From the filthy wigwam, into which Rodney Allison had been thrust by his captor, to the little home in Charlottesville the distance was more than three hundred miles, as the crow flies, and much farther for those that travelled on foot and not by wing, threading the winding forest trails, wading and swimming the fords and climbing the mountains. Yet the lad's thoughts sped across like a flash of dawn.

He lifted his head--his surroundings had, for the moment, cast the spell of despair on him--and looked out. He seemed to see, not the woods that hemmed in the little Indian village, but his humble home in far away Virginia. Poor and shabby outside, inside, the "living" room was as neat as soap and water and sand and plenty of scrubbing could make it. The meagre furnishings were tidily arranged. He could see, "in his mind's eye," the faces of his mother, and Mam, and Th.e.l.lo; fancied he could hear the whinny with which Nat always greeted his entrance to the stable. He imagined just what familiar task each of them might be doing. He knew Th.e.l.lo's forehead was wrinkled, as always when working, that Mam was humming a melody, and his mother's face was anxious. He could not know that she stood by the west window looking out toward the mountains and thinking of him and his father; nor could he see black Sam stop at the door and with an air of importance give to the "Missus" a letter, dingy and worn by its long journey across the ocean, the negro sc.r.a.ping and bowing as he did so.

Sam was saying: "Squar, he says, 'Sam, you done tote dat yar letter right smart to Missus Allison wid my bes' respec's. She'll be wantin'

ter read it.' Spec's it's from Lunnon. Squar, he jes' home from Willumsburg."

"Thank you, Sam. The squire is indeed kind, and you will say that Mrs.

Allison thanks him for his kindness."

"Ya.s.s'm."

To most people the arrival of any letter was an important event in those days, especially one from "the old country," six long weeks by sailing vessel at best. Moreover, at that time, there was only a weekly mail between Philadelphia and Williamsburg, unless sent by special messenger, and then on to its destination by any chance carrier, each person along the route being helpful in forwarding it.

So it was not surprising that Mrs. Allison eagerly opened the letter, breaking what she recognized as the Danesford seal.

The ink on that letter has dimmed with the long years, but time has not obliterated a certain daintiness in the writing, for Lisbeth's innate grace was somehow transmitted through the quill pen to the neat, clear characters fashioned by her hand. The reading of it, too, will a.s.sist the reader to a better understanding of the girl and the conditions surrounding her, and Lisbeth was a girl worth knowing, though she may yet need excuses, and those will be the more easily made after reading.

"DEAR AUNT HARRIET:--I know you keep promises and so I address you as 'aunt.' I'm sure you remember one day when I came to you in tears. I didn't often come that way, did I? I was so lonely, I'll never forget how lonely, just because it suddenly occurred to me that most little girls had mothers and aunts, and I had never seen one that belonged to me. You took me in your arms and said you would be my aunt, that you had been thinking how nice it would be to have a little girl for a niece, and I went home comforted and actually believing you had wanted me for a niece all the time.

"Well, I've got a real aunt now, Aunt Mogridge, and sometimes I think neither of us is real glad it is so. I'm a wicked girl for writing that, and would scratch it out only I somehow want you to know how I feel. She is just as kind as any aunt could be, but, well, she doesn't care for the things I do, and--vice versa, as the books say. Now, while I'm sighing for a glimpse of the Old Dominion, and papa, and you and--and all of them, Aunt Mogridge is sighing because she can't have a new dress for Lady D----'s to-morrow night, and worrying lest I say something I ought not to, because there is to be a real live duke there. I have met dukes before, and found them very uninteresting, although I suppose there are various kinds.

"What wouldn't I give, this dismal afternoon, to jump on the back of Moleskin and ride like the wind and hear solemn old Jeremiah clattering behind, his black face turned white with fear lest I fall off! Instead I've been listening to old Lady Brendon retail the latest gossip. She's a wheezy old lady, so fat her chairmen's faces always shine with perspiration, and all she cares about is the latest gossip: 'Lord So-and-So has wagered his last farthing at White's or the Chocolate House,' until I want to say, like black Susan, 'Jolly fuss!' You should have heard Aunt Mogridge tell Lady Brendon about what a rich man papa is. I used to think, to hear him talk, that if the crops failed he'd never be able to pay his debts.

"I saw the king at the theatre the other night. He looks just like some of the German farmers papa and I saw in Pennsylvania.

They say he is very pious, and frowns on gambling, as well he might for the good of his kingdom, and that he is determined to do as his mother told him and be a real king. He doesn't look as though he'd exactly know how. You should have heard him laugh over a little silly joke, when one of the actors sat in a chair on a make-believe baby and a ventriloquist squalled just like a baby. But they says he's obstinate and the colonies can't make him yield to their demands.

"People here think just as dear papa does, that England has helped fight the battles of the colonies and protect them with the strong arm of England--I tell 'em there are strong arms in the colonies--and that they should help pay the taxes.

"It's all too profound for me, though I am sixteen and should be, they tell me, a dignified young lady. Indeed aunt is planning to have me introduced at court.

"I must tell you what a bore little Lord n.o.bury is getting to be.

It's partly Aunt Mogridge's fault. Anything with a t.i.tle she loves and, though she deplores the way young men gamble, and I think her beautiful son--he's yet in Virginia, thank Heaven--hasn't much money to squander, she boasts of his losses at 'hazard' to Lord n.o.bury.

"He was the first specimen, n.o.bury, I mean, that I met. I hadn't been at aunt's more than a day before he called. I'd been awfully seasick on the voyage and the sight of him nearly brought on another attack. It seemed that aunt had been singing my praises to him before I arrived. Well, he bowed very low and, had he remained in that posture, I might have liked him, for his clothes were gorgeous; a coat of creamy velvet, a wonderful waistcoat with gold embroidery, black velvet breeches, white silk stockings, shoes with gold buckles and the lace at his wrists and neck was so fine I was actually envious.

"He began to talk right away about the theatres. Of course I was so ignorant of it all that I could only listen. He said I must see Garrick at the Drury Lane and I hope I may.

"The little 'macaroni' is so short that he wears very high heels and has his hair done up high in front. You ought to see the wonderful and fearful things they do with their hair, both ladies and gentlemen.

"After learning I didn't know anything about the theatres, though of course I had read about them at home, he seemed at a loss what to talk about, and his face looked so blank and pasty I wished old Doctor Atterbury could have been there to prescribe for his liver.

"I turned the conversation to horses by telling him I thought those in the Old Dominion were much superior to those in England and then went on to tell him about the time I got on Moleskin's back against orders and how he ran away with me when he heard the baying of Squire Dupont's hounds. The little lord declared with a smirk that I must have looked like an aboriginal Indian princess.

I asked him why not rather like an original one, and he stared and fingered his little sword; a sword on such as he makes me wonder how black Tom would look in the beadle's wig. But here am I running on about lords and ladies when I hate the sound of their names and am wishing I were back in Virginia where the sunshine isn't strained through fog and the logs burning in the big fireplaces, are fragrant and cheerful.

"I suppose Naomi is a big girl and so you won't feel the need of nieces to write long letters about nothing. Is Rodney talking war?

Poor papa, he was worrying, when I left him in New York, about the talk being made against our rightful sovereign. Well, I now will write him a long, cheerful letter, so thank you for being an aunt to me once more.

"Your ob't and affectionate niece, "ELIZABETH DANESFORD."

Did she but know it, her father stood in need of cheerful letters, for the bitterness of the rising war spirit was daily making feuds between former friends, and all who talked loyalty to the king and condemned Henry, Jefferson and Washington soon discovered they were champions of an unpopular cause.

CHAPTER VIII

THE CHIEF WHO DEMANDED THE TRUTH

Four days of intense excitement, without proper food or sleep, subjected to peril of life, would test the hardiest person. Rodney Allison felt like breaking down and weeping hysterically. To add to his discomfort he believed the hut to be alive with vermin, not an uncommon condition in any Indian's wigwam, and this one looked filthy.

His unpleasant reflections were interrupted by the return of the little boy, Louis, who cried, "Ahneota, he say you come right away."

"The redskin who threw me in here said he would kill me if I left."

"_Ce n'est rien_, Ahneota says come."

Under the circ.u.mstances Rodney decided to run the risk, for evidently the little chap was the only friend he had found, so he said, "Well, you don't want me killed, do you?"

"_Non._ I will have you to play with me. Ahneota is my friend. He will give you to me."

They went to a wigwam at the farther end of the village and found awaiting them an old chief. He was tall and gaunt. His face was long, the nose sharply aquiline, and his eyes were as keen and bright as those of a youth. The chief's manner was very, dignified, even stern.

Louis began his plea, but was ordered to call the Indian, Caughnega.

Then, turning to Rodney, the chief asked: "Why come to Indian country and kill game? White man's game below big river."

Rodney hesitated. What could he say? He feared to confess that he already had escaped from Indians, it would not be a helpful introduction, to say the least; neither would he lie.

"I was lost and hungry. The bear was hungry, too. I had to shoot," he finally said.

The searching look of the Indian embarra.s.sed him.

"The pigeon dropped by the eagle spoke not truth but said he fell."

Rodney flushed under the fierce gaze of the bright eyes of the aged chief. Then lifting his head he resolutely replied: "I have told you the truth, but not all of it. I am here through no fault of my own and am trying to get back to the big river and my people."

"The big river is many days' journey. There is blood on the pigeon,"

replied Ahneota, pointing to Rodney's wrists, which yet bore the marks of the thongs with which he had been bound.

"That is the work of Indians. I was on my way down the Ohio to meet my father near the Great Kanawha. The party I was with landed for supper and was attacked by Indians, who killed some and made me a prisoner. I escaped from them and am here. Neither I nor my father ever wronged an Indian."

"The land north of the big river belongs to the Indian. The Great Father gave it to the Indian and the palefaces smoked the pipe of peace with the red man. Now they would come and kill our game and the red man must die."

"Our party was not seeking land north of the river when the Indians cruelly attacked us."

"The Wyandottes are at peace with the Shawnees and do not take away their captives."

"You all are at peace with the whites and have no right to make me a prisoner," was Rodney's reply, so boldly spoken he feared its effect might be bad.

"Young braves will not always obey their chiefs," was the rather evasive reply of the old man, and the boy instinctively felt he had not displeased Ahneota by his bold speech.