University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The confidence thus reposed in one generally esteemed a murderer,
and actually under sentence as such, is customary among
the Indians; nor is it often abused. The loss of caste which
would follow their flight from justice, is much more terrible
among them than any fear of death—which an Indian may avoid,
but not through fear. Their loss of caste among themselves,
apart from the outlawry which follows it, is, in fact, a loss of the
soul. The heaven of the great Manneyto is denied to one under
outlawry of the nation, and such a person is then the known and
chosen slave of the demon, Opitchi-Manneyto. It was held an unnecessary
insult on the part of Emathla, to ask Selonee if he
would return to meet his fate. But Emathla was supposed to favour
the enemies of Selonee.

With such a gloomy alternative before him in the event of his
proving unsuccessful, the young hunter retraced his steps to the
fatal waters where Conattee had disappeared. With a spirit no
less warmly devoted to his friend, than anxious to avoid the disgraceful
doom to which he was destined, the youth spared no pains,
withheld no exertion, overlooked no single spot, and omitted no
art known to the hunter, to trace out the mystery which covered
the fate of Conattee. But days passed of fruitless labour, and the
last faint slender outlines of the moon which had been allotted
him for the search, gleamed forth a sorrowful light upon his path,
as he wearily traced it onward to the temporary lodges of the
tribe.

Once more he resumed his seat before the council and listened
to the doom which was in reserve for him. When the sentence
was pronounced, he untied his arrows, loosened the belt at his
waist, put a fillet around his head, made of the green bark of a
little sapling which he cut in the neighbouring woods, then rising
to his feet, he spoke thus, in language, and with a spirit, becoming
so great a warrior.

“It is well. The chiefs have spoken, and the wolf-chief does
not tremble. He loves the chase, but he does not weep like a
woman, because it is forbidden that he go after the deer—he loves
to fright the young hares of the Cherokee, but he laments not that
ye say ye can conquer the Cherokee without his help. Fathers,
I have slain the deer and the wolf—my lodge is full of their ears.
I have slain the Cherokee, till the scalps are about my knees
when I walk in the cabin. I go not to the dark valley without
glory—I have had the victories of grey hairs, but there is no grey
hair in my own. I have no more to say—there is a deed for
every arrow that is here. Bid the young men get their bows
ready, let them put a broad stone upon their arrows that may go
soon into the life—I will show my people how to die.”

They led him forth as he commanded, to the place of execution
—a little space behind the encampment, where a hole had been
already dug for his burial. While he went, he recited his victories
to the youths who attended him. To each he gave an arrow
which he was required to keep, and with this arrow, he related
some incident in which he had proved his valour, either in
conflict with some other warrior, or with the wild beasts of the
woods. These deeds, each of them was required to remember and
relate, and show the arrow which was given with the narrative on
occasion of this great state solemnity. In this way, their traditions
are preserved. When he reached the grave, he took his station
before it, the executioners, with their arrows, being already
placed in readiness. The whole tribe had assembled to witness
the execution, the warriors and boys in the foreground, the
squaws behind them. A solemn silence prevailed over the scene,
and a few moments only remained to the victim; when the wife
of Conattee darted forward from the crowd bearing in her hands
a peeled wand, with which, with every appearance of anger, she
struck Selonee over the shoulders, exclaiming as she did so:

“Come, thou dog, thou shalt not die—thou shalt lie in the door-way
of Conattee, and bring venison for his wife. Shall there be
no one to bring meat to my lodge? Thou shalt do this, Selonee
—thou shalt not die.”

A murmur arose from the crowd at these words.

“She hath claimed Selonee for her husband, in place of Conattee—well,
she hath the right.”

The enemies of Selonee could not object. The widow had, in
fact, exercised a privilege which is recognized by the Indian laws
almost universally; and the policy by which she was governed
in the present instance, was sufficiently apparent to all the village.
It was evident, now that Conattee was gone, that nobody
could provide for the woman who had no sons, and no male relations,
and who was too execrably ugly, and too notorious as a scold,
to leave it possible that she could ever procure another husband
so inexperienced or so flexible as the one she had lost. Smartly
striking Selonee on his shoulders, she repeated her command
that he should rise and follow her.

“Thou wilt take this dog to thy lodge, that he may hunt thee
venison?” demanded the old chief, Emathla.

“Have I not said?” shouted the scold—“hear you not? The
dog is mine—I bid him follow me.”

“Is there no friendly arrow to seek my heart?” murmured the
young warrior, as, rising slowly from the grave into which he
had previously descended, he prepared to obey the laws of his nation,
in the commands of the woman who claimed him to replace
the husband who was supposed to have died by his hands. Even
the foes of Selonee looked on him with lessened hostility, and the
pity of his friends was greater now than when he stood on the
precipice of death. The young women of the tribe wept bitterly
as they beheld so monstrous a sacrifice. Meanwhile, the exulting
hag, as if conscious of her complete control over the victim,
goaded him forward with repeated strokes of her wand.
She knew that she was hated by all the young women, and she
was delighted to show them a conquest which would have been
a subject of pride to any among them. With this view she led
the captive through their ranks. As they parted mournfully, on
either hand, to suffer the two to pass, Selonee stopped short and
motioned one of the young women who stood at the greatest distance
behind the rest, looking on with eyes which, if they had
no tears, yet gave forth an expression of desolateness more woful
than any tears could have done. With clasped hands, and trembling
as she came, the gentle maiden drew nigh.

“Was it a dream,” said Selonee sorrowfully, “that told me of
the love of a singing bird, and a green cabin by the trickling
waters? Did I hear a voice that said to me sweetly, wait but a
little, till the green corn breaks the hill, and Medoree will come
to thy cabin and lie by thy side? Tell me, is this thing true,
Medoree?”

“Thou sayest, Selonee—the thing is true,” was the reply of
the maiden, uttered in broken accents that denoted a breaking
heart.

“But they will make Selonee go to the lodge of another woman
—they will put Macourah into the arms of Selonee.”

“Alas! Alas!”

“Wilt thou see this thing, Medoree? Can'st thou look upon
it, then turn away, and going back to thy own lodge, can'st thou
sing a gay song of forgetfulness as thou goest?”

“Forgetfulness!—Ah, Selonee.”

“Thou art the beloved of Selonee, Medoree—thou shalt not
lose him. It would vex thy heart that another should take him
to her lodge!”—

The tears of the damsel flowed freely down her cheeks, and
she sobbed bitterly, but said nothing.

“Take the knife from my belt, Medoree, and put its sharp
tooth into my heart, ere thou sufferest this thing! Wilt thou
not?”

The girl shrunk back with an expression of undisguised horror
in her face.

“I will bless thee, Medoree,” was the continued speech of
the warrior. She turned from him, covering her face with her
hands.

“I cannot do this thing, Selonee—I cannot strike thy heart
with the knife. Go—let the woman have thee. Medoree cannot
kill thee—she will herself die.”

“It is well,” cried the youth, in a voice of mournful self-abandonment,
as he resumed his progress towards the lodge of Macourah.