73. LXXIII.
THE YOUNG INDIAN.
AT the mouth of the cleft in the rock, where the
women had concealed themselves, Cannie holds
upon her breast the head of Lightfoot, who is
dying.
The young chief exhibits no evidences of suffering—no
fear of his impending fate. His countenance is calm and
untroubled; his eyes are filled with a serene, happy light;
the courage of his race and his new-found faith, have come
to nerve him for the journey through the vale of shadows.
As he looks up into the face of the young girl, who gazes
at him with inexpressible anguish and compassion, a faint
smile wanders over his countenance, and a sigh escaping
from the parted lips, seems to indicate deep happiness.
“The Dove of the Mountain is unhurt,” he murmurs;
“the head of the son of War Eagle rests upon her heart!
Has the day dawned, Mountain Dove, and is the combat
over? Have the children of the Catawbas gone away?”
“Yes,” murmured Cannie with a sob.
The Indian caught the almost imperceptible sound, and
said:
“Why do you cry? Is your heart sad for me? Do not
cry for me—I am not unhappy—oh, no, not unhappy!”
“You are dying, Lightfoot,” returned the girl, suppressing,
by a violent effort, a rush of tears.
“Dying? Yes, that is true, little Dove,” he said; “but is
that anything to grieve at? The world is very dark and
sad, and I go from it to another land where there is never
any darkness. You gave me this hope and happiness, for
you taught me what to believe, and what my duty was.
Without you, I should never have been anything but an
Indian warrior—I am dying, but I am happy.”
“And for me! oh, you are dying for me!” exclaimed the
girl, nearly beside herself with anguish; “you gave your
life to protect me from that blow. Would I had died before
you—in your place, Lightfoot—dear, dear Lightfoot;
my heart is breaking as I think”——
She stopped, nearly suffocated by emotion, and crying
bitterly.
“Do not weep!” said the Indian, earnestly, with glowing
cheeks; “you wound me! I thank the Master that he permitted
the poor Indian to save the little friend who gave
him the great hope of another land! See the sun! there
he rises! Before he rests in the mountains the son of War
Eagle will be smiling as he stands in the presence of the
Master of Life!”
As he spoke, a slight convulsion passed over his frame,
and his eyes began to grow dreamy and absent. The girl
saw, through her tears, with a sudden chill at the heart,
that his mind had commenced to wander, as the spirit does
when it approaches death.
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, “you will stand in the presence
of God, and he will smile upon you, for you are pure
and good—oh, so good and kind, dear, dear Lightfoot!
You are dying because you protected a poor child, and the
Saviour will receive and bless you!”
“Ah!” murmured the Indian, his head slightly drooping,
“was that my father's whisper? Does War Eagle talk
from the happy hunting-grounds to his child? I will go to
meet him!”
And the young chief attempted to rise, but fell back
faintly.
“No, no!” cried the girl in a low, frightened tone, and
trembling, “do not try to rise—lean on me—you are dying,
Lightfoot!”
The words arrested his failing attention, and he looked
up into her eyes with a sad smile.
“Dying?” he said faintly; “do you say that the son of
War Eagle is dying? Yes—now I see, I remember! The
knife! You are the Mountain Dove, are you not, little one?
I loved you—did I not try to save you? I thought—but
that shadow! Why does it creep so slowly, slowly? And
the wind! Is it the wind or the voices of other years in
the forest where I roamed as a chief of the Catawbas? It
is a brave, great tribe—the son of War Eagle is a chief!
There, the wind again—and it blows from the mountain
where the old man lives with the maiden. Is that a rose in
your hair, little Dove, and who is wandering with you? A
youth of the palefaces! He is a noble-looking boy, but he
can never love you as the poor Indian loved you. You are
more to him than the skies and rivers, than the prairie and
the forest—you are his life; without you he would die!”
A glow came to the face, upon which the pallor of death
was slowly settling. By a last effort, he raised his drooping
head, with a parting gleam in the joyful eyes, and it fell
back upon her shoulders with the face turned upward to the
sky.
“It was not the wind!” he murmured, close to her ear;
“it is my father, who is whispering to his child, and blesses
me as I go. Do you hear—`My son dies well!' Yes, the
son of War Eagle, the child of the Catawbas dies well, since
he dies for the little Dove. Farewell, I am going to the
Master!—the sun, how it shines!—how the Master smiles!”
And the voice died away. With a bright light on his
face, the young chief fell back into the arms of Cannie, and
expired upon her bosom.
At the distance of ten paces, and not far from the strange
granite bust, Lord Fairfax held, in the same manner, upon
his breast, the head of Falconbridge, who was dying in his
arms.
Within five yards of the young man lay the body of Bertha
Argal—beautiful in death as in life.
