University of Virginia Library

LUCAS DE AYLLON.

A HISTORICAL NOUVELLETTE.[2]

1. CHAPTER I.
THE SNARE OF THE PIRATE.

Sebastian Cabot is supposed to have been the first European
voyager who ever laid eyes upon the low shores of Carolina.
He sailed along the coast and looked at it, but did not attempt to
land,—nor was such a proceeding necessary to his objects. His
single look, according to the laws and morals of that day, in civilized
Europe, conferred a sufficient right upon the nation by which
he was employed, to all countries which he might discover, and
to all people, worshipping at other than Christian altars, by whom
they might be occupied. The supposed right, however, thus acquired
by Cabot, was not then asserted by the English whom he

served. It was reserved for another voyager, who, with greater
condescension, surveyed the coast and actually set foot upon it.
This was Lucas Velasquez de Ayllon, whose adventures in Carolina
we propose briefly to relate. Better for him that he had
never seen it!—or, seeing it, if he had posted away from its shores
for ever. They were the shores of destiny for him. But he
was a bad man, and we may reasonably assume that the Just
Providence had ordained that his crimes should there meet with
that retribution which they were not likely to encounter any where
else. Here, if he found paganism, he, at the same time, found
hospitality; and here, if he brought cunning, he encountered
courage! Fierce valour and generous hospitality were the natural
virtues of the Southern Indians.

But we must retrace our steps for a brief period. Some preliminaries,
drawn from the history of the times, are first necessary
to be understood.—The feebleness of the natives of Hayti,
as is well known, so far from making them objects of pity and
indulgence in the sight of other Spanish conquerors, had the contrary
effect of converting an otherwise brave soldiery into a reckless
band of despots, as brutal in their performances as they
were unwise in their tyrannies. The miserable Indians sunk
under their domination. The blandness of their climate, its delicious
fruits, the spontaneous gifts of nature, had rendered them
too effeminate for labour and too spiritless for war. Their extermination
was threatened; and, as a remedial measure, the benevolent
father, Las Casas,—whose humanity stands out conspicuously
in contrast with the proverbial cruelty and ferocity of his countrymen,—suggested
the policy of making captures of slaves, to
take the places of the perishing Haytians, from the Caribbean
Islands and from the coasts of Florida. The hardy savages of
these regions, inured to war, and loving it for its very dangers
and exercises, were better able to endure the severe tasks which
were prescribed by the conquerors. This opened a new branch
of business for these bold and reckless adventurers. Predatory
incursions were made along the shores of the Gulf, and seldom
without profit. In this way one race was made to supersede another,
in the delicious country which seems destined never to
rear a population suited to its characteristics. The stubborn and

sullen Caribbean was made to bend his shoulders to the burden,
but did not the less save the feeble Haytian from his doom. The
fierce tribes of Apalachia took the place of the delicate limbed
native of the Ozama; and, in process of years, the whole southern
coasts of North America became tributary, in some degree, to
the novel and tyrannical policy which was yet suggested by a
spirit of the most genuine benevolence.

The business of slave capture became somewhat more profitable
than the fatiguing and protracted search after gold—a search
much more full of delusions than of any thing substantial. It
agreed better with the hardy valour of those wild adventurers.
Many bold knights adopted this new vocation. Among these
was one Lucas Velasquez de Ayllon, already mentioned as succeeding
Cabot in his discovery of Carolina. He was a stern,
cold man, brave enough for the uses to which valour was put in
those days; but having the narrow contracted soul of a miser, he
was incapable of noble thoughts or generous feelings. The love
of gold was the settled passion of his heart, as it was too much
the passion of his countrymen. He soon distinguished himself
by his forays, and was among the first to introduce his people to
a knowledge of Carolina, where they subsequently made themselves
notorious by their atrocities. Some time in the year 1520,
he set forth, in two ships, on an expedition of this nature. He
seems to have been already acquainted with the region. Wending
north, he soon found himself in smooth water, and gliding
along by numberless pleasant islands, that broke the billows of
the sea, and formed frequent and safe harborages along the coasts
of the country. Attracted by a spacious opening in the shores,
he stood in for a prominent headland, to which he gave the
name of Cape St. Helena; a name which is now borne by the
contiguous sound. The smoothness of the waters; the placid
and serene security of this lovely basin; the rich green of the
verdure which encountered the eyes of the adventurers on all sides,
beguiled them onward; and they were at length rejoiced at the sight,
—more grateful to their desire than any other, as it promised them
the spoils which they sought—of numerous groups of natives
that thronged the lands-ends at their approach. They cast anchor

near the mouth of a river, which, deriving its name from the
Queen of the country, is called, to this day, the Combahee.

The natives were a race as unconscious of guile as they were
fearless of danger. They are represented to have been of very
noble stature; graceful and strong of limb; of bright, dark,
flashing eyes, and of singularly advanced civilization, since they
wore cotton clothes of their own manufacture, and had even
made considerable progress in the arts of knitting, spinning and
weaving. They had draperies to their places of repose; and
some of the more distinguished among their women and warriors,
wore thin and flowing fringes, by way of ornament, upon which
a free and tasteful disposition of pearls might occasionally be seen.
Like many other of the native tribes, they were governed by a
queen whose name has already been given. The name of the
country they called Chicora, or, more properly, Chiquola.

Unsuspecting as they were brave, the savages surrounded the
vessels in their boats, and many of them even swam off from
shore to meet them; being quite as expert in the water as upon
the land. The wily Spaniard spared no arts to encourage and
increase this confidence. Toys and implements of a kind likely
to attract the eyes, and catch the affections, of an ignorant people,
were studiously held up in sight; and, by little and little,
they grew bold enough, at length, to clamber up the sides of the
ships, and make their appearance upon the decks. Still, with
all their arts, the number of those who came on board was small,
compared with those who remained aloof. It was observed by
the Spaniards that the persons who forbore to visit them were
evidently the persons of highest consequence. Those who came,
as constantly withdrew to make their report to others, who either
stayed on the land, or hovered in sight, but at a safe distance, in
their light canoes. De Ayllon shrewdly conjectured that if he
could tempt these more important persons to visit his vessels, the
great body of the savages would follow. His object was numbers;
and his grasping and calculating soul scanned the crowds
which were in sight, and thought of the immense space in his
hold, which it was his policy and wish to fill. To bring about
his object, he spared none of the customary modes of temptation.
Beads and bells were sparingly distributed to those who came,

and they were instructed by signs and sounds to depart, and
return with their companions. To a certain extent, this policy
had its effect, but the appetite of the Spaniard was not easily
glutted.

He noted, among the hundred canoes that darted about the
bay, one that was not only of larger size and better construction
than the rest, but which was fitted up with cotton stuffs and
fringes like some barge of state. He rightly conjectured that
this canoe contained the Cassique or sovereign of the country.
The canoe was dug from a single tree, and was more than forty
feet in length. It had a sort of canopy of cotton stuff near the
stern, beneath which sat several females, one of whom was of
majestic demeanour, and seemed to be an object of deference with
all the rest. It did not escape the eyes of the Spaniards that her
neck was hung with pearls, others were twined about her brows,
and gleamed out from the folds of her long glossy black hair,
which, streaming down her neck, was seen almost to mingle with
the chafing billows of the sound. The men in this vessel were
also most evidently of the better order. All of them were clad
in fringed cotton stuffs of a superior description to those worn by
the gathering multitude. Some of these stuffs were dyed of a
bright red and yellow, and plumes, similarly stained, were fastened
in many instances to their brows, by narrow strips of coloured
fringe, not unfrequently sprinkled artfully with seed pearl.

The eyes of De Ayllon gloated as he beheld this barge, from
which he did not once withdraw his glance. But, if he saw the
importance of securing this particular prize, he, at the same time,
felt the difficulty of such a performance. The Indians seemed
not unaware of the special value of this canoe. It was kept
aloof, while all the rest ventured boldly alongside the Spanish
vessels. A proper jealousy of strangers,—though it does not
seem that they had any suspicion of their particular object—restrained
the savages. To this natural jealousy, that curiosity
which is equally natural to ignorance, was opposed. De Ayllon
was too sagacious to despair of the final success of this superior
passion. He redoubled his arts. His hawk's bells were made
to jingle from the ship's side; tinsel, but bright crosses—the holiest
sign in the exercise of his religious faith—were hung in view,

abused as lures for the purposes of fraud and violence. No toy,
which had ever yet been found potent in Indian traffic, was withheld
from sight; and, by little and little, the unconscious arms of
the Indian rowers impelled the destined bark nearer and nearer
to the artful Spaniards. Still, the approach was slow. The
strokes of the rowers were frequently suspended, as if in obedience
to orders from their chiefs. A consultation was evidently
going on among the inmates of the Indian vessels. Other canoes
approached it from the shore. The barge of state was surrounded.
It was obvious that the counsellors were averse to the unnecessary
exposure of their sovereigns.

It was a moment of anxiety with De Ayllon. There were not
twenty Indians remaining on his decks; at one time there had
been an hundred. He beheld the hesitation, amounting to seeming
apprehension, among the people in the canoes; and he now
began to reproach himself with that cupidity, which, grasping at
too much, had probably lost all. But so long as curiosity hesitates
there is hope for cupidity. De Ayllon brought forth other
lures: he preferred fraud to fighting.

“Look!” said a princely damsel in the canoe of state, as a
cluster of bright mirrors shone burningly in the sunlight. “Look!”
—and every eye followed her finger, and every feminine tongue
in the vessel grew clamorous for an instant, in its own language,
expressing the wonder which was felt at this surpassing display.
Still, the canoe hung, suspended on its centre, motionless. The
contest was undecided: a long, low discussion was carried on between
a small and select number in the little vessel. De Ayllon
saw that but from four to five persons engaged in this discussion.
One of these, only, was a woman—the majestic but youthful
woman, of whom we have already given a brief description.
Three others were grave middle-aged men; but the fourth was
a tall, bright-eyed savage, who had scarcely reached the term of
manhood, with a proud eager aspect, and a form equally combining
strength and symmetry. He wore a coronet of eagle
feathers, and from his place in the canoe, immediately next that
of the queen, it was inferred correctly by the Spanish captain
that he was her husband. He spoke earnestly, almost angrily;
pointed several times to the ships, whenever the objects of attraction

were displayed; and, from his impatient manner, it was
very clear that the counsel to which he listened did not correspond
with the desires which he felt. But the discussion was soon
ended. De Ayllon waved a bright scimitar above his head, and
the young chief in the canoe of state started to his feet, with an
unrestrainable impulse, and extended his hand for the gift. The
brave soul of the young warrior spoke out without control when
he beheld the true object of attraction. De Ayllon waved the
weapon encouragingly, and bowed his head, as if in compliance
with his demand. The young savage uttered a few words to his
people, and the paddles were again dipped in water; the bark
went forward, and, from the Spanish vessel, a rope was let down
to assist the visitors as soon as they were alongside.

The hand of the young chief had already grasped the rope,
when the fingers of Combahee, the queen, with an equal mixture
of majesty and grace, were laid upon his arm.

“Go not, Chiquola” she said, with a persuasive, entreating
glance of her deep, dark eyes. He shook off her hand impatiently,
and, running up the sides of the vessel, was already safely
on the deck, before he perceived that she was preparing to follow
him. He turned upon her, and a brief expostulation seemed to
follow from his lips. It appeared as if the young savage was
only made conscious of his imprudence, by beholding hers. She
answered him with a firmness of manner, a dignity and sweetness
so happily blended, that the Spanish officers, who had, by this
time, gathered round them, looked on and listened with surprise.
The young chief, whom they learned to call by the name of Chiquola—which
they soon understood was that of the country, also—
appeared dissatisfied, and renewed his expostulations, but with
the same effect. At length he waved his hand to the canoe, and,
speaking a few words, moved once more to the side of the ship at
which she had entered. The woman's eye brightened; she answered
with a single word, and hurried in the same direction.
De Ayllon, fearing the loss of his victims, now thought it time to
interfere. The sword, which had won the eyes of the young
warrior at first, was again waved in his sight, while a mirror of the
largest size was held before the noble features of the Indian princess.
The youth grasped the weapon, and laughed with a delighted

but brief chuckle as he looked on the glittering steel, and shook
it hurriedly in the air. He seemed to know the use of such an
instrument by instinct. In its contemplation, he forgot his own
suspicions and that of his people; and no more renewing his suggestions
to depart, he spoke to Combahee only of the beauties and
the use of the new weapon which had been given to his hands.

The woman seemed altogether a superior person. There was
a stern mournfulness about her, which, while it commanded respect,
did not impair the symmetry and sweetness of her very intelligent
and pleasing features. She had the high forehead of our
race, without that accompanying protuberance of the cheek bones,
which distinguished hers. Her mouth was very small and sweet,
like that which is common to her people. Her eyes were large,
deeply set, and dark in the extreme, wearing that pensive earnestness
of expression which seems to denote presentiment of many
pangs and sorrows. Her form, we have already said, was large
and majestical; yet the thick masses of her glossy black hair
streamed even to her heels. Superior to her companions, male
as well as female, the mirror which had been put into her hands
—a glance at which had awakened the most boisterous clamours
of delight among her female attendants, all of whom had followed
her into the Spanish vessel—was laid down, after a brief examination,
with perfect indifference. Her countenance, though not
uninformed with curiosity, was full of a most expressive anxiety.
She certainly felt the wonder which the others showed, at the
manifold strange objects which met their eyes; but this feeling
was entertained in a more subdued degree, and did not display
itself in the usual language of surprise. She simply seemed to
follow the footsteps of Chiquola, without participating in his pleasures,
or in that curiosity which made him traverse the ship in every
accessible quarter, from stem to stern, seeking all objects of novelty,
and passing from one to the other with an appetite which
nothing seemed likely soon to satiate.

Meanwhile, the example set by their Queen, the Cassiques, the
Iawas, or Priests, and other headmen of the Nation, was soon followed
by the common people; and De Ayllon had the satisfaction,
on exchanging signals with his consort, to find that both ships
were crowded with quite as many persons as they could possibly

carry. The vessel under his immediate command was scarcely
manageable from the multitudes which thronged her decks, and
impeded, in a great measure, all the operations of the crew. He
devised a remedy for this evil, and, at the same time, a measure
very well calculated to give complete effect to his plans. Refreshments
were provided in the hold; wines in abundance; and
the trooping savages were invited into that gloomy region, which
a timely precaution had rendered more cheerful in appearance
by the introduction of numerous lights. A similar arrangement
conducted the more honourable guests into the cabin, and a free
use of the intoxicating beverages, on the part of the great body
of the Indians, soon rendered easy all the remaining labours of
the wily Spaniard. The hatches were suddenly closed when the
hold was most crowded, and two hundred of the unconscious and
half stupid savages were thus entrapped for the slave market of
the City of Columbus.

In the cabin the same transaction was marked by some distinguishing
differences. The wily De Ayllon paid every attention
to his guests. A natural homage was felt to be the due of
royalty and rank, even among a race of savages; and this sentiment
was enforced by the obvious necessity of pursuing that course
of conduct which would induce the confidence of persons who had
already shown themselves so suspicious. De Ayllon, with his
officers, himself attended Chiquola and the Queen. The former
needed no persuasion. He freely seated himself on the cushions
of the cabin, and drank of the proffered wines, till his eyes danced
with delight, his blood tingled, and his speech, always free, became
garrulity, to the great annoyance of Combahee. She had
followed him with evident reluctance into the interior of the vessel;
and now, seated with the rest, within the cabin, she watched
the proceedings with a painful degree of interest and dissatisfaction,
increasing momently as she beheld the increasing effect upon
him of the wine which he had taken. She herself utterly declined
the proffered liquor; holding herself aloof with as much
natural dignity as could have been displayed by the most polished
princess of Europe. Her disquiet had made itself understood by
her impatience of manner, and by frequent observations in her own
language, to Chiquola. These, of course, could be understood

only by themselves and their attendants. But the Spaniards were
at no loss to divine the purport of her speech from her tones, the
expression of her face, and the quick significant movements of
her hands.

At length she succeeded in impressing her desires upon Chiquola,
and he rose to depart. But the Spaniards had no intention
to suffer this. The plot was now ready for execution. The signal
had been made. The entrance to the cabin was closed, and
a single bold and decisive movement was alone necessary to end
the game. De Ayllon had taken care silently to introduce several
stout soldiers into the cabin, and these, when Chiquola took a
step forward, sprang upon him and his few male companions and
bore them to the floor. Chiquola struggled with a manful courage,
which, equally with their forests, was the inheritance of the
American Indians; but the conflict was too unequal, and it did
not remain doubtful very long. De Ayllon saw that he was secure,
and turned, with an air of courteous constraint, to the spot
where Combahee stood. He approached her with a smile upon
his countenance and with extended arms; but she bestowed upon
him a single glance; and, in a mute survey, took in the entire
extent of her misfortune. The whole proceeding had been the
work of an instant only. That she was taken by surprise, as
well as Chiquola, was sufficiently clear; but her suspicions had
never been wholly quieted, and the degree of surprise which she
felt did not long deprive her of her energies. If her eye betrayed
the startled apprehension of the fawn of her native forests, it
equally expressed the fierce indignation which flames in that of
their tameless eagle. She did not speak as De Ayllon approached;
and when, smiling, he pointed to the condition of Chiquola,
and with extended arms seemed to indicate to her the
hopelessness of any effort at escape, she hissed at him, in reply,
with the keen defiance of the angry coppersnake. He advanced
—his hand was stretched forth towards her person—when she
drew up her queenly form to its fullest height; and, with a single
word hurriedly spoken to the still struggling Chiquola, she
turned, and when De Ayllon looked only to receive her submission,
plunged suddenly through the stern windows of the cabin,
and buried herself in the deep waters of the sea.

2. CHAPTER II.
CHIQUOLA, THE CAPTIVE.

The flight of Combahee, and her descent into the waters of the
bay, were ominous of uproar. Instantly, the cry of rage arose
from a thousand voices. The whole body of the people, as with
a common instinct, seemed at once to comprehend the national
calamity. A dozen canoes shot forth from every quarter,
with the rapidity of arrows in their flight, to the rescue of the
Queen. Like a bright mermaid, swimming at evening for her
own green island, she now appeared, beating with familiar skill
the swelling waters, and, with practised hands, throwing behind
her their impelling billows. Her long, glossy, black hair was
spread out upon the surface of the deep, like some veil of network
meant to conceal from immodest glances the feminine form
below. From the window of the cabin whence she disappeared,
De Ayllon beheld her progress, and looked upon the scene with
such admiration as was within the nature of a soul so mercenary.
He saw the fearless courage of the man in all her movements, and
never did Spaniard behold such exquisite artifice in swimming
on the part of any of his race. She was already in safety. She
had ascended, and taken her seat in one of the canoes, a dozen
contending, in loyal rivalry, for the privilege of receiving her
person.

Then rose the cry of war! Then sounded that fearful whoop
of hate, and rage, and defiance, the very echoes of which have
made many a faint heart tremble since that day. It was probably,
on this occasion, that the European, for the first time, listened
to this terrible cry of war and vengeance. At the signal, the
canoes upon the bay scattered themselves to surround the ships;

the warriors along the shore loosened the fasts of the boats, and
pushed off to join the conflict; while the hunter in the forests,
stopped sudden in the eager chase, sped onward, with all the
feeling of coercive duty, in the direction of those summoning
sounds.

The fearless Combahee, with soul on fire, led the van. She
stood erect in her canoe. Her form might be seen from every
part of the bay. The hair still streamed, unbound and dripping,
from her shoulders. In her left hand she grasped a bow such as
would task the ability of the strong man in our day. Her
right hand was extended, as if in denunciation towards that

in which her husband and her people were held captive. Truly,
hers was the form and the attitude for a high souled painter;—
one, the master of the dramatic branches of his art. The flashing
of her eye was a voice to her warriors;—the waving of her
hand was a summons that the loyal and the brave heart sprang
eager to obey! A shrill signal issued from her half parted lips,
and the now numerous canoes scattered themselves on every side
as if to surround the European enemy, or, at least, to make the
assault on both vessels simultaneous.

The Spaniard beheld, as if by magic, the whole bay covered
with boats. The light canoes were soon launched from the
shore, and they shot forth from its thousand indentations as fast
as the warriors poured down from the interior. Each of these
warriors came armed with the bow, and a well filled quiver of
arrows. These were formed from the long canes of the adjacent
swamps; shafts equally tenacious and elastic, feathered with
plumes from the eagle or the stork, and headed with triangular
barbs of flint. broad but sharp, of which each Indian had always
a plentiful supply. The vigour with which these arrows were
impelled from the string was such, that, without the escaupil or
cotton armour which the Spaniards generally wore, the shaft has
been known to pass clean through the body of the victim. Thus
armed and arranged, with numbers constantly increasing, the
people of Combahee, gathering at her summons, darted boldly

from the shore, and, taking up positions favourable to the attack,
awaited only the signal to begin.

Meanwhile, the Spanish ships began to spread forth their broad
wings for flight. Anticipating some such condition of things as
the present, the wily De Ayllon had made his preparations for
departure at the same time that he had planned the scheme for
his successful treachery. The one movement was devised to follow
immediately upon the footsteps of the other. His sails were
loosened and flapping in the wind. To trim them for the breeze,
which, though light, was yet favourable to his departure, was the
work of a moment only; and ere the word was given for the attack,
on the part of the Indians, the huge fabrics of the Spaniards began
to move slowly through the subject waters. Then followed
the signal. First came a shaft from Combahee herself; well
aimed and launched with no mean vigour; that, striking full on
the bosom of De Ayllon, would have proved fatal but for the
plate mail which was hidden beneath his coat of buff. A wild
whoop succeeded, and the air was instantly clouded by the close
flight of the Indian arrows. Nothing could have been more decided,
more prompt and rapid, than this assault. The shaft had
scarcely been dismissed from the string before another supplied its
place; and however superior might have been the armament of
the Spanish captain, however unequal the conflict from the greater
size of his vessels, and the bulwarks which necessarily gave a
certain degree of protection, it was a moment of no inconsiderable
anxiety to the kidnappers! De Ayllon, though a base, was
not a bloody-minded man. His object was spoil, not slaughter.
Though his men had their firelocks in readiness, and a few pieces
of cannon were already prepared and pointed, yet he hesitated to
give the word, which should hurry into eternity so many ignorant
fellow beings upon whom he had just inflicted so shameful an
injury. He commanded his men to cover themselves behind the
bulwarks, unless where the management of the ships required
their unavoidable exposure, and, in such cases, the persons employed
were provided with the cotton armour which had been
usually found an adequate protection against arrows shot by the
feeble hands of the Indians of the Lucayos.

But the vigorous savages of Combahee were a very different

race. They belonged to the great family of the Muscoghees;
the parent stock, without question, of those indomitable tribes
which, under the names of Yemassee, Stono, Muscoghee, Mickasukee,
and Seminole, have made themselves remembered and
feared, through successive years of European experience, without
having been entirely quelled or quieted to the present hour.
It was soon found by De Ayllon that the escaupil was no protection
against injury. It baffled the force of the shaft but could not
blunt it, and one of the inferior officers, standing by the side of
the commander, was pierced through his cotton gorget. The
arrow penetrated his throat, and he fell, to all appearance, mortally
wounded. The Indians beheld his fall. They saw the
confusion that the event seemed to inspire, and their delight was
manifested in a renewed shout of hostility, mingled with screams,
which denoted, as clearly as language, the delight of savage triumph.
Still, De Ayllon forbore to use the destructive weapons
which he had in readiness. His soldiers murmured; but he answered
them by pointing to the hold, and asking:

“Shall we cut our own throats in cutting theirs? I see not
present enemies but future slaves in all these assailants.”

It was not mercy but policy that dictated his forbearance.
But it was necessary that something should be done in order to
baffle and throw off the Indians. The breeze was too light and
baffling, and the movements of the vessels too slow to avoid
them. The light barks of the assailants, impelled by vigorous
arms, in such smooth water, easily kept pace with the progress of
the ships. Their cries of insult and hostility increased. Their
arrows were shot, without cessation, at every point at which an
enemy was supposed to harbour himself; and, under the circumstances,
it was not possible always to take advantage of a cover in
performing the necessary duties which accrued to the seamen of
the ships. The Indians had not yet heard the sound of European
cannon. De Ayllon resolved to intimidate them. A small piece,
such as in that day was employed for the defence of castles, called
a falconet, was elevated above the canoes, so that the shot,
passing over the heads of their inmates, might take effect upon
the woods along the shore. As the sudden and sullen roar of this
unexpected thunder was heard, every Indían sunk upon his

knees; every paddle was dropped motionless in the water; while
the uplifted bow fell from the half-paralyzed hands of the warrior,
and he paused, uncertain of safety, but incapable of flight.
The effect was great, but momentary only. To a truly brave
people, there is nothing more transient than the influence of panic.
When the Indian warriors looked up, they beheld one of their
people still erect—unalarmed by the strange thunder—still looking
the language,—still acting the part of defiance,—and, oh!
shame to their manhood, this person was their Queen. Instead
of fear, the expression upon her countenance was that of scorn.
They took fire at the expression. Every heart gathered new
warmth at the blaze shining from her eyes. Besides, they discovered
that they were unharmed. The thunder was a mere
sound. They had not seen the bolt. This discovery not only
relieved their fears but heightened their audacity. Again they
moved forward. Again the dart was clapt upon the string.
Singing one chorus, the burden of which, in our language, would
be equivalent to a summons to a feast of vultures, they again set
their canoes in motion; and now, not as before, simply content
to get within arrow distance, they boldly pressed forward upon
the very course of the ships; behind, before, and on every side;
sending their arrows through every opening, and distinguishing,
by their formidable aim, every living object which came in sight.
Their skill in the management of their canoes; in swimming;
their great strength and agility, prompted them to a thousand acts
of daring; and some were found bold enough to attempt, while
leaping from their boats, beneath the very prow of the slowly advancing
vessels, to grasp the swinging ropes and thus elevate
themselves to individual conflict with their enemies. These failed,
it is true, and sank into the waters; but such an event implied
no sort of risk to these fearless warriors. They were soon
picked up by their comrades, only to renew, in this or in other
forms, their gallant but unsuccessful efforts.

But these efforts might yet be successful. Ships in those days
were not the monstrous palaces which they are in ours. An
agile form, under favouring circumstances, might easily clamber
up their sides; and such was the equal activity and daring of
the savages, as to make it apparent to De Ayllon that it would

need something more decisive than had yet been done, on his
part, to shake himself free from their inveterate hostility. At a
moment when their fury was redoubled and increased by the impunity
which had attended their previous assaults,—when every
bow was uplifted and every arrow pointed under the eye of their
Queen, as if for a full application of all their strength, and skill
and courage;—her voice, now loud in frequent speech, inciting
them to a last and crowning effort; and she herself, erect in her
bark as before, and within less than thirty yards of the Spanish
vessel;—at this moment, and to avert the storm of arrows which
threatened his seamen who were then, perforce, busy with the
rigging in consequence of a sudden change of wind;—De Ayllon
gave a signal to bring Chiquola from below. Struggling between
two Spanish officers, his arms pinioned at the elbows, the
young Cassique was dragged forward to the side of the vessel
and presented to the eyes of his Queen and people, threatened
with the edge of the very weapon which had beguiled him to the
perfidious bark.

A hollow groan arose on every hand. The points of the uplifed
arrows were dropped; and, for the first time, the proud
spirit passed out of the eyes of Combahee, and her head sunk
forward, with an air of hopeless self-abandonment, upon her breast!
A deep silence followed, broken only by the voice of Chiquola.
What he said, was, of course, not understood by his captors; but
they could not mistake the import of his action. Thrice, while
he spoke to his people, did his hand, wresting to the utmost the
cords upon his arms, smite his heart, imploring, as it were, the
united arrows of his people to this conspicuous mark. But the
Amazon had not courage for this. She was speechless! Every
eye was turned upon her, but there was no answering response in
hers; and the ships of the Spaniard proceeded on their way to
the sea with a momently increasing rapidity. Still, though no
longer assailing, the canoes followed close, and kept up the same
relative distance between themselves and enemies, which had
been observed before. Combahee now felt all her feebleness, and
as the winds increased, and the waves of the bay feeling the
more immediate influence of the ocean, rose into long heavy
swells, the complete conviction of her whole calamity seemed to

rush upon her soul. Chiquola had now been withdrawn from
sight. His eager adjurations to his Queen and people, might, it
was feared, prompt them to that Roman sort of sacrifice which
the captive himself seemed to implore; and perceiving that the
savages had suspended the assault, De Ayllon commanded
his removal. But, with his disappearance, the courage of his
Queen revived. Once more she gave the signal for attack in a
discharge of arrows; and once more the captive was set before
their eyes, with the naked sword above his head, in terrorem, as
before. The same effect ensued. The arm of hostility hung
suspended and paralyzed. The cry of anguish which the cruel
spectacle extorted from the bosom of Combahee, was echoed by
that of the multitude; and without a purpose or a hope, the
canoes hovered around the course of the retreating ships, till the
broad Atlantic, with all its mighty billows, received them.—
The vigorous breath of the increasing wind, soon enabled them to
shake off their hopeless pursuers. Yet still the devoted savages
plied their unremitting paddles; the poor Queen straining her
eyes along the waste, until, in the grey of twilight and of distance,
the vessels of the robbers were completely hidden from her sight.

Meanwhile, Chiquola was hurried back to the cabin, with his
arms still pinioned. His feet were also fastened and a close
watch was put upon him. It was a courtesy which the Spaniards
considered due to his legitimacy that the cabin was made his
place of imprisonment. With his withdrawal from the presence
of his people, his voice, his eagerness and animation, all at once
ceased. He sunk down on the cushion with the sullen, stolid indifference
which distinguishes his people in all embarrassing situations.
A rigid immobility settled upon his features; yet De
Ayllon did not fail to perceive that when he or any of his officers
approached the captive, his eyes gleamed upon them with
the fury of his native panther;—gleamed bright, with irregular
flashes, beneath his thick black eye-brows, which gloomed heavily
over their arches with the collected energies of a wild and
stubborn soul.

“He is dangerous,” said De Ayllon, “be careful how you approach
him.”

But though avoided he was not neglected. De Ayllon himself

proffered him food; not forgetting to tender him a draught of that
potent beverage by which he had been partly overcome before.
But the sense of wrong was uppermost, and completely subdued
the feeling of appetite. He regarded the proffer of the Spaniard
with a keen, but composed look of ineffable disdain; never lifted
his hand to receive the draught, and beheld it set down within his
reach without indicating, by word or look, his consciousness of
what had been done. Some hours had elapsed and the wine and
food remained untouched. His captor still consoled himself with
the idea that hunger would subdue his stubbornness;—but when
the morning came, and the noon of the next day, and the young
savage still refused to eat or drink, the case became serious; and
the mercenary Spaniard began to apprehend that he should lose
one of the most valuable of his captives. He approached the
youth and by signs expostulated with him upon his rejection of
the food; but he received no satisfaction. The Indian remained
inflexible, and but a single glance of his large, bright eye, requited
De Ayllon for his selfish consideration. That look expressed
the hunger and thirst which in no other way did Chiquola
deign to acknowledge; but that hunger and thirst were not for
food but for blood;—revenge, the atonement for his wrongs and
shame. Never had the free limbs of Indian warrior known such
an indignity—never could indignity have been conceived less endurable.
No words can describe, as no mind can imagine, the
volume of tumultuous strife, and fiercer, maddening thoughts
and feelings, boiling and burning in the brain and bosom of the
gallant but inconsiderate youth;—thoughts and feelings so
strangely subdued, so completely hidden in those composed muscles,—only
speaking through that dilating, but fixed, keen, inveterate
eye!

De Ayllon was perplexed. The remaining captives gave him
little or no trouble. Plied with the liquors which had seduced
them at first, they were very generally in that state of drunkenness,
when a certainty of continued supply reconciles the degraded
mind very readily to any condition. But with Chiquola
the case was very different. Here, at least, was character—the
pride of self-dependence; the feeling of moral responsibility;
the ineradicable consciousness of that shame which prefers to

feel itself and not to be blinded. De Ayllon had known the savage
nature only under its feebler and meaner aspects. The timid
islanders of the Lucayos—the spiritless and simple natives of
Hayti—were of quite another class. The Indian of the North
American continent, whatever his vices or his weaknesses, was
yet a man. He was more. He was a conqueror—accustomed
to conquer! It was his boast that where he came he stood;
where he stood he remained; and where he remained, he was the
only man! The people whom he found were women. He made
them and kept them so.—

Such was the character of his race, and Chiquola was no recreant.
Such was his character. He had no complaint. He
looked no emotions. The marble could not have seemed less corrigible;
and, but for that occasional flashing from his dark eye,
whenever any of his captors drew near to the spot where he sat,
none would have fancied that in his bosom lurked a single feeling
of hostility or discontent. Still he ate not and drank not. It was
obvious to the Spaniard that he had adopted the stern resolution
to forbear all sustenance, and thus defeat the malice of his enemies.
He had no fear of death, and he could not endure bonds.

That he would maintain that resolution to the last, none could
doubt who watched his sullen immobility—who noted the fact,
that he spoke nothing, neither in the language of entreaty nor
complaint. He was resolved on suicide! It is an error to suppose,
as has been asserted, that the Indians never commit suicide.
The crime is a very common one among them in periods of great
national calamity. The Cherokee warrior frequently destroyed
himself when the small pox had disfigured his visage: for, it
must be remembered, that an Indian warrior is, of all human beings,
one of the vainest, on the score of his personal appearance.
He unites, as they are usually found united even in the highest
states of civilization, the strange extremes of ferocity and frivolity.

De Ayllon counselled with his officers as to what should be done
with their captive. He would certainly die on their hands.
Balthazar de Morla, his lieutenant—a stern fierce savage himself
—proposed that they should kill him, as a way of shortening their
trouble, and dismissing all farther cares upon the project.

“He is but one,” said he, “and though you may call him King
or Cassique, he will sell for no more than any one of his own
tribe in the markets of Isabella. At worst, it will only be a loss
to him, for the fellow is resolved to die. He will bring you nothing,
unless for the skin of his carcase, and that is not a large
one.”

A young officer of more humanity, Jaques Carazon, offered
different counsel. He recommended that the poor Indian be
taken on deck. The confinement in the cabin he thought had
sickened him. The fresh air, and the sight of the sky and
sea, might work a change and provoke in him a love of life.
Reasoning from the European nature, such advice would most
probably have realized the desired effect; and De Ayllon was
struck with it.

“Let it be done,” he said; and Chiquola was accordingly
brought up from below, and placed on the quarter deck in a pleasant
and elevated situation. At first, the effect promised to be such
as the young officer had suggested. There was a sudden looking
up, in all the features of the captive. His eyes were no
longer cast down; and a smile seemed to pass over the lips

which, of late, had been so rigidly compressed. He looked long,
and with a keen expression of interest at the sky above, and the
long stretch of water before and around him. But there was one
object of most interest, upon which his eyes fastened with a seeming
satisfaction. This was the land. The low sandy shores and
island slips that skirt the Georgia coast, then known under the
general name of Florida, lay on the right. The gentleness of
the breeze, and smoothness of the water, enabled the ships, which
were of light burthen, to pursue a course along with the land, at
a small distance, varying from five to ten miles. Long and earnestly
did the captive gaze upon this, to him, Elysian tract.
There dwelt tribes, he well knew, which were kindred to his people.
From any one of the thousand specks of shore which
caught his eye, he could easily find his way back to his queen
and country! What thoughts of bliss and wo, at the same moment,
did these two images suggest to his struggling and agonized
spirit. Suddenly, he caught the eyes of the Spanish Captain gazing
upon him, with a fixed, inquiring glance; and his own eyes
were instantly averted from those objects which he alone desired
to see. It would seem as if he fancied that the Spaniard was
able to look into his soul. His form grew more erect beneath the
scrutiny of his captor, and his countenance once more put on its
former expression of immobility.

De Ayllon approached, followed by a boy bringing fresh food
and wine, which were once more placed within his reach. By
signs, the Spaniard encouraged him to eat. The Indian returned
him not the slightest glance of recognition. His eye alone spoke,
and its language was still that of hate and defiance. De Ayllon
left him, and commanded that none should approach or seem to
observe him. He conjectured that his stubbornness derived something
of its stimulus from the consciousness that eyes of strange
curiosity were fixed upon him, and that Nature would assert
her claims if this artificial feeling were suffered to subside without
farther provocation.

But when three hours more had elapsad, and the food still remained
untouched, De Ayllon was in despair. He approached
Chiquola, attended by the fierce Balthazar de Morla.

“Why do you not eat, savage!” exclaimed this person, shaking

his hand threateningly at the Indian, and glancing upon him with
the eyes of one, only waiting and anxious for the signal to strike
and slay. If the captive failed to understand the language of
the Spaniard, that of his looks and action was in no wise unequivocal.
Chiquola gave him glance for glance. His eye lighted
up with those angry fires which it shed when going into battle;
and it was sufficiently clear to both observers, that nothing more
was needed than the freedom of hand and foot to have brought
the unarmed but unbending savage, into the death grapple with
his insulting enemy. The unsubdued tiger-like expression
of the warrior, was rather increased than subdued by famine;
and even De Ayllon recoiled from a look which made him momentarily
forgetful of the cords which fastened the limbs and rendered
impotent the anger of his captive. He reproved Balthazar
for his violence, and commanded him to retire. Then, speaking
gently, he endeavoured to soothe the irritated Indian, by kind tones
and persuasive action. He pointed to the food, and, by signs, endeavoured
to convey to his mind the idea of the painful death
which must follow his wilful abstinence much longer. For a few
moments Chiquola gave no heed to these suggestions, but looking
round once more to the strip of shore which lay upon his right, a
sudden change passed over his features. He turned to De Ayllon,
and muttering a few words in his own language, nodded his head,
while his fingers pointed to the ligatures around his elbows and
ancles. The action clearly denoted a willingness to take his
food, provided his limbs were set free. De Ayllon proceeded to
consult with his officers upon this suggestion. The elder, Balthazar
de Morla, opposed the indulgence.

“He will attack you the moment he is free.”

“But,” replied the younger officer, by whose counsel he had
already been brought upon the deck—“but of what avail would
be his attack? We are armed, and he is weaponless. We are
many, and he is but one. It only needs that we should be watchful,
and keep in readiness.”

“Well!” said Balthazar, with a sneer, “I trust that you will
be permitted the privilege of undoing his bonds; for if ever savage
had the devil in his eye, this savage has.”

“I will do it,” replied the young man, calmly, without seeming

to heed the sneer. “I do not fear the savage, even if he should
grapple with me. But I scarcely think it possible that he would
attempt such a measure. He has evidently too much sense for
that.”

“Desperate men have no sense!” said the other; but the counsels
of the younger officer prevailed with De Ayllon, and he was
commissioned to undo the bonds of the captive. At the same time
every precaution was taken, that the prisoner, when set free,
should do the young man no hurt. Several soldiers were stationed
at hand, to interpose in the event of danger, and De Ayllon
and Balthazar, both with drawn swords, stood beside Jaques
Carazon as he bent down on one knee to perform the duty of supposed
danger which had been assigned him. But their apprehensions
of assault proved groundless. Whether it was that Chiquola
really entertained no design of mischief, or that he was restrained
by prudence, on seeing the formidable preparations which
had been made to baffle and punish any such attempt, he remained
perfectly quiescent, and, even after his limbs had been freed,
showed no disposition to use them.

“Eat!” said De Ayllon, pointing to the food. The captive
looked at him in silence, but the food remained untouched.

“His pride keeps him from it,” said De Ayllon. “He will
not eat so long as we are looking on him. Let us withdraw to
some little distance and watch him.”

His orders were obeyed. The soldiers were despatched to
another quarter of the vessel, though still commanded to remain
under arms. De Ayllon with his two officers then withdrew, concealing
themselves in different situations where they might observe
all the movements of the captive. For a time, this arrangement
promised to be as little productive of fruits as the previous
ones. Chiquola remained immovable, and the food untouched.
But, after a while, when he perceived that none was immediately
near, his crouching form might be seen in motion, but so slightly,
so slily, that it was scarcely perceptible to those who watched
him. His head revolved slowly, and his neck turned, without
any corresponding movement of his limbs, until he was able to take
in all objects, which he might possibly see, on almost every part
of the deck. The man at the helm, the sailor on the yard, while

beholding him, scarcely saw the cat-like movement of his eyes.
These, when he had concluded his unobtrusive examination of the
vessel, were turned upon the shore, with the expression of an eager
joy. His heart spoke out its feelings in the flashing of his dilating
and kindled eyes. He was free. That was the feeling of
his soul! That was the feeling which found utterance in his
glance. The degrading cords were no longer on the limbs of the
warrior, and was not his home almost beneath his eyes? He
started to his feet erect. He looked around him; spurned the
food and the wine cup from his path, and shrieking the war whoop
of his tribe, with a single rush and bound, he plunged over the
sides of the vessel into those blue waters which dye, with the complexion
of the Gulf, the less beautiful waves of the Atlantic.

This movement, so unexpected by the captors, was quite too
sudden for them to prevent. De Ayllon hurried to the side of
his vessel as soon as he distinguished the proceeding. He beheld,
with mingled feelings of admiration and disappointment, where the
bold savage was buffeting the billows in the vain hope of reaching
the distant shores. A boat was instantly let down into the sea,
manned with the ablest seamen of the ship. It was very clear
that Chiquola could neither make the land, nor contend very long
with the powerful waters of the deep. This would have been a
task beyond the powers of the strongest man, and the most skilful
swimmer, and the brave captive had been without food more than
twenty-four hours. Still he could be seen, striving vigorously,
in a course straight as an arrow for the shore; rising from billow
to billow; now submerged, still ascending, and apparently
without any diminution of the vigour with which he began his
toils.

The rowers, meanwhile, plied their oars, with becoming energy.
The Indian, though a practiced swimmer, began, at length, to show
signs of exhaustion. He was seen from the ship, and with the aid of
a glass, was observed to be struggling feebly. The boat was gaining
rapidly upon him. He might be saved. It needed only that he
should will it so. Would he but turn and employ his remaining
strength in striving for the boat, instead of wasting it in an idle
effort for those shores which he could never more hope to see!

“He turns!” cried De Ayllon. “He will yet be saved.

The boat will reach him soon. A few strokes more, and they
are up with him!”

“He turns, indeed,” said Carazon, “but it is to wave his hand
in defiance.”

“They reach him—they are up with him!” exclaimed the former.

“Ay!” answered the latter, “but he sinks—he has gone
down.”

“No! they have taken him into the boat!”

“You mistake, sir, do you not see where he rises? almost a
ship's length on the right of the boat. There spoke the savage
soul. He will not be saved!”

This was true. Chiquola preferred death to bondage. The
boat changed its course with that of the swimmer. Once more
it neared him. Once more the hope of De Ayllon was excited
as he beheld the scene from the ship; and once more the voice
of his lieutenant cried discouragingly—

“He has gone down, and for ever. He will not suffer us to
save him.”

This time he spoke truly. The captive had disappeared. The
boat, returning now, alone appeared above the waters, and De
Ayllon turned away from the scene, wondering much at the indomitable
spirit and fearless courage of the savage, but thinking
much more seriously of the large number of pesos which this
transaction had cost him. It was destined to cost him more, but
of this hereafter.

3. CHAPTER III.
COMBAHEE; OR, THE LAST VOYAGE OF LUCAS DE AYLLON.

But the losses of De Ayllon were not to end with the death of
his noble captive, the unfortunate Chiquola. We are told by the
historian, that “one of his vessels foundered before he reached
his port, and captors and captives were swallowed up in the
sea together. His own vessel survived, but many of his captives
sickened and died; and he himself was reserved for the time,
only to suffer a more terrible form of punishment. Though he
had lost more than half of the ill-gotten fruits of his expedition,
the profits which remained were still such as to encourage him
to a renewal of his enterprise. To this he devoted his whole fortune,
and, with three large vessels and many hundred men, he
once more descended upon the coast of Carolina.”[3]

Meanwhile, the dreary destiny of Combahee was to live alone.
We have heard so much of the inflexibility of the Indian character,
that we are apt to forget that these people are human; having,
though perhaps in a small degree, and in less activity, the same
vital passions, the same susceptibilities—the hopes, the fears, the
loves and the hates, which establish the humanity of the whites.
They are colder and more sterile,—more characterized by individuality
and self-esteem than any more social people; and these
characteristics are the natural and inevitable results of their habits
of wandering. But to suppose that the Indian is “a man
without a tear,” is to indulge in a notion equally removed from

poetry and truth. At all events, such an opinion is, to say the
least of it, a gross exaggeration of the fact.

Combahee, the Queen of Chiquola, had many tears. She was
a young wife;—the crime of De Ayllon had made her a young
widow. Of the particular fate of her husband she knew nothing;
and, in the absence of any certain knowledge, she naturally
feared the worst. The imagination, once excited by fear, is the
darkest painter of the terrible that nature has ever known. Still,
the desolate woman did not feel herself utterly hopeless. Daily
she manned her little bark, and was paddled along the shores of
the sea, in a vain search after that which could never more be
found. At other times she sat upon, or wandered along, the head-lands,
in a lonely and silent watch over those vast, dark, dashing
waters of the Atlantic, little dreaming that they had already long
since swallowed up her chief. Wan and wretched, the sustenance
which she took was simply adequate to the purposes of life.
Never did city maiden more stubbornly deplore the lost object of
her affections than did this single-hearted woman. But her prayers
and watch were equally unavailing. Vainly did she skirt the
shores in her canoe by day;—vainly did she build her fires, as a
beacon, to guide him on his home return by night. His people
had already given him up for ever; but love is more hopeful of
the object which it loves. She did not yet despair. Still she
wept, but still she watched; and when she ceased to weep, it was
only at moments when the diligence of her watch made her forgetful
of her tears.

The season was becoming late. The fresh and invigorating
breezes of September began to warn the tribes of the necessity of
seeking the shelter of the woods. The maize was already gathered
and bruised for the stocks of winter. The fruits of summer
had been dried, and the roots were packed away. The chiefs
regarded the condition of mind under which their Queen laboured
with increasing anxiety. She sat apart upon the highest hill that
loomed out from the shore, along the deep. She sat beneath the
loftiest palmetto. A streamer of fringed cotton was hung from its
top as a signal to the wanderer, should he once more be permitted
to behold the land, apprizing him where the disconsolate widow
kept her watch. The tribes looked on from a distance unwilling

to disturb those sorrows, which, under ordinary circumstances,
they consider sacred. The veneration which they felt
for their Queen increased this feeling. Yet so unremitting had
been her self-abandonment—so devoted and unchangeable her
daily employments, that some partial fears began to be entertained
lest her reason might suffer. She had few words now for
her best counsellors. These few words, it is true, were always
to the purpose, yet they were spoken with impatience, amounting
to severity. The once gentle and benignant woman had grown
stern. There was a stony inflexibility about her glance which
distressed the observer, and her cheeks had become lean and thin,
and her frame feeble and languid, in singular contrast with that
intense spiritual light which flashed, whenever she was addressed,
from her large black eyes.

Something must be done! such was the unanimous opinion of
the chiefs. Nay, two things were to be done. She was to be cured
of this affection; and it was necessary that she should choose
one, from among her “beloved men,”—one, who should take the
place of Chiquola. They came to her, at length, with this object.
Combahee was even then sitting upon the headland of St. Helena.
She looked out with straining eyes upon the sea. She had seen
a speck. They spoke to her, but she motioned them to be silent,
while she pointed to the object. It disappeared, like a thousand
others. It was some porpoise, or possibly some wandering grampus,
sending up his jets d'eau in an unfamiliar ocean. Long
she looked, but profitlessly. The object of her sudden hope had
already disappeared. She turned to the chiefs. They prostrated
themselves before her. Then, the venerable father, Kiawah,—
an old man who had witnessed the departure of an hundred and
twenty summers,—rose, and seating himself before her, addressed
her after the following fashion:

“Does the daughter of the great Ocketee, look into the grave
of the warrior that he may come forth because she looks?”

“He sleeps, father, for Combahee. He has gone forth to hunt
the deer in the blue land of Maneyto.”

“Good! he has gone. Is the sea a hunting land for the
brave Chiquola? Is he not also gone to the blue land of
spirits?”

“Know'st thou? Who has told Kiawah, the old father? Has
it come to him in a dream?”

“Chiquola has come to him.”

“Ah!”

“He is a hunter for Maneyto. He stands first among the hunters
in the blue forests of Maneyto. The smile of the Great Spirit
beckons him to the chase. He eats of honey in the golden tents
of the Great Spirit.”

“He has said? Thou hast seen?”

“Even so! Shall Kiawah say to Combahee the thing which
is not? Chiquola is dead!”

The woman put her hand upon her heart with an expression
of sudden pain. But she recovered herself with a little effort.

“It is true what Kiawah has said. I feel it here. But Chiquola
will come to Combahee?”

“Yea! He will come. Let my daughter go to the fountain
and bathe thrice before night in its waters. She will bid them
prepare the feast of flesh. A young deer shall be slain by the
hunters. Its meat shall be dressed, of that shall she eat, while
the maidens sing the song of victory, and dance the dance of rejoicing
around her. For there shall be victory and rejoicing.
Three days shall my daughter do this; and the night of the third
day shall Chiquola come to her when she sleeps. She shall hear
his voice, she shall do his bidding, and there shall be blessings.
Once more shall Combahee smile among her people.”

He was obeyed religiously. Indeed, his was a religious authority.
Kiawah was a famous priest and prophet among the
tribes of the sea coast of Carolina—in their language an Iawa,—
a man renowned for his supernatural powers. A human policy
may be seen in the counsels of the old man; but by the Indians
it was regarded as coming from a superior source. For three
days did Combahee perform her lustrations, as required, and
partake plentifully of the feast which had been prepared. The
third night, a canopy of green bushes was reared for her by the
sea side around the palmetto where she had been accustomed to
watch, and from which her cotton streamer was still flying. Thither
she repaired as the yellow moon was rising above the sea. It
rose, bright and round, and hung above her tent, looking down

with eyes of sad, sweet brilliance, like some hueless diamond,
about to weep, through the green leaves, and into the yet unclosed
eyes of the disconsolate widow. The great ocean all the while
kept up a mournful chiding and lament along the shores. It was
long before Combahee could sleep. She vainly strove to shut her
eyes. She could not well do so, because of her expectation, and
because of that chiding sea, and those sad eyes of the moon, big,
wide, down staring upon her. At length she ceased to behold the
moon and to hear the ocean; but, in place of these, towards the
rising of the morning star, she heard the voice of Chiquola, and
beheld the young warrior to whom her virgin heart had been
given. He was habited in loose flowing robes of blue, a bunch
of feathers, most like a golden sunbeam, was on his brow, bound
there by a circle of little stars. He carried a bow of bended silver,
and his arrows looked like darts of summer lightning. Truly,
in the eyes of the young widow, Chiquola looked like a very
god himself. He spoke to her in a language that was most like
a song. It was a music such as the heart hears when it first
loves and when hope is the companion of its affections. Never
was music in the ears of Combahee so sweet.

“Why sits the woman that I love beside the cold ocean? Why
does she watch the black waters for Chiquola? Chiquola is not
there.”

The breathing of the woman was suspended with delight. She
could not speak. She could only hear.

“Arise, my beloved, and look up at Chiquola.”

“Chiquola is with the Great Spirit. Chiquola is happy in the
blue forests of Maneyto;” at length she found strength for utterance.

“No! Chiquola is cold. There must be fire to warm Chiquola,
for he perished beneath the sea. His limbs are full of water.
He would dry himself. Maneyto smiles, around him are the blue
forests, he chases the brown deer, till the setting of the sun;
but his limbs are cold. Combahee will build him a fire of the
bones of his enemies, that the limbs of Chiquola may be made
warm against the winter.”

The voice ceased, the bright image was gone. In vain was it
that the woman, gathering courage in his absence, implored him

to return. She saw him no more, and in his place the red eye
of the warrior star of morning was looking steadfastly upon her.

But where were the enemies of Chiquola? The tribes were
all at peace. The war-paths upon which Chiquola had gone had
been very few, and the calumet had been smoked in token of
peace and amity among them all. Of whose bones then should
the fire be made which was to warm the limbs of the departed
warrior? This was a question to afflict the wisest heads of the
nation, and upon this difficulty they met, in daily council, from
the moment that the revelation of Chiquola was made known by
his widow. She, meanwhile, turned not once from her watch
along the waters where he had disappeared! For what did she
now gaze? Chiquola was no longer there! Ah! the fierce spirit
of the Indian woman had another thought. It was from that
quarter that the pale warriors came by when he was borne into
captivity. Perhaps, she had no fancy that they would again return.
It was an instinct rather than a thought, which made her
look out upon the waters and dream at moments that she had
glimpses of their large white-winged canoes.

Meanwhile, the Iawas and chief men sat in council, and the
difficulty about the bones of which the fire was to be made, continued
as great as ever. As a respite from this difficulty they debated
at intervals another and scarcely less serious question:

“Is it good for Combahee to be alone?”

This question was decided in the negative by an unanimous
vote. It was observed, though no argument seemed necessary,
that all the younger and more handsome chiefs made long speeches
in advocacy of the marriage of their Queen. It was also observed
that, immediately after the breaking up of the council, each
darted off to his separate wigwam, and put on his newest mocasins,
brightest leggins, his yellowest hunting shirt, and his most
gorgeous belt of shells. Each disposed his plumes after the fashion
of his own taste, and adjusted, with newer care, the quiver at
his back; and each strove, when the opportunity offered, to leap,
dance, run, climb, and shoot, in the presence of the lovely and
potent woman.

Once more the venerable Iawa presented himself before the
Queen.

“The cabin of my daughter has but one voice. There must
be another. What signs the Coonee Latee? (mocking-bird.)
He says, `though the nest be withered and broken, are there not
sticks and leaves; shall I not build another? Though the mate-wing
be gone to other woods, shall no other voice take up the strain
which I am singing, and barter with me in the music which is
love?' Daughter, the beloved men have been in council; and
they say, the nest must be repaired with newer leaves; and
the sad bird must sing lonely no longer. Are there not other
birds? Lo! behold them, my daughter, where they run and
bound, and sing and dance. Choose from these, my daughter,—
choose the noblest, that the noble blood of Ocketee may not perish
for ever.”

“Ah!”—she said impatiently—“but have the beloved men
found the enemies of Chiquola? Do they say, here are the
bones?”

“The Great Spirit has sent no light to the cabin of council.”

“Enough! when the beloved men shall find the bones which
were the enemies of Chiquola, then will the Coonee Latee take
a mate-wing to her cabin. It is not meet that Combahee should
build the fire for another hunter before she has dried the water
from the limbs of Chiquola!”

“The Great Spirit will smile on their search. Meanwhile, let
Combahee choose one from among our youth, that he may be
honoured by the tribe.”

“Does my father say this to the poor heart of Combahee?”

“It is good.”

“Take this,” she said, “to Edelano, the tall brother of Chiquola.
He is most like the chief. Bid him wear it on his
breast. Make him a chief among our people. He is the choice
of Combahee.”

She took from her neck as she spoke, a small plate of rudely
beaten native gold, upon which the hands of some native artist,
had, with a pointed flint or shell, scratched uncouth presentments
of the native deer, the eagle, and other objects of their frequent
observation.

“Give it him—to Edelano!”—she added; “but let him not
come to Combahee till the beloved men shall have said—these

are the bones of the enemies of Chiquola. Make of these the
fires which shall warm him.”

There was something so reasonable in what was said by the
mourning Queen, that the patriarch was silenced. To a certain
extent he had failed of his object. That was to direct her mind
from the contemplation of her loss by the substitution of another
in his place—the philosophy of those days and people, not unlike
that of our own, leading people to imagine that the most judicious
and successful method for consoling a widow is by making her a
wife again as soon as possible. Combahee had yielded as far as
could be required of her; yet still they were scarcely nearer to
the object of their desire: for where were the bones of Chiquola's
enemies to be found?—He who had no enemies! He, with
whom all the tribes were at peace? And those whom he had
slain,—where were their bodies to be found? They had long
been hidden by their friends in the forests where no enemy might
trace out their places of repose. As for the Spaniards—the white
men—of these the Indian sages did not think. They had come
from the clouds, perhaps,—but certainly, they were not supposed
to have belonged to any portion of the solid world to which they
were accustomed. As they knew not where to seek for the “pale
faces,” these were not the subjects of their expectation.

The only person to whom the proceedings, so far, had produced
any results, was the young warrior, Edelano. He became a
chief in compliance with the wish of Combahee, and, regarded as
her betrothed, was at once admitted into the hall of council, and
took his place as one of the heads and fathers of the tribe. His
pleasant duty was to minister to the wants and wishes of his
spouse, to provide the deer, to protect her cabin, to watch her
steps—subject to the single and annoying qualification, that he
was not to present himself conspicuously to her eyes. But how
could youthful lover—one so brave and ardent as Edelano—submit
to such interdict? It would have been a hard task to one far
less brave, and young, and ardent, than Edelano. With him it
was next to impossible. For a time he bore his exclusion manfully.
Set apart by betrothal, he no longer found converse or
association with the young women of the tribe; and his soul was
accordingly taken up with the one image of his Queen and future

spouse. He hung about her steps like a shadow, but she beheld
him not. He darted along the beach when she was gazing forth
upon the big, black ocean, but he failed to win her glance. He
sang, while hidden in the forest, as she wandered through its
glooms, the wildest and sweetest songs of Indian love and fancy;
but her ear did not seem to note any interruption of that sacred
silence which she sought. Never was sweeter or tenderer venison
placed by the young maidens before her, than that which
Edelano furnished; the Queen ate little and did not seem to note
its obvious superiority. The devoted young chief was in despair.
He knew not what to do. Unnoticed, if not utterly unseen by
day, he hung around her tent by night. Here, gliding by like a
midnight spectre, or crouching beneath some neighbouring oak or
myrtle, he mused for hours, catching with delighted spirit every
sound, however slight, which might come to his ears from within;
and occasionally renewing his fond song of devoted attachment,
in the hope that, amidst the silence of every other voice, his own
might be better heard. But the soughing of the sad winds and
the chafing of the waters against the sandy shores, as they reminded
the mourner of her loss, were enough to satisfy her vacant
senses, and still no token reached the unwearied lover that his
devotion had awakened the attention of the object to whom it was
paid.

Every day added to his sadness and his toils; until the effect
began to be as clearly visible on his person as on hers; and the
gravity of the sages became increased, and they renewed the inquiry,
more and more frequently together, “Where can the bones
of Chiquola's enemies be found?”

The answer to this question was about to be received from an
unexpected quarter. The sun was revolving slowly and certainly
while the affairs of the tribe seemed at a stand. The period
when he should cross the line was approaching, and the usual
storms of the equinox were soon to be apprehended. Of these
annual periods of storm and terror, the aborigines, through long
experience, were quite as well aware as a more book-wise people.
To fly to the shelter of the forests was the policy of the Indians
at such periods. We have already seen that they had been
for some time ready for departure. But Combahee gave no heed

to their suggestions. A superstitious instinct made them willing
to believe that the Great Spirit would interfere in his own good
time; and, at the proper juncture, bestow the necessary light for
their guidance. Though anxious, therefore, they did not press
their meditations upon those of their princess. They deferred,
with religious veneration, to her griefs. But their anxiety was
not lessened as the month of September advanced—as the days
became capricious,—as the winds murmured more and more
mournfully along the sandy shores, and as the waters of the sea
grew more blue, and put on their whiter crests of foam. The
clouds grew banked in solid columns, like the gathering wings of
an invading army, on the edges of the southern and southeastern
horizon. Sharp, shrill, whistling gusts, raised a warning anthem
through the forests, which sounded like the wild hymn of the advancing
storm. The green leaves had suddenly become yellow as in
the progress of the night, and the earth was already strewn with
their fallen honours. The sun himself was growing dim as with
sudden age. All around, in sky, sea and land, the presentments
were obvious of a natural but starling change. If the anxieties
of the people were increased, what were those of Edelano? Heedless
of the threatening aspects around her, the sad-hearted Combahee,
whose heaviest storm was in her own bosom, still wilfully
maintained her precarious lodge beneath the palmetto, on the
bleak head-land which looked out most loftily upon the sea. The
wind strewed the leaves of her forest tent upon her as she slept,
but she was conscious of no disturbance; and its melancholy
voice, along with that of the ocean, seemed to her to increase in
interest and sweetness as they increased in vigour. She heeded
not that the moon was absent from the night. She saw not that
black clouds had risen in her place, and looked down with visage
full of terror and of frowning. It did not move her fears that the
palmetto under which she lay, groaned within its tough coat of
bark, as it bent to and fro beneath the increasing pressure of the
winds. She was still thinking of the wet, cold form of the brave
Chiquola.

The gloom thickened. It was the eve of the 23d of September.
All day the winds had been rising. The ocean poured in upon
the shores. There was little light that day. All was fog, dense

fog, and a driving vapour, that only was not rain. The watchful
Edelano added to the boughs around the lodge of the Queen.
The chief men approached her with counsel to persuade her to
withdraw to the cover of the stunted thickets, so that she might be
secure. But her resolution seemed to have grown more firm, and
duly to increase in proportion to their entreaties. She had an
answer, which, as it appealed to their superstitions, was conclusive
to silence them.

“I have seen him. But last night he came to me. His brow
was bound about with a cloud, such as goes round the moon.
From his eye shot arrows of burning fire, like those of the storm.
He smiled upon me, and bade me smile. `Soon shalt thou warm
me, Combahee, with the blazing bones of mine enemies. Be of
good cheer—watch well that ye behold them where they lie. Thou
shalt see them soon.' Thus spoke the chief. He whispers to my
heart even now. Dost thou not hear him, Kiawah? He says
soon—it will be soon!”

Such an assurance was reason good why she should continue
her desolate and dangerous watch. The generous determination
of the tribe induced them to share it with her. But this they did
not suffer her to see. Each reared his temporary lodge in the
most sheltered contiguous places, under his favourite clump of
trees. Where the growth was stunted, and the thicket dense, little
groups of women and children were made to harbour in situations
of comparative security. But the warriors and brave men
of the tribe advanced along the shores to positions of such shelter
as they could find, but sufficiently nigh to their Queen to give her
the necessary assistance in moments of sudden peril. The more
devoted Edelano, presuming upon the prospective tie which was
to give him future privileges, quietly laid himself down behind the
isolated lodge of the princess, with a delight at being so near to
her, that made him almost forgetful of the dangers of her exposed
situation.

He was not allowed to forget them, however! The storm increased
with the progress of the night. Never had such an
equinoctial gale been witnessed, since the memory of Kiawah.
The billows roared as if with the agony of so many wild monsters
under the scourge of some imperious demon. The big trees of

the forest groaned, and bent, and bowed, and were snapped off,
or torn up by the roots; while the seas, surcharged with the waters
of the Gulf, rushed in upon the land and threatened to over-whelm
and swallow it. The waves rose to the brow of the head-land,
and small streams came flashing around the lodge of Combahee.
Her roof-tree bent and cracked, but, secure in its lowliness,
it still stood; but the boughs were separated and whirled
away, and, at the perilous moment, the gallant Edelano, who had
forborne, through a natural timidity, to come forward until the
last instant, now darted in, and with a big but fast beating heart,
clasped the woman of his worship to his arms and bore her, as if
she had been a child, to the stunted thickets which gave a shelter
to the rest. But, even while they fled—amidst all the storm—a
sudden sound reached the ears of the Queen, which seemed to
awaken in her a new soul of energy. A dull, booming noise,
sullen, slow rolling, sluggish,—something like that of thunder,
rolled to their ears, as if it came from off the seas. No thunder
had fallen from the skies in the whole of the previous tempest.
No lightning had illuminated to increase the gloom. “What is
that sound,” said the heart of Combahee, filled with its superstitious
instincts, “but the thunder of the pale-faces—the sudden
thunder which bellows from the sides of their big-winged canoes?”

With this conviction in her mind, it was no longer possible for
Edelano to detain her. Again and again did that thunder reach
their ears, slowly booming along the black precipices of the ocean.
The warriors and chiefs peered along the shores, with straining
eyes, seeking to discover the hidden objects; and among these,
with dishevelled hair, quivering lips, eyes which dilated with the
wildest fires of an excited, an inspired soul, the form of Combahee
was conspicuous. Now they saw the sudden flash—now they
heard the mournful roar of the minute gun—and then all was
silent.

“Look closely, Kiawah—look closely, Edelano; for what said
the ghost of Chiquola?—`watch well! Soon shall ye see where
the bones of my enemies lie.'—And who were the enemies of
Chiquola? Who but the pale-faces? It is their thunder that
we hear—the thunder of their big canoes. Hark, ye hear it now,
—and hear ye no cries as of men that drown and struggle?

Hark! Hark! There shall be bones for the fire ere the day
opens upon us.”

And thus they watched for two hours, which seemed ages, running
along the shores, waving their torches, straining the impatient
sight, and calling to one another through the gloom. The
spirit of the bravest warrior quailed when he beheld the fearless
movements of Combahee, down to the very edges of the ocean
gulf, defying the mounting waves, that dashed their feathery jets
of foam, twenty feet above them in the air. The daylight came
at last, but with it no relaxation of the storm. With its light
what a picture of terror presented itself to the eyes of the warriors—what
a picture of terror—what a prospect of retribution!
There came, head on shore, a noble vessel, still struggling, still
striving, but predestined to destruction. Her sails were flying in
shreds, her principal masts were gone, her movement was like
that of a drunken man—reeling to and fro—the very mockery of
those winds and waters, which, at other periods, seem only to have
toiled to bear her and to do her biddling. Two hundred screaming
wretches clung to her sides, and clamoured for mercy to the
waves and shores. Heaven flung back the accents, and their
screams now were those of defiance and desperation. Combahee
heard their cries, detected their despair, distinguished their pale
faces. Her eyes gleamed with the intelligence of the furies.
Still beautiful, her wan, thin face,—wan and thin through long
and weary watching, exposure and want of food—looked like the
loveliness of some fallen angel. A spirit of beauty in the highest
degree—a morning star in brightness and brilliance,—but marked
by the passions of demoniac desolation, and the livid light of
some avenging hate. Her meagre arms were extended, and waved,
as if in doom to the onward rushing vessel.

“Said I not,” she cried to her people,—“Said I not that there
should be bones for the fire, which should warm the limbs of
Chiquola?—See! these are they. They come. The warrior
shall be no longer cold in the blue forests of the good Maneyto.”

While one ship rushed headlong among the breakers, another
was seen, bearing away, at a distance, under bare poles. These
were the only surviving vessels of the armament of Lucas de
Ayllon. All but these had gone down in the storm, and that which

was now rushing to its doom bore the ill-fated De Ayllon himself.
The historian remarks—(see History of South Carolina, p. 11,)
—“As if the retributive Providence had been watchful of the
place, no less than of the hour of justice, it so happened that, at the
mouth of the very river where his crime had been committed, he
was destined to meet his doom.” The Indian traditions go farther.
They say, that the form of Chiquola was beheld by Combahee,
standing upon the prow of the vessel, guiding it to the
place set apart by the fates for the final consummation of that destiny
which they had allotted to the perfidious Spaniards. We
will not contend for the tradition; but the coincidence between
the place of crime and that of retribution, was surely singular
enough to impress, not merely upon the savage, but also upon the
civilized mind, the idea of an overruling and watchful justice.
The breakers seized upon the doomed ship, as the blood-hounds
seize upon and rend the expiring carcass of the stricken deer.
The voice of Combahee was heard above the cries of the drowning
men. She bade her people hasten with their arrows, their
clubs, their weapons of whatever kind, and follow her to the
beach. She herself bore a bow in her hand, with a well filled
quiver at her back; and as the vessel stranded, as the winds and
waves rent its planks and timbers asunder, and billows bore the
struggling and drowning wretches to the shore, the arrows of
Combahee were despatched in rapid execution. Victim after
victim sunk, stricken, among the waters, with a death of which
he had had no fear. The warriors strode, waist deep, into the
sea, and dealt with their stone hatchets upon the victims. These,
when despatched, were drawn ashore, and the less daring were
employed to heap them up, in a vast and bloody mound, for the
sacrifice of fire.

The keen eyes of Combahee distinguished the face of the perfidious
De Ayllon among the struggling Spaniards. His richer
dress had already drawn upon him the eyes of an hundred warriors,
who only waited with their arrows until the inevitable billows
should bear him within their reach.

“Spare him!” cried the widow of Chiquola. They understood
her meaning at a glance, and a simultaneous shout attested
their approbation of her resolve.

“The arrows of fire!” was the cry. The arrows of reed
and flint were expended upon the humble wretches from the
wreck. The miserable De Ayllon little fancied the secret of this
forbearance. He grasped a spar which assisted his progress, and
encouraged in the hope of life, as he found himself spared by the
shafts which were slaying all around him, he was whirled onward
by the breakers to the shore. The knife touched him not
—the arrow forbore his bosom, but all beside perished. Two
hundred spirits were dismissed to eternal judgment, in that bloody
hour of storm and retribution, by the hand of violence. Senseless
amidst the dash of the breakers,—unconscious of present or
future danger, Lucas De Ayllon came within the grasp of the
fierce warriors, who rushed impatient for their prisoner neck deep
into the sea. They bore him to the land. They used all the
most obvious means for his restoration, and had the satisfaction to
perceive that he at length opened his eyes. When sufficiently
recovered to become aware of what had been done for him, and
rushing to the natural conclusion that it had all been done in
kindness, he smiled upon his captors, and, addressing them in his
own language, endeavoured still further, by signs and sounds, to
conciliate their favour.

“Enough!” said the inflexible Combahee, turning away from
the criminal with an expression of strong disgust—

“Enough! wherefore should we linger? Are not the limbs
of Chiquola still cold and wet? The bones of his enemies are
here—let the young men build the sacrifice. The hand of Combahee
will light the fire arrow!”

A dozen warriors now seized upon the form of De Ayllon.
Even had he not been enfeebled by exhaustion, his struggles
would have been unavailing. Equally unavailing were his
prayers and promises. The Indians turned with loathing from
his base supplications, and requited his entreaties and tears with
taunts, and buffetings, and scorn! They bore him, under the instructions
of Combahee, to that palmetto, looking out upon the
sea, beneath which, for so many weary months, she had maintained
her lonely watch. The storm had torn her lodge to atoms,
but the tree was unhurt. They bound him to the shaft with
withes of grape vines, of which the neighbouring woods had their

abundance. Parcels of light-wood were heaped about him,
while, interspersed with other bundles of the resinous pine, were
piled the bodies of his slain companions. The only living man,
he was the centre of a pile composed of two hundred, whose fate
he was now prepared to envy. A dreadful mound, it rose conspicuous,
like a beacon, upon the head-land of St. Helena; he,
the centre, with his head alone free, and his eyes compelled to survey
all the terrible preparations which were making for his doom.
Layers of human carcasses, followed by layers of the most inflammable
wood and brush, environed him with a wall from which,
even had he not been bound to the tree, he could never have effected
his own extrication. He saw them pile the successive layers,
sparing the while no moment which he could give to expostulation,
entreaty, tears, prayers, and promises. But the workmen
with steady industry pursued their task. The pile rose,—
the human pyramid was at last complete!

Combahee drew nigh with a blazing torch in her hand. She
looked the image of some avenging angel. She gave but a single
glance upon the face of the criminal. That face was one of
an agony which no art could hope to picture. Hers was inflexible
as stone, though it bore the aspect of hate, and loathing, and
revenge! She applied the torch amid the increased cries of the
victim, and as the flame shot up, with a dense black smoke to
heaven, she turned away to the sea, and prostrated herself beside
its billows. The shouts of the warriors who surrounded the
blazing pile attested their delight; but, though an hundred throats
sent up their united clamours, the one piercing shriek of the burning
man was superior, and rose above all other sounds. At length
it ceased! all ceased! The sacrifice was ended. The perfidy
of the Spaniard was avenged.

The sudden hush declared the truth to the Queen. She started
to her feet. She exclaimed:—

“Thou art now blessed, Chiquola! Thou art no longer cold
in the blue forests of Maneyto. The bones of thy enemies have
warmed thee. I see thee spring gladly upon the chase;—thine
eye is bright above the hills;—thy voice rings cheerfully along
the woods of heaven. The heart of Combahee is very glad that
thou art warm and happy.”

A voice at her side addressed her. The venerable Kiawah,
and the young Edelano were there.

“Now, thou hast done well, my daughter!” said the patriarch.
“Chiquola is warm and happy in heaven. Let the lodge of Combahee
be also warm in the coming winter.”

“Ah! but there is nothing to make it warm here!” she replied,
putting her hand upon her heart.

“The bird will have its mate, and build its nest, and sing a
new song over its young.”

“Combahee has no more song.”

“The young chief will bring song into her lodge. Edelano will
build a bright fire upon the hearth of Combahee. Daughter!
the chiefs ask, `Is the race of Ocketee to perish?' ”

“Combahee is ready,” answered the Queen, patiently, giving
her hand to Edelano. But, even as she spoke, the muscles of
her mouth began to quiver. A sudden groan escaped her, and,
staggering forward, she would have fallen but for the supporting
arms of the young chief. They bore her to the shade beneath
a tree. They poured some of their primitive specifics into her
mouth, and she revived sufficiently to bid the Patriarch unite her
with Edelano in compliance with the will of the nation. But the
ceremony was scarcely over, before a second and third attack
shook her frame with death-like spasms. They were, indeed,
the spasms of death—of a complete paralysis of mind and body.
Both had been too severely tried, and the day of bridal was also
that of death. Edelano was now the beloved chief of the nation,
but the nation was without its Queen. The last exciting scene,
following hard upon that long and lonely widow-watch which she
had kept, had suddenly stopped the currents of life within her
heart, as its currents of hope and happiness had been cut off before.
True to Chiquola while he lived, to the last moment of her
life she was true. The voice of Edelano had called her his wife,
but her ears had not heard his speech, and her voice had not replied.
Her hand had been put within his, but no other lips had
left a kiss where those of Chiquola had been. They buried her
in a lovely but lonely grove beside the Ashepoo. There, the
Coonee-Latee first repairs to sing in the opening of spring, and
the small blue violet peeps out from her grave as if in homage to

her courage and devotion. There the dove flies for safety when
the fowler pursues, and the dee finds a quiet shelter when the beagles
pant on the opposite side of the stream. The partridge hides
her young under the long grass which waves luxuriantly above
the spot, and the eagle and hawk look down, watching from the
tree-tops in vain. The spirit of the beautiful Princess presides
over the place as some protecting Divinity, and even the white
man, though confident in a loftier and nobler faith, still finds
something in the spot which renders it mysterious, and makes
him an involuntary worshipper! Ah! there are deities which
are common to all human kind, whatever be the faith which they
maintain. Love is of this sort, and truth, and devotion; and of
these the desolate Combahee had a Christian share, though the
last deed of her life be not justified by the doctrine of Christian
retribution. Yet, look not, traveller, as in thy bark thou sailest
beside the lovely headlands of Saint Helena, at the pile of human
sacrifice which thou seest consuming there. Look at the
frail lodge beneath the Palmetto, or wander off to the dark
groves beside the,Ashepoo and think of the fidelity of that widowed
heart.