 | CHAPTER II. Koningsmarke, the long Finne |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
It may be, 'tis—hum—
It may be, 'tis not too.”
The Muskrat and Mud-Turtle warriors returned
to their homes, bringing with them the
body of one of their chiefs, who had died of his
wounds on the second day of their journey. On
coming within hearing of the village, they uttered
the death-howl, as was their custom, to
signify that they had lost one of their number.
This howl was perfectly understood by the wives
and mothers of the tribes, who rushed forth, with
dismal shrieks, to meet the train, each one not
knowing but that she had lost a son or a husband.
The body of the chief was then placed
on the shoulders of four of the most distinguished
warriors, and carried in procession to the village,
followed by the women and old men, the
former tearing their hair and uttering shrieks,
that echoed in the recesses of the forest. The
near relations of the deceased, however, followed
of affliction, it being considered unworthy of the
fallen chief for his kindred to weep over his fate.
They dressed the corpse, seated it on a mat, in
the posture to which the warrior was most accustomed
when alive, and, sitting in a circle around
him, pronounced his funeral eulogy, by relating,
one by one, his exploits in battle, as well as those
of his ancestors. When these were finished, they
chanted a sort of funeral hymn, something to
the following effect, as nearly as it can be rendered
from their native language:
Thou look'st as thou didst before;
Thou seemest a man, yet art none;
Thou art gone, to return no more.
Thou art, yet hast ceased to be;
Thy form and thy face appear;
Thou hast eyes, yet thou canst not see;
Thou hast ears, yet thou canst not hear.
Was it thou that talk'd with us erewhile?
Was it thou that went with us to fight?
Was it thou that shared battle and toil?
Was it thou that wert with us last night?
Yes! thou art here, and yet art away;
We see thee, and yet thou art not;
And nothing remains but what's nought.
That something which made thee alive,
Where is it—what was it—where, where?
Twas a spirit—that still must survive
In the stars, or the sky, or the air.
To that spirit these honours we pay—
That spirit which still hears us mourn—
That something which ne'er shall decay,
That something which ne'er shall return.
The body of the red chief was then carried to
a hut prepared for the purpose, where it remained
twenty-four hours, during which time the
tribes were engaged in feasting and dancing.
It was then carried to the grave, and buried,
sitting upright, with the face to the rising sun.
The friends and relatives threw the arms of the
dead warrior into the grave, with pipes, tobacco,
corn, and some pieces of wampum. The
grave was then closed, and the name of the deceased,
from that time, never uttered by either
his relatives or friends.
During the absence of Koningsmarke on the
war expedition, Christina and the Indian maid
did little else but ponder upon the dangers to
which he was exposed, and weep. They still
consciousness of rivalry, that gradually arose in
the bosom of each, prompted them to seek in
separate solitudes the indulgence of their feelings.
At times, Aonetti, after an absence of several
hours, during which she wandered in the
woods, or along the bank of the river, would
return and weep on the bosom of Christina.
“I love you,” she would say—“I love you; but
I know that you will be the cause of my unhappiness.
Some time or other you will go home,
and he will follow you. I shall then be left
alone; I shall lose my love, and there will be
none left even to pity me.” Christina, safe in
the consciousness of her love being amply returned,
could afford to pity her rival; and she
did pity her, although she could not help feeling
a certain awkward sensation, that sometimes
caused her to return the caresses of the
Indian maid with a coldness that did not always
escape her notice. “I tire you,” would Aonetti
exclaim, and retire to weep, and sing her
melancholy songs.
How long the mutual friendship of these two
innocent girls would have continued to withstand
the jealousies of love, it is impossible to tell, for
now a more formidable rival announced herself,
The Indian widow, who had saved the life of
Koningsmarke by claiming him as her slave,
being smitten with the relation of his prowess in
the late battle, and his desperate encounter with
the two Indians, made known to the chiefs and
sages her intention of choosing him for a husband,
in the room of the one she had lost. This
proposal was received with approbation by all,
and preparations were made accordingly to celebrate
the wedding with great pomp.
This news came like cold steel to the hearts of
the two young women, who could now fully
sympathize with each other. “We shall now
mourn together,” exclaimed Aonetti; “we shall
both be wretched. Let us never part.” Koningsmarke,
however disinclined to this match,
knew that if he discovered any unwillingness,
the insult would be felt by all the tribes, and resented
with the most inflexible severity. He
therefore appeared highly sensible of the happiness
and honour that awaited him, resolving, at
the same time, to lose not a moment in concerting
with Christina the means of immediate
escape. Watching an opportunity, while she
was taking a solitary walk, and when she was
shedding tears alone by the side of the stream.
“Christina, why do you weep?” exclaimed
the youth. Christina, started, and hastily wiped
her eyes.
“I have lost my home, my father, and all
that I loved, or that loved me. They have forgotten
me too, or they would, ere this, have sought
me until I was found. I shall never see them
again. Is it any wonder that I weep?”
Koningsmarke sat down by her side, took
her hand, and kissed it. “Thou hast yet one
friend who will never desert thee. I have been
as the son of thy poor father; I will be as the
brother of his child; dearer and nearer than a
brother, if thou wilt give me leave.”
“Nearer and dearer thou canst not be,” replied
the gentle maid, withdrawing her hand.
“The husband of another can be no nearer to
me than a brother. Thou wilt become a savage
in thy heart, and the parent of savages.”
“Nay, give me thy hand,” he replied; “I
swear by the gratitude I owe thy parent, by the
love I bear to thee, by all my hopes here and
beyond the grave, I will never leave thee, nor
forsake thee.”
“But thou wilt wed with another; and—
and wept on his shoulder.
“Hear me, Christina,” cried the youth.
“Were the stake and the fagot the alternative,
as I have reason to believe they are, I would not
wed any but thee. I sought you to tell you
so—to concert means for our escape—to place
all on one cast—to live for thee, or to die with
thee. Darest thou flee with me to-night, and
risk the chance of being retaken and tortured at
the stake?”
“I can dare all,” replied Christina, “but only
to see thee in the arms of another.”
Koningsmarke held her to his breast for a
moment, with a feeling of unutterable tenderness
and gratitude, and then proceeded to explain
his plan for escaping. By occasionally questioning
the savages, he had, without exciting
their suspicions, gained sufficient information,
as he supposed, to enable him to shape his
course, so as to strike the Delaware somewhere
in the vicinity of Elsingburgh and Coaquanock.
In pursuance of this plan, it was arranged, that,
while the Indians were feasting and carousing,
as they proposed to do that night, in honour of
his approaching nuptials, they should, separately,
as soon as the savages became intoxicated,
where they now sat, and from thence pursue the
route that Koningsmarke supposed would lead
them the nearest way home.
“Christina,” said the youth, solemnly, “I
cannot disguise from thee the toils thou wilt be
obliged to sustain, and the imminent danger of
our being overtaken, and tortured to death by
slow degrees. To me all this is nothing—but
for thee—O God!—to see thy snow-white skin
blackened in the fire—thy beauteous limbs the
sport of barbarous cruelty—thy precious blood
—thy life, dearer than all this earth—dearer
than heaven itself—wasting—wasting away, by
drops—breath by breath! Think ere thou shalt
decide. We must now separate, for fear of observation.”
“If,” said Christina, “the fatigue should bear
hard upon me, I will call to my aid the hope
that I shall meet my poor father ere long. If
we are overtaken, I will try not to despair; and
if we are placed together at the stake, I will endeavour
to support the torture, by thy example,
and God's help.”
“Let us part, then, at once,” replied the
youth; “and Heaven prosper us this night.
before me, wait, and be not afraid.”
He kissed her cheek, and they returned, separately
and at different times, to the village,
where, luckily, owing to the preparations for
the feast, which occupied the attention of all,
their absence had not been noticed.
| CHAPTER II. Koningsmarke, the long Finne | |