University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Thehostile armies, who lay in the wilds of the
Horican, passed the night of the ninth of August, 1757,
much in the manner that would have prevailed, had
they encountered on the fairest field of Europe.
While the conquered were still, sullen and dejected,
the victors triumphed. But, there are limits, alike,
to grief and joy; and long before the dead watches of
the morning came, the stillness of those boundless
woods was only broken, by a gay call from some exulting
young Frenchman of the advanced piquets, or
a menacing challenge from the fort, which sternly
forbade the approach of any hostile footsteps before
the stipulated moment should arrive. Even these
occasional threatening sounds ceased to be heard in
that dull hour which precedes the day, at which period
a listener might have sought, in vain, any evidence
of the presence of those armed powers, that
then slumbered on the shores of the `holy lake.'

It was during these moments of deep silence, that
the canvass which concealed the entrance to a spacious
marquee, in the French encampment, was
shoved aside, and a man issued from beneath the

drapery into the open air. He was enveloped in a
cloak that might have been intended as a protection
from the chilling damps of the woods, but which served
equally well, as a mantle, to conceal his person.
He was permitted to pass the grenadier, who watched
over the slumbers of the French commander, without
interruption, the man making the usual salute,
which betokens military deference, as the other passed
swiftly through the little city of tents, in the direction
of William Henry. Whenever this unknown
individual encountered one of the numberless sentinels,
who crossed his path, his answer was prompt,
and as it appeared satisfactory; for he was uniformly
allowed to proceed, without further interrogation.

With the exception of such repeated, but brief
interruptions, he had moved, silently, from the centre
of the camp, to its most advanced outposts, when
he drew nigh the soldier, who held his watch nearest
to the works of the enemy. As he approached,
he was received with the usual challenge.

“Qui vive?”

“France”—was the reply.

“Le mot d'ordre?”

“La victoire,” said the other, drawing so nigh, as
to be heard in a loud whisper.

“C'est bien,” returned the sentinel, throwing his
musket from the charge to his shoulder; “vous vous
promenez bien matin, monsieur!”

“II est necessaire d'être vigilant, mon enfant,” the
other observed, dropping a fold of his cloak, and looking
the soldier close in the face, as he passed him,
still continuing his way towards the British fortification.

The man started; his arms rattled heavily,
as he threw them forward, in the lowest and most
respectful salute; and when he had again recovered
his piece, he turned to walk his post, muttering between
his teeth,

“Il faut être vigilant, en vérité! je crois que nous
avons là, un caporal qui ne dort jamais!”

The officer proceeded, without affecting to hear
the words which escaped the sentinel in his surprise;
nor did he, again, pause, until he had reached the low
strand, and in a somewhat dangerous vicinity to the
western water bastion of the fort. The light of an
obscured moon, was just sufficient to render objects,
though dim, perceptible in their outlines. He, therefore,
took the precaution to place himself against the
trunk of a tree, where he leaned, for many minutes,
and seemed to contemplate the dark and silent mounds
of the English works, in profound attention. His
gaze at the ramparts was not that of a curious or idle
spectator; but his looks wandered from point to
point, denoting his knowledge of military usages, and
betraying that his search was not unaccompanied by
distrust. At length he appeared satisfied; and having
cast his eyes, impatiently, upward, towards the
summit of the eastern mountain, as if anticipating the
approach of the morning, he was in the act of turning
on his footsteps, when a light sound on the nearest
angle of the bastion, caught his ear, and induced him
to remain.

Just then a figure was seen to approach the edge
of the rampart, where it stood, apparently, contemplating
in its turn the distant tents of the French

encampment. Its head was then turned towards the
east, as though equally anxious for the appearance of
light, when the form leaned against the mound, and
seemed to gaze upon the glassy expanse of the waters,
which, like a submarine firmament, glittered with its
thousand mimic stars. The melancholy air, the hour,
together with the vast frame of the man who thus
leaned, in musing, against the English ramparts, left
no doubt as to his person, in the mind of the observant
spectator. Delicacy, no less than prudence,
now urged him to retire; and he had mov'd cautiously
round the body of the tree, for that purpose, when
another sound drew his attention, and once more arrested
his footsteps. It was a low, and almost inaudible
movement of the water, and was succeeded by
a grating of pebbles, one against the other. In a moment,
he saw a dark form rise, as it were, out of the
lake, and steal, without farther noise, to the land,
within a few feet of the place where he himself stood.
A rifle next slowly rose between his eyes and the
watery mirror; but before it could be discharged, his
own hand was on the lock.

“Hugh!” exclaimed the savage, whose treacherous
aim was so singularly and so unexpectedly interrupted.

Without making any reply, the French officer laid
his hand on the shoulder of the Indian, and led him,
in profound silence, to a distance from the spot, where
their subsequent dialogue might have proved dangerous,
and where, it seemed, that one of them, at least,
sought a victim. Then, throwing open his cloak, so
as to expose his uniform, and the cross of St. Louis,

which was suspended at his breast, Montcalm sternly
demanded—

“What means this! does not my son know, that
the hatchet is buried between the English and his
Canadian father?”

“What can the Hurons do?” returned the savage,
speaking, also, though imperfectly, in the French language.
“Not a warrior has a scalp, and the pale
faces make friends!”

“Ha! le Renard Subtil! Methinks this is an excess
of zeal for a friend, who was so late an enemy!
How many suns have set, since le Renard struck the
war post of the English?”

“Where is that sun!” demanded the sullen savage.
“Behind the hill; and it is dark and cold. But when
he comes again, it will be bright and warm. Le Subtil
is the sun of his tribe. There have been clouds,
and many mountains between him and his nation;
but now he shines, and it is a clear sky!”

“That le Renard has power with his people, I well
know,” said Montcalm; “for yesterday he hunted
for their scalps, and to-day, they hear him at the
council fire!”

“Magua is a great chief!”

“Let him prove it, by teaching his nation how to
conduct towards our new friends!”

“Why did the chief of the Canadas bring his young
men into the woods, and fire his cannon at yonder
earthen house?” demanded the subtle Indian.

“To subdue it. My master owns the land, and
your father was ordered to drive off these English

squatters. They have consented to go, and now he
calls them enemies no longer.”

“'Tis well. Magua took the hatchet to colour it
with blood. It is now bright; when it is red, it shall
be buried.”

“But Magua is pledged not to sully the lilies of
France. The enemies of the great king across the salt
lake, are his enemies; his friends, the friends of the
Hurons.”

“Friends!” repeated the Indian, in bitter scorn.
“Let his father give Magua a hand.”

Montcalm, who felt that his influence over the
warlike tribes he had gathered, was to be maintained
by concession, rather than by power, complied, reluctantly,
with the other's request. The savage placed
the finger of the French commander on a deep scar
in his bosom, and then exultingly demanded—

“Does my father know that?”

“What warrior does not! 'tis where the leaden
bullet has cut.”

“And this!” continued the Indian, who had turned
his naked back to the other, his body being without
its usual calico mantle.

“This!—my son, has been sadly injured, here! who
has done this?”

“Magua slept hard in the English wigwams, and the
sticks have left their mark,” returned the savage,
with a hollow laugh, which did not, nor could not,
however, conceal the fierce temper that nearly
choked him. Then, recollecting himself, with sudden
and native dignity, he added—“Go; teach your
young men, it is peace! le Renard Subtil knows how
to speak to a Huron warrior!”

Without deigning to bestow farther words, or to
wait for any answer, the savage cast his rifle into the
hollow of his arm, and moved, silently, through the
encampment towards the woods, where his own tribe
was known to lie. Every few yards, as he proceeded,
he was challenged by the sentinels; but he stalked, sullenly,
onward, utterly disregarding the summons of the
soldiers, who only spared his life, because they knew
the air and tread, no less than the obstinate daring,
of an Indian.

Montcalm lingered long and melancholy on the
strand, where he had been left by his companion,
brooding deeply on the temper which his ungovernable
ally had just discovered. Already had his fair
fame been tarnished by one horrid scene, and in circumstances
fearfully resembling those, under which
he now found himself. As he mused, he became
keenly sensible of the deep responsibility they assume,
who disregard the means to attain their end, and of all
the danger of setting in motion an engine, which
it exceeds human power to control. Then shaking
off a train of reflections, that he accounted a weakness
in such a moment of triumph, he retraced his
steps towards his tent, giving the order, as he passed,
to make the signal that should call the army from
its slumbers.

The first tap of the French drums was echoed from
the bosom of the fort; and, presently, the valley was
filled with the strains of martial music, rising long,
thrilling, and lively, above the rattling accompaniment.
The horns of the victors sounded merry and
cheerful flourishes, until the last laggard of the camp

was at his post; but the instant the British fifes had
blown their shrill signal, they became mute. In the
mean time the day had dawned, and when the line of
the French army was ready to receive its general, the
rays of a brilliant sun were glancing along its glittering
array. Then, that success which was already so well
known, was officially announced; the favoured band,
who were selected to guard the gates of the fort, were
detailed, and defiled before their chief; the signal of
their approach was given, and all the usual preparations
for a change of masters, were ordered and executed
directly under the guns of the contested works.

A very different scene presented itself within
the lines of the Anglo-American army. As soon as
the warning signal was given, it exhibited all the signs
of a hurried and forced departure. The sullen soldiers
shouldered their empty tubes, and fell into their
places, like men whose blood had been heated by
the past contest, and who only desired the opportunity
to revenge an indignity, which was still wounding
to their pride, concealed, as it was, under all the
observances of military etiquette. Women and children
ran from place, to place, some bearing the scanty
remnants of their baggage, and others searching, in
the ranks, for those countenances they looked up to
for protection.

Munro appeared among his silent troops, firm, but
dejected. It was evident that the unexpected blow
had struck deep into his heart, though he struggled to
sustain his misfortune with the port of a man.

Duncan was touched at the quiet and impressive
exhibition of his grief. He had discharged his own

duty, and he now pressed to the side of the old man,
to know in what particular he might serve him.

“My daughters,” was the brief, but expressive
reply.

“Good heavens! Are not arrangements already
made for their convenience?”

“To-day I am only a soldier, Major Heyward,”
said the veteran. “All that you see here, claim alike
to be my children.”

Duncan had heard enough. Without losing one
of those moments which had now become so precious,
he flew towards the quarters of Munro, in quest
of the sisters. He found them on the threshold of
the low edifice, already prepared to depart, and surrounded
by a clamorous and weeping assemblage of
their own sex, that had gathered about the place,
with a sort of instinctive consciousness, that it was
the point most likely to be protected. Though the
cheeks of Cora were pale, and her countenance anxious,
she had lost none of her firmness; but the eyes
of Alice were inflamed, and betrayed how long and
bitterly she had wept. They both, however, received
the young man with undisguised pleasure; the
former, for a novelty, being the first to speak.

“The fort is lost,” she said, with a melancholy
smile; “though our good name, I trust, remains!”

“'Tis brighter than ever! But, dearest Miss Munro,
it is time to think less of others, and to make some
provision for yourself. Military usage—pride—that
pride on which you so much value yourself, demands
that your father and I should, for a little while, continue
with the troops. Then where to seek a proper

protecter for you, against the confusion and chances
of such a scene!”—

“None is necessary,” returned Cora; “who
will dare to injure or insult the daughter of such a
father, at a time like this!”

“I would not leave you alone,” continued the
youth, looking about him in a hurried manner, “for
the command of the best regiment in the pay of the
king! Remember, our Alice is not gifted with all your
firmness, and God only knows the terror she might
endure.”

“You may be right,” Cora replied, smiling again,
but far more sadly than before. “Listen; chance
has already sent us a friend when he is most needed.”

Duncan did listen, and on the instant comprehended
her meaning. The low, and serious sounds of the
sacred music, so well known to the eastern provinces,
caught his ear, and instantly drew him to an apartment
in an adjacent building, which had, already, been deserted
by its customary tenants. There he found David,
pouring out his pious feelings, through the only
medium in which he ever indulged. Duncan waited,
until by the cessation of the movement of the hand,
he believed the strain was ended, when, by touching
his shoulder, he drew the attention of the other to
himself, and in a few words explained his wishes.

“Even so,” replied the single minded disciple of
the King of Israel, when the young man had ended; “I
have found much that is comely and melodious in the
maidens, and it is fitting that we, who have consorted
in so much peril, should abide together in peace.
I will attend them, when I have completed my

morning praise, to which nothing is now wanting,
but the doxology. Wilt thou bear a part, friend?
The metre is common, and the tune known as
`Southwell.”'

Then, extending the little volume, and giving the
pitch of the air, anew, with considerate attention.
David re-commenced and finished his strains, with a
fixedness of manner that it was not easy to interrupt.
Heyward was fain to wait until the verse was ended;
when seeing David relieving himself from the spectacles,
and replacing the book, he continued—

“It will be your duty, to see that none dare to approach
the ladies, with any rude intention, or to offer
insult or taunt at the misfortune of their brave father.
In this task, you will be seconded by the domestics
of their household.”

“Even so.”

“It is possible, that the Indians and stragglers of the
enemy may intrude; in which case, you will remind
them of the terms of the capitulation, and threaten
to report their conduct to Montcalm. A word will
suffice.”

“If not, I have that here which shall,” returned David,
exhibiting his book, with an air, in which meekness
and confidence were singularly blended. “Here
are words, which uttered, or rather thundered, with
proper emphasis, and in measured time, shall quiet
the most unruly temper.

“Enough,” said Heyward, interrupting the burst
of his musical invocation; “we understand each
other; it is time that we should, now, assume our
respective duties.”

Gamut cheerfully assented, and together they immediately
sought the maidens. Cora received her new,
and somewhat extraordinary, protector, courteously at
least; and even the pallid features of Alice lighted,
again, with some of their native archness, as she thanked
Heyward for his care. Duncan took occasion to
assure them he had done the best that circumstances
permitted, and, as he believed, quite enough
for the security of their feelings; of danger there was
none. He then spoke gladly of his intention to rejoin
them, the moment he had led the advance a few miles
towards the Hudson, and immediately took his leave.

By this time the signal of departure had been given,
and the head of the English column was in motion.
The sisters started at the sound, and glancing their
eyes around, they saw the white uniforms of the
French grenadiers, who had, already, taken possession
of the gates of the fort. At that moment, an
enormous cloud seemed to pass suddenly above their
heads, and looking upward, they discovered that they
stood beneath the wide folds of the spotless standard
of France.

“Let us go,” said Cora; “this is no longer a fit
place for the children of an English officer!”

Alice clung to the arm of her sister, and together
they left the parade, accompanied by the moving
throng, that still surrounded them.

As they passed the gates, the French officers, who
had learned their rank, bowed often and low, forbearing,
however, to intrude those attentions, which
they saw, with peculiar tact, might not be agreeable.
As every vehicle, and each beast of burthen,

was occupied by the sick and wounded, Cora had
decided to endure the fatigues of a foot march, rather
than interfere with their comforts. Indeed, many
a maimed and feeble soldier was compelled to drag
his exhausted limbs, in the rear of the columns, for
the want of the necessary means of conveyance, in
that wilderness. The whole, however, was in motion;
the weak and wounded, groaning, and in suffering;
their comrades, silent, and sullen; and the
women and children in terror, though they knew not
of what.

As the confused and timid throng, left the protecting
mounds of the fort, and issued on the open
plain, the whole scene was, at once, presented to
their eyes. At a little distance on the right, and
somewhat in the rear, the French army stood to their
arms, Montcalm having collected his parties, so soon
as his guards had possession of the works. They
were attentive, but silent observers of the proceedings
of the vanquished, failing in none of the stipulated
military honours, and offering no taunt or insult,
in their success, to their less fortunate foes. Living
masses of the English, to the amount, in the whole,
of near three thousand, were moving slowly across
the plain, towards the common center, and gradually
approached each other, as they converged to the
point of their march, a vista cut through the lofty
trees, where the road to the Hudson entered the
forest. Along the sweeping borders of the woods,
hung a dark cloud of savages, eyeing the passage of
their enemies, and hovering, at a distance, like vultures,
who were only kept from stooping on their

prey, by the presence and restraint of a superior
army. A few had straggled among the conquered
columns, where they stalked, in sullen discontent; attentive,
though, as yet, passive observers of all that
moving multitude.

The advance, with Heyward at its head, had already
reached the defile, and was slowly disappearing,
when the attention of Cora was drawn to a collection
of stragglers, by the sounds of contention. A truant
provincial was paying the forfeit of his disobedience,
by being plundered of those very effects,
which had caused him to desert his place in the
ranks. The man was of powerful frame, and too
avaricious to part with his goods, without a struggle.
Individuals from either party interfered; the
one side to prevent, and the other to aid in the robbery.
Voices grew loud and angry, and a hundred
savages appeared, as it were, by magic, where a dozen
only had been seen, a few minutes before. It
was, then, that Cora saw the form of Magua, gliding
among his countrymen, and speaking, with his fatal
and artful eloquence. The mass of women and children
stopped, and hovered together, like alarmed
and fluttering birds. But the cupidity of the Indian
was soon gratified, and the different bodies, again,
moved slowly onward.

The savages now fell back, and seemed content
to let their enemies advance, without further
molestation. But as the female crowd approached
them, the gaudy colours of a shawl attracted the eyes
of a wild and untutored Huron. He advanced to
seize it, without the least hesitation. The woman,
more in terror, than through love of the ornament,

wrapped her child in the coveted article, and folded
both more closely to her bosom. Cora was in the
act of speaking, with an intent to advise the woman
to abandon the trifle, when the savage relinquished
his hold of the shawl, and tore the screaming infant
from her arms. Abandoning every thing to the
greedy grasp of those around her, the mother darted,
with distraction in her mien, to reclaim her child.
The Indian smiled grimly, and extended one hand,
in sign of a willingness to exchange, while, with the
other, he flourished the babe above his head, holding
it by the feet, as if to enhance the value of the ransom.

“Here—here—there—all—any—every thing!”
exclaimed the breathless woman; tearing the lighter
articles of dress from her person, with ill-directed and
trembling fingers—“Take all, but give me my babe!”

The savage spurned the worthless rags, and perceiving
that the shawl had already become a prize
to another, his bantering, but sullen smile, changing
to a gleam of ferocity, he dashed the head of the infant
against a rock, and cast its quivering remains to
her very feet. For an instant, the mother stood, like
a statue of despair, looking wildly down at the unseemly
object, which had so lately nestled in her bosom
and smiled in her face; and then she raised her eyes
and countenance towards heaven, as if calling on God
to curse the perpetrator of the foul deed. She was
spared the sin of such a prayer; for, maddened at his
disappointment, and excited by the sight of blood,
the Huron mercifully drove his tomahawk into her
own brain. The mother sunk under the blow, and
fell, grasping at her child, in death, with the same

engrossing love, that had caused her to cherish it,
when living.

At that dangerous moment Magua placed his hands
to his mouth, and raised the fatal and appalling whoop.
The scattered Indians started at the well known cry,
as coursers bound at the signal to quit the goal; and,
directly, there arose such a yell along the plain, and
through the arches of the wood, as seldom bursted from
human lips before. They who heard it, listened with
a curdling horror at the heart, little inferior to that
dread which may be expected to attend the blasts of
the final summons.

More than two thousand raging savages broke from
the forest at the signal, and threw themselves across
the fatal plain with instinctive alacrity. We shall
not dwell on the revolting horrors that succeeded.—
Death was every where, and in his most terrific
and disgusting aspects. Resistance only served to
inflame the murderers, who inflicted their furious
blows long after their victims were beyond the power
of their resentment. The flow of blood might be
likened to the outbreaking of a gushing torrent; and
as the natives became heated and maddened by the
sight, many among them even kneeled to the earth,
and drank freely, exultingly, hellishly, of the crimson
tide.

The trained bodies of the troops threw themselves,
quickly, into solid masses, endeavouring to awe their
assailants by the imposing appearance of a military
front. The experiment in some measure succeeded,
though far too many suffered their unloaded muskets
to be torn from their hands, in the vain hope of appeasing
the savages.

In such a scene, none had leisure to note
the fleeting moments. It might have been ten minutes,
(it seemed an age,) that the sisters had stood,
rivetted to one spot, horror-stricken, and nearly helpless.
When the first blow was struck, their screaming
companions had pressed upon them in a body,
rendering flight impossible; and now that fear or
death had scattered most, if not all, from around
them, they saw no avenue open, but such as conducted
to the tomahawks of their foes. On every side
arose shrieks, groans, exhortations, and curses. At
this moment, Alice caught a glimpse of the vast
form of her father, moving rapidly across the plain,
in the direction of the French army. Ha was, in
truth, proceeding to Montcalm, fearless of every danger,
to claim the tardy escort, for which he had before
conditioned. Fifty glittering axes, and barbed
spears, were offered unheeded at his life, but the
savages respected his rank and calmness, even in their
greatest fury. The dangerous weapons were brushed
aside by the still nervous arm of the veteran, or
fell of themselves, after menacing an act, that it would
seem no one had courage to perform. Fortunately,
the vindictive Magua was searching his victim in the
very band the veteran had just quitted.

“Father—father—we are here!” shrieked Alice,
as he passed, at no great distance, without appearing
to heed them. “Come to us, father, or we die!”

The cry was repeated, and in terms and tones, that
might have melted a heart of stone, but it was unanswered.
Once, indeed, the old man appeared to
catch the sounds, for he paused, and listened; but

Alice had dropped senseless on the earth, and Cora
had sunk at her side, hovering, in untiring tenderness,
over her lifeless form. Munro shook his head, in
disappointment, and proceeded, bent on the high
duty of his responsible station.

“Lady,” said Gamut, who, helpless and useless as
he was, had not yet dreamed of deserting his trust,
“it is the jubilee of the devils, and this is not a
meet place for christians to tarry in. Let us up and
fly!”

“Go,” said Cora, still gazing at her unconscious
sister; “save thyself. To me thou canst not be
of further use.”

David comprehended the unyielding character of
her resolution, by the simple, but expressive, gesture,
that accompanied her words. He gazed,
for a moment, at the dusky forms that were acting
their hellish rites on every side of him, and his tall
person grew more erect, while his chest heaved, and
every feature swelled, and seemed to speak with the
power of the feelings by which he was gorerned.

“If the Jewish boy might tame the evil spirit of
Saul, by the sound of his harp, and the words of sacred
song, it may not be amiss,” he said, “to try the
potency of music here.”

Then raising his voice to its highest tones, he
poured out a strain so powerful as to be heard, even
amid the din of that bloody field. More that one savage
rushed towards them, thinking to rifle the unprotected
sisters of their attire, and bear away their scalps;
but when they found this strange and unmoved figure,
rivetted to his post, they paused to listen. Astonishment

soon changed to admiration, and they passed
on to other, and less courageous victims, openly
expressing their satisfaction at the firmness with which
the white warrior sung his death song. Encouraged
and deluded by his success, David exerted all his
powers to extend what he believed so holy an influence.
The unwonted sounds caught the ears of a
distant savage, who flew, raging from groupe to
groupe, like one who, scorning to touch the vulgar
herd, hunted for some victim more worthy of his
renown. It was Magua, who uttered a yell of pleasure
when he beheld his ancient prisoners again at
his mercy.

“Come,” he said, laying his soiled hand on the
dress of Cora, “the wigwam of the Huron is open.
Is it not better than this place?”

“Away!” cried Cora, veiling her eyes from his
revolting aspect.

The Indian laughed tauntingly as he held up his
reeking hand, and answered—“It is red, but it comes
from white veins!”

“Monster! there is blood, oceans of blood, upon
thy soul; thy spirit has moved this scene.”

“Magua is a great chief!” returned the exulting
savage—“will the dark-hair go to his tribe!”

“Never! strike, if thou wilt, and complete thy
hellish revenge.”

He hesitated a moment; and then catching the
light and senseless form of Alice in his arms, the
subtle Indian moved swiftly across the plain toward
the woods.

“Hold!” shrieked Cora, following wildly on his

footsteps, “release the child! wretch! what is't
you do!”

But Magua was deaf to her voice; or rather he knew
his power, and was determined to maintain it.

“Stay—lady—stay,” called Gamut, after the unconscious
Cora. “The holy charm is beginning to be
felt, and soon shalt thou see this horrid tumult stilled.”

Perceiving that, in his turn, he was unheeded, the
faithful David followed the distracted sister, raising
his voice again in sacred song, and sweeping the air
to the measure, with his long arm, in diligent accompaniment.
In this manner they traversed the plain,
through the flying, the wounded, and the dead. The
fierce Huron was, at any time, sufficient for himself
and the victim that he bore; though Cora would have
fallen, more than once, under the blows of her savage
enemies, but for the extraordinary being who stalked
in her rear, and who now appeared to the astonished
natives gifted with the protecting spirit of madness.

Magua, who knew how to avoid the more pressing
dangers, and, also, to elude pursuit, entered the woods
through a low ravine, where he quickly found the
Narragansetts, which the travellers had abandoned
so shortly before, awaiting his appearance, in custody
of a savage as fierce and as malign in his expression
as himself. Laying Alice on one of the horses, he
made a sign for Cora to mount the other.

Notwithstanding the horror excited by the presence
of her captor, there was a present relief in
escaping from the bloody scene enacting on the plain,
to which the maiden could not be altogether insensible.
She took her seat, and held forth her arms

for her sister, with an air of entreaty and love, that
even the Huron could not deny. Placing Alice,
then, on the same animal with Cora, he seized the
bridle, and commenced his route by plunging deeper
into the forest. David, perceiving that he was left
alone, utterly disregarded, as a subject too worthless
even to destroy, threw his long limb across the
saddle of the beast they had deserted, and made
such progress in the pursuit, as the difficulties of the
path permitted.

They soon began to ascend; but as the motion had
a tendency to revive the dormant faculties of her sister,
the attention of Cora was too much divided between
the tenderest solicitude in her behalf, and in
listening to the cries, which were still too audible
on the plain, to note the direction in which
they journeyed. When, however, they gained the
flattened surface of the mountain top, and approached
the eastern precipice, she recognised the spot to
which she had, once before, been led, under the more
friendly auspices of the scout. Here Magua suffered
them to dismount, and, notwithstanding their own
captivity, the curiosity which seems inseparable from
horror, induced them to gaze at the sickening sight
below.

The cruel work was still unchecked. On every
side the captured were flying before their relentless
persecutors, while the armed columns of the Christian
King stood fast, in an apathy which has never
been explained, and which has left an immoveable
blot on the, otherwise, fair escutcheon of their leader.
Nor was the sword of death stayed, until cupidity got

the mastery of revenge. Then, indeed, the shriaks
of the wounded, and the yells of their murderers,
grew less frequent, until finally the cries of horror
were lost to their ear, or were drowned in the loud,
long and piercing whoops of the triumphant savages.