University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
The Kings of the Woods.

The preceding conversation was interrupted by a
slight tap at the door, which was straightway opened,
and, to the no small dismay of Sybrandt, the party
of Indians whose chief had fallen on his dagger and
died at the fishing-house, headed by a new chief,
silently entered the room in which they were sitting.
The stranger received them with courtesy, and motioned
them to sit down. They obeyed, and remained
without speaking, while they eyed Sybrandt
with glances of keen malignant meaning.

“My children come as friends?” said the stranger.

“The red children still love their father,” replied
the chief; “but they come to tell him he has a snake
in his wigwam which they must kill, and take out his
teeth.”

The stranger started, and turning aside to Sybrandt,
said, “How unthinking I have been! I
should not have detained you a moment here, after
you were able to travel: but fear not; I am your security
that not a hair of your head shall be touched
while I carry mine on my shoulders.” Then turning
to the chief, he replied to him as follows:

“I understand thy meaning.”

“'Tis well,” said the other.

“To-morrow I shall inquire into this affair.”

“The serpent must go with us to-night. I have
promised the wife and mother of Paskingoe they

shall sing the song of joy to-morrow, at the rising
of the sun. The Indian does not lie.”

“He is my friend; he is under my protection.”

“He cannot be the friend of our white father and
the enemy of his red children.”

“He killed Paskingoe in his own defence. Paskingoe
and his people were mad!”

“Who made them so? The young serpent and
his fire-water. He must go with us—we want him.”

“He shall not go. I cannot give him up.”

“Then you are no longer our father,” replied the
chief. “You have told us you were our friend, but
it is only the white man's talk. He is never the red
man's friend when the white man is a party.”

“Stay till the morning,” said the stranger, apparently
greatly perplexed, “stay till the morning,
and I promise you shall go away satisfied.”

“It is good,” said the chief, “we will stay. But
will the young serpent stay too?”

“He shall; he will not run away like a deer.”

“It is good,” said the Indian, and they lighted
their pipes and continued to smoke for some time in
silence.

This colloquy was carried on in the Mohawk
tongue, but Sybrandt easily comprehended its object,
and it may be supposed his feelings were by no means
enviable. He remained perfectly passive, however,
justly conceiving his interference would only produce
additional irritation in the minds of the Indians.

At length they finished their pipes, and the chief
said to the stranger, “Can we remain in our father's
wigwam to-night?”

“Will the young white man be safe till to-morrow?”

“He will, unless he tries to run away.”

The stranger made no reply, but led the way to
an upper room, where the Indians laid themselves
down on the floor, and soon slumbered in that profound
quiet characteristic of their race.

An interesting discussion ensued between Sybrandt
and the stranger, in which the latter proposed
to aid his escape that night, by furnishing him with
a guide and a canoe, and detaining the Indians in
the room where they were sleeping till he was far
enough not to be overtaken.

“And what will be the consequence?” said Sybrandt;
“the savages will never forgive you. They
will become your enemies, and if they do not murder
you, your wife, and children, you will lose
your influence over them from this time. No, sir
the great plan you hope to accomplish shall not be
ruined for my sake. I am determined to remain
and meet what may come.”

“Faith, you are a fine fellow—something more
than a scholar, I see. Be it so. But I here pledge
you my honour, no harm shall come to you but
what I will share. Let us to bed, you are safe for
to-night. The Indians never violate hospitality.”

It may be supposed Sybrandt did not sleep very
sweetly that night, though he apprehended no danger
to his slumbers,—it was the morrow that he feared:
and when the morrow came he rose early, and
descended into the room they had occupied the
night before. The stranger and the Indians were
already there, the former dressed in a superb suit of
British uniform, with glittering epaulettes on either
shoulder. Round the room were displayed various
articles most irresistible to the Indian fancy, and which
they eyed with looks of eager longing, interrupted
only for a moment by a glance of malignant meaning

at Sybrandt as he entered. After a pause of some
minutes, the chief addressed the stranger as follows:

“My father, your son had a dream last night.”

“Ay?” said the stranger, smiling, “what was it
my son?”

“Your son,” replied the chief, with great gravity,
“your son dreamed that the Great Spirit appeared
to him, and told him his good father had made him a
present of his fine suit, and given each of his people
six new blankets. Did the Great Spirit speak the
truth? or will my father make him a liar?”

The stranger paused a moment. “The Great
Spirit said true; the suit and the blankets shall be
given. But, my son, I also had a dream last night.
The Great White Spirit came to my bedside, and said
in a whisper, Thy son, the chief of the Beaver tribe,
has forgiven the young trader by whose hand Paskingoe
fell. He has given him to you, to do with
him what thou wilt. Did the Great White Spirit
speak true?”

The chief looked at his companions, and they at
him, in doubt and perplexity.

“I had forgotten,” resumed the stranger; “the
Great White Spirit said also, the mother of Paskingoe
has dried up her tears, and his wife ceased her
groans, ever since you gave them the beautiful beads
and the necklaces of pinchbeck. Did he say true,
or did the Great White Spirit lie?”

Again the Indians exchanged significant glances,
and then uttered that guttural sound by which they
are accustomed to signify their approbation.

“My father,” at length said the chief, “you dream
too hard for your son. But you have not made our
Great Spirit lie, neither will I make yours. The
young serpent is free; but let him take care how

he comes among us again. Even my father shall
not dream him out of the fire.”

The bargain was consummated; the Indians departed
with their finery, and Sybrandt was free. As
they disappeared in the forest, old Tjerck, who had
watched the result of the embassy with deep solicitude,
quavered the war-whoop of the Adirondocks in
triumph. An arrow from some unseen bow at the
instant whizzed past his ear, and put a stop to his
exultation. He however preserved the arrow all his
life afterward, making it the text of a most excellent
tale, which was as little like that we have just related
as the description of most landscapes is to the
original.

The stranger explained to Sybrandt the preceding
colloquy, which had passed in the Mohawk language;
and our hero insisted upon repaying him the price of
his liberty. But this he would by no means consent
to, saying the loss was not his, as the government supplied
the means of conciliating the Indians by such
presents as might be necessary.