temper that nearly choked him. Meeting the faces he knew as friends, the savage ground his teeth together like iron rasps, swallowing his passion for a victim to vent it. This display of anger was noted by all present; and from a fear of provoking a temper already chafed nearly to madness, several minutes passed before another word was spoken. When, however, the right moment arrived, the oldest of the party spoke.

“My friend has found an enemy,” he said. “Is he close enough for the Hurons to seek vengeance?”

“Let the Delaware die!” Magua exclaimed, his voice a thunder.

Another longer, more expressive silence followed, and was broken, as before, by the same man with due caution.

“The Mohican is quick on his feet, and leaps far,” he said; “but my young men are right behind him.”

“Is he gone?” Magua demanded, his tones so deep and guttural they seemed to rise from his very chest.

“An evil spirit has been among us, and the Delaware has blinded our eyes.”

“An evil spirit!” the other repeated, mockingly. “It’s the spirit that took the lives of so many Hurons; the spirit that slew my young men at ‘the tumbling river’; that took their scalps at the ‘healing spring’; and who has now bound the arms of Le Renard Subtil!”

“Who is your friend speaking of?”

“Of the dog that carries the heart and cunning of a Huron beneath pale skin—La Longue Carabine.”

The pronunciation of such a terrible name elicited the usual reaction from those who heard it. But when time allowed for reflection, and the warriors recalled that their formidable and daring enemy had even been among their camp, inflicting wounds, fearful rage replaced wonder, and all those fierce passions with which Magua’s breast had just been wrestling were suddenly transferred to his companions. Some gnashed their teeth in anger, others vented their feelings in yells, and some still beat the air as frantically as if the object of their resentment were suffering under their blows. Yet this sudden outburst quickly subsided into the quiet, sullen restraint they most often displayed during moments of inaction.

Magua, who had then found leisure for thought, changed his demeanor, assuming the air of one who knew how to think and act with a dignity worthy of such a grave subject.

“Let us go to my people,” he said. “They are waiting for us.”

His companions agreed in silence, and the entire savage group left the cavern, returning to the council-lodge. Once seated, all eyes fixed on Magua, who understood, from that mere glance, that by common agreement, they had entrusted him with the duty of recounting what had transpired. He rose and told his story without deceit or reservation. The whole deception practiced by both Duncan and Hawkeye was, naturally, laid bare, leaving no room for even the most superstitious member of the tribe to cast doubt on the events. It was plainly obvious that they had been insultingly, shamefully, and disgracefully duped. When he finished and sat back down, the assembled tribe—for his listeners, in essence, all the fighting men of the party—looked at each other as if equally astonished by the audacity and success of their foes. The next thing to consider, however, was how they would exact revenge.

More pursuers were dispatched on the trail of the fugitives, and the chiefs then turned their earnest attention to the business of consultation. The elder warriors proposed various expedients in succession, all of which Magua listened to in silent respect. That subtle savage had regained his artifice and self-command, proceeding toward his objective with his customary caution and skill. He waited until each one had spoken before voicing his own opinions. This was further strengthened by the fact that some runners had already returned, reporting that their enemies had been tracked so far that there was no doubt they had sought refuge in the neighboring camp of their suspected allies, the Delawares. With this vital intelligence, the chief cautiously laid out his plans for his fellows, and as expected from his eloquence and cunning, they were adopted without dissent. They were, briefly, both in opinion and motive.

It had already been stated that, in adherence to a policy rarely broken, the sisters were separated as soon as they reached the Huron village. Magua had soon discovered that by retaining Alice, he held the most effective check on Cora. Therefore, when they parted, he kept the former within his grasp, entrusting the one he valued most to his allies. The arrangement was understood to be temporary, made both to flatter his neighbors and in deference to the immutable rules of Indian policy.

While incessantly goaded by these vengeful impulses that seldom let the chief slumber, he remained focused on his more enduring personal interests. The follies and disloyalties of his youth had to be atoned for through a long, painful penance before he could regain the full trust of his ancient people; without that confidence, there could be no authority in an Indian tribe. In this delicate and arduous predicament, the crafty native hadn't overlooked any way to increase his influence; one of his cleverest moves was successfully cultivating the favor of their powerful and dangerous neighbors. The outcome of this experiment met all the expectations of his policy, for the Hurons were no exception to that governing principle of nature, which compels man to value his gifts precisely by the degree in which others appreciate them

. But while he made this apparent sacrifice for general considerations, Magua never lost sight of his own motives. His personal aims had been thwarted by unforeseen events that placed all his prisoners beyond his control; he now found himself forced into seeking favors from those he had recently sought to oblige

.Several of the chiefs had cooked up deep, treacherous schemes to surprise the Delawares and, by seizing their camp, to recapture their prisoners in the same move; they all agreed that their honor, their interests, and the peace and happiness of their dead countrymen demanded that they swiftly immolate some victims for revenge. But these plans were so dangerous to attempt, and so doubtful in outcome, Magua found little trouble defeating them. He exposed their risks and fallacies with his usual skill; only after he had cleared away every obstacle—in the form of opposing advice—did he dare to propose his own schemes.

He commenced by flattering the self-love of his auditors; a never-failing method of commanding attention.When he had enumerated the many different occasions on which the Hurons had exhibited their courage and prowess, in the punishment of insults, he digressed in a high encomium on the virtue of wisdom.He painted the quality as forming the great point of difference between the beaver and other brutes; between the brutes and men; and, finally, between the Hurons, in particular, and the rest of the human race.After he had sufficiently extolled the property of discretion, he undertook to exhibit in what manner its use was applicable to the present situation of their tribe.On the one hand, he said, was their great pale father, the governor of the Canadas, who had looked upon his children with a hard eye since their tomahawks had been so red; on the other, a people as numerous as themselves, who spoke a different language, possessed different interests, and loved them not, and who would be glad of any pretense to bring them in disgrace with the great white chief.Then he spoke of their necessities; of the gifts they had a right to expect for their past services; of their distance from their proper hunting-grounds and native villages; and of the necessity of consulting prudence more, and inclination less, in so critical circumstances.When he perceived that, while the old men applauded his moderation, many of the fiercest and most distinguished of the warriors listened to these politic plans with lowering looks, he cunningly led them back to the subject which they most loved.He spoke openly of the fruits of their wisdom, which he boldly pronounced would be a complete and final triumph over their enemies.He even darkly hinted that their success might be extended, with proper caution, in such a manner as to include the destruction of all whom they had reason to hate.In short, he masterfully blended the warlike with the artful, the obvious with the obscure, flattering the inclinations of both sides and leaving each subject open to hope, while neither could clearly decipher his true intentions.

The orator or politician capable of producing such a situation is usually popular with his contemporaries, though posterity might judge him differently. Everyone perceived that more was implied than stated, and each one believed the hidden meaning was precisely what his own mind allowed him to grasp, or what his own desires led him to anticipate.

In this agreeable arrangement, it wasn't surprising that Magua's management predominated. The tribe agreed to act deliberately, and with a single voice, they committed the course of the entire affair to the government of the chief who had proposed such wise and understandable strategies.

Magua had now achieved one great goal through all his cunning and effort. He had completely regained the favor he had lost with his people, finding himself even at the head of affairs. He was, in reality, their ruler; and as long as he maintained their affection, no monarch could be more despotic, especially while the tribe remained in a hostile land. Therefore, shedding the pretense of consultation, he adopted the grave air of authority necessary to uphold his office's dignity.

Runners were despatched for intelligence in different directions; spies were ordered to approach and feel the encampment of the Delawares; the warriors were dismissed to their lodges, with an intimation that their services would soon be needed; and the women and children were ordered to retire, with a warning that it was their province to be silent. When these several arrangements were made, Magua passed through the village, stopping here and there to pay a visit where he thought his presence might be flattering to the individual. He confirmed his friends in their confidence, fixed the wavering, and gratified all. Then he sought his own lodge. The wife the Huron chief had abandoned, when he was chased from among his people, was dead. Children he had none; and he now occupied a hut, without companion of any sort. It was, in fact, the dilapidated and solitary structure in which David had been discovered, and whom he had tolerated in his presence, on those few occasions when they met, with the contemptuous indifference of a haughty superiority.

Hither, then, Magua retired, when his labors of policy were ended. While others slept, however, he neither knew or sought repose. Had there been one sufficiently curious to have watched the movements of the newly elected chief, he would have seen him seated in a corner of his lodge, musing on the subject of his future plans, from the hour of his retirement to the time he had appointed for the warriors to assemble again. Occasionally the air breathed through the crevices of the hut, and the low flame that fluttered about the embers of the fire threw their wavering light on the person of the sullen recluse. At such moments it would not have been difficult to have fancied the dusky savage the Prince of Darkness brooding on his own fancied wrongs, and plotting evil.

Long before the day broke, warrior after warrior crept into Magua’s solitary hut, gathering until there were twenty of them. Each carried his rifle and all the other gear of war, though their faces wore an unnervingly peaceful expression. The entrance of these fierce-looking beings went unnoticed: some settled into the shadows of the place, while others stood like motionless statues until the entire band was assembled.

Then Magua arose and gave the signal to proceed, marching himself in advance.They followed their leader singly, and in that well-known order which has obtained the distinguishing appellation of “Indian file.” Unlike other men engaged in the spirit-stirring business of war, they stole from their camp unostentatiously and unobserved resembling a band of gliding specters, more than warriors seeking the bubble reputation by deeds of desperate daring.

Instead of taking the path which led directly toward the camp of the Delawares, Magua led his party for some distance down the windings of the stream, and along the little artificial lake of the beavers.The day began to dawn as they entered the clearing which had been formed by those sagacious and industrious animals.Though Magua, who had resumed his ancient garb, bore the outline of a fox on the dressed skin which formed his robe, there was one chief of his party who carried the beaver as his peculiar symbol, or “totem.” There would have been a species of profanity in the omission, had this man passed so powerful a community of his fancied kindred, without bestowing some evidence of his regard.Accordingly, he paused, and spoke in words as kind and friendly as if he were addressing more intelligent beings.He called the animals his cousins, and reminded them that his protecting influence was the reason they remained unharmed, while many avaricious traders were prompting the Indians to take their lives.He promised a continuance of his favors, and admonished them to be grateful.After which, he spoke of the expedition in which he was himself engaged, and intimated, though with sufficient delicacy and circumlocution, the expediency of bestowing on their relative a portion of that wisdom for which they were so renowned.[1]

[1] These harangues of the beasts were frequent among the Indians.They often address their victims in this way, reproaching them for cowardice or commending their resolution, as they may happen to exhibit fortitude or the reverse, in suffering.

During the utterance of this extraordinary address, the companions of the speaker were as grave and as attentive to his language as though they were all equally impressed with its propriety. Once or twice black objects were seen rising to the surface of the water, and the Huron expressed pleasure, conceiving that his words were not bestowed in vain. Just as he ended his address, the head of a large beaver was thrust from the door of a lodge, whose earthen walls had been much injured, and which the party had believed, from its situation, to be uninhabited. Such an extraordinary sign of confidence was received by the orator as a highly favorable omen; and though the animal retreated a little precipitately, he was lavish of his thanks and commendations.

When Magua thought sufficient time had been lost in gratifying the family affection of the warrior, he again made the signal to proceed. As the Indians moved away in a body, and with a step that would have been inaudible to the ears of any common man, the same venerable-looking beaver once more ventured his head from its cover. Had any of the Hurons turned to look behind them, they would have seen the animal watching their movements with an interest and sagacity that might easily have been mistaken for reason. Indeed, so very distinct and intelligible were the devices of the quadruped, that even the most experienced observer would have been at a loss to account for its actions, until the moment when the party entered the forest, when the whole would have been explained, by seeing the entire animal issue from the lodge, uncasing, by the act, the grave features of Chingachgook from his mask of fur.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

“Brief, I pray for you; for you see, ’tis a busy time with me.”
—Much Ado About Nothing.

The tribe, or rather half tribe, of Delawares, which has been so often mentioned, and whose present place of encampment was so nigh the temporary village of the Hurons, could assemble about an equal number of warriors with the latter people. Like their neighbors, they had followed Montcalm into the territories of the English crown, and were making heavy and serious inroads on the hunting-grounds of the Mohawks; though they had seen fit, with the mysterious reserve so common among the natives, to withhold their assistance at the moment when it was most required. The French had accounted for this unexpected defection on the part of their ally in various ways. It was the prevalent opinion, however, that they had been influenced by veneration for the ancient treaty, that had once made them dependent on the Six Nations for military protection, and now rendered them reluctant to encounter their former masters. As for the tribe itself, it had been content to announce to Montcalm, through his emissaries, with Indian brevity, that their hatchets were dull, and time was necessary to sharpen them. The politic captain of the Canadas had deemed it wiser to submit to entertain a passive friend, than by any acts of ill-judged severity to convert him into an open enemy.

That morning, when Magua led his silent party from the beaver settlement into the forests, the sun rose over the Delaware encampment as if suddenly bursting upon a busy populace, all engaged in the customary work of high noon. Women dashed from lodge to lodge; some were preparing their morning meals, others earnestly sought the comforts essential to their routines, while many paused to exchange hurried, whispered words with their friends. The warriors lounged in groups, musing more than they spoke, and when they did speak, their words carried the weight of deep opinion. Hunting instruments were scattered throughout the lodges, yet none were taken. Here and there, a warrior examined his arms with an intensity rarely given to such tools, as no enemy other than the forest beasts was expected. Occasionally, the eyes of an entire group would turn simultaneously toward a large, silent lodge in the center of the village, as if it held the focus of their shared thoughts

.During that moment, a man suddenly materialized at the farthest edge of a rocky platform that formed the level of the village. He was bare-armed, and his paint seemed to soften rather than sharpen the natural severity of his austere face. When fully visible to the Delawares, he paused and offered a gesture of amity: raising his arm toward the heavens before letting it fall impressively upon his chest. The villagers responded with a low murmur of welcome, encouraging him to advance with similar signs of friendship. Bolstered by these assurances, the dark figure left the brow of the natural rocky terrace, where it had stood momentarily, drawn in a strong outline against the blushing morning sky, and moved with dignity into the very center of the huts. As he drew nearer, nothing was audible save the rattle of the light silver ornaments adorning his arms and neck, and the tinkling of the small bells fringing his deerskin moccasins. As he proceeded, he offered many courteous greetings to the men he passed, seemingly disregarding the women, as if their favor held no consequence for his current venture. When he reached the group where it was clear that the principal chiefs were gathered, the stranger paused. The Delawares then recognized the active, upright form before them as that of the well-known Huron chief, Le Renard Subtil.

His reception was grave, silent, and guarded. The warriors stepped aside, opening a path for their most esteemed orator—one who spoke all the languages cultivated among the northern aborigines.

“The wise Huron is welcome,” the Delaware said in the Maquas tongue, “he has come to eat his ‘succotash’ [1] with his brothers of the lakes.”

[1] It was a dish of cracked corn and beans, widely eaten by the whites. Corn was known as maize.

“He has arrived,” Magua repeated, bowing his head with the dignity of an Eastern prince.

The chief extended his arm, taking the other by the wrist, and they exchanged friendly salutations once more. Then the Delaware invited his guest to enter his lodge and share his morning meal. The invitation was accepted; the two warriors, accompanied by three or four of the elders, walked away calmly, leaving the rest of the tribe consumed by a desire to understand the reasons for such an unusual visit, yet not betraying the slightest impatience through sign or word.

During the short, frugal meal that followed, the conversation was extremely circumspect, revolving entirely around the recent hunt Magua had been engaged in. It would have been impossible for the most accomplished breeder to wear the appearance of considering the visit as a mere formality, as did his hosts, even though everyone present perfectly understood it must connect to some secret object and likely hold importance for them. Once everyone's appetites were satisfied, they removed their trenchers and gourds, preparing themselves for a subtle test of wit.

“Has the face of my great Canada father turned again toward his Huron children?” demanded the orator of the Delawares.

“When was it ever otherwise?” Magua replied. “He calls my people ‘most beloved’.”

The Delaware gravely agreed with what he knew to be untrue and continued:

“The tomahawks of your young men have been very red.”

“That’s true; but they're now bright and dull, because the Yengeese are dead, and the Delawares are our neighbors.”

The other acknowledged the tacit compliment with a hand gesture and fell silent. Then Magua, as if suddenly remembering something, demanded, alluding to the massacre:

“Does my prisoner cause trouble for my brothers?”

“She is welcome.”

“The path between the Hurons and the Delawares is short and open; let her go to my squaws if she bothers my brother.”

“She is welcome,” the chief of the latter nation replied, with even greater emphasis.

Baffled Magua remained silent for several minutes, seemingly unconcerned by the repulsion he had just received during his initial attempt to reclaim Cora.

“Do my young men leave the Delawares room on the mountains for their hunts?” he finally asked.

“The Lenape rule their own hills,” the other replied, a touch haughtily.

“It is fine. Justice is the master of a red-skin. Why should they sharpen their tomahawks and knives against each other? Aren't the pale faces broader than the swallows in the season of flowers?”

“Good!” exclaimed two or three of his auditors simultaneously.

Magua paused briefly, letting his words soften the Delawares’ feelings, before adding:

“Haven’t strange moccasins passed through the woods? Haven’t my brothers smelled the feet of white men?”

“Let my Canada father come,” the other retorted evasively; “his children are ready to see him.”

“When the great chief arrives, he smokes with the Indians in their wigwams. The Hurons also say he is welcome. But the Yengeese have long arms and legs that never tire! My young men dreamed they had seen the Yengeese trail near the Delawares village!”

“They won’t find the Lenape asleep.”

“It’s fine,” Magua said, shifting his position again, “the warrior with an open eye can see his enemy.” He found himself unable to pierce his companion's caution. “I brought gifts to my brother. His nation wouldn’t go on this warpath because they didn’t think it through properly, but their friends remembered where they lived.”

When he announced his liberal intentions this way, the crafty chief rose and solemnly spread his presents before the dazzled eyes of his people. They were mostly trinkets of little worth, plundered from the slain women of William Henry. In choosing these baubles, the cunning Huron showed no less artistry. While he gave the most valuable items to the two most distinguished warriors—one of whom was his host—he sweetened his offerings to the rest with compliments so perfectly timed and apt that they left no room for complaint. In short, the entire ceremony blended the profitable with the flattering so smoothly that the donor could immediately read the effect of a generosity so aptly mixed with praise in the eyes of those he addressed.

This well-judged and political move by Magua yielded immediate results. The Delawares lost their sternness, adopting a much more cordial expression; and the host, in particular, after savoring his own share of the spoils for a moment with distinct pleasure, repeated with strong emphasis, “My brother is a wise chief. He is welcome.”

“The Hurons love their friends, the Delawares,” Magua replied. “Why shouldn't they? They share the same sun, and their men will hunt in the same lands after death. The red-skins ought to be friends, and watch the white men with open eyes. Hasn’t my brother scented spies in the woods?”

The Delaware, whose name in English meant “Hard Heart”—a title the French had rendered as “le Coeur-dur”—forgot that such obstinacy of purpose had probably earned him such a title. His face softened considerably, and he began to answer more plainly.

“There have been strange moccasins near my camp. They’ve been tracked into my lodges.”

“Did my brother hunt the dogs?” Magua asked, without acknowledging the chief’s earlier ambiguity.

“That would not be right. The stranger is always welcome to the children of the Lenape.”

“The stranger, but not the spy.”

“Would the Yengeese send their women as spies? Didn't the Huron chief say he took women in the battle?”

“He told no lies. The Yengeese have sent out their scouts. They were in my wigwams, but they found no one to welcome. Then they fled to the Delawares—for, they say, the Delawares are our friends; their minds are turned away from their Canadian father!”

This insinuation was a direct blow, and in a more advanced society, it would have earned Magua the reputation of a skillful diplomat. The tribe's recent defection had subjected the Delawares to much reproach among their French allies; they now felt that their future actions would be viewed with jealousy and distrust. There wasn't much insight into cause and effect necessary to foresee that this situation would prove highly detrimental to their next moves. Their distant villages, hunting grounds, hundreds of women and children, along with a tangible part of their physical strength, were actually within French territory. Consequently, this alarming announcement was received, as Magua intended, with clear disapproval, if not alarm.

“Let my father look me in the face,” Le Coeur-dur said; “he won’t see any change. It’s true, my young men didn’t go onto the war-path; they had dreams of avoiding it. But they love and revere the great white chief.”

“Will he think so when he hears his greatest enemy is being fed in his children's camp? When he learns a bloody Yengee smokes at your fire? That the pale-faced one who has slain so many of his friends is roaming among the Delawares? Go! My great Canada father isn’t a fool!”

“Where is the Yengee that the Delawares fear?” the other replied. “Who has killed my young men? Who is the mortal enemy of my Great Father?”

“La Longue Carabine!”

The Delaware warriors began with the well-known name, betraying their astonishment that they had just learned, for the first time, that one so famous among the Indian allies of France was within their reach.

“What does my brother mean?” demanded Le Coeur-dur, his tone overflowing with wonder that far surpassed the usual apathy of his people.

“A Huron never lies!” Magua retorted coldly, resting his head against the lodge wall and drawing his thin robe across his tawny chest. “Let the Delawares count their prisoners; they’ll find one whose skin is neither red nor pale.”

A long, thoughtful silence followed. The chief conferred with his companions, dispatching messengers to gather some of the tribe's most distinguished men.

As warrior after warrior arrived, they were each brought up to speed on the crucial intelligence Magua had just shared. Surprise and a low, guttural exclamation were common to them all. The news spread quickly from one person to the next until the entire encampment was powerfully agitated. The women dropped their work to catch the syllables that slipped unguardedly from the mouths of the consulting warriors. The boys abandoned their games and walked fearlessly among their fathers, looking up in curious admiration as they heard the brief exclamations of wonder freely expressing the audacity of their hated foe. In short, every task was set aside, allowing the tribe to openly indulge, in their own unique way, in an expression of feeling.

When the excitement settled down a bit, the old men seriously considered what it was that became their tribe's honor and safety to perform under such delicate and embarrassing circumstances. Amidst all these movements and general commotion, Magua not only kept his seat but also the very demeanor he had initially adopted on the side of the lodge, remaining unmoving and seemingly unconcerned, as if the outcome held no interest for him. Yet, not a single clue about his hosts' future intentions escaped his vigilant eyes. With his profound understanding of the people he had to deal with, he anticipated every measure they decided; in many cases, it might almost be said that he knew their intentions even before they themselves did.

The Delaware council was brief. When it concluded, a general bustle announced that a solemn and formal assembly of the nation was to follow immediately. Since such meetings were rare and only called for matters of the utmost importance, the subtle Huron, who remained seated apart—a wily and dark observer of the proceedings—now knew all his projects had to reach their conclusion. He left the lodge and walked silently toward the area in front of the encampment where the warriors were already beginning to gather.

It might have been half an hour before each individual, including even the women and children, was in his place. The delay had been created by the grave preparations that were deemed necessary to so solemn and unusual a conference. But when the sun was seen climbing above the tops of that mountain, against whose bosom the Delawares had constructed their encampment, most were seated; and as his bright rays darted from behind the outline of trees that fringed the eminence, they fell upon as grave, as attentive, and as deeply interested a multitude, as was probably ever before lighted by his morning beams. Its number somewhat exceeded a thousand souls.

In a collection of so serious savages, there is never to be found any impatient aspirant after premature distinction, standing ready to move his auditors to some hasty, and, perhaps, injudicious discussion, in order that his own reputation may be the gainer. An act of so much precipitancy and presumption would seal the downfall of precocious intellect forever. It rested solely with the oldest and most experienced of the men to lay the subject of the conference before the people. Until such a one chose to make some movement, no deeds in arms, no natural gifts, nor any renown as an orator, would have justified the slightest interruption. On the present occasion, the aged warrior whose privilege it was to speak, was silent, seemingly oppressed with the magnitude of his subject. The delay had already continued long beyond the usual deliberative pause that always preceded a conference; but no sign of impatience or surprise escaped even the youngest boy. Occasionally an eye was raised from the earth, where the looks of most were riveted, and strayed toward a particular lodge, that was, however, in no manner distinguished from those around it, except in the peculiar care that had been taken to protect it against the assaults of the weather.

Amidst those low murmurs, so perfectly suited to stirring a multitude, one was heard, and the entire nation rose by a shared impulse. At that very moment, the lodge door swung open, and three men emerged, slowly approaching the consultation spot. They were all old, even beyond the age of the oldest among them; yet, the one in the center, leaning on his companions for aid, had lived a span of years rarely afforded to humankind. His frame, once tall and straight as cedar, now yielded beneath the strain of more than a century. The light, elastic step of an Indian was gone, replaced by a slow, painstaking crawl across the ground, inch by agonizing inch. His dark, wrinkled face stood in stark, wild contrast to the long white locks that draped over his shoulders—so thick they seemed to announce generations since their last shearing.

The dress of this patriarch—for such, considering his vast age, in conjunction with his affinity and influence with his people, he might very properly be termed—was rich and imposing, though strictly after the simple fashions of the tribe.His robe was of the finest skins, which had been deprived of their fur, in order to admit of a hieroglyphical representation of various deeds in arms, done in former ages.His bosom was loaded with medals, some in massive silver, and one or two even in gold, the gifts of various Christian potentates during the long period of his life.He also wore armlets, and cinctures above the ankles, of the latter precious metal.His head, on the whole of which the hair had been permitted to grow, the pursuits of war having so long been abandoned, was encircled by a sort of plated diadem, which, in its turn, bore lesser and more glittering ornaments, that sparkled amid the glossy hues of three drooping ostrich feathers, dyed a deep black, in touching contrast to the color of his snow-white locks.His tomahawk was nearly hid in silver, and the handle of his knife shone like a horn of solid gold.

So soon as the first hum of emotion and pleasure, which the sudden appearance of this venerated individual created, had a little subsided, the name of “Tamenund” was whispered from mouth to mouth.Magua had often heard the fame of this wise and just Delaware; a reputation that even proceeded so far as to bestow on him the rare gift of holding secret communion with the Great Spirit, and which has since transmitted his name, with some slight alteration, to the white usurpers of his ancient territory, as the imaginary tutelar saint[2] of a vast empire.The Huron chief stepped eagerly out of the throng to a spot where he could catch a closer glimpse of the man whose decision would likely profoundly affect his own fate.

[2] The Americans sometimes called their tutelar saint Tamenay, a corrupted version of the name of the renowned chief introduced here. Many traditions speak of Tamenund’s character and power.

The old man’s eyes were closed, as if his organs were weary from witnessing the selfish workings of human passions for so long. His skin color differed from most around him; it was richer and darker, marked by delicate, winding lines of complicated yet beautiful figures traced over most of his body by tattooing. Despite his Huron status, he passed the observant and silent Magua without notice, leaning on his two venerable supporters as he proceeded to the high place of the multitude, where he sat in the center of his nation with the dignity of a monarch and the air of a father.

Nothing could match the reverence and affection with which his people received this unexpected visit from someone belonging to a world far removed from their own. After a fitting, solemn pause, the principal chiefs rose, approaching the patriarch and placing their hands reverently upon their heads, seemingly imploring a blessing. The younger men were content merely to touch his robe or draw near to his person, breathing in the atmosphere of one so aged, so just, and so valiant. Only the most distinguished among the young warriors dared perform this latter ceremony; the vast multitude considered gazing upon such a deeply venerated and beloved figure sufficient happiness. As these acts of affection and respect concluded, the chiefs retreated to their positions, and silence settled over the entire encampment.

A short while later, a few of the young men—having received instructions from one of the aged attendants of Tamenund—rose, left the crowd, and entered the lodge that had already commanded so much attention that morning. Minutes later, they reappeared, leading those who had orchestrated all the solemn preparations toward the seat of judgment. The crowd parted in a lane; when the party re-entered, it closed back in, forming a dense, open circle of bodies.

CHAPTER XXIX.

“The assembly seated, rising o’er the rest,
Achilles thus the king of men addressed.”
—Pope’s Illiad

Cora stood foremost among the prisoners, entwining her arms in those of Alice, in the tenderness of sisterly love. Notwithstanding the fearful and menacing array of savages on every side of her, no apprehension on her own account could prevent the nobler-minded maiden from keeping her eyes fastened on the pale and anxious features of the trembling Alice. Close at their side stood Heyward, with an interest in both, that, at such a moment of intense uncertainty, scarcely knew a preponderance in favor of her whom he most loved. Hawkeye had placed himself a little in the rear, with a deference to the superior rank of his companions, that no similarity in the state of their present fortunes could induce him to forget. Uncas was not there.

When perfect silence was again restored, and after the usual long, impressive pause, one of the two aged chiefs who sat at the side of the patriarch arose, and demanded aloud, in very intelligible English:

“Which of my prisoners is La Longue Carabine?”

Neither Duncan nor the scout responded. The former, however, scanned the dark and silent gathering with his eyes, then recoiled a step upon seeing Magua's malignant face. He instantly realized this cunning savage held some secret influence in their current arrangement before the nation, and resolved to throw every possible obstacle in the way of carrying out his sinister plans. He had witnessed the summary punishments inflicted upon the Indians once already, and now he dreaded his companion would be next. Faced with this dilemma, with little time for thought, he suddenly decided to shield his invaluable friend from any and all danger. Before he could speak, the question was repeated in a louder voice, with clearer articulation.

“Give us arms,” the young man replied haughtily, “and place us in those woods. Our deeds will make our case!”

“This is the warrior whose name has filled our ears!” the chief retorted, looking at Heyward with that kind of curious interest that seems inseparable from humanity, when first beholding a fellow to whom fame—whether by merit or accident, virtue or crime—has been attached. “What brought the white man to the camp of the Delawares?”

“My necessities. I come for food, shelter, and friends.”

“That can't be. The woods are full of game. A warrior’s head needs no shelter other than a sky without clouds; and the Delawares are enemies, not allies of the Yengeese. Go,” the mouth spoke, “while the heart remained silent.”

Duncan, a little at a loss in what manner to proceed, remained silent; but the scout, who had listened attentively to all that passed, now advanced steadily to the front.

“That I did not answer to the call for La Longue Carabine, was not owing either to shame or fear,” he said, “for neither one nor the other is the gift of an honest man. But I do not admit the right of the Mingoes to bestow a name on one whose friends have been mindful of his gifts, in this particular; especially as their title is a lie, ‘killdeer’ being a grooved barrel and no carabyne. I am the man, however, that got the name of Nathaniel from my kin; the compliment of Hawkeye from the Delawares, who live on their own river; and whom the Iroquois have presumed to style the ‘Long Rifle’, without any warranty from him who is most concerned in the matter.”

The eyes of all present, which had hitherto been gravely scanning the person of Duncan, were now turned, on the instant, toward the upright iron frame of this new pretender to the distinguished appellation. It was in no degree remarkable that there should be found two who were willing to claim so great an honor, for impostors, though rare, were not unknown among the natives; but it was altogether material to the just and severe intentions of the Delawares, that there should be no mistake in the matter. Some of their old men consulted together in private, and then, as it would seem, they determined to interrogate their visitor on the subject.

“My brother has said that a snake crept into my camp,” said the chief to Magua; “which is he?”

The Huron pointed to the scout.

“Will a wise Delaware believe the barking of a wolf?” Duncan exclaimed, his conviction in his ancient enemy's evil intentions only growing stronger: “a dog never lies, but when was a wolf known to speak the truth?”

Magua’s eyes flashed fire. Yet, instantly recalling the need to keep his composure, he turned away with silent disdain, certain that the wisdom of the Indians would reveal the true merit of the dispute. He wasn't fooled; after a brief consultation, the wary Delaware looked back at him, expressing the chiefs’ determination, albeit in the most considerate terms.

“My brother has been called a liar,” he said, “and his friends are angry. They will show that he spoke the truth. Give my prisoners guns, and let them prove who the man is.”

Magua considered the expedient, which he knew stemmed from distrust of himself, and offered a gesture of assent, content that his veracity would be backed by such a skilled marksman as the scout. The weapons were immediately handed to the friendly opponents, who were ordered to fire over the heads of the assembled crowd at an earthen vessel lying, by chance, on a stump fifty yards away.

Heyward smiled to himself at the idea of a contest with the scout, though he resolved to maintain the deception until Magua’s true designs were revealed.

Raising his rifle with painstaking care, he re-aimed three more times before firing. The bullet sliced the wood mere inches from the vessel; a general cry of satisfaction announced that the shot proved great skill in wielding the weapon. Even Hawkeye nodded, as if to confirm an expectation. But instead of moving to challenge the successful marksman, he leaned on his rifle for over a minute, lost entirely in thought. From this reverie, he was jolted by one of the young Indians who had provided the arms; the man touched his shoulder and spoke in heavily broken English:

“Can the pale face beat it?”

“Yes, Huron!” the scout exclaimed, raising the short rifle in his right hand and shaking it at Magua with apparent ease, as if it were a mere reed. “Yes, Huron, I could strike you now, and no power on earth could stop it! The soaring hawk is no more certain of the dove than I am of this moment—did I choose to send a bullet to your heart? Why shouldn't I? Why!—because the gifts of my color forbid it, and I might draw down evil on tender and innocent heads. If you know such a being as God, thank Him, therefore, in your inward soul; for you have reason!”

The flushed countenance, angry eye and swelling figure of the scout, produced a sensation of secret awe in all that heard him. The Delawares held their breath in expectation; but Magua himself, even while he distrusted the forbearance of his enemy, remained immovable and calm, where he stood wedged in by the crowd, as one who grew to the spot.

“Beat it,” repeated the young Delaware at the elbow of the scout.

“Beat what, fool!—what?” exclaimed Hawkeye, still flourishing the weapon angrily above his head, though his eye no longer sought the person of Magua.

“If the white man is the warrior he pretends,” said the aged chief, “let him strike nigher to the mark.”

The scout laughed aloud—a noise that produced the startling effect of an unnatural sound on Heyward; then dropping the piece, heavily, into his extended left hand, it was discharged, apparently by the shock, driving the fragments of the vessel into the air, and scattering them on every side. Almost at the same instant, the rattling sound of the rifle was heard, as he suffered it to fall, contemptuously, to the earth.

The first impression of so strange a scene was engrossing admiration. Then a low, but increasing murmur, ran through the multitude, and finally swelled into sounds that denoted a lively opposition in the sentiments of the spectators. While some openly testified their satisfaction at so unexampled dexterity, by far the larger portion of the tribe were inclined to believe the success of the shot was the result of accident. Heyward was not slow to confirm an opinion that was so favorable to his own pretensions.

“It was chance!” he exclaimed; “none can shoot without an aim!”

“Chance!” the excited woodsman echoed, stubbornly clinging to his identity at every turn, completely missing Heyward’s subtle hints that he should agree to the deception. “Does that lying Huron think it chance too? Give him another gun, put us face to face, with no cover or room to dodge, and let Providence, and our own eyes, decide what happens between us! I’m not making an offer to you, major; our blood is the same color, and we serve the same master.”

“That the Huron is a liar is plain enough,” Heyward replied coolly. “You yourself heard him claim to be La Longue Carabine.”

It was impossible to guess what violent assertion the stubborn Hawkeye would next make in his desperate desire to prove his identity, had the aged Delaware not stepped in again.

“The hawk that comes from the clouds can return when he wills,” he said. “Give them the guns.”

This time, the scout seized the rifle with eagerness. Magua, though watching the marksman’s movements with jealous eyes, felt no further cause for alarm.

“Now let this be proven, in the face of this tribe of Delawares, who is the better man,” cried the scout, tapping the butt of his rifle with the same finger that had pulled so many fatal triggers.

“You see that gourd hanging against that tree, major? If you’re a marksman fit for the borders, let me see you break its shell!”

Duncan took in the object and braced himself to restart the trial. The gourd was one of the simple vessels the Indians usually used, hung from a dead pine branch by a strip of deerskin, suspended a hundred yards away. Self-love proved a strange thing; though the young soldier knew the worthlessness of his savage umpires' votes, he forgot the contest's immediate motives in a sheer desire to excel. He’d already seen that his skill wasn't contemptible, so now he resolved to show off its finest qualities. If his life depended on the outcome, Duncan’s aim would have been far more deliberate and guarded. He fired, and three or four young Indians, who lunged forward at the sound, shouted that the ball was in the tree, just a little off the true mark. The warriors let out a shared cry of pleasure, then turned their eyes to regard his rival

. “It’ll do for the Royal Americans!” Hawkeye said, laughing again in his own quiet, heartfelt way; “but if my gun had often been aimed so far from the true line, many marten skins now in a lady’s muff would still be in the woods; and plenty of bloody Mingos, long since accounted for, would still be causing trouble across the provinces. I hope the squaw who owns the gourd has more of them in her wigwam, because this won’t hold up anymore!”

The scout shook his priming and cocked his rifle while speaking. As he finished, he threw back a foot and slowly raised the muzzle from the earth; the motion was steady, uniform, and direct. When perfectly level, it held for a single moment, without tremor or variation, as if both man and rifle were carved from stone. In that stationary instant, it unleashed its contents in a bright, glancing sheet of flame. The young Indians bounded forward again, but their hurried search and disappointed expressions announced that no trace of the bullet could be found.

“Go!” the old chief commanded the scout, his tone thick with strong disgust. “You’re a wolf in dog skin. I’ll talk to the ‘Long Rifle’ of the Yengeese.”

“Ah! If I had that piece you call the Long Rifle, I’d gladly cut the thong and drop the gourd without breaking it!” Hawkeye replied, perfectly unfazed by the other's demeanor. “Fools, if you want to find a sharpshooter’s bullet in these woods, you look at the object itself, not around it!”

The Indian youths instantly grasped his meaning—since he was speaking in the Delaware tongue this time—and tore the gourd from the tree. They held it high with an exultant shout, revealing a hole in the bottom, cut by the bullet after it had passed through the usual opening in the center of its upper side. At this unexpected display, a loud and vehement expression of pleasure erupted from the mouths of every warrior present. It settled the question, and effectively established Hawkeye’s dangerous reputation. The curious and admiring eyes that had turned back to Heyward were finally fixed upon the weather-beaten scout, who immediately became the main focus for the simple, unsophisticated beings surrounding him. When the sudden commotion quieted slightly, the aged chief resumed his examination.

“Why did you want to stop my ears?” he asked Duncan. “Are the Delawares fools who can’t tell a young panther from a cat?”

“They’ll still recognize the Huron as a singing-bird,” Duncan replied, trying to use the natives' figurative speech.

“That’s good. We'll know who can silence men’s ears, brother,” the chief added, turning his gaze to Magua. “The Delawares are listening.”

Thus singled, and directly called upon to declare his purpose, the Huron arose. Advancing with great deliberation and dignity into the very center of the circle, where he stood confronted by the prisoners, he assumed a posture to speak. Before opening his mouth, however, he slowly swept his eyes across the living boundary of earnest faces, as if trying to calibrate his expressions for his audience. On Hawkeye, he cast a glance tinged with respectful enmity; on Duncan, an look of inextinguishable hatred; Alice's shrinking figure he barely deigned to notice. But when his gaze met Cora’s firm, commanding, and yet lovely form, his eye lingered a moment, holding an expression that was difficult to define. Then, filled with his own dark intentions, he spoke in the language of the Canadas, a tongue he knew most of his listeners understood.

“The Spirit that made men different colors,” the subtle Huron began, “some are darker than the sluggish bear. These, He decreed, should be slaves, and He commanded them to toil eternally, like the beaver. You might hear them groan when the south wind blows, louder than the lowing buffaloes, along the shores of the great salt lake, where the big canoes come and go with them in droves. Some He fashioned with faces paler than the ermine of the forests; these He made traders; dogs for their women, and wolves for their slaves. He gifted this people the nature of the pigeon: wings that never tire, young and plentiful, more numerous than the leaves on the trees, and appetites to devour the earth. He gave them tongues like the false call of the wildcat, hearts like rabbits, the cunning of the hog (but not the fox), and arms longer than the legs of the moose. With his tongue, he silences the ears of the Indians; with his heart, he teaches him to pay warriors to fight his battles; with his cunning, he shows him how to gather the earth's bounty; and with his arms, he enclose the land from the salt-water shores to the great lake’s islands. His gluttony sickens him. God gave him enough, and yet he desires all. Such are the pale faces.

“Some the Great Spirit made with skins brighter and redder than yonder sun,” continued Magua, pointing impressively upward to the lurid luminary, which was struggling through the misty atmosphere of the horizon; “and these did He fashion to His own mind. He gave them this island as He had made it, covered with trees, and filled with game. The wind made their clearings; the sun and rain ripened their fruits; and the snows came to tell them to be thankful. What need had they of roads to journey by! They saw through the hills! When the beavers worked, they lay in the shade, and looked on. The winds cooled them in summer; in winter, skins kept them warm. If they fought among themselves, it was to prove that they were men. They were brave; they were just; they were happy.”

Here the speaker paused, and again looked around him to discover if his legend had touched the sympathies of his listeners. He met everywhere, with eyes riveted on his own, heads erect and nostrils expanded, as if each individual present felt himself able and willing, singly, to redress the wrongs of his race.

“If the Great Spirit gave different tongues to his red children,” he continued, in a low, still melancholy voice, “it was that all animals might understand them. Some He placed among the snows, with their cousin, the bear. Some he placed near the setting sun, on the road to the happy hunting grounds. Some on the lands around the great fresh waters; but to His greatest, and most beloved, He gave the sands of the salt lake. Do my brothers know the name of this favored people?”

“It was the Lenape!” exclaimed twenty eager voices in a breath.

“It was the Lenni Lenape,” Magua replied, bowing his head in reverence to their former greatness. “It was the Lenape tribes! The sun rose from water that was salt and set in water that was sweet, never hiding himself from their eyes. But why should I, a Huron of the woods, tell a wise people their own traditions? Why remind them of their injuries; their ancient glory, their deeds, their triumphs, their happiness, their losses, their defeats, their misery? Is there not one among them who has witnessed it all and knows it to be true? I have. My tongue is still for my heart is of lead. I listen.”

As the speaker’s voice suddenly died, every face and eye turned in unison toward the venerable Tamenund. From the moment he sat down until that very moment, the patriarch’s lips hadn't parted, and hardly any sign of life had escaped him. He sat slumped in weakness, seemingly unaware of his surroundings throughout that opening scene where the scout’s skill had been so clearly demonstrated. Yet, when Magua’s voice returned with its measured tone, he showed some sign of consciousness, raising his head once or twice as if listening. But when the cunning Huron spoke his nation's name, the old man’s eyelids lifted, and he gazed out at the multitude with a dull, unreadable expression, as if the visage of a phantom. Then he made an effort to rise, and supported by his followers, he gained his feet in a posture commanding by its dignity, though he still swayed with weakness.

“Who calls upon the children of the Lenape?” he asked in a deep, guttural voice, which was made painfully audible by the breathless silence of the multitude; “who speaks of things gone by? Doesn’t the egg turn to worm—the worm to fly, and then perish? Why tell the Delawares of what is past? It is better to thank the Manitou for what remains.”

“It is a Wyandot,” Magua replied, stepping closer to the rough platform where the other stood; “a friend of Tamenund.”

“A friend!” the sage repeated, a dark frown settling on his brow and imparting a measure of that severity that had made his eyes so terrible in middle age. “Are the Mingoes rulers of the earth? What brings a Huron here?”

“Justice. His prisoners are with his brothers, and he comes for his own.”

Tamenund turned his head toward one of his supporters and listened to the man's brief explanation.

Then, facing the applicant, he regarded him for a moment with intense attention before saying, in a low and reluctant voice:

“Justice is the law of the great Manitou. My children, give the stranger food. Then, Huron, take what is yours and leave.”

Upon delivering this solemn judgment, the patriarch settled himself and closed his eyes once more, as if he found greater satisfaction in the visions of his own ripened experience than in the visible objects of the world. No Delaware was hardy enough to voice dissent, much less to resist such a decree. The words were barely spoken when four or five of the younger warriors stepped behind Heyward and the scout, swiftly and deftly passing thongs around their arms, instantly binding them both. The former was too absorbed in his precious and almost insensible burden to notice their intentions until they were executed; the latter, who viewed even the hostile tribes of the Delawares as a superior race, submitted without resistance. Perhaps, however, the scout’s demeanor would not have been so passive had he fully understood the language of the preceding dialogue.

Magua cast a look of triumph over the entire assembly before proceeding with his objective. Seeing that the men offered no resistance, he turned his gaze upon the woman he valued most. Cora met his look with an eye so calm and firm that his resolve wavered. Then, recalling his former artifice, he lifted Alice from the arms of the warrior she leaned against, beckoned Heyward to follow, and motioned for the surrounding crowd to open. But instead of obeying the impulse he had expected, Cora rushed to the patriarch’s feet and, raising her voice, exclaimed aloud:

"Just and venerable Delaware, we lean on your wisdom and power for mercy! Be deaf to that artful and remorseless monster who poisons your ears with falsehoods to satisfy his thirst for blood. You who have lived long and seen the evil of the world should know how to temper its calamities for the miserable."

[Illustration]

The old man's eyes opened slowly, and he looked up once more at the multitude. As the suppliant's piercing tones swelled in his ears, they moved slowly toward her, finally settling into a steady gaze. Cora dropped to her knees; with hands clenched and pressed to her chest, she remained a beautiful, breathing model of her sex, looking up at his faded yet majestic countenance with a kind of holy reverence. Gradually, the expression on Tamenund's face changed; losing its vacancy of admiration, it lit up with some of that intelligence which a century earlier had been wont to communicate his youthful fire to the sprawling bands of the Delawares. Rising without effort, he demanded, in a voice that startled his listeners with its firmness:

"Who are you?"

"A woman. One of a hated race, if you wish—a Yengee. But one who has never harmed you and cannot harm your people, if she would; one who asks for aid."

"Tell me, my children," the patriarch continued, hoarsely, motioning to those around him, though his eyes still rested on Cora’s kneeling form, "where have the Delawares camped?"

“In the mountains of the Iroquois, beyond the clear springs of the Horican.”

“Many scorching summers have come and gone,” the sage continued, “since I drank from the waters of my own rivers. The people of Minquon[1] are the fairest white men, but they were thirsty, and they took what they needed for themselves. Do they follow us this far?”

[1] William Penn was called Minquon by the Delaware, and since he never used violence or injustice in his dealings with them, his reputation for integrity became a proverb. The Americans are rightly proud of their nation's origins, perhaps unequaled in world history; yet the Pennsylvanians and Jerseys have more cause to value their ancestors than the natives of any other state, as no wrong was done to the original owners of the land.

“We follow none; we covet nothing,” Cora replied. “Have we been captured against our will and brought among you? We only ask permission to depart in peace. Aren't you Tamenund—the father, the judge, I almost said, the prophet—of this people?”

“I am Tamenund for many days.”

“It has been about seven years since one of your people was under the mercy of a white chief on the borders of this province. He claimed to be of the blood of the good and just Tamenund. ‘Go,’ the white man said, ‘for your parents’ sake, you are free.’ Do you remember the name of that English warrior?”

“I remember,” the patriarch returned, with a peculiar recollection of vast age, “when a laughing boy stood upon the seashore and saw a great canoe, its wings whiter than a swan’s and wider than many eagles, come from the rising sun.”

“Nay, nay; I don’t speak of a time so distant, but of a favor shown to your kin by one of mine, within the memory of your youngest warrior.”

“Was it when the Yengeese and the Dutch fought over the Delaware hunting grounds? Then Tamenund was a chief, and first laid aside the bow for the lightning of pale faces—”

“Not yet then,” Cora interrupted, “by many ages; I speak of yesterday. Surely, surely, you don’t forget it.”

“It was just yesterday,” rejoined the old man, with touching pathos, “that the Lenape children were masters of the world. The fish of the salt lake, the birds, the beasts, and the Mengee of the woods, they owned them for Sagamores.”

Cora bowed her head in disappointment and wrestled briefly with her chagrin. Then, elevating her rich features and beaming eyes, she continued, in tones scarcely less penetrating than the patriarch’s own unearthly voice:

“Tell me, is Tamenund a father?”

The old man looked down upon her from his elevated stand, a benign smile gracing his wasted countenance, and then casting his eyes slowly over the whole assembly, he answered:

“Of a nation.”

“I ask nothing of myself,” she continued, pressing her hands convulsively to her heart and letting her head droop until her burning cheeks were almost hidden by the dark, glossy tresses that fell in disarray across her shoulders, “like you and yours, venerable chief, the curse of my ancestors has fallen heavily upon their child. But there is one who has never known the weight of Heaven’s displeasure until now. She is the daughter of an old and failing man, whose days are drawing to a close. She has many, many souls who would love her and delight in her; yet she is too good, too precious, to become the victim of that villain.”

“I know that the pale faces are a proud and hungry race. I know they claim not only dominion over the earth, but that the most unassuming of their shades surpasses the Sachems of the red man. The dogs and crows of their tribes,” the earnest old chieftain continued, ignoring the wounded spirit of his listener, whose head was nearly crushed by shame upon the earth, “would bark and caw before they would take a woman to their wigwams whose blood was not the color of snow. But let them not boast before the face of the Manitou too loudly. They entered the land at sunrise, and may yet depart at sunset. I have often seen the locusts strip the leaves from the trees, but the season of blossoms always returns.”

“It is so,” Cora said, drawing a long breath as if waking from a trance. She raised her face and shook back her shining veil with an eye that contradicted the death-like paleness of her features. “But why—we aren’t permitted to ask. There is still one of your own people who hasn’t been brought before you; before you let the Huron depart in triumph, hear him speak.”

Observing Tamenund look about doubtfully, one of his companions remarked:

“It’s a snake—a red-skin among the Yengeese. We keep him for torture.”

“Let him come,” the sage replied.

Then Tamenund sank back into his seat, and a silence so profound settled over them as the young man prepared to obey his simple command. Even the leaves, fluttering in the draught of the morning air, rustled distinctly in the surrounding forest.

CHAPTER XXX.

“If you deny me, fie upon your law!
There is no force in the decrees of Venice:
I stand for judgment: answer, shall I have it?”
—Merchant of Venice

The silence continued unbroken by human sounds for many anxious minutes. Then the waving multitude opened and shut again, and Uncas stood in the living circle. All those eyes, which had been curiously studying the lineaments of the sage, as the source of their own intelligence, turned on the instant, and were now bent in secret admiration on the erect, agile, and faultless person of the captive. But neither the presence in which he found himself, nor the exclusive attention that he attracted, in any manner disturbed the self-possession of the young Mohican. He cast a deliberate and observing look on every side of him, meeting the settled expression of hostility that lowered in the visages of the chiefs with the same calmness as the curious gaze of the attentive children. But when, last in this haughty scrutiny, the person of Tamenund came under his glance, his eye became fixed, as though all other objects were already forgotten. Then, advancing with a slow and noiseless step up the area, he placed himself immediately before the footstool of the sage. Here he stood unnoted, though keenly observant himself, until one of the chiefs apprised the latter of his presence.

“With what tongue does the prisoner speak to the Manitou?” demanded the patriarch, without unclosing his eyes.

[Illustration] “With what tongue does the prisoner speak to the Manitou?”

“Like his fathers,” Uncas replied; “with the tongue of a Delaware.”

At that sudden, unexpected announcement, a low, fierce yell ripped through the crowd, a sound perhaps not unlike a lion's growl as his wrath first stirred—a terrifying omen of his impending fury. The effect was equally potent on the sage, though displayed differently. He passed a hand before his eyes, as if to banish even the slightest trace of such a shameful spectacle, while he repeated the words he’d just heard in a low, guttural tone.

“A Delaware! I’ve seen the Lenape tribes driven from their council-fires and scattered, like broken deer herds, across the hills of the Iroquois! I've witnessed the hatchets of a mighty people sweep through valleys spared by the winds of heaven! The beasts that roam the mountains and the birds that soar above the trees—I’ve seen them living in men’s wigwams; yet, never have I found a Delaware so base as to creep into the camps of his nation like a poisonous serpent.”

“The singing-birds have opened their beaks,” Uncas returned, in the softest notes of his own musical voice, “and Tamenund has heard their song.”

The sage started and tilted his head back, as if trying to catch the fleeting sounds of some passing melody.

“Tamenund dreams!” he exclaimed. “What voice is at his ear! Have the winters reversed! Will summer return for the children of the Lenape!”

A solemn, respectful silence followed the incoherent outburst from the lips of the Delaware prophet. His people readily molded his unintelligible language into one of those mysterious conferences he was believed to hold so frequently with a superior intelligence, and they awaited the revelation in awe. After a patient pause, however, one of the elders, sensing that the sage had lost the recollection of the subject before them, ventured to remind him of the prisoner.

“The false Delaware trembles lest he should hear Tamenund’s words,” he said. “It’s a hound that howls when the Yengeese show it a trail.”

“And you,” Uncas retorted, looking sternly around him, “are dogs that whine when the Frenchman casts you the offals of his deer!”

Twenty knives flashed in the air, and many warriors sprang to their feet in response to this biting, perhaps deserved retort; yet a gesture from one of the chiefs suppressed the rising anger, restoring a sense of quiet. The task might have been harder had Tamenund’s movement not indicated he was about to speak again.

“Delaware!” the sage resumed, “you are unworthy of your name. My people haven't seen a bright sun in many winters; and the warrior who deserts his tribe when hidden in clouds is a double traitor. The law of the Manitou is just. It is so; while the rivers flow and the mountains stand, while the blossoms come and go on the trees, it must be so. He belongs to you, my children; deal justly by him.”

No limb moved, no breath drawn any louder or longer than usual, until the final syllable of this decree left Tamenund’s lips. Then, a cry of vengeance erupted, as it should, from the united voice of the nation—a dreadful omen of their ruthless intentions. Amidst these prolonged, savage yells, a chief proclaimed in a high voice that the captive was condemned to endure the horrific trial of torture by fire. The circle dissolved, and screams of delight mixed with the hustle and bustle of preparation. Heyward struggled desperately against his captors; Hawkeye’s anxious eye began scanning him, filled with a peculiar earnestness; and Cora threw herself at the patriarch's feet once more, begging for mercy.

Amidst all those trying moments, Uncas alone managed to keep his serenity. He watched the preparations with a steady gaze, and when the tormentors came for him, he met them with a firm, upright stance. One of them, perhaps fiercer and more savage than the others, snatched the young warrior's hunting shirt and tore it from him in a single effort. With a shriek of frantic pleasure, he lunged at his unresisting victim, ready to lead him to the stake. But just then, as he appeared utterly alien to human feeling, the savage’s intent froze, as if some supernatural force had intervened for Uncas. The Delaware men's eyes seemed to spring from their sockets; his mouth opened, and his entire form was locked in an expression of astonishment. Raising a hand with slow, measured movement, he pointed a finger at the captive's chest. His companions crowded around him in wonder, every eye fixed intently on the figure of a small tortoise, beautifully tattooed on the prisoner's breast in a bright blue tint.

For a single instant, Uncas savored his triumph, smiling calmly at the scene. Then, sweeping the crowd away with a high, haughty gesture of his arm, he advanced before the nation with the air of a king, speaking in a voice that cut through the murmur of admiration running through the multitude.

“Men of the Lenni Lenape!” he declared, “my people sustain this earth! Your weak tribe rests upon my very skin! What fire a Delaware could light would consume the children of my fathers,” he added, proudly gesturing to the simple markings on his skin; “the blood from such a stock would snuff out your flames! My people are the ancestors of nations!”

“Who are you?” Tamenund demanded, rising at the startling tones he heard, sensing more than any meaning in the prisoner's language.

“Uncas, son of Chingachgook,” the captive replied modestly, turning from the tribe and bowing his head in reverence to the other’s character and age; “a son of the great Unamis.”[1]

[1] Turtle.

“Tamenund's hour is near!” the sage exclaimed; “the day has come, at last, to the night! I thank the Manitou, for he is here to fill my place at the council-fire. Uncas, the child of Uncas, is found! Let the eyes of a dying eagle gaze upon the rising sun.”

The youth stepped lightly yet proudly onto the platform, becoming visible to the whole agitated and wondering crowd. Tamenund held him long at arm's length, reading every nuance in his features with the unwearying gaze of one who recalled days of happiness.

“Is Tamenund a boy?” at length the bewildered prophet exclaimed. “Have I dreamed of so many snows—that my people were scattered like floating sands—of Yengeese, more plenty than the leaves on the trees! The arrow of Tamenund would not frighten the fawn; his arm is withered like the branch of a dead oak; the snail would be swifter in the race; yet is Uncas before him as they went to battle against the pale faces! Uncas, the panther of his tribe, the eldest son of the Lenape, the wisest Sagamore of the Mohicans! Tell me, ye Delawares, has Tamenund been a sleeper for a hundred winters?”

The calm and deep silence which succeeded these words sufficiently announced the awful reverence with which his people received the communication of the patriarch. None dared to answer, though all listened in breathless expectation of what might follow. Uncas, however, looking in his face with the fondness and veneration of a favored child, presumed on his own high and acknowledged rank, to reply.

“Four warriors of his race have lived and died,” he said, “since the friend of Tamenund led his people in battle. The blood of the turtle has been in many chiefs, but all have gone back into the earth from whence they came, except Chingachgook and his son.”

“It is true—it is true,” returned the sage, a flash of recollection destroying all his pleasing fancies, and restoring him at once to a consciousness of the true history of his nation. “Our wise men have often said that two warriors of the unchanged race were in the hills of the Yengeese; why have their seats at the council-fires of the Delawares been so long empty?”

At those words, the young man lifted his head, which he had kept slightly bowed in reverence. Raising his voice so that the multitude could hear it, as if to explain once and for all his family's policy, he said aloud:

“Once we slept where we could hear the salt lake speak in its anger. Then we were rulers and Sagamores over the land. But when a pale face appeared on every stream, we followed the deer back to the river of our nation. The Delawares were gone. Few warriors remained to drink from the stream they loved. Then my fathers said, ‘Here we will hunt. The river waters flow into the salt lake. If we head toward the setting sun, we'll find streams that feed the great lakes of sweet water; there would be a Mohican dying like sea fish in those clear springs. When the Manitou is ready and calls us, we will follow the river to the sea and take what is ours again.’ This, Delawares, is the belief of the children of the Turtle. Our eyes are on the rising, not the setting sun. We know where he comes from, but not where he goes. That is enough.”

The Lenape men listened to his words with the deference superstition demands, sensing a hidden charm even in the figurative language the young Sagamore used to impart his ideas. Uncas himself watched the effect of his brief explanation with intelligent eyes, and gradually shed the air of authority he had assumed as he realized his audience was satisfied. Then, allowing his gaze to sweep over the silent throng gathered around Tamenund’s elevated seat, he first spotted Hawkeye in his bonds. Eagerly stepping from his place, Uncas made way for his friend; with a swift, angry slash of his own knife across the thongs, he gestured to the crowd to divide. The Indians obeyed silently, and once more they stood in their circle, just as before his presence among them. Uncas took the scout by the hand and led him to the patriarch's feet.

“Father,” he said, “look at this pale face; a just man, and a friend of the Delawares.”

“Is he a son of Minquon?”

“Not so; a warrior known to the Yengeese, and feared by the Maquas.”

“What name has he earned through his deeds?”

“We call him Hawkeye,” Uncas replied, using the Delaware phrase; “for his sight never fails. The Mingoes know him better by the death he brings to their warriors; with them, he is ‘The Long Rifle’.”

“La Longue Carabine!” Tamenund exclaimed, opening his eyes and looking sternly at the scout. “My son has not done well to call him friend.”

“I call him so who proves himself such,” returned the young chief, with great calmness, but with a steady mien. “If Uncas is welcome among the Delawares, then is Hawkeye with his friends.”

“The pale face has slain my young men; his name is great for the blows he has struck the Lenape.”

“If a Mingo has whispered that much in the ear of the Delaware, he has only shown that he is a singing-bird,” said the scout, who now believed that it was time to vindicate himself from such offensive charges, and who spoke as the man he addressed, modifying his Indian figures, however, with his own peculiar notions. “That I have slain the Maquas I am not the man to deny, even at their own council-fires; but that, knowingly, my hand has never harmed a Delaware, is opposed to the reason of my gifts, which is friendly to them, and all that belongs to their nation.”

A low exclamation of applause passed among the warriors who exchanged looks with each other like men that first began to perceive their error.

“Where is the Huron?” demanded Tamenund. “Has he stopped my ears?”

Magua, whose feelings during that scene in which Uncas had triumphed may be much better imagined than described, answered to the call by stepping boldly in front of the patriarch.

“The just Tamenund,” he said, “will not keep what a Huron has lent.”

“Tell me, son of my brother,” returned the sage, avoiding the dark countenance of Le Subtil, and turning gladly to the more ingenuous features of Uncas, “has the stranger a conqueror’s right over you?”

“He has none. The panther might fall into snares set by the women; but he is strong, and knows how to leap through them.”

“La Longue Carabine?”

“He laughs at the Mingoes. Go, Huron, ask your squaws the color of a bear.”

“The stranger and white maiden who came into my camp together?”

“They should journey on an open path.”

“And the woman Huron left with my warriors?”

Uncas offered no reply.

“And the woman the Mingo brought into my camp?” Tamenund repeated, gravely.

“She is mine,” Magua cried, shaking Uncas’s hand in triumph. “Mohican, you know she belongs to me.”

“My son is silent,” said Tamenund, trying to read the sorrow etched on the youth’s face as he turned away.

“It is so,” was the low reply.

A brief, weighty pause followed, during which it became clear how reluctantly the multitude accepted the Mingo's claim. Finally, the sage, upon whom the decision rested solely, said in a firm voice:

“Huron, leave.”

“As he came, just Tamenund,” demanded the cunning Magua, “or with hands full of Delaware faith? The wigwam of Le Renard Subtil is empty. Make him strong by himself.”

The aged man pondered for a moment, then bent his head toward one of his venerable companions and asked:

“Are my ears open?”

“They are.”

“Is this Mingo a chief?”

“He is the first of his nation.”

“Girl, what would you do? A great warrior takes you as a wife. Go! Your race won’t die.”

“Better, a thousand times over, than suffer such degradation!” Cora exclaimed, horrified.

“Huron, her mind is with her fathers in the tents. An unwilling maiden makes an unhappy wigwam.”

“She speaks with the tongue of her people,” Magua replied, looking at his victim with bitter irony.

“She is from a trading race and will bargain for a fine appearance. Let Tamenund speak.”

“Take the wampum, and our love.”

“Nothing more than what Magua brought here.”

“Then go with yours. The Great Manitou forbids that a Delaware be unjust.”

Magua advanced, seizing his captive firmly by the arm; the Delawares fell silent; and Cora, sensing that protest would be useless, prepared to accept her fate without resistance.

“Hold, hold!” Duncan cried, springing forward. “Huron, have mercy! Her ransom will make you richer than any of your people have ever known.”

“Magua is a red-skin; he doesn’t want the beads of the pale-faced ones.”

“Gold, silver, powder, lead—all that a warrior needs shall be in your wigwam; all that becomes the greatest chief.”

“Le Subtil is very strong,” Magua cried, violently shaking the hand that grasped Cora’s unresisting arm; “he has his revenge!”

“Mighty ruler of Providence!” Heyward exclaimed, clasping his hands in agony; “can this be endured! To you, Tamenund, I appeal for mercy.”

“The words of the Delaware are said,” the sage returned, closing his eyes and sinking back into his seat, equally weary from mental and physical strain. “Men do not speak twice.”

“It is wise and reasonable for a chief not to waste time arguing what has already been said,” Hawkeye said, gesturing for Duncan to be silent. “But it’s also prudent for any warrior to think things through before he swings his tomahawk at his prisoner. Huron, I don’t love you; nor can I claim any Mingo has ever received much favor from me. It's fair to conclude that if this war doesn't end soon, many more of your warriors will meet me in the woods. Judge for yourselves whether you’d prefer taking a prisoner like that into your camp, or one like myself—a man whose naked hands would greatly delight your nation.”

“Will ‘The Long Rifle’ give his life for the woman?” Magua demanded hesitantly, as he had already started moving toward leaving with his victim.

"No, no; I haven't said anything like that," Hawkeye replied, drawing back with just enough discretion as he took in Magua's eagerness to hear his suggestion. "It wouldn't be an equal trade, to give a warrior at the height of his strength and utility for the finest woman on the frontier. I might agree to winter quarters now—at least six weeks before the leaves turn—on the condition you release the maiden."

Magua shook his head and made an impatient gesture for the crowd to clear the way.

"Well then," the scout added, with the thoughtful air of a man who hadn't quite settled on a decision, "I'll throw 'killdeer' into the bargain. Take the word of an experienced hunter; this piece has no equal across the provinces."

Magua still refused to reply, continuing his efforts to disperse the crowd.

"Perhaps," the scout added, losing his feigned coolness precisely in proportion to how indifferent the others seemed to the exchange, "if I were to teach your young men the true virtue of the weapons, it would smooth out the small differences in our judgments."

Le Renard fiercely ordered the Delawares, who still lingered in an impenetrable ring around him, to listen to the amicable proposal and open his path, threatening with a glance that sought another appeal to the infallible justice of their "prophet."

“What is ordered must sooner or later arrive,” continued Hawkeye, turning with a sad and humbled look to Uncas. “The varlet knows his advantage and will keep it! God bless you, boy; you have found friends among your natural kin, and I hope they will prove as true as some you have met who had no Indian cross. As for me, sooner or later, I must die; it is, therefore, fortunate there are but few to make my death-howl. After all, it is likely the imps would have managed to master my scalp, so a day or two will make no great difference in the everlasting reckoning of time. God bless you,” added the rugged woodsman, bending his head aside, and then instantly changing its direction again, with a wistful look toward the youth; “I loved both you and your father, Uncas, though our skins are not altogether of a color, and our gifts are somewhat different. Tell the Sagamore I never lost sight of him in my greatest trouble; and, as for you, think of me sometimes when on a lucky trail, and depend on it, boy, whether there be one heaven or two, there is a path in the other world by which honest men may come together again. You’ll find the rifle in the place we hid it; take it, and keep it for my sake; and, harkee, lad, as your natural gifts don’t deny you the use of vengeance, use it a little freely on the Mingoes; it may unburden griefs at my loss, and ease your mind. Huron, I accept your offer; release the woman. I am your prisoner!”

A suppressed but distinct murmur of approval rippled through the crowd at that generous offer; even the fiercest of the Delaware warriors reveled in the manhood displayed by the intended sacrifice. Magua paused, and for a fleeting moment, one might say he hesitated; then, fixing his gaze on Cora, an expression strangely mingling ferocity and admiration crossed his face, his resolve became absolute.

He gestured dismissively with his head, showing his contempt for the proposal, and then said, in a steady tone:

“Le Renard Subtil is a great chief; he has only one mind. Come,” he added, placing his hand too familiarly on his captive’s shoulder to push her along; “a Huron isn't a tattler; we’ll go.”

The maiden drew back into her high-born reserve, and her dark eye ignited, while the rich blood shot through her temples like the passing brilliance of the sun, in response to the sheer indignity.

“I am your prisoner, and I shall follow you even to my death when the time is right.” She said coldly, immediately turning to Hawkeye, “Generous hunter! I thank you from my soul. Your offer is worthless; it cannot be accepted, but you may still serve me, even more so than in your own noble intention. Look at that drooping, humbled child! Don’t abandon her until you leave her in the habitations of civilized men. I won’t say,” she wrung the scout’s hard hand, “that her father will reward you—for you are above men's rewards—but he will thank you and bless you. And believe me, the blessing of a just and aged man has virtue in Heaven’s sight. To God, I could hear no word from his lips at this awful moment!” Her voice choked, and for an instant, she fell silent. Then, advancing a step closer to Duncan, who was supporting her unconscious sister, she continued, in more subdued tones, yet the feeling and the habits of her sex maintained a fearful struggle: “I don’t need to tell you to cherish the treasure you will possess. You love her, Heyward; that would conceal a thousand faults, even if she had them. She is kind, gentle, sweet, good, as mortals can be. There isn’t a blemish in mind or person that would make the proudest of you all sick. She is fair—oh! how surpassingly fair!” laying her own beautiful, yet less brilliant, hand in melancholy affection on Alice’s alabaster forehead and parting the golden hair that clustered about her brows; “and yet her soul is pure and spotless as her skin!”I could say much—perhaps more than cool reason would endorse; but I’ll spare you and me—” Her voice faded, and her face was bowed over her sister’s form. After a long, burning kiss, she rose, her features tinged with the hue of death, yet without a single tear in her feverish eye, she turned away and added to the savage, with all her former poise: “Now, sir, if it pleases you, I will follow.”

“Go,” Duncan cried, placing Alice in an Indian girl’s arms; “go, Magua, go. These Delawares have their laws that forbid them from holding you; but I—I have no such obligation. Go, malignant monster—why do you delay?”

It was hard to describe the look with which Magua listened to this threat to follow. At first, there was a fierce and obvious display of joy, which was instantly smothered by a look of cunning coldness.

“The words are open,” he was content to answer, “‘The Open Hand’ can come.”

“Hold,” Hawkeye commanded, seizing Duncan’s arm and restraining him by force; “you don't know the ways of the imp. He’ll lead you into an ambush, and you’ll die—”

“Huron,” Uncas interrupted, who, submissive to his people's stern customs, had been an attentive and grave listener to everything, “Huron, the justice of the Delawares comes from the Manitou. Look at the sun. It is now in the upper branches of the hemlock. Your path is short and open. When he is seen above the trees, there will be men on your trail.”

“I hear a crow!” Magua exclaimed with a taunting laugh. “Go!” he added, waving a hand at the crowd that had slowly parted to let him pass. “Where are the Delawares’ petticoats! Let them send their arrows and guns to the Wyandots; they’ll have venison to eat and corn to hoe. Dogs, rabbits, thieves—I spit on you!”

His parting jibes were met with a dead, brooding silence. With those biting words still on his tongue, triumphant Magua slipped unimpeded into the forest, followed by his passive captive, protected by the inviolable laws of Indian hospitality.

CHAPTER XXXI.

"Flue. Kill the poys and the luggage! That's clearly against the law of arms; it's pure trickery, mark my words, as is offered in the world."
—King Henry V.

As long as their enemy and his victim remained visible, the multitude stood motionless, entranced by a power friendly to the Huron; but the moment he vanished, they were tossed and agitated by fierce and powerful passion. Uncas held his elevated position, keeping his gaze fixed on Cora’s form until the colors of her dress blended with the forest foliage. When he descended and moved silently through the crowd, he disappeared into the lodge from which he had just emerged. A few of the graver and more attentive warriors, catching the gleam of anger in the young chief's eyes, followed him to the spot he had chosen for meditation. Afterward, Tamenund and Alice were dismissed, and the women and children were ordered to disperse. During that momentous hour, the encampment resembled a hive of troubled bees, awaiting only their leader’s appearance to take some distant and momentous flight.

A young warrior finally emerged from the lodge; with a deliberate, grave march, he moved toward a dwarf pine growing in the crevices of the rocky terrace. He tore the bark from the tree and then turned away without a word. Another followed him quickly, stripping the sapling bare, leaving it a naked and blazing[1]trunk. A third warrior painted the post with stripes of dark red; all these signs of hostility in the nation's leaders were received by the men in a gloomy, ominous silence. Finally, the Mohican reappeared, stripped of all his clothing save his girdle and leggings, with half of his fine features hidden beneath a cloud of menacing black.

[1] A tree which has been partially or entirely stripped of its bark is said, in the language of the country, to be “blazed.” The term is strictly English, for a horse is said to be blazed when it has a white mark.

Uncas moved with a slow and dignified tread toward the post, which he immediately commenced encircling with a measured step, not unlike an ancient dance, raising his voice, at the same time, in the wild and irregular chant of his war song. The notes were in the extremes of human sounds; being sometimes melancholy and exquisitely plaintive, even rivaling the melody of birds—and then, by sudden and startling transitions, causing the auditors to tremble by their depth and energy. The words were few and often repeated, proceeding gradually from a sort of invocation, or hymn, to the Deity, to an intimation of the warrior’s object, and terminating as they commenced with an acknowledgment of his own dependence on the Great Spirit. If it were possible to translate the comprehensive and melodious language in which he spoke, the ode might read something like the following: “Manitou! Manitou! Manitou! Thou art great, thou art good, thou art wise: Manitou! Manitou! Thou art just. In the heavens, in the clouds, oh, I see many spots—many dark, many red: In the heavens, oh, I see many clouds.”

“In the woods, in the air, oh, I hear the whoop, the long yell, and the cry: In the woods, oh, I hear the loud whoop!”

“Manitou! Manitou! Manitou! I am weak—thou art strong; I am slow; Manitou! Manitou! Give me aid.”

At the end of what might be called each verse, he paused, raising a note louder and longer than usual—a tone perfectly suited to the sentiment just expressed. The first note was solemn, meant to convey veneration; the second was descriptive, bordering on alarming; and the third was the well-known, terrifying war-whoop that burst from the young warrior’s lips, a mixture of all the frightful sounds of battle. The final note echoed the first, humble and imploring. He repeated this song three times, just as he encircled the post in his dance

. At the close of the first turn, a grave and highly esteemed Lenape chief followed his lead, singing words of his own, set to a similar melody. Warrior after warrior joined the dance, until all renown and authority were lost in its maze. The spectacle instantly became wildly terrific; the fierce, menacing visages of the chiefs seemed to gain power from the appalling strains in which they blended their guttural tones. Just then, Uncas drove his tomahawk deep into the post and roared, a shout that could be called his own battle cry. This act announced that he had assumed chief authority over the intended expedition

.It was a signal that jolted the nation awake, stirring all the dormant passions within it. A hundred youths, held back only by the timidity of their age, surged forward in a frenzy toward their enemy's supposed emblem, tearing it apart splinter by splinter until nothing remained of the trunk but its roots in the earth. Amidst this uproar, the cruelest acts of war were committed upon the fragments of the tree, displayed with a ferocity as if they were the very living victims of their brutality. Some were scalped; some met the keen, trembling axe; and others suffered the fatal thrust of the knife. In short, the expression of zeal and fierce delight was so immense and unmistakable that the expedition was declared a war of the nation

. The moment Uncas struck the blow, he broke from the circle, looked up at the sun just as it reached its zenith, knowing the truce with Magua was about to expire. This fact was quickly announced by a significant gesture and a matching cry; the entire excited crowd abandoned their mock fighting, letting out shrill yells of pleasure as they prepared for the more perilous experiment of reality

.The entire face of the encampment instantly transformed. The warriors, already armed and painted, became as still as if they couldn't muster any unusual emotion. Meanwhile, the women emerged from their lodges, their songs a strange blend of joy and lamentation, making it hard to tell which feeling dominated. Yet, no one was idle. Some took their finest possessions, others their young, and some their aged and infirm, into the forest, which spread out like a verdant carpet of bright green against the mountainside. Tamenund also retired there, with calm composure, after a brief but touching exchange with Uncas; he departed with the reluctance a parent has when leaving a long-lost and just-recovered child. In the meantime, Duncan saw Alice to safety and then sought the scout, his expression showing just how eagerly he too yearned for the approaching contest.

But Hawkeye was so accustomed to the war songs and the enlistments of the natives that he paid no mind to the passing scene. He just glanced occasionally at the number and quality of the warriors, which signaled their readiness to join Uncas in the fight. In this instance, he was quickly satisfied; as had already been seen, the young chief's power swiftly enveloped every fighting man in the nation. Once this point was settled so satisfactorily, he sent an Indian boy after "killdeer" and Uncas's rifle to where they had left their weapons near the Delaware camp—a double-edged move that protected the arms from their fate if they were taken as prisoners and allowed them to appear as strangers rather than men with means of defense and sustenance. In choosing someone else to retrieve his prized rifle, the scout didn't lose any of his usual caution. He knew Magua hadn't arrived alone, and he knew Huron spies were watching their new enemies' movements across the entire forest boundary. Therefore, attempting this experiment would have been fatal for himself; a warrior wouldn't have fared better either; but the danger to a boy wouldn't begin until after his objective was found. When Heyward joined him, the scout was calmly awaiting the result of this experiment.

The boy, well-instructed and sufficiently cunning, moved across the clearing toward the woods with a chest swelling with the pride of such confidence and all the hopes of youthful ambition. He entered the wood a short distance from where the guns were hidden. Instantly, however, he was concealed by the foliage; his dusky form glided like a serpent toward the desired treasure. He succeeded, and in another moment, he appeared flying across the narrow opening skirting the base of the terrace upon which the village stood, bearing a prize in each hand with the velocity of an arrow. He had actually reached the crags, leaping up their sides with incredible energy, when a shot from the woods revealed just how accurate the scout's judgment had been. The boy answered with a feeble but contemptuous shout, and immediately a second bullet followed him from another patch of cover. In the next instant, he appeared above, raising his guns in triumph, moving with the air of a conqueror toward the renowned hunter who had honored him with such a glorious commission

. Despite Hawkeye's lively interest in his messenger's fate, he received the killdeer with a satisfaction that momentarily drove all other memories from his mind. After examining the piece with an intelligent eye, opening and shutting the pan ten or fifteen times, and trying sundry other equally important experiments on the lock, he turned to the boy and asked, with great kindness, if he was hurt

.“Ah! I see, lad, the scoundrels have bitten your arm!” the scout added, taking hold of the patient's limb, across which a deep flesh wound had been inflicted by a bullet; “but a little bruised alder will work a charm. In the meantime, I’ll wrap it in wampum! You’ve started the warrior business early, my brave boy, and you’re bound to bear plenty of honorable scars to your grave. I know plenty of young men who’ve taken scalps that don't show such a mark. Go!” he said, having bandaged the arm. “You’ll be a chief!”

The boy left, prouder of his flowing blood than any vain courtier could be of his blushing ribbon; he stalked among his peers, an object of general admiration and envy.

But, in the midst of so many serious and important duties, this single act of youthful fortitude didn't draw the attention or praise it might have received under milder circumstances. However, it did serve to inform the Delawares of the situation and their enemies’ intentions. Consequently, a party of adventurers—better suited to the task than the spirited but weak boy—was ordered to flush out the skulkers. The duty was soon accomplished; most of the Hurons simply retreated when they realized they’d been discovered. The Delawares followed a safe distance from their camp and then halted for orders, wary of an ambush. As both groups hid themselves, the woods settled back into that still, quiet state of a mild summer morning, where deep solitude could grant them peace.

The calm but still impatient Uncas now collected his chiefs, and divided his power. He presented Hawkeye as a warrior, often tried, and always found deserving of confidence. When he found his friend met with a favorable reception, he bestowed on him the command of twenty men, like himself, active, skillful and resolute. He gave the Delawares to understand the rank of Heyward among the troops of the Yengeese, and then tendered to him a trust of equal authority. But Duncan declined the charge, professing his readiness to serve as a volunteer by the side of the scout. After this disposition, the young Mohican appointed various native chiefs to fill the different situations of responsibility, and, the time pressing, he gave forth the word to march. He was cheerfully, but silently obeyed by more than two hundred men.

Their entrance into the forest was perfectly unmolested; nor did they encounter any living objects that could either give the alarm, or furnish the intelligence they needed, until they came upon the lairs of their own scouts. Here a halt was ordered, and the chiefs were assembled to hold a “whispering council.”

At this meeting divers plans of operation were suggested, though none of a character to meet the wishes of their ardent leader. Had Uncas followed the promptings of his own inclinations, he would have led his followers to the charge without a moment’s delay, and put the conflict to the hazard of an instant issue; but such a course would have been in opposition to all the received practises and opinions of his countrymen. He was, therefore, fain to adopt a caution that in the present temper of his mind he execrated, and to listen to advice at which his fiery spirit chafed, under the vivid recollection of Cora’s danger and Magua’s insolence.

After an unsatisfactory conference that dragged on for many minutes, a lone figure advanced from the enemy's side with such apparent haste that one might assume he was a messenger bearing peaceful overtures. However, within a hundred yards of the cover where the Delaware council had gathered, the stranger hesitated, uncertain of his next move, and finally stopped. All eyes turned to Uncas, as if waiting for guidance on how to proceed.

“Hawkeye,” the young chief murmured, “he must never speak to the Hurons again.”

“His time has come,” the laconic scout declared, thrusting the long barrel of his rifle through the leaves and taking his deliberate, fatal aim. But instead of pulling the trigger, he lowered the muzzle once more and indulged in a fit of peculiar mirth. “I took the imp for a Mingo, as I’m a miserable sinner!” he said; “but when my eye scanned his ribs for a place to get the bullet in—would you think it, Uncas—I saw the musicianer’s blower; and so, after all, it is the man they call Gamut, whose death profits no one, and whose life, if this tongue can do anything but sing, may be made useful to our own ends. If sounds have not lost their virtue, I’ll soon have a discourse with the honest fellow, and that in a voice he’ll find more agreeable than the speech of ‘killdeer’.”

Hawkeye set his rifle aside and crept through the bushes until he was within earshot of David, attempting to replicate the musical effort that had so safely and splendidly traversed the Huron encampment. Gamut’s exquisite organs couldn't easily be fooled (and frankly, it would have been tough for anyone but Hawkeye to produce such a sound), and since he’d heard the sounds before, he now knew exactly where they came from. The poor fellow seemed instantly relieved of his great embarrassment; chasing the direction of the voice—a task no less arduous than running from a barrage—he soon found the hidden songster.

“I wonder what the Hurons will think of that!” the scout laughed, taking his companion by the arm and urging him toward the rear. “If the knaves can hear us, they’ll think there are two non-compossers instead of one! But we’re safe here,” he added, pointing to Uncas and his associates. “Now give us the history of the Mingo inventions in plain English, without any vocal ups and downs.”

David looked around at the fierce, wild-looking chiefs in mute wonder, but reassured by the familiar faces, he quickly rallied his faculties enough to offer an intelligent reply.

“The heathen are out in force,” David said, “and I fear, with ill intent. There’s been much howling and wicked revelry, along with sounds that are profane to utter, in their homes over the last hour—so much so, in truth, that I fled to the Delawares seeking peace.”

“You wouldn't have learned much from the exchange if you hadn't been faster,” the scout replied dryly. “But whatever; where are the Hurons?”

“They’re hidden deep in the forest, between this spot and their village, so that common sense would tell you to run back.”

Uncas glanced across the line of trees that hid his band and mentioned the name of:

“Magua?”

“He’s among them. He brought in the maiden who stayed with the Delawares; and, leaving her in the cave, he’s positioned himself, like a raging wolf, at the head of his savages. I can’t fathom what has so greatly troubled his soul!”

“He left her in the cave, you say!” Heyward interrupted. “Well, we know where she is! Couldn't something be done for her immediate relief?”

Uncas looked earnestly at the scout before asking:

“What does Hawkeye say?”

“Give me twenty rifles, and I’ll head to the right along the stream; then, passing the beaver huts, I’ll join the Sagamore and the colonel. You’ll hear the cry from that spot; with this wind, you can easily send it a mile. Then, Uncas, you go in front. When they come within range of our guns, we’ll strike them with a blow that, I pledge, is worthy of an old frontiersman—it’ll bend their line like an ashen bow. After that, we’ll take the village and get the woman from the cave. Whether it’s done by a white man’s battle—one blow and a victory—or in the Indian way, with dodge and cover, that’s up to us. There won’t be much grand strategy in this plan, but with courage and patience, it can all be achieved.”

“I like it a lot,” Duncan exclaimed, realizing that freeing Cora was the main goal of the scout’s mind. “I like it. Let’s try it right away.”

After a brief discussion, the plan was finalized and made clearer to all the parties; signals were assigned, and the chiefs were separated according to their roles.

CHAPTER XXXII.

“But plagues shall spread, and funeral fires increase,
Till the great king, without a ransom paid,
To her own Chrysa send the black-eyed maid.”
—Pope.

During the time Uncas was making this disposition of his forces, the woods were as still, and, with the exception of those who had met in council, apparently as much untenanted as when they came fresh from the hands of their Almighty Creator. The eye could range, in every direction, through the long and shadowed vistas of the trees; but nowhere was any object to be seen that did not properly belong to the peaceful and slumbering scenery.

Here and there a bird was heard fluttering among the branches of the beeches, and occasionally a squirrel dropped a nut, drawing the startled looks of the party for a moment to the place; but the instant the casual interruption ceased, the passing air was heard murmuring above their heads, along that verdant and undulating surface of forest, which spread itself unbroken, unless by stream or lake, over such a vast region of country. Across the tract of wilderness which lay between the Delawares and the village of their enemies, it seemed as if the foot of man had never trodden, so breathing and deep was the silence in which it lay. But Hawkeye, whose duty led him foremost in the adventure, knew the character of those with whom he was about to contend too well to trust the treacherous quiet.

When he saw his small band gathered, the scout tossed "killdeer" into his arm, gave a silent signal that he would follow, and led them many rods toward the rear, into the bed of a little brook they had just crossed. There he stopped, waiting for his entire grave and attentive warriors to close around him, then spoke in Delaware, demanding:

"Do any of my young men know where this run will lead us?"

A Delaware stretched out a hand, separating two fingers to indicate how they were joined at the root, and replied:

"Before the sun could go his own length, the little water will be in the big." Then he added, pointing toward the place he mentioned, "the two make enough for the beavers."

"I figured so," the scout returned, glancing up at the opening in the treetops, "from the course it takes and the mountains' bearings. Men, we'll stay within the banks until we smell the Hurons."

His companions offered their usual brief assent, but noticing their leader was about to lead the way himself, one or two made signs that suggested things weren't as they seemed. Hawkeye, who understood their meaning instantly, turned and realized his party had been followed by the singing-master thus far.

“You know, friend,” the scout asked gravely, perhaps with a touch of pride in his tone, “that this is a band of rangers chosen for the most desperate service, placed under the command of one who, though others might look better, won't let them sit idle. It won’t be five, or even thirty minutes, before we tread on a Huron body, living or dead.”

“Though you didn't state your intentions outright,” David replied, his face flushed, his usually quiet and empty eyes now glimmering with an unusual fire, “your men reminded me of Jacob’s children going out to fight the Shechemites, wickedly aspiring to marry a woman favored by the Lord. I’ve journeyed far, spent much time in good and evil with the maiden you seek; and though I’m no man of war, with my waist girded and sword sharpened, I’d gladly strike a blow for her.”

The scout paused, as if weighing the odds of such a strange enlistment in his mind, before answering:

“You don’t know the use of any weapon. You carry no rifle; and believe me, what the Mingoes take, they'll freely give back.”

“I’m not Goliath, bloodthirsty and boastful,” David retorted, drawing a sling from beneath his mismatched and rough clothes, “I haven’t forgotten the example of that Jewish boy. I practiced with this ancient weapon plenty in my youth, and perhaps the skill hasn't entirely left me.”

“Ay!” Hawkeye said, eyeing the deer-skin thong and apron with a cold, discouraging gaze. “That thing might work with arrows or knives, sure; but these Mengwe have been outfitted by the Frenchers with a good grooved barrel, man. Still, it looks like you’re meant to be safe amid the fire. And since you’ve been favored—Major, you left your rifle at a cock; one shot before then would only cost twenty scalps for no reason—singer, you can follow; we might use you in the shouting.”

“I thank you, friend,” David replied, scooping himself up from the stream stones, much like his royal namesake. “Though I don’t desire to kill, if you hadn't sent me away, my spirit would have been troubled.”

“Remember this,” the scout added, tapping his own head hard on the spot where Gamut was still sore. “We come to fight, not to sing. Until the general’s call, nothing speaks but the rifle.”

David nodded, agreeing with the terms. Then Hawkeye cast another watchful look over his followers and gave the signal to move.

Their path, spanning just a mile, followed the course of the water. Though the steep banks and the dense shrubbery offered some cover from prying eyes, no measure of caution against an Indian attack was overlooked. A warrior crawled rather than walked along each side, seeking occasional glimpses into the woods; every few minutes, the band would pause, straining to hear for hostile sounds with an acuity that was scarcely imaginable to someone in a less natural state. Yet their march proceeded unmolested, and they reached the point where the lesser stream merged into the greater, leaving no trace of their progress. Here, the scout stopped again to read the signs of the forest.

“We’ll likely have a good day for a fight,” he said in English to Heyward, glancing up at the clouds that were beginning to sweep across the sky; “a bright sun and a glittering barrel don't help true sight. Everything is favorable; they have the wind, which will carry down their noises and smoke too—that’s no small advantage in itself. With us, it’ll be a shot first, and then a clear view. But here, our cover ends; the beavers have had this stream for centuries, and what’s between their food and their dams is full of girdled stumps, but few living trees.”

Hawkeye, in truth, hadn't given a bad description of the prospect lying before them in those few words. The brook was irregular in width; sometimes it carved through narrow fissures in the rocks, and at other times it spread across acres of low-lying land, forming small areas that might be called ponds. Along its banks, moldering relics of dead trees littered the landscape, in every stage of decay—from those groaning on their tilting trunks to others that had recently been stripped bare of the rugged bark that mysteriously held the secret of life. A few long, low, moss-covered piles were scattered among them, like memorials to a former and long-departed generation

. The scout noted all these minute details with a gravity and interest that probably hadn't drawn his attention before. He knew the Huron encampment lay a short half-mile up the stream. With the characteristic anxiety of someone dreading hidden danger, he was greatly troubled by the absence of any trace of his enemy. Once or twice, he felt the urge to order a rush and attempt a surprise attack on the village; but experience quickly warned him against such a useless experiment. He listened intently, and with painful uncertainty, for any sounds of hostility in the area where Uncas was hidden. Nothing was audible except the sighing of the wind, which began to sweep over the forest in gusts threatening a tempest. Eventually, yielding more to his unusual impatience than to his knowledge, he decided to confront the situation by revealing his force and proceeding cautiously but steadily upstream

.The scout stood, making his observations, sheltered by a brake, while his companions lay in the ravine bed, where the smaller stream flowed; but upon hearing his low, yet intelligible, signal, the whole party crept up the bank like dark specters, silently arranging themselves around him. Pointing where he wished to go, Hawkeye advanced, the band breaking into single files, following his footsteps so accurately that, save for Heyward and David, they left only the trail of a single man

. The party was, however, barely exposed when a volley from a dozen rifles rang out behind them; a Delaware leaped high into the air, like a wounded deer, and fell dead at his full length

. “Ah, I feared some devilry like this!” the scout exclaimed in English, quickly adding in his adopted tongue, “Cover, men, and charge!”

The band dispersed at the word. Before Heyward could fully recover from the shock, he found himself standing alone with David. Luckily, the Hurons had already retreated, and he was safe from their fire. But this situation wouldn't last; the scout set the pace for their retreat, firing his rifle and darting from tree to tree as his enemy slowly yielded ground

.It seemed the assault had been launched by a very small group of the Hurons, though they kept increasing their numbers by relying on their allies until the return fire was nearly equal to what the advancing Delawares were putting out. Heyward threw himself into the fray, mimicking his companions' necessary caution, and fired quickly with his own rifle. The contest now grew hot and stagnant. Few got hurt, as both sides kept themselves as shielded by the trees as possible; they never exposed any part of themselves except when aiming. But the odds were slowly turning against Hawkeye and his band. The sharp-eyed scout sensed his danger but didn't know how to fix it. He realized retreating was more perilous than holding ground: while he saw his enemy throwing men onto his flank, this made it incredibly difficult for the Delawares to keep themselves covered, silencing their shots almost entirely. In that awkward moment, as they began to think the entire hostile tribe was closing in on them, they heard the yells and the rattle of arms echoing under the tree arches where Uncas was positioned—a spot beneath the ground where Hawkeye and his party were fighting.

The effects of the attack were immediate, greatly relieving the scout and his companions. It seemed that while his own surprise had been anticipated and subsequently failed, the enemy, having been deceived about both the objective and their numbers, had left too few to resist the impetuous charge of the young Mohican. This was doubly clear from the rapid way the battle in the forest surged toward the village and the instant drop in the number of those who rushed to maintain the front—the principal point of defense, as it now proved to be.

By animating his followers with his voice and his example, Hawkeye then gave the order to drive down upon their foes. In that rough style of warfare, the charge consisted merely of pushing from cover to cover, closer and closer to the enemy; he instantly and successfully obeyed this maneuver. The Hurons were forced to retreat, and the scene of the contest quickly shifted from the open ground where it had begun to a thicket where the assailants could take shelter. Here, the struggle dragged on, proving arduous and seemingly unwinnable; the Delawares, though none were killed, began to bleed freely due to their disadvantage.

In this crisis, Hawkeye found a way to get behind the same tree that served as cover for Heyward, most of his own combatants still within calling range, a little to his right, where they kept up rapid, though fruitless, volleys against their sheltered enemies.

"You're a young man, major," the scout said, dropping the butt of his "killdeer" onto the ground and leaning on the barrel, slightly weary from his recent efforts. "And it might be your lot to lead armies someday, when these imps, the Mingoes, are long gone. You can see here the philosophy of an Indian fight. It mostly boils down to a ready hand, a sharp eye, and good cover. Now, if you had a company of Royal Americans here, how would you get them started in this line of work?"

“The bayonet will make a road.”

“Ah, there’s a white reason in what you say; but a man has to ask himself, in this wilderness, how many lives he can afford to spend. No—horse[1],” the scout continued, shaking his head as if lost in thought, “horse, I’m ashamed to admit, must sooner or later settle these skirmishes. The brutes are better than men, and eventually, it must be the horse that decides things. Put a shod hoof on the moccasin of a red-skin, and once his rifle’s spent, he won't stop to reload.”

[1] The American forest lets horses through; there’s little underbrush and few tangled thickets. Hawkeye’s plan has always been the most successful in the battles between whites and Indians. Wayne, in his famous campaign on the Miami, took the enemy fire squarely; then, by making his dragoons wheel around their flanks, he drove the Indians from cover before they could reload. One of the most prominent chiefs who fought at the Battle of Miami assured the writer that the red men couldn't fight the warriors with “long knives and leather stockings”—meaning the dragoons with their sabers and boots.

“This is a topic better suited for another time,” Heyward replied, “shall we charge?”

“I see no contradiction in any man’s gifts, as long as he passes out his breath in useful reflections,” the scout replied. “As for rushing, I don’t particularly relish that sort of measure; you have to throw a scalp or two away in the attempt. And yet,” he added, tilting his head back to catch the sounds of the distant fighting, “if we’re going to be useful to Uncas, these knaves up front must be eliminated.”

Then, with a swift turn and a decisive gesture, he called out to his Indians in their own tongue. A shout answered him, and at a signal, each warrior moved quickly around his own tree. The sight of so many dark bodies glancing at each other simultaneously drew a hasty and consequently ineffective volley from the Hurons. Without pausing to breathe, the Delawares leaped toward the woods in long bounds, like many panthers springing on their prey. Hawkeye was at the front, brandishing his terrible rifle and leading his followers by example. A few of the older, more cunning Hurons, unfooled by the trick used to draw their fire, now unleashed a close and deadly volley, justifying the scout's fears by taking three of his foremost warriors. But the shock wasn’t enough to repel the charge. The Delawares broke into cover with the ferocity of their nature, sweeping away all resistance with the fury of their assault.

The fighting lasted only an instant, a brutal hand-to-hand clash, and then the attackers quickly yielded ground. They reached the far edge of the thicket, scrambling for cover with the stubbornness often seen in hunted beasts. At that critical moment, just as the struggle’s success began to waver, a rifle crack echoed behind the Hurons, followed by a bullet whizzing from among some beaver lodges in the clearing—their rear—and then the fierce, appalling war-whoop rang out.

“The Sagamore is talking!” Hawkeye shouted back, his voice booming with the same force; “we’ve got them in front and behind us!”

The effect on the Hurons was immediate. Disgusted by an attack from a quarter that offered no cover, the warriors let out a common yell of defeat and broke into a run, scattering across the opening heedless of everything but flight. Many fell while making this dash, struck by the bullets and blows of the pursuing Delawares.

We shall not pause to detail the meeting between the scout and Chingachgook, or the more touching interview that Duncan held with Munro. A few brief and hurried words served to explain the state of things to both parties; and then Hawkeye, pointing out the Sagamore to his band, resigned the chief authority into the hands of the Mohican chief. Chingachgook assumed the station to which his birth and experience gave him so distinguished a claim, with the grave dignity that always gives force to the mandates of a native warrior. Following the footsteps of the scout, he led the party back through the thicket, his men scalping the fallen Hurons and secreting the bodies of their own dead as they proceeded, until they gained a point where the former was content to make a halt.

The warriors, who had breathed themselves freely in the preceding struggle, were now posted on a bit of level ground, sprinkled with trees in sufficient numbers to conceal them. The land fell away rather precipitately in front, and beneath their eyes stretched, for several miles, a narrow, dark, and wooded vale. It was through this dense and dark forest that Uncas was still contending with the main body of the Hurons.

The Mohican and his friends advanced to the brow of the hill, and listened, with practised ears, to the sounds of the combat. A few birds hovered over the leafy bosom of the valley, frightened from their secluded nests; and here and there a light vapory cloud, which seemed already blending with the atmosphere, arose above the trees, and indicated some spot where the struggle had been fierce and stationary.

“The fight is coming up the ascent,” said Duncan, pointing in the direction of a new explosion of firearms; “we are too much in the center of their line to be effective.”

“They’ll slip into the hollow where it’s thicker,” the scout said, “and that’ll leave us safe on their flank. Go on, Sagamore; you won’t have time to let out a call, and lead the young men. I’ll fight this skirmish with my own people. You know me, Mohican; no Huron will cross the swell into your rear without ‘killdeer’ giving notice.”

The chief paused for another moment, weighing the signs of the contest, which was now rapidly climbing—clear evidence that the Delaware had won. He didn't leave the spot until his friends and enemies warned him with the bullets from the other side, which began to chatter among the dry leaves like hail before a storm burst. Hawkeye and his three companions retreated a few paces to cover, waiting for the outcome with a calm that only great practice could instill in such a moment.

It wasn't long before the rifle reports lost their echoes in the woods, sounding instead like shots fired in the open air. Then warriors appeared, moving here and there, driven to the edge of the forest, rallying as they entered the clearing where the final stand was set to happen. Soon, others joined them until a long line of dark-skinned figures clung to the cover with sheer desperation. Heyward grew impatient and anxiously turned his eyes toward Chingachgook. The chief sat on a rock, showing nothing but his calm face, observing the spectacle with an eye as deliberate as if he’d been posted there just to watch the struggle.

“It’s time for the Delaware to strike!” Duncan declared.

“Not so, not so,” the scout retorted. “When he tracks his allies, he lets them know he’s here. Look, look; the knaves are creeping into that clump of pines, like bees settling after a flight. By God, a squaw could put a bullet right in the middle of such a knot of dark skins!”

At that moment, the call was given, and a dozen Hurons fell from Chingachgook and his band by a volley. The ensuing shout was answered by a single war-cry from the forest, and a yell swept through the air, sounding as if a thousand throats were united in one effort. The Hurons staggered, breaking ranks, and Uncas emerged from the woods through the gap they’d left, leading a hundred warriors.

Waving his hands back and forth, the young chief pointed out the enemy to his followers, who immediately broke off in pursuit. The war was now divided; both wings of the broken Hurons sought refuge back in the woods, hotly pursued by the victorious Lenape warriors. A minute might have passed, but the sounds were already fading in different directions, gradually losing their sharpness beneath the echoing arches of the woods. One small knot of Hurons, however, had refused to seek cover and was retreating, like lions cornered, slowly and sullenly up the slope that Chingachgook and his band had just abandoned, eager to rejoin the fray. Magua stood out in this group, both for his fierce and savage look and the air of haughty authority he still carried.

In his eagerness to rush the chase, Uncas had left himself nearly alone; but the moment his eye caught Le Subtil, every other thought vanished. Raising a battle cry that summoned about six or seven warriors, and heedless of their numerical disadvantage, he charged toward his foe. Le Renard, watching the movement, paused to greet him with secret delight. But just as he thought his rash, impulsive attacker had left him vulnerable, another shout erupted, and La Longue Carabine was seen racing to the rescue, accompanied by all his white associates. The Huron instantly turned and began a swift retreat up the slope.

There was no time for pleasantries or congratulations; Uncas continued the pursuit with the speed of the wind, even though he was oblivious to the presence of his friends. In vain, Hawkeye called out for him to take cover; the young Mohican bravely faced his enemies' deadly fire, soon forcing them into a flight as swift as his own headlong dash. It was fortunate that the chase was brief, and that the white men were favored by their position, lest the Delaware would soon overtake all his companions and succumb to his own recklessness. But before such disaster could strike, the pursuers and pursued entered the Wyandot village, mere striking distance from one another.

Excited by their homes and weary of the pursuit, the Hurons finally made a stand, fighting around their council-lodge with the fury of despair. The attack was like the passage and destruction of a whirlwind. Uncas's tomahawk, Hawkeye's blows, and even Munro's still-nervous arm were all busy in that fleeting moment, and the ground was quickly strewn with their enemies. Magua, though daring and highly exposed, managed to escape every attempt on his life, protected by that sort of legendary fortune bestowed upon favored heroes in ancient poetry. The subtle chief let out a yell that spoke volumes of anger and disappointment when he saw his comrades fallen, darting away with his two remaining friends, leaving the Delawares to strip the dead of their bloody spoils.

But Uncas, who had vainly sought him in the melee, bounded forward in pursuit; Hawkeye, Heyward and David still pressing on his footsteps. The utmost that the scout could effect, was to keep the muzzle of his rifle a little in advance of his friend, to whom, however, it answered every purpose of a charmed shield. Once Magua appeared disposed to make another and a final effort to revenge his losses; but, abandoning his intention as soon as demonstrated, he leaped into a thicket of bushes, through which he was followed by his enemies, and suddenly entered the mouth of the cave already known to the reader. Hawkeye, who had only forborne to fire in tenderness to Uncas, raised a shout of success, and proclaimed aloud that now they were certain of their game. The pursuers dashed into the long and narrow entrance, in time to catch a glimpse of the retreating forms of the Hurons. Their passage through the natural galleries and subterraneous apartments of the cavern was preceded by the shrieks and cries of hundreds of women and children. The place, seen by its dim and uncertain light, appeared like the shades of the infernal regions, across which unhappy ghosts and savage demons were flitting in multitudes.

Still Uncas kept his eye on Magua, as if life to him possessed but a single object. Heyward and the scout still pressed on his rear, actuated, though possibly in a less degree, by a common feeling. But their way was becoming intricate, in those dark and gloomy passages, and the glimpses of the retiring warriors less distinct and frequent; and for a moment the trace was believed to be lost, when a white robe was seen fluttering in the further extremity of a passage that seemed to lead up the mountain.

“It’s Cora!” Heyward exclaimed, a mixture of horror and delight bubbling in his voice.

“Cora! Cora!” Uncas echoed, bounding forward like a startled deer.

“It’s the maiden!” shouted the scout. “Courage, lady; we're coming! We’re coming!”

The pursuit intensified tenfold, spurred by the sight of the captive. But the path was rugged, broken, and in places nearly impassable. Uncas dropped his rifle and lunged forward headlong. Heyward rashly followed suit, though they were quickly rebuked by the bellow of a shot—the Hurons had found time to fire down the rocky passage, the bullet from which even inflicted a slight wound on the young Mohican.

“We have to close in!” the scout called out, leaping past his companions. “The rogues will pick us off at this distance; look, they’ve got the maiden to shield themselves!”

Though his words were ignored—or rather, unheard—his example drove his friends forward. By sheer effort, they managed to reach close enough to the fugitives to see that Cora was being carried between the two warriors while Magua directed their flight. At that moment, all four figures were sharply silhouetted against a gap in the sky, and they vanished. Frustrated with disappointment, Uncas and Heyward pushed themselves into efforts that seemed superhuman, bursting from the cavern onto the mountainside, timed perfectly to track the pursuers’ route. The trail led uphill, remaining hazardous and grueling.

Encumbered by his rifle, and, perhaps, not sustained by so deep an interest in the captive as his companions, the scout suffered the latter to precede him a little, Uncas, in his turn, taking the lead of Heyward. In this manner, rocks, precipices and difficulties were surmounted in an incredibly short space, that at another time, and under other circumstances, would have been deemed almost insuperable. But the impetuous young men were rewarded by finding that, encumbered with Cora, the Hurons were losing ground in the race.

“Stay, dog of the Wyandots!” exclaimed Uncas, shaking his bright tomahawk at Magua; “a Delaware girl calls stay!”

“I will go no further!” cried Cora, stopping unexpectedly on a ledge of rock, that overhung a deep precipice, at no great distance from the summit of the mountain. “Kill me if thou wilt, detestable Huron; I will go no further.”

The supporters of the maiden raised their ready tomahawks with the impious joy that fiends are thought to take in mischief, but Magua stayed the uplifted arms. The Huron chief, after casting the weapons he had wrested from his companions over the rock, drew his knife, and turned to his captive, with a look in which conflicting passions fiercely contended.

“Woman,” he said, “chose; the wigwam or the knife of Le Subtil!”

Cora regarded him not, but dropping on her knees, she raised her eyes and stretched her arms toward heaven, saying in a meek and yet confiding voice:

“I am thine; do with me as thou seest best!”

“Woman,” Magua repeated, his voice hoarse, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of a glance from her serene, beaming eye, “choose!”

But Cora neither heard nor paid heed to his demand. The Huron’s form trembled in every fiber, and he raised his arm high, only to drop it again with a bewildered air, as if doubting himself. He wrestled with himself once more and raised the sharp weapon; but then a piercing cry cut through the air, and Uncas appeared, leaping frantically from a fearful height onto the ledge. Magua recoiled. One of his assistants, seizing the opportunity, sheathed his own knife into Cora’s bosom.

The Huron sprang like a tiger at his offending and already retreating countryman, but Uncas's falling body separated the unnatural combatants. Distracted from his goal by this interruption and maddened by the murder he had just witnessed, Magua buried his weapon in the back of the prostrate Delaware, letting out an unearthly shout as he committed the dastardly deed. But Uncas rose from the blow, like a wounded panther turning on his foe, and struck the murderer of Cora to the ground with a burst of effort that cost him his last strength. Then, with a stern, steady look, he turned to Le Subtil and used his eyes to convey everything he would have done had power not deserted him. The latter seized the unresisting arm of the Delaware and passed his knife into it three or four times before his victim, still fixed on his enemy with an expression of inextinguishable scorn, fell dead at his feet.

“Mercy! mercy! Huron,” Heyward cried from above, his voice nearly choked with horror, “have mercy, and you shall receive it!”

As Magua spun the bloody knife toward the pleading youth, he let out a cry so fierce, so wild, and yet so joyous, that it broadcast the sounds of savage triumph to those fighting in the valley, a thousand feet below. A burst of sound followed from the scout’s lips, as his tall form swiftly moved toward him along those perilous crags, stepping with such boldness and recklessness as if he could move through the air. But when the hunter reached the scene of the ruthless massacre, the ledge was occupied only by the dead.

His keen eye surveyed the victims, then cast a glance over the ascent ahead. A figure stood atop the mountain’s brow, right on the dizzying edge, arms raised in an awful gesture of menace. Without pausing to assess him, Hawkeye raised his rifle; but a rock that struck one of the fugitives below exposed the indignant, glowing face of Gamut. Then Magua emerged from a crevice, stepping calmly over the body of his last associate, leaped a wide fissure, and ascended the rocks to a point beyond David’s reach. A single bound would carry him to the crest of the precipice and ensure his safety. Before making the leap, however, the Huron paused, shaking his hand at the scout, and shouted:

“The pale faces are dogs! the Delawares women! Magua leaves them on the rocks, for the crows!”

Laughing hoarsely, he made a desperate leap, and fell short of his mark, though his hands grasped a shrub on the verge of the height. The form of Hawkeye had crouched like a beast about to take its spring, and his frame trembled so violently with eagerness that the muzzle of the half-raised rifle played like a leaf fluttering in the wind. Without exhausting himself with fruitless efforts, the cunning Magua suffered his body to drop to the length of his arms, and found a fragment for his feet to rest on. Then, summoning all his powers, he renewed the attempt, and so far succeeded as to draw his knees on the edge of the mountain. It was now, when the body of his enemy was most collected together, that the agitated weapon of the scout was drawn to his shoulder. The surrounding rocks themselves were not steadier than the piece became, for the single instant that it poured out its contents. The arms of the Huron relaxed, and his body fell back a little, while his knees still kept their position. Turning a relentless look on his enemy, he shook a hand in grim defiance. But his hold loosened, and his dark person was seen cutting the air with its head downward, for a fleeting instant, until it glided past the fringe of shrubbery which clung to the mountain, in its rapid flight to destruction.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

“They fought, like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their loud hurrah,
And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night’s repose,
Like flowers at set of sun.”
—Halleck.

The sun found the Lenape, on the succeeding day, a nation of mourners. The sounds of the battle were over, and they had fed fat their ancient grudge, and had avenged their recent quarrel with the Mengwe, by the destruction of a whole community. The black and murky atmosphere that floated around the spot where the Hurons had encamped, sufficiently announced of itself, the fate of that wandering tribe; while hundreds of ravens, that struggled above the summits of the mountains, or swept, in noisy flocks, across the wide ranges of the woods, furnished a frightful direction to the scene of the combat. In short, any eye at all practised in the signs of a frontier warfare might easily have traced all those unerring evidences of the ruthless results which attend an Indian vengeance.

Still, the sun rose over the Lenape, a nation of mourners. There were no shouts of triumph, no songs of victory, heard in their rejoicing. The latest straggler had returned from his grim employment, only to shed the terrible emblems of his bloody calling and join the lamentations of his countrymen, as a stricken people. Pride and exultation were supplanted by humility, and the fiercest human passions were already superseded by the most profound and unequivocal demonstrations of grief.

The lodges were deserted; yet, a broad belt of earnest faces encircled a spot nearby—the place where all that possessed life had gathered, now united in deep, awful silence. Though beings of every rank and age, of both sexes, and pursuing every endeavor, had formed this breathing wall of bodies, they were moved by a single emotion. Every eye was riveted to the center of that ring, which held objects of such vast and common interest.

Six Delaware girls, with their long, dark, flowing tresses falling loosely across their bosoms, stood apart, and only gave proof of their existence as they occasionally strewed sweet-scented herbs and forest flowers on a litter of fragrant plants that, under a pall of Indian robes, supported all that now remained of the ardent, high-souled, and generous Cora. Her form was concealed in many wrappers of the same simple manufacture, and her face was shut forever from the gaze of men. At her feet was seated the desolate Munro. His aged head was bowed nearly to the earth, in compelled submission to the stroke of Providence; but a hidden anguish struggled about his furrowed brow, that was only partially concealed by the careless locks of gray that had fallen, neglected, on his temples. Gamut stood at his side, his meek head bared to the rays of the sun, while his eyes, wandering and concerned, seemed to be equally divided between that little volume, which contained so many quaint but holy maxims, and the being in whose behalf his soul yearned to administer consolation. Heyward was also nigh, supporting himself against a tree, and endeavoring to keep down those sudden risings of sorrow that it required his utmost manhood to subdue.

But sad and melancholy as this group may easily be imagined, it was far less touching than another, that occupied the opposite space of the same area. Seated, as in life, with his form and limbs arranged in grave and decent composure, Uncas appeared, arrayed in the most gorgeous ornaments that the wealth of the tribe could furnish. Rich plumes nodded above his head; wampum, gorgets, bracelets, and medals, adorned his person in profusion; though his dull eye and vacant lineaments too strongly contradicted the idle tale of pride they would convey.

Chingachgook was placed directly before the corpse, devoid of any arms, paint, or adornment whatsoever, save for the bright blue blazonry of his race, indelibly impressed upon his naked chest. Throughout the long period the tribe had been gathered thus, the Mohican warrior kept a steady, anxious gaze fixed upon his son's cold and senseless face. So riveted and intense was that look, and so unchanging his demeanor, that a stranger might not have told the living from the dead, save for the occasional glimmers of a troubled spirit shooting across one visage, and the deathlike calm that had permanently settled on the other's features. The scout leaned close in a pensive posture over his own fatal and avenging weapon; Tamenund, supported by his nation's elders, occupied a high vantage point nearby from which he could observe the mute, sorrowful assembly of his people

. Just inside the circle stood a soldier in the military attire of some foreign nation. Without it, his warhorse stood in the center of a collection of mounted animals, appearing ready for some distant journey. The stranger's vestments announced him as one holding a responsible position near the captain of the Canadas; and, as it now seemed, finding his quest for peace thwarted by the fierce impetuosity of his allies, he was content to be a silent, sad spectator to the fruits of a contest he had arrived too late to foresee

. The day was nearing the close of its first quarter, yet the multitude had maintained a breathing stillness since dawn

.No sound louder than a stifled sob had echoed among them, nor had a single limb moved throughout that long, agonizing period, save for the simple, touching offerings made from time to time in commemoration of the dead. The patience and forbearance of Indian fortitude alone could sustain such an appearance of stillness, which now seemed to have turned every dark, motionless figure into stone.

Finally, the Delaware sage stretched out an arm, leaning on the shoulders of his attendants as he rose, appearing as frail as if another age had slipped between the man who had met his nation the day before and him, now wobbling on his elevated seat.

“Men of the Lenape!” he called out in low, hollow tones, a voice that seemed charged with prophecy: “the face of the Manitou is behind a cloud! His eye is turned from you; His ears are shut; His tongue gives no answer. You see him not; yet His judgments are before you. Let your hearts be open and your spirits tell no lie. Men of the Lenape! the face of the Manitou is behind a cloud.”

As this simple and yet terrible annunciation stole on the ears of the multitude, a stillness as deep and awful succeeded as if the venerated spirit they worshiped had uttered the words without the aid of human organs; and even the inanimate Uncas appeared a being of life, compared with the humbled and submissive throng by whom he was surrounded. As the immediate effect, however, gradually passed away, a low murmur of voices commenced a sort of chant in honor of the dead. The sounds were those of females, and were thrillingly soft and wailing. The words were connected by no regular continuation, but as one ceased another took up the eulogy, or lamentation, whichever it might be called, and gave vent to her emotions in such language as was suggested by her feelings and the occasion. At intervals the speaker was interrupted by general and loud bursts of sorrow, during which the girls around the bier of Cora plucked the plants and flowers blindly from her body, as if bewildered with grief. But, in the milder moments of their plaint, these emblems of purity and sweetness were cast back to their places, with every sign of tenderness and regret. Though rendered less connected by many and general interruptions and outbreakings, a translation of their language would have contained a regular descant, which, in substance, might have proved to possess a train of consecutive ideas.

Selected by her rank and qualifications, a girl began with humble allusions to the deceased warrior's qualities. She adorned her expressions with oriental imagery—those images perhaps brought by the Indians from the farthest reaches of the other continent, forging a link between the ancient histories of the two worlds. She called him the “panther of his tribe” and described him as one whose moccasin left no trail in the dew; whose bound was like the leap of a young fawn; whose eye shone brighter than a star in the dark night; and whose voice, in battle, roared like the thunder of the Manitou. She likened him to the mother who bore him, dwelling insistently on the joy she must feel in possessing such a son. She urged him to tell her, when they met in the world of spirits, that the Delaware girls had wept above her child’s grave and had called her blessed

. Then, those who succeeded shifted their tones to a milder, even tender strain. With the delicacy and sensitivity of women, they alluded to the stranger maiden who had left the upper earth so close to his departure that the will of the Great Spirit became too manifest to ignore. They urged him to be kind to her, to show consideration for her ignorance of those arts essential to the comfort of a warrior like himself. They focused on her incomparable beauty and noble resolve, devoid of envy, suggesting that angels delight in superior excellence; adding that these gifts were more than sufficient to compensate for any slight imperfection in her education

.Then, in turn, others followed, speaking to the maiden in the low, soft language of tenderness and love. They urged her to keep a cheerful mind and fear nothing for her future well-being. A hunter would be her companion, one who knew how to provide for every small need; and a warrior would stand by her, ready to guard her against all peril. They promised her that her path would be pleasant and her burden light. They warned her not to dwell on regrets for her youth or the places where her father had lived, assuring her that the “blessed hunting grounds of the Lenape” held valleys as lovely as rainbows, streams as pure as crystal, and flowers as sweet as the “heaven of the pale faces.” They advised her to heed her companion's needs and never forget the distinction the Manitou had so wisely drawn between them. Then, in a wild burst of their chant, they sang with united voices the temperament of the Mohican mind. They declared him noble, manly, and generous—everything that became a warrior, and everything a maiden ought to love. Draping their thoughts in the most subtle images, they revealed that during their time together, they had intuitively perceived the true nature of his desires. The Delaware girls found no favor in his eyes! He belonged to a lineage that had once ruled the shores of the salt lake, and his desires had led him back to a people who lived near the graves of his ancestors. Why shouldn't such a preference be encouraged?She was, they said, of a blood purer and richer than the rest of her nation—a fact any eye could see. Her conduct had proven her equal to the dangers and daring of life in the woods. And now, they added, the “wise one of the earth” had transplanted her to a place where she would find congenial spirits and everlasting happiness.

Then, shifting focus, allusions turned to the virgin weeping in the nearby lodge. They likened her to snowflakes: pure, white, brilliant, yet liable to melt in summer’s heat or congeal in winter’s frost. They didn't doubt she was lovely in the eyes of the young chief, whose skin and sorrow seemed so much like her own; but though they didn't express such a preference, it was clear they deemed her less excellent than the maid they mourned. Still, they denied her no need for her rare charms to claim favor. Her ringlets were compared to the vine's exuberant tendrils, her eye to the blue vault of heaven, and the most spotless cloud with its sunlit glow was deemed less attractive than her bloom.

During these and similar songs, nothing was audible save the murmurs of the music; they were relieved, or perhaps rendered terrible, by those occasional bursts of grief that served as its choruses. The Delawares themselves listened like charmed men, and the depth and truth of their sympathy were evident in the variations of their expressions. Even David wasn't hesitant to lend his ears to such sweet tones; long before the chant ended, his gaze announced that his soul was enthralled.

The scout, the only white man for whom the words were intelligible, allowed himself to stir slightly from his meditative pose and turned his face to catch the girls' meaning as they spoke. But when they discussed Cora and Uncas’s future prospects, he shook his head, as if he knew the flaw in their simple belief. He resumed his reclining posture, holding it until the ceremony—if you could call it that—where feeling was so deeply woven in, concluded. Fortunately for Heyward and Munro’s self-control, they didn't grasp the meaning of the wild sounds they heard

. Chingachgook was a solitary exception to the interest shown by the native audience. His gaze never shifted throughout the scene, nor did a muscle move in his rigid face, even during the wildest or most pathetic lamentations. The cold, senseless remains of his son were all that mattered to him, and every sense but sight seemed frozen, allowing his eyes to take their final look at those features he had loved for so long, now about to be lost from his view

. At this stage of the funeral, a warrior renowned for valor in battle—especially for services in recent combat—a man of stern and grave bearing, advanced slowly from the crowd and positioned himself near the deceased

.“Why have you left us, pride of the Wapanachki?” he asked, speaking to the dull ears of Uncas, as if the empty clay still held the faculties of the animated man. “Your time was like that of the sun in the trees; your glory shone brighter than his light at noon. You are gone, youthful warrior, but a hundred Wyandots are clearing the briers from your path to the world of spirits. Who would have believed you could die in battle? Who has ever shown Uttawa the way into the fight before you? Your feet were like eagle's wings; your arm was heavier than falling pine branches; and your voice was like the Manitou when He speaks in the clouds. The tongue of Uttawa is weak,” he added, gazing around with a melancholy look, “and his heart is exceedingly heavy. Pride of the Wapanachki, why have you left us?”

Others followed in turn, in due order, until most of the nation's high and gifted men had sung or spoken their tribute to the deceased chief. When each finished, another deep, breathing silence settled over the place.

Then a low, deep sound was heard, like the suppressed accompaniment of distant music, rising just high enough on the air to be audible, and yet so indistinctly, as to leave its character, and the place whence it proceeded, alike matters of conjecture. It was, however, succeeded by another and another strain, each in a higher key, until they grew on the ear, first in long drawn and often repeated interjections, and finally in words. The lips of Chingachgook had so far parted, as to announce that it was the monody of the father. Though not an eye was turned toward him nor the smallest sign of impatience exhibited, it was apparent, by the manner in which the multitude elevated their heads to listen, that they drank in the sounds with an intenseness of attention, that none but Tamenund himself had ever before commanded. But they listened in vain. The strains rose just so loud as to become intelligible, and then grew fainter and more trembling, until they finally sank on the ear, as if borne away by a passing breath of wind. The lips of the Sagamore closed, and he remained silent in his seat, looking with his riveted eye and motionless form, like some creature that had been turned from the Almighty hand with the form but without the spirit of a man. The Delawares who knew by these symptoms that the mind of their friend was not prepared for so mighty an effort of fortitude, relaxed in their attention; and, with an innate delicacy, seemed to bestow all their thoughts on the obsequies of the stranger maiden.

A signal was sent by one of the elder chiefs to the women who had gathered near where Cora lay. Following the direction, the girls raised the bier to their heads and advanced in slow, measured steps, chanting another wailing song in praise of the dead. Gamut, who had closely watched rites he considered heathenish, now bent over the unconscious father’s shoulder and whispered:

“They move with the remains of your child; shouldn't we follow and see them buried with Christian rites?”

Munro started, as if the last trumpet had sounded in his ear. He cast an anxious, hurried glance around him, then rose and followed in the simple procession, moving like a soldier but carrying the full weight of a parent’s agony. His friends surrounded him, their sorrow too profound for mere sympathy—even the young Frenchman joining the procession bore the air of a man sensible to the early and melancholy fate of such loveliness. But when the last and humblest woman of the tribe joined in the wild and ordered array, the Lenape men contracted their circle, reforming around Uncas, as silent, grave, and motionless as before.

The spot chosen for Cora's grave was a small knoll where a cluster of young, healthy pines had taken root, casting a melancholy and fitting shade over the area. Upon reaching it, the girls laid their burden down and waited for many minutes with characteristic patience and native timidity, awaiting some sign that those whose feelings mattered most were content with the arrangement. Finally, the scout, who alone understood their customs, spoke in their own tongue:

“My daughters have done well; the white men thank them.”

Satisfied by this testimony, the girls proceeded to inter the body in a shell, ingeniously and elegantly fashioned from birch bark, and then lowered it into its dark, final resting place. The ceremony of covering the remains, and concealing the marks left by the fresh earth with leaves and other natural and customary objects, was conducted in the same simple, silent manner. But as the work of the kind beings who had performed these sorrowful yet friendly duties was nearly complete, they hesitated, as if unsure how much further they should proceed. It was at this stage of the rites that the scout addressed them again:

“My young women have done enough,” he said. “The spirit of the pale face needs no food or clothing; their gifts are granted by heaven according to their complexion. I see,” he added, glancing at David, who was preparing his book in a manner that suggested an intention to lead a sacred song, “that one who knows Christian fashions best is about to speak.”

The women stood quietly to the side, having been the principal actors in the scene, they now became meek and attentive observers of what followed. As David poured the pious feelings of his spirit into that moment, no surprise or impatience escaped them. They listened as if they understood the strange words, appearing to feel the mingled emotions of sorrow, hope, and resignation that were intended to be conveyed

. Excited by the spectacle, and perhaps by their own hidden emotions, the singer pushed beyond his usual efforts. His full, rich voice didn't seem diminished when compared to the girls' soft tones; in fact, his more modulated strains possessed, at least for those he was addressing, an added quality of intelligence. He concluded the anthem, just as he had begun it, in a grave and solemn stillness

. But when the final melody reached their ears, the secret, timid glances of their eyes, and the general yet subdued movement of the group betrayed that something was expected from the father of the deceased. Munro seemed to sense that the time had come for him to exert what is perhaps the greatest effort human nature can muster. He bared his gray locks and surveyed the timid and quiet throng surrounding him with a firm, collected countenance. Then, gesturing with his hand for the scout to listen, he said

.“Tell these kind and gentle women that a heartbroken and failing man returns them his thanks. Tell them that the Being we all worship, under different names, will remember their charity; and that the time will not be long until we may all gather around His throne, without regard for sex, rank, or color.”

The scout listened to the trembling voice in which the veteran delivered these words and slowly shook his head when they finished, as if doubting their truth.

“To tell them this,” he said, “would be to say that snows don't come in winter, or that the sun shines brightest when the trees are bare.”

Then, turning to the women, he communicated the gratitude of others in a way he thought best suited their understanding. The head of Munro had already slumped onto his chest, relapsing into melancholy, when the young Frenchman before him ventured to touch him lightly on the elbow. As soon as he had the mourner’s attention, he pointed toward a group of young Indians who approached with a light but covered litter, and then gestured upward toward the sun.

“I understand you, sir,” Munro replied with a voice of forced firmness; “I understand. It’s Heaven's will, and I submit. Cora, my child! If the prayers of a heartbroken father could help you now, how blessed you would be! Come on, gentlemen,” he added, looking around him with an air of lofty composure, though the anguish quivering in his faded face was far too powerful to hide, “our duty here is done; let us leave.”

Heyward gladly obeyed a summons that took them from a spot where, each instant, he felt his self-control was about to desert him. While his companions were mounting, however, he found time to press the hand of the scout, and to repeat the terms of an engagement they had made to meet again within the posts of the British army. Then, gladly throwing himself into the saddle, he spurred his charger to the side of the litter, whence low and stifled sobs alone announced the presence of Alice. In this manner, the head of Munro again drooping on his bosom, with Heyward and David following in sorrowing silence, and attended by the aide of Montcalm with his guard, all the white men, with the exception of Hawkeye, passed from before the eyes of the Delawares, and were buried in the vast forests of that region.

But the tie which, through their common calamity, had united the feelings of these simple dwellers in the woods with the strangers who had thus transiently visited them, was not so easily broken. Years passed away before the traditionary tale of the white maiden, and of the young warrior of the Mohicans ceased to beguile the long nights and tedious marches, or to animate their youthful and brave with a desire for vengeance. Neither were the secondary actors in these momentous incidents forgotten. Through the medium of the scout, who served for years afterward as a link between them and civilized life, they learned, in answer to their inquiries, that the “Gray Head” was speedily gathered to his fathers—borne down, as was erroneously believed, by his military misfortunes; and that the “Open Hand” had conveyed his surviving daughter far into the settlements of the pale faces, where her tears had at last ceased to flow, and had been succeeded by the bright smiles which were better suited to her joyous nature.

But these events were from a time later than the one in our story. Stripped of all color, Hawkeye returned to the place his sympathies led him, with a force that no ideal bond could break. He arrived just in time to catch Uncas’s parting look—the features the Delaware people were already embracing in their final layer of skins. They paused to let in the longing and lingering gaze of the sturdy woodsman, and when it ceased, the body was enveloped, sealed forever. Then a procession followed like the others, and the whole nation gathered around the chief’s temporary grave—temporary, for it was right that one day his bones should rest among those of his own people

. The movement, like the feeling, had been simultaneous and general. The same expression of grief, the same rigid silence, and the same deference to the principal mourner were observed around the burial site, just as previously described. The body lay in repose, facing the rising sun, the implements of war and the chase at hand, ready for the final journey. An opening was left in the shell, allowing the spirit to communicate with its earthly home when needed; the whole was concealed from instinct and protected from the ravages of predators with a cunning unique to the natives

.Chingachgook once again became the focus of common attention. He hadn't spoken yet, and one expected something comforting and instructive from such a renowned chief on such an important occasion. Aware of the people's desires, the stern and self-restrained warrior raised his face—which he had recently buried in his robe—and looked around him with a steady gaze. Then, his firmly set and expressive lips parted, and for the first time during the long ceremonies, his voice was distinctly audible. "Why do my brothers mourn?" he asked, looking at the dark race of dejected warriors surrounding him; "why do my daughters weep? Because a young man has gone to the happy hunting grounds; because a chief has filled his time with honor? He was good; he was dutiful; he was brave. Who can deny that the Manitou needed such a warrior, and He has called him away. As for me, the son and father of Uncas, I am a blazing pine in a clearing of pale faces. My people have moved from the shores of the salt lake and the hills of the Delawares. But who can say that the serpent of his tribe has forgotten his wisdom? I am alone—”

“No, no,” Hawkeye cried out, his gaze fixed on the rigid features of his friend with a yearning look, imbued with a kind of self-command that could no longer hold his philosophy. “No, Sagamore, not just you. The gifts of our colors might differ, but God has placed us on the same path to journey. I have no kin, and I'd add, like you, no people. He was your son, a red-skin by nature; perhaps your blood was closer—but if I ever forget the lad who often stood beside me in war and slept beside me in peace, may the one who made us all, whatever our color or gifts, forget me! That boy has left us for a time; but Sagamore, you're not alone.”

[Illustration]

Chingachgook grasped the hand that, warmed by feeling, the scout had stretched across the fresh earth. In an act of friendship, these two sturdy and intrepid woodsmen bowed their heads together as scalding tears fell to their feet, watering Uncas’s grave like drops of falling rain.

Amidst the awful stillness with which such a surge of emotion, born from the two most renowned warriors of the region, was received, Tamenund raised his voice to disperse the multitude.

"That's enough," he said. "Go, children of the Lenape; the anger of the Manitou remains. Why should Tamenund stay? The pale faces rule the earth, and the time for the red men hasn't arrived again yet. My day has been too long. This morning, I saw Unami's sons happy and strong; yet, before night fell, I lived to see the last warrior of the wise race of the Mohicans."

The Last of the Mohicans

A Narrative of 1757

by James Fenimore Cooper

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