What tragic tears bedew the eye!
What deaths we suffer ere we die!
Our broken friendships we deplore,
And loves of youth that are no more.
+Logan.+
All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond
Is substance; the reverse is folly's creed.
How solid all where change shall be no more!
+Young's+ Night Thoughts.
Having cursed his enemy and the day of his birth, Lochiel had gradually come to a more Christian frame of mind, as he lay bound to a tree and all hope banished from his heart. He knew that the savages scarcely ever spared their captives, and that a slow and hideous death was in store for him. Recovering his natural force of mind, he hardly took care to pray for his deliverance; but he implored of Heaven forgiveness for his sins and strength to bear the tortures that were before him. Of what account, thought he, the judgment of men when the dream of life is over? And he bowed himself beneath the hand of God.
The three warriors were seated around within a dozen feet of Lochiel, smoking in silence. The Indians are naturally reserved, regarding light conversation as only suitable to women and children. One of them, however, by name Talamousse, speaking to the man of the island, made inquiry:
"Will my brother wait long here for the warriors from the Portage?"
"Three days," answered the latter, lifting up three fingers. "Grand-Loutre and Talamousse will depart to-morrow with the prisoner. The Frenchman will rejoin them at the encampment of Captain Launière."
"It is well," said Grand-Loutre, extending his hand toward the south. "We are going to take the prisoner to the camp at Petit-Marigotte, where we will wait three days for my brother and the warriors from the Portage, and then go to the camp of Captain Launière."
For the first time Lochiel perceived that the voice of the man with the fox-skin cap was not like that of the other two men, although he spoke their language fluently. Hitherto he had suffered in silence the torments of a burning thirst. It was a veritable torture of Tantalus, with the crystal lake waters lapping at his feet, but, under the impression that the man might be a Frenchman, he made bold to say:
"If there is a Christian among you, for God's sake let him give me a drink."
"What does the dog want?" said Grand-Loutre to his companion.
The man addressed made no answer for some moments. His whole body trembled, his face became pale as death, a cold sweat bathed his forehead; then, controlling himself sternly, he answered in his natural voice:
"The prisoner asks for a drink."
"Tell the dog of an Englishman," said Talamousse, "that he shall be burned to-morrow; and that if he is very thirsty he shall have boiling water to drink."
"I am going to tell him," replied the Canadian presently, "that my brothers permit me to give their captive a little water."
"Let my brother do as he will," said Talamousse; "the pale faces have hearts like young girls."
The Canadian curled a piece of birch bark into the form of a cup, filled it with fresh water, and handed it to the prisoner, saying:
"Who are you, sir? In the name of God who are you? Your voice is like that of a man who is very dear to me."
"I am Archibald Cameron, of Lochiel," came the answer, "once the friend of your countrymen; now their enemy, and well deserving the fate which is in store for him."
"Mr. Archie," replied Dumais, for he it was, "although you had slain my brother, although it should be necessary for me to cut down these two red rascals with my tomahawk, in an hour you shall be free. I shall try persuasion before resorting to violent measures. Now silence."
Dumais resumed his place with the Indians, and after a time he remarked:
"The prisoner thanks the red-skins for promising him the death of a man; he says that the song of the pale face will be that of a warrior."
"Houa!" said Grand-Loutre, "the Englishman will screech like an owl when he sees the fires of our wigwams." And he went on smoking and casting glances of contempt upon Lochiel.
"The Englishman," said Talamousse, "speaks like a man while the stake is yet far off. The Englishman is a coward who could not suffer thirst. He has begged his enemies for a drink like a baby crying for its mother." And the Indian spit upon the ground contemptuously.
Dumais opened a wallet, took out some provisions, and offered a portion to the savages, who refused to eat. Then he stepped into the woods, and after a short search brought out a bottle of brandy. He took a drink and began to eat. The eyes of one of the Indians dwelt longingly on the bottle.
"Talamousse is not hungry, my brother," said he, "but he is very thirsty. He has made a long march to-day and he is very tired. The fire-water is good to rest one's legs."
Dumais passed him the bottle. The Indian seized it with a trembling hand and gulped down a good half of the contents.
"Ah, but that's good," said he, handing back the bottle; and presently his piercing eyes grew glazed, and a vacant look began to creep into his face.
"Dumais does not offer any to his brother Grand-Loutre," said the Canadian; "he knows that he does not drink fire-water."
"The Great Spirit loves Grand-Loutre," said the latter, "and made him throw up the only mouthful of fire-water he ever drank. The Great Spirit made him so sick that he thought he was going to visit the country of souls. Grand-Loutre is very thankful, for the fire-water takes away man's wisdom."
"It is good fire-water," said Talamousse after a moment's silence, stretching out his hand toward the bottle, which Dumais removed from his reach. "Give me one more drink, my brother, I beg you."
"No," said Dumais, "not now; by and by, perhaps." And he put the bottle back into his knapsack.
"The Great Spirit also loves the Canadian," resumed Dumais after a pause; "he appeared to him last night in a dream."
"What did he say to my brother?" asked the Indians.
"The Great Spirit told him to buy back the prisoner," answered Dumais.
"My brother lies like a Frenchman," replied Grand-Loutre. "He lies like all the pale faces. The red-skins do not lie to them."
"The French never lie when they speak of the Great Spirit," said the Canadian; and, opening his knapsack, he took a small sip of brandy.
"Give me, my brother, give me one little drink," said Talamousse, stretching out his hand.
"If Talamousse will sell me his share of the prisoner," said Dumais, "he shall have another drink."
"Give me all the fire-water," said Talamousse, "and take my share of the English dog."
"No," said Dumais, "one more drink and that will be all;" and he made a movement to put away the bottle.
"Give it to me, then, and take my share of him."
He seized the bottle in both hands, took a long pull at the precious fluid, and then fell asleep on the grass.
"There's one of them fixed," thought Dumais.
Grand-Loutre had been watching all this with an air of defiance, but had kept on smoking indifferently.
"Now will my brother sell me his share of the prisoner?" asked Dumais.
"What do you want of him?" replied the savage.
"To sell him to Captain D'Haberville, who will have him hung for burning his house. The prisoner will endure like a warrior the tortures of the stake, but at sight of the rope he will weep like a girl."
"My brother lies again," replied Grand-Loutre. "All the English that we have burned cried out like cowards, and not one of them sang his death-song like a man. They would have thanked us to hang them. It is only the red warrior who prefers the stake to the disgrace of being hung like a dog."
"Let my brother heed my words," said Dumais. "The prisoner is not an Englishman, but a Scotchman, and the Scotch are the savages of the English. Let my brother observe the prisoner's clothing, and see how like it is to that of a savage warrior."
"That is true," said Grand-Loutre. "He does not smother himself in clothes like the other soldiers whom the Great Ononthio sends across the water. But what has that to do with it?"
"Why," replied the Canadian, "a Scotch warrior would rather be burned than be hung. Like the red-skins of Canada, he considers that one hangs only dogs, and that if he were to go to the country of souls with the rope about his neck the savage warriors would refuse to hunt with him."
"My brother lies again," said the Indian, shaking his head incredulously. "The Scotch savages are nevertheless pale faces, and they can not have the courage to endure pain like a red-skin." And he went on smoking thoughtfully.
"Let my brother hearken, and he will see that I speak the truth," said Dumais.
"Speak, thy brother gives ear."
"The English and the Scotch," continued the Canadian, "dwell in a great island beyond the great water. The English dwell on the plains, while the Scotch inhabit the mountains. The English are as many as the grains of sand about the shores of this lake, while the Scotch are but as the sands of this little island. Yet the Scotch have withstood the English in war for as many moons as there are leaves on this great maple. The English are rich, the Scotch poor. When the Scotch beat the English, they return to their mountains laden with booty; when the English beat the Scotch, they get nothing. The profit is all on one side."
"If the English are so numerous," said Grand-Loutre, "why do they not pursue their enemies into the mountains and kill every man of them? They could not escape, since, as my brother says, they live on the same island."
"Houa!" cried Dumais, after the fashion of the savages, "I will show my brother why. The Scotch mountains are so high that if an army of young Englishmen were to ascend them but half way, they would be an army of graybeards before they got down again."
"The French are always tomfools," said the Indian. "They can't do anything but talk nonsense. Soon they will put on petticoats and go and sit with our squaws, and amuse them with their funny stories. They never talk seriously like men."
"My brother ought to understand," said Dumais, "that what I said was merely to impress upon him the remarkable height of the Scottish mountains."
"Let my brother continue. Grand-Loutre hears and understands," said the Indian, accustomed to this figurative style of speech.
"The Scotch legs are as strong as those of a moose and active as those of a roebuck," continued Dumais.
"True," said the Indian, "if they are all like the prisoner here, who, in spite of his bonds, kept right on my heels all the way. He has the legs of an Indian."
"The English," said Dumais, "are large and strong, but they have soft legs and huge bellies. When they pursue their more active enemies into the mountains the Scotchmen lie in ambush and kill them by the score. The war seemed as if it would last forever. When the English took prisoners they used to burn many of them; but these would sing their death-song at the stake and heap insult on their torturers by telling them that they had drunk out of the skulls of their ancestors."
"Houa!" cried Grand-Loutre, "they are men these Scotch."
"The Scotch had a great chief named Wallace, a mighty warrior. When he set out for war the earth trembled under his feet. He was as tall as yonder fir-tree and as strong as an army. An accursed wretch betrayed him for money, he was taken prisoner and sentenced to be hung. At this news a cry of rage and grief went up from all the mountains of Scotland. All the warriors painted their faces black, a great council was held, and ten chiefs bearing the pipe of peace set out for England. They were conducted into a great wigwam, the council fire was lighted, and for a long time every one spoke in silence. At length an old chief took up the word, and said: 'My brother, the earth has drunk enough of the blood of these two great nations, and we wish to bury the hatchet. Give us back Wallace and we will remain hostages in his place. You shall put us to death if ever again he lifts the tomahawk against you.' With these words he handed the pipe of peace to the Great Ononthio of the English, who waved it aside, saying sternly, 'Within three days Wallace shall be hung.' 'Listen my brother,' said the great Scotch chief, 'if Wallace must die let him die the death of a warrior. Hanging is a death for dogs.' And again he presented the pipe of peace, and Ononthio refused it. The deputies withdrew and consulted together. On their return the great chief said: 'Let my brother hearken favorably to my last words. Let him fix eleven stakes to burn Wallace and these ten warriors, who will be proud to share his fate and will thank their brother for his clemency.' Once more he offered the pipe of peace, and once more Ononthio rejected it."
"Houa!" cried Grand-Loutre, "those were noble and generous words. But my brother has not told me how the Scotch are now friends with the English and fighting against the French."
"With rage in their hearts, the deputies returned to their mountains. At their death-cries, which they uttered at the gate of every town and village to announce the fate of Wallace, every one rushed to arms; and the war between the two nations continued for as many moons as there are grains of sand here in my hand," said Dumais, picking up a handful. "The Scotch were generally beaten by their swarming enemies, and their rivers ran with blood, but they knew not how to yield. The war would have been going on still but for a traitor who warned the English that nine Scotch chiefs, having gathered in a cavern to drink fire-water, had fallen to sleep there like our brother Talamousse."
"The red-skins," said Grand-Loutre, "are never traitors to their own people. They deceive their enemies, but never their friends. Will my brother tell me how it comes that there are traitors among the pale faces?"
Dumais, a little puzzled to answer this question, went on as if he had not heard it.
"The nine chiefs were taken to a great city and condemned to be hung within a month. On this sad news fires were lighted on all the hills of Scotland to summon a grand council of all the warriors. The wise men spoke fine words for three days and three nights, but came to no conclusion. Then they consulted the spirits, and a great medicine-man declared that the Manitou was angry with his children, and that they must bury the hatchet forever. Twenty warriors with blackened faces betook themselves to the chief town of the English, and before the gates they uttered a death-cry for every captive chief. A great council was held, and Ononthio granted peace on condition that they should give hostages, that they should deliver up their strongholds, that the two nations should henceforth be as one, and that the English and Scotch warriors should fight shoulder to shoulder against the enemies of the great Ononthio. A feast was made which lasted three days and three nights, and at which so much brandy was drunk that the women took away all the tomahawks. Had they not done so the war would have broken out anew. The English were so rejoiced that they promised to send the Scotch all the heads, feet, and tails of the sheep which they should kill in the future."
"The English must be generous, indeed," said the Indian.
"My brother must see by this," continued Dumais, "that a Scotch warrior would rather be burned than hung, and he will sell me his share of the prisoner. Let my brother fix his price, and Dumais will not count the cost."
"Grand-Loutre will not sell his share of the prisoner," said the Indian. "He has promised Taoutsi and Katakoui to hand him over to-morrow at Petit-Marigotte, and he will keep his word. The council will be assembled, and Grand-Loutre will speak to the young men. If the young men consent not to burn him, it will then be time to hand him over to D'Haberville."
"My brother knows Dumais," said the Canadian. "He knows that he is rich and a man of his word. Dumais will pay for the prisoner six times as much as Ononthio pays the Indians for every one of his enemies' scalps."
"Grand-Loutre knows," said the Indian, "that his brother speaks the truth, but he will not sell his share of the prisoner."
The eyes of the Canadian shot flame, and instinctively he grasped his hatchet; but, suddenly changing his mind, he assumed an indifferent air, and knocked the ashes out of the bowl of his tomahawk, which served the Canadians as well as the savages for tobacco-pipe when on the march. Although the first hostile movement of the Canadian had not escaped the keen eye of his companion, the latter went on smoking tranquilly.
The words of Dumais had revived the spark of hope in Archie's heart. In spite of his bitter remorse, he was too young to bid farewell without regret to all that made life dear. Could he, the last of his race, willingly suffer the shield of the Camerons to go to the tomb with a stain? Could he endure to die, leaving the D'Habervilles to think that they had cherished a viper in their bosom? He thought of the despair of Jules, the curses of the implacable captain, the silent grief of the good woman who used to call him her son, the sorrow of the fair girl whom he had hoped one day to call by a tenderer name than that of sister. Archie was, indeed, young to die; and with the renewal of hope in his heart, he again clung desperately to life.
He had followed with ever-increasing anxiety the scene that was passing before him. He endeavored to comprehend it by watching the faces of the speakers. Dark as was the night, he had lost nothing of the hate and scorn which were flashed upon him from the cruel eyes of the savages. Knowing the ferocity of the Indians when under the influence of alcohol, it was not without surprise he saw Dumais passing them the bottle; but when he saw one refuse to drink and the other stretched in drunken stupor on the sand, he understood the Canadian's tactics. When he heard the name of Wallace, he remembered that during Dumais's illness he had often entertained him with fabulous stories about his favorite hero, but he was puzzled to guess the Canadian's purpose in talking about the deeds of a Scottish warrior. If he had understood the latter part of Dumais's story, he would have recalled the chaffing of Jules in regard to the pretended delicacies of his countrymen. When he saw the angry gleam in the Canadian's eyes, when he saw him grasp his tomahawk, he was on the point of crying not to strike. His generous soul foresaw the dangers to which his friend would be exposed if he should kill an Indian belonging to a tribe allied with the French.
The Canadian was silent for some time. He refilled his pipe, began to smoke, and at length said quietly:
"When Grand-Loutre, with his father, his wife, and his two sons, fell sick of the small-pox over by South River, Dumais sought them out. At the risk of bringing the disease upon himself and family, he carried them to his own wigwam, where he nursed them for three moons. It was not the fault of Dumais if the old man and the two boys died; Dumais had them buried like Christians, and the Black Robe has prayed to the Great Spirit for their souls."
"If Dumais," replied the Indian, "if Dumais and his wife and his children had fallen sick in the forest, Grand-Loutre would have carried them to his wigwam, would have fished for them and would have hunted for them, would have bought them the fire-water which is the Frenchman's medicine, and would have said, 'Eat and drink my brothers, and recover your strength.' Grand-Loutre and his squaw would have watched day and night by the couch of their French friends; and never would Grand-Loutre have said, 'Remember that I fed you and took care of you and bought fire-water for you with my furs.' Let my brother take the prisoner," continued the Indian, drawing himself up proudly; "the red-skin is no longer in debt to the pale face!" And he calmly resumed his smoking.
"Listen, my brother," said the Canadian, "and pardon Dumais that he has hidden the truth. He knew not thy great heart. Now he is going to speak in the presence of the Great Spirit himself, in whose presence he dare not lie."
"That is true," said the Indian, "let my brother speak."
"When Grand-Loutre was sick two years ago," continued the Canadian, "Dumais told him about his adventure when the ice went out that spring at the Falls of St. Thomas, and how he was saved by a young Scotchman who had arrived that very evening at the house of the Seigneur de Beaumont."
"My brother has told me," said the Indian, "and he has shown me the little island suspended over the abyss, whereon he awaited death. Grand-Loutre knew the place and the old cedar to which my brother clung."
"Very well!" replied Dumais, rising and taking off his cap, "thy brother swears in the presence of the Great Spirit that the prisoner is none other than the young Scotchman who saved his life!"
The Indian gave a great cry which went echoing wildly round the lake. He sprang to his feet, drew his knife, and rushed upon the captive. Lochiel thought his hour had come and commended his soul to God. What was his surprise when the savage cut his bonds, grasped his hands with every mark of delight, and pushed him into the arms of his friend. Dumais pressed Archie to his breast, then sank upon his knees and cried:
"I have prayed to thee, O God, to extend the right arm of your protection over this noble and generous man. My wife and my children have never ceased to make the same prayer. I thank thee, O God, that thou hast granted me even more than I had dared to ask. I thank thee, O God, for I should have committed a crime to save his life, and should have gone to my grave a murderer."
"Now," said Lochiel, after endeavoring to thank his rescuer, "let us get off as quickly as possible, my dear Dumais; for if my absence from camp is perceived I am ruined utterly. I will explain as we go."
Just as they were setting foot in the canoe the cry of the osprey was heard three times from the lake shore opposite the island. "It is the young men from Marigotte coming to look for you, my brother," said Grand-Loutre, turning to Lochiel. "Taoutsi and Katakoui must have met some of them, and told them they had an English prisoner on the island; but they will shout a long time without awakening Talamousse, and as to Grand-Loutre, he is going to sleep till the Canadian gets back. Bon voyage, my brothers." As Archie and his companion directed their course toward the north they heard for a long time the cries of the osprey, which were uttered at short intervals by the Indians on the south shore.
"I fear," said Archie, "that the young Abénaquis warriors, foiled in their amiable intent, will make a bad quarter of an hour for our friends on the island."
"It is true," replied his companion, "that we are depriving them of a very great pleasure. They find the time long at Marigotte, and to-morrow might have been passed very pleasantly in roasting a prisoner."
Lochiel shuddered in spite of himself.
"As for the two canaouas (red rascals) we have left, do not trouble yourself for them, they will know how to get out of the scrape. The Indian is the most independent being imaginable, and renders account to nobody for his actions unless it suits him. Moreover, the worst that could happen to them in the present instance would be, using their own expression, to cover the half of the prisoner with beaver skins or their equivalent--in other words, to pay their share in him to Taoutsi and Katakoui. It is more probable, however, that Grand-Loutre, who is a kind of a wag among them, would choose rather to raise a laugh at the expense of his two disappointed comrades, for he is never without resource. He will say, perhaps, that Talamousse and he had a perfect right to dispose of their half of the prisoner; that the half which they had set free had run away with the other half; that they had better hurry after him, for the prisoner was loaded with their share of himself and therefore could not travel very fast; with other waggery that would be hugely relished by the Indians. It is more probable, however, that he will speak to them of my adventure at the falls of St. Thomas, which the Abénaquis know about, and will tell them that it was to your devotion I owed my life. Then, as the Indians never forget a good turn, they will cry, 'Our brothers have done well to set free the savior of our friend the pale face!'"
Lochiel wished to enter into full details in order to excuse himself in the eyes of Dumais for his cruel conduct on the day preceding; but the latter stopped him.
"A man like you, sir," said the Canadian, "need make me no explanation. I could hardly suspect a heart so noble and so self-forgetful of failing at all in the sentiments of humanity and gratitude. I am a soldier, and I know all the duties imposed upon one by military discipline. I have assisted at hideous performances on the part of our barbarous allies, which in my position as sergeant I might have been able to prevent had not my hands been tied by the orders of my superiors. It is a hard calling for sympathetic hearts, this profession of ours.
"I have been witness of a spectacle," continued Dumais, "which makes me shudder now when I think of it. I have seen these barbarians burn an English woman. She was a young woman of great beauty. I still see her tied to the stake, where they tortured her for eight mortal hours. I still see her in the midst of her butchers, clothed, like our first mother, in nothing but her long, fair hair. I shall hear forever her heart-rending cry of 'My God! my God!' We did all we could to buy her back, but in vain; for her father, her husband, and her brothers, in defending her with the courage of despair, had killed many of the savages, and among them two of their chiefs. We were but fifteen Canadians, against at least two hundred Indians. I was young then, and I wept like a child. Ducros, who was nicknamed the Terror, foamed with rage and cried to Franc[oe]ur: 'What! sergeant, shall we, who are men and Frenchmen, let them burn a poor woman before our eyes? Give the order, sergeant, and I will split the skulls of ten of these red hounds before they have time to defend themselves.' And he would have done it, for he was a mighty man--was the Terror--and quick as a fish. Black Bear, one of their greatest warriors, approached us with a sneer. Ducros sprang toward him with his tomahawk uplifted, crying: 'Take your hatchet, coward, and you shall see that you have no woman to deal with!' The Indian shrugged his shoulders with an air of pity, and said slowly; 'The pale face is childish; he would kill his friend to defend the squaw of a dog of an Englishman, his enemy.' The sergeant put an end to the argument by ordering Ducros back into the ranks. He was a brave and generous heart, this sergeant, as his name attested. With tears in his eyes, he said to us: 'It would be useless for me to disobey my orders; we would all be massacred without doing the poor woman any good. What would be the consequence? The great tribe of the Abénaquis would forsake its alliance with the French, would join our enemies, and our own women and children would share the fate of this unhappy English woman. Their blood would be upon my head.' Well, Mr. Archie, for six months after this hideous scene I used to start from my sleep bathed in sweat, with those heart-rending cries of 'My God! My God!' shrieking in my ears. They wondered at my coolness when the ice was bearing me down to the falls of St. Thomas. Here is the explanation of it. Through the tumult and uproar I was hearing the screams of the unhappy English woman, and I believed that Heaven was punishing me, as I deserved, for not having succored her. For, you see, Mr. Archie, that man often makes laws which God is very far from sanctioning."
"True, indeed," said Archie, sighing.
During the rest of their journey the two friends talked about the D'Habervilles. Archie learned that the ladies and Uncle Raoul, on the appearance of the English fleet in the St. Lawrence, had taken refuge within the walls of Quebec. Captain D'Haberville and Jules were in camp at Beaupré, with their respective regiments.
Fearing lest Archie should fall in with some of the Abénaquis spies who were hanging on the skirts of the English, he escorted Archie all the way to his encampment. Archie's parting words were as follows:
"You have paid me life for life, my friend; but, for my part, I shall never forget what I owe you. How strangely our lives have come together, Dumais! Two years ago I came all the way from Quebec to South River just in time to snatch you from the abyss. Yesterday, having but just landed from a voyage across the ocean, I am made prisoner; and you find yourself waiting on a little island in Trois-Saumons Lake to save my honor and my life. The hand of God is in it. Farewell, dear friend. However adventurous the soldier's career, I cling to the hope that Fate will bring us again together, and that I may give your children further cause to bless my memory."
When the sun arose, the Highlanders remarked the strange pallor of their young chief. They concluded that, dreading a surprise, he had passed the night in wandering about the camp. After a light meal, Archie gave the order to burn the house beside the mill. He had scarcely resumed the march when a messenger came from Montgomery, ordering him to cease from the work of destruction.
"It is time!" cried Archie, gnawing his sword-hilt.
