She had noticed that among the tents there was one which stood apart from the rest, and was only visited by the old chief and his granddaughter, or by the elder women. At first she imagined it was some sick person, or a secret tent set apart for the worship of the Great Spirit; but one day when the chief of the people had gone up the river hunting, and the children were asleep, she perceived the curtain of skins drawn back, and a female of singular and striking beauty appeared standing in the open s.p.a.ce in front. She was habited in a fine tunic of white dressed doeskin richly embroidered with coloured beads and stained quills, a full petticoat of dark cloth bound with scarlet descended to her ancles, leggings fringed with deer-skin knotted with bands of coloured quills, with richly wrought moca.s.sins on her feet. On her head she wore a coronet of scarlet and black feathers; her long shining tresses of raven hair descended to her waist, each thick tress confined with a braided band of quills dyed scarlet and blue; her stature was tall and well-formed; her large, liquid, dark eye wore an expression so proud and mournful that Catharine felt her own involuntarily fill with tears as she gazed upon this singular being. She would have approached nearer to her, but a spell seemed on her; she shrunk back timid and abashed beneath that wild melancholy glance. It was she, the Beam of the Morning, the self-made widow of the young Mohawk, whose hand had wrought so fearful a vengeance on the treacherous destroyer of her brother. She stood there, at the tent door, arrayed in her bridal robes, as on the day when she received her death-doomed victim. And when she recalled her fearful deed, shuddering with horror, Catharine drew back and shrouded herself within the tent, fearing again to fall under the eye of that terrible woman. She remembered how Indiana had told her that since that fatal marriage-feast she had been kept apart from the rest of the tribe,--she was regarded by her people as a sacred character, a great _Medicine_, a female _brave_, a being whom they regarded with mysterious reverence. She had made this great sacrifice for the good of her nation.

Indiana said it was believed among her own folks that she had loved the young Mohawk pa.s.sionately, as a tender woman loves the husband of her youth; yet she had hesitated not to sacrifice him with her own hand.

Such was the deed of the Indian heroine--and such were the virtues of the unregenerated Greeks and Romans!

CHAPTER XIII.

"Now where the wave, with loud unquiet song, Dash'd o'er the rocky channel, froths along, Or where the silver waters soothed to rest, The tree's tall shadow sleeps upon its breast."

COLERIDGE.

The Indian camp remained for nearly three weeks on this spot, _[FN: Now known by the name of Cambelltown, though, there is but one log-house and some pasture fields; it is a spot long used as a calling place for the steamer that plies on the Otoanbee, between Gore's Landing on the Rice Lake and Peterborough, to take in fire-wood.]_ and then early one morning the wigwams were all taken down, and the canoes, six in number, proceeded up the river. There was very little variety in the scenery to interest Catharine; the river still kept its slow flowing course between low sh.o.r.es, thickly clothed with trees, without an opening through which the eye might pierce to form an idea of the country beyond; not a clearing, not a sight or sound of civilized man was there to be seen or heard; the darting flight of the wild birds as they flitted across from one side to the other, the tapping of the woodp.e.c.k.e.rs or shrill cry of the blue jay, was all that was heard, from sunrise to sunset, on that monotonous voyage. After many hours a decided change was perceived in the current, which ran at a considerable increase of swiftness, so that it required the united energy of both men and women to keep the light vessels from drifting down the river again. They were in the Rapids, _[FN: Formerly known as Whitla's Rapids, now the site of the Locks.]_ and it was hard work to stem the tide, and keep the upward course of the waters. At length the rapids were pa.s.sed, and the weary Indian voyagers rested for a s.p.a.ce on the bosom of a small but tranquil lake. _[FN: The little lake about a mile below Peterborough and above the Locks, formerly girt in by woods of pine and beech and maple, now entirely divested of trees and forming part of the suburbs of the town. ]_ The rising moon shed her silvery light upon the calm waters, and heaven's stars shone down into its quiet depths, as the canoes with their dusky freight parted the glittering rays with their light paddles.

As they proceeded onward the banks rose on either side, still fringed with pine, cedar and oaks. At an angle of the lake the banks on either side ran out into two opposite peninsulas, forming a narrow pa.s.sage or gorge, contracting the lake once more into the appearance of a broad river, much wider from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e than any other part they had pa.s.sed through since they had left the entrance at the Rice Lake.

Catharine became interested in the change of scenery, her eye dwelt with delight on the forms of glorious spreading oaks and lofty pines, green cliff-like sh.o.r.es and low wooded islands; while as they proceeded the sound of rapid flowing waters met her ear, and soon the white and broken eddies rushing along with impetuous course were seen by the light of the moon; and while she was wondering if the canoes were to stem those rapids, at a signal from the old chief, the little fleet was pushed to sh.o.r.e on a low flat of emerald verdure nearly opposite to the last island. _[FN: Over the Otonabee, just between the rapids and the island, a n.o.ble and substantial bridge has been built.]_

Here, under the shelter of some beautiful spreading black oaks, the women prepared to set up their wigwams. They had brought the poles and birch-bark covering from the encampment below, and soon all was bustle and business; unloading the canoes, and raising the tents. Even Catharine lent a willing hand to a.s.sist the females in bringing up the stores, and sundry baskets containing fruits and other small wares. She then kindly attended to the Indian children, certain dark-skinned babes, who, bound upon their wooden cradles, were either set up against the trunks of the trees, or swung to some lowly depending branch, there to remain helpless and uncomplaining spectators of the scene.

Catharine thought these Indian babes were almost as much to be pitied as herself, only that they were unconscious of their imprisoned state, having from birth been used to no better treatment, and moreover they were sure to be rewarded by the tender caresses of living mothers when the season of refreshment and repose arrived; but she alas! was friendless and alone, an orphan girl, reft of father, mother, kindred and friends. One Father, one Friend, poor Catharine, thou hadst, even He--the Father of the fatherless.

That night when the women and children were sleeping, Catharine stole out of the wigwam, and climbed the precipitous bank beneath the shelter of which the lodges had been erected. She found herself upon a gra.s.sy plain, studded with majestic oaks and pines, so beautifully grouped that they might have been planted by the hand of taste upon that velvet turf.

It was a delightful contrast to those dense dark forests through which for so many many miles the waters of the Otonabee had flowed on monotonously; here it was all wild and free, dashing along like a restive steed rejoicing in its liberty, uncurbed and tameless.

Yes, here it was beautiful! Catharine gazed with joy upon the rushing river, and felt her own heart expand as she marked its rapid course, as it bounded murmuring and fretting over its rocky bed. "Happy, glorious waters! you are not subject to the power of any living creature, no canoe can ascend those surging waves; I would that I too, like thee, were free to pursue my onward way--how soon would I flee away and be at rest!" Such thoughts perhaps might have pa.s.sed through the mind of the lonely captive girl, as she sat at the foot of one giant oak, and looked abroad over those moonlit waters, till, oppressed by the overwhelming sense of the utter loneliness of the scene, the timid girl with faltering step hurried down once more to the wigwams, silently crept to the mat where her bed was spread, and soon forgot all her woes and wanderings in deep tranquil sleep.

Catharine wondered that the Indians in erecting their lodges always seemed to prefer the low, level, and often swampy grounds by the lakes and rivers in preference to the higher and more healthy elevations. So disregardful are they of this circ.u.mstance, that they do not hesitate to sleep where the ground is saturated with moisture. They will then lay a temporary flooring of cedar or any other bark beneath their feet, rather than remove the tent a few feet higher up, where a drier soil may always be found. This either arises from stupidity or indolence, perhaps from both, but it is no doubt the cause of much of the sickness that prevails among, them. With his feet stretched to the fire the Indian cares for nothing else when reposing in his wigwam, and it is useless to urge the improvement that might be made in his comfort; he listens with a face of apathy, and utters his everlasting guttural, which saves him the trouble of a more rational reply.

"Snow-bird" informed Catharine that the lodges would not again be removed for some time, but that the men would hunt and fish, while the squaws pursued their domestic labours. Catharine perceived that the chief of the laborious part of the work fell to the share of the females, who were very much more industrious and active than their husbands; these, when not out hunting or fishing, were to be seen reposing in easy indolence under the shade of the trees, or before the tent fires, giving themselves little concern about anything that was going on. The squaws were gentle, humble, and submissive; they bore without a murmur pain, labour, hunger, and fatigue, and seemed to perform every task with patience and good humour. They made the canoes, in which the men sometimes a.s.sisted them, pitched the tents, converted the skins of the animals which the men shot into clothes, cooked the victuals, manufactured baskets of every kind, wove mats, dyed the quills of the porcupine, sewed the moca.s.sins, and in short performed a thousand tasks which it would be difficult to enumerate.

Of the ordinary household work, such as is familiar to European females, they of course knew nothing; they had no linen to wash or iron, no floors to clean, no milking of cows, nor churning of b.u.t.ter.

Their carpets were fresh cedar boughs spread upon the ground, and only renewed when they became offensively dirty from the acc.u.mulation of fish bones and other offal, which are carelessly flung down during meals. Of furniture they had none, their seat the ground, their table the same, their beds mats or skins of animals,--such were the domestic arrangements of the Indian camp. _[FN: Much improvement has taken place of late years in the domestic economy of the Indians, and some of their dwellings are clean and neat even for Europeans.]_ In the tent to which Catharine belonged, which was that of the widow and her sons, a greater degree of order and cleanliness prevailed than in any other, for Catharine's natural love of neatness and comfort induced her to strew the floor with fresh cedar or hemlock every day or two, and to sweep round the front of the lodge, removing all unseemly objects from its vicinity. She never failed to wash herself in the river, and arrange her hair with the comb that Louis had made for her; and took great care of the little child, which she kept clean and well fed. She loved this little creature, for it was soft and gentle, meek and playful as a little squirrel, and the Indian mothers all looked with kinder eyes upon the white maiden, for the loving manner in which she tended their children. The heart of woman is seldom cold to those who cherish their offspring, and Catharine began to experience the truth, that the exercise of those human charities is equally beneficial to those who give and those that receive; these things fall upon the heart as dew upon a thirsty soil, giving and creating a blessing. But we will leave Catharine for a short season, among the lodges of the Indians, and return to Hector and Louis.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Cold and forsaken, dest.i.tute of friends, And all good comforts else, unless some tree Whose speechless chanty doth better ours, With which the bitter east-winds made their sport And sang through hourly, hath invited thee To shelter half a day. Shall she be thus, And I draw in soft slumbers?"

BRAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

It was near sunset before Hector and his cousin returned on the evening of the eventful day that had found Catharine a prisoner on Long Island.

They had met with good success in hunting, and brought home a fine half-grown fawn, fat and in good order. They were surprised at finding the fire nearly extinguished, and no Catharine awaiting their return.

There, it is true, was the food that she had prepared for them, but she was not to be seen; supposing that she had been tired of waiting for them, and had gone out to gather strawberries, they did not at first feel very anxious, but ate some of the rice and honey, for they were hungry with long fasting; and taking some Indian meal cake in their hands, they went out to call her in, but no trace of her was visible.

They now became alarmed, fearing that she had set off by herself to seek them, and had missed her way home again.

They hurried back to the happy valley--she was not there; to Pine-tree Point--no trace of her there; to the edge of the mount that overlooked the lake--no, she was not to be seen; night found them still unsuccessful in their search. Sometimes they fancied that she had seated herself beneath some tree and fallen asleep; but no one imagined the true cause, having seen nothing of the Indians.

Again they retraced their steps back to the house; but they found her not there. They continued their unavailing search till the moon setting left them in darkness, and they laid down to rest, but not to sleep. The first streak of dawn saw them again hurrying to and fro, calling in vain upon the name of the loved and lost companion of their wanderings.

Desolation had fallen upon their house, and the evil which of all others they had most feared, had happened to them.

Indiana, whose vigilance was more untiring, for she yielded not so easily to grief and despair, now returned with the intelligence that she had discovered the Indian trail, through the big ravine to the lake sh.o.r.e; she had found the remains of a wreath of oak leaves which had been woven by Catharine, and probably been about her hair; and she had seen the mark of feet, Indian feet, on the soft clay, at the edge of the lake, and the furrowing of the shingles by the pushing off of a canoe.

It was evident that she had been taken away from her home by these people. Poor Louis gave way to transports of grief and despair; he knew the wreath, it was such as Catharine often made for herself, and Mathilde, and pet.i.te Louise, and Marie; his mother had taught her to make them; they were linked together by the stalks, and formed a sort of leaf chain. The remembrance of many of their joyous days of childhood made Louis weep sorrowful tears for happy days, never to return again; he placed the torn relic in his breast, and sadly turned away to hide his grief from Hector and the Indian girl.

Indiana now proposed searching the island for further traces, but advised wariness in so doing. They saw, however, no smoke nor canoes.

The Indians had departed while they were searching the ravines and flats round Mount Ararat, and the lake told no tales, The following day they ventured to land on Long Island, and on going to the north side saw evident traces of a temporary encampment having been made. This was all they could do, further search was unavailing; as they found no trace of any violence having been committed, they still cherished hopes that no personal harm had been done to the poor captive, It was Indiana's opinion that, though a prisoner, she was unhurt, as the Indians rarely killed women and children, unless roused to do so by some signal act on the part of their enemies, when an exterminating spirit of revenge induced them to kill and spare not; but where no offence had been offered, they were not likely to take the life of an helpless, unoffending female.

The Indian is not cruel for the wanton love of blood, but to gratify revenge for some injury done to himself, or to his tribe; but it was difficult to still the terrible apprehensions that haunted the minds of Louis and Hector. They spent much time in searching the northern sh.o.r.es and the distant islands, in the vain hope of finding her, as they still thought the camp might have been moved to the opposite side of the lake.

Inconsolable for the loss of their beloved companion, Hector and Louis no longer took interest in what was going on; they hardly troubled themselves to weed the Indian corn, in which they had taken such great delight; all now seemed to them flat, stale, and unprofitable; they wandered listlessly to and fro, silent and sad; the sunshine had departed from their little dwelling; they ate little, and talked less, each seeming absorbed in his own painful reveries.

In vain the gentle Indian girl strove to revive their drooping spirits; they seemed insensible to her attentions, and often left her for hours alone. They returned one evening about the usual hour of sunset, and missed their meek, uncomplaining guest from the place she was wont to occupy. They called, but there was none to reply--she too was gone. They hurried to the sh.o.r.e just time enough to see the canoe diminishing to a mere speck upon the waters, in the direction of the mouth of the river; they called to her in accents of despair, to return, but the wind wafted back no sound to their ears, and soon the bark was lost to sight, and they sat them down disconsolately on the sh.o.r.e.

"What is she doing?" said Hector; "this is cruel to abandon us thus."

"She has gone up the river, with the hope of bringing us some tidings of Catharine," said Louis. "How came you to think that such is her intention?"

"I heard her say the other day that she would go and bring her back, or die."

"What! do you think she would risk the vengeance of the old chief whose life she attempted to take?"

"She is a brave girl; she does not fear pain or death to serve those she loves."

"Alas!" said Hector, "she will perish miserably and to no avail; they would not restore our dear sister, even at the sacrifice of Indiana's life."

"How can she, unprotected and alone, dare such perils? Why did she not tell us? we would have shared her danger."

"She feared for our lives more than for her own; that poor Indian girl has a n.o.ble heart. I care not now what befals us, we have lost all that made life dear to us," said Louis gloomily, sinking his head between his knees.

"Hush, Louis, you are older than I, and ought to bear these trials with more courage. It was our own fault, Indiana's leaving us, we left her so much alone to pine after her lost companion; she seemed to think that we did not care for her. Poor Indiana, she must have felt lonely and sad."

"I tell you what we will do, Hec.--make a log canoe. I found an old battered one lying on the sh.o.r.e, not far from Pine-tree Point; we have an axe and a tomahawk,--what should hinder us from making one like it?"

"True! we will set about it to-morrow."

"I wish it were morning, that we might set to work to cut down a good pine for the purpose."

"As soon as it is done, we will go up the river; anything is better than this dread suspense and inaction."

The early dawn saw the two cousins busily engaged chopping at a tree of suitable dimensions, and they worked hard all that day, and the next, and the next, before the canoe was hollowed out, and then, owing to their inexperience and the bluntness of their tools, their first attempt proved abortive; it was too heavy at one end, and did not balance well in the water.

Louis, who had been quite sure of success, was disheartened; not so Hector.

"Do not let us give it up; my maxim is perseverance; let us try again, and again--aye! and a third and a fourth time. I say, never give it up, that is the way to succeed at last."

"You have ten times my patience, Hec." "Yes! but you are more ingenious than I, and are excellent at starting an idea."

"We are a good pair then for partnership."

"We will begin anew; and this time I hope we shall profit by our past blunders."