 | CHAPTER XII. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
The horror and vexation of Caloya may be imagined, when,
on returning from her visit to the master of the impudent Mingo,
she discovered him, cheek-by-jowl, with her husband. The poor
woman was miserable in the extreme from various causes. Resolved
steadfastly and without scruple to do the will of her jealous
spouse, she yet shrank from the idea of perpetrating the bloody
deed which the latter contemplated, and which was so suitable to
the fierce character of Indian vindictiveness. She was, in fact,
a gentle, though a firm, simple, and unaffected woman, and had
not this been the prevailing nature of her heart, the kindness with
which Gillison had received, and the liberality with which he had
treated her, would have been sufficient to make her reluctant to
do any thing which might be injurious to his interests.
But, taught in the severe school of the barbarian those lessons
which insist always upon the entire subordination of the woman,
she had no idea of avoiding, still less of rebelling against, the authority
which prescribed her laws. “To hear was to obey,” and
with a deep sigh she advanced to the wigwam, with a firm resolution
to do as she had been commanded, though, with a prayer
in her mind, not the less fervent because it remained unspoken by
her lips, that the fearful necessity might pass away, and her husband
be prevented, and she be spared, the commission of the
threatened deed.
It was deemed fortunate by Caloya, that, observing the habitual
caution of the Indian, she had kept within the cover of the woods
until the moment when she came within sight of the wigwam.
This caution enabled her still to keep from discovery, and “fetching
a compass” in the covert so as to pass into the rear of the hut,
she succeeded by pulling away some fragments of the bark which
covered it, in entering its narrow precincts without having been
perceived. With a stealthy footstep and a noiseless motion, she
deposited her bundle of calicoes in a corner of the hut, and sinking
bosom, which she fancied, in her fears, might become audible
to the persons without.
To account for the return of Mingo Gillison to the spot where
he had been guilty of so much impertinence, and had done so
much mischief, is not a difficult matter. It will here be seen that
he was a fellow whom too much authority had helped to madden
—that he was afflicted with the disease of intense self-consequence,
and that his passions, accordingly, were not always to be restrained
by prudence or right reason. These qualities necessarily led
to frequent errors of policy and constant repentings. He had not
many moral misgivings, however, and his regrets were solely
yielded to the evil results, in a merely human and temporary
point of view, which followed his excesses of passion and frequent
outbreaks of temper. He had not well gone from the “Red Gulley”
after annihilating the pottery thereof, without feeling what a
fool he had been. He readily conceived that his rashness would
operate greatly, not only against his success with the woman, but
against his future familiarity with the man. It was necessary
that he should heal the breach with the latter if he hoped to win
any favours from the former; and, with this conviction, the rest
of the day was devoted to a calm consideration of the modus operandi
by which he might best succeed in this desire. A rough
investigation of the moral nature of an Indian chief, led Mingo to
the conclusion that the best defence of his conduct, and the happiest
atonement which he could offer, would be one which was addressed
to his appetites rather than to his understanding. Accordingly,
towards nightfall, having secured an adequate supply
of whiskey—that bane equally of negro and Indian—he prepared
with some confidence, to re-appear before the parties whom he
had so grievously offended. He had his doubts, it is true, of the
sort of reception which he should meet;—he was not altogether
sure of the magical effect of the whiskey, in promoting christian
charity, and leading the savage to forgiveness; but none of the
apprehensions of Mingo were of personal danger. He would have
laughed to scorn a suggestion of harm at the hands of so infirm
and insignificant a person as Richard Knuckles; and looking
upon his own stout limbs and manly frame, he would have found
equally irresistible to man and wife. It was with a boldness of
carriage, therefore, that corresponded adequately with the degree
of confidence which he felt in his equal powers of persuasion, and
the whiskey, rather than his personal prowess, that he appeared
that night before the hovel of the squatters. He found Knuckles
alone, and seated a little in advance of his habitation. The Indian
was sober from the necessity of the case. The policy of the
negro had not lately allowed him liquor, and he had not himself
any means for procuring it. He watched the approach of the
enemy without arising from the turf, and without betraying in his
look any of that hostility which was active in his bosom. His
face, indeed, seemed even less grave than usual, and a slight
smile upon his lips, in which it would have tasked a far more
suspicious eye than that of Mingo to have discovered anything
sinister, betrayed, seemingly, a greater portion of good humour
than usually softened his rigid and coarse features. Mingo approached
with a conciliating grin upon his visage, and with hands
extended in amity. As the Indian did not rise to receive him, he
squatted down upon his haunches on the turf opposite, and setting
down the little jug which he brought between them, clapped the
Indian on his shoulders with a hearty salutation, which was meant
to convey to the other a pleasant assurance of his own singular
condescension.
“Knuckles, my boy, how you does? You's bex with me, I
reckons, but there's no needcessity for that. Say I did kick over
the pots and mash the pans?—well! I can pay for 'em, can't I?
When a man has got the coppers he's a right to kick; there's no
use to stand in composition with a fellow that's got the coppers.
He kin throw down and he kin pick up—he kin buy and he kin
sell; he kin break and he kin men'; he kin gib and he kin tak';
he kin kill and he kin eat—dere's no'ting he can't do ef he hab
money—he's mossa to all dem d—d despisable rackrobates, what's
got no coppers. I once bin' ye'r a sarmint from Parson Buckthorn,
and he tink on dis object jis' as you ye'r me tell you. He
tex' is take from de forty-seben chapter—I 'speck it's de forty-seben—which
say, `what he gwine to profit a gempleman what's
mak' de best crop in de world, if he loss he soul,'—which is de
de difference ef Mingo Gillison kick over you' pans and pots, and
bre'k 'em all to smash, and ef he pick 'em, like he pick up eggs,
widout bre'k any, so long as he pay you wha' you ax for 'em.
You sell 'em, you git you money, wha' matter wha' I do wid 'em
arter dat? I bre'k 'em or I men' 'em, jis' de same t'ing to you.
'Spose I eat 'em, wha's de difference? He stick in Mingo stomach,
he no stick in your'n; and all de time de coppers is making
purty jingle in you' pocket. Well, my boy, I come to do de t'ing
now. I bre'k you' pots, I 'tan ye'r to pay you for 'em. But you
mus' be t'irsty, my old fellow, wid so much talking—tak' a drink
'fore we exceed to business.”
The Catawba needed no second invitation. The flavour of the
potent beverage while the negro had been so unprofitably declaiming,
ascended to his nostrils with irresistible influence, in spite of
the stopper of corn cob which imperfectly secured it, and which,
among the negroes of the Southern plantations, makes a more common
than seemly apology for a velvet cork. The aroma of the
beverage soon reconciled Knuckles to the voice of his enemy, and
rendered those arguments irresistible, which no explanations of
Mingo could ever have rendered clear. As he drank, he became
more and more reconciled to the philosophy of his comrade, and,
strengthened by his draughts, his own became equally explicit
and emphatic.
“Ha! Ha! Biskey good too much!” was the long drawn and
fervent exclamation which followed the withdrawal of the reluctant
vessel from his lips.
“You may say dat wid you' own ugly mout', Dick, and tell no
lie nother,” was the cool response. “Any biskey is good 'nough,
but dat's what I calls powerful fine. Dat' fourt' proof, gennywine,
and 'trong like Sampson, de Philistian. Der's no better in
all Jim Hollon's 'stablishment. We gin a mighty great price for
it, so it ought to be good, ef ther's any justice done. But don't
stan', Knuckles—ef you likes it, sup at it again. It's not like
some women's I know—it gives you smack for smack, and holds
on as long as you let it.”
“Huh!—woman's is fool!” responded the savage with an air
of resentment which his protracted draught of the potent beverage
him of his wife, and when he looked upon the speaker he was also
reminded of his presumptuous passions, and of the forward steps
which he had taken for their gratification. But his anger did not
move him to any imprudence so long as the power of reflection was
left him. It was only as his familiarity with the bottle advanced
that his jealous rage began to get the better of his reason and lead
him into ebullitions, which, to a more acute or less conceited person
than Mingo, would have certainly betrayed the proximity of
that precipice in the near neighbourhood of which he stood. The
savage grew gradually eloquent on the subject of woman's worthlessness,
weakness, folly, &c.; and as the vocabulary of broken
and imperfect English which he possessed was any thing but copious,
his resort to the Catawba was natural and ready to give
due expression to his resentment and suspicions.
“Huh! woman is fool—Ingin man spit 'pon woman—ehketee
—boozamogettee!—d—n,—d—n,—damn! tree d—n for woman!—he
make for cuss. Caloya Ganchacha!—he dog,—he
wuss dan dog—romonda!—tree time dog! anaporee, toos-wa-nedah!
Ingin man say to woman, go! fill you mout' wid grass,—
woman is dog for cuss!”
The English portion of this blackguardism is amply sufficient
to show the spirit of the speaker, without making necessary any
translation of that part of the speech, which, in his own dialect,
conceals matter far more atrocious. Enough was understood by
Mingo, as well from the action and look of the Catawba, as from
the vulgar English oath which he employed in connection with
his wife's sex and name, to convince the negro that Caloya was an
object rather of hate than of suspicion to her worthless husband.
As this notion filled his sagacious cranium, new hopes and fancies
followed it, and it was with some difficulty that he could suppress
the eager and precipitate utterance of a scheme, which grew out
of this very grateful conjecture.
“You no lub woman, Knuckles,—eh?”
“Huh! woman is dog. Ingin man say to dog—go! and he
go!—say to dog, come, and he come! Dog hunt for meat, woman's
put meat in de pot! Woman is dog and dog is woman.
time d—n!”
“Well, Knuckles, old boy! take a drink! You don't seem to
defections womans no how!”
“Heh?”—inquiringly.
“Prehaps you don't altogether know what I mean by defections?
Well, I'll tell you. Defections means a sort of chicken-lub;
as if you only had it now and then, and something leetler
than common. It aint a pow'rful attack,—it don't take a body
about de middle as I may say, and gib 'em an up and down h'ist.
It's a sort of lub that lets you go off when you chooses, and come
back when you wants to, and don't keep you berry long about it.
That's to say, it's a sort of defections.”
A monosyllable from the Indian, like the last, attested any thing
but his mental illumination in consequence of the very elaborate
metaphysical distinctions which Mingo had undertaken. But
the latter was satisfied that Knuckles should have become wiser
if he had not; and he proceeded, making short stages toward the
point which he desired to attain.
“Well, now, Knuckles, if so be you don't affections womans,
what makes you keeps her 'bout you? Ef she's only a dog in
your sight, why don't you sen' her a-packing? Ingin man kin
find somebody, I 'speck, to take care ob he dog for 'em.”
“Heh? Dog—wha' dog?”
“Dat is to say—but take a drink, old fellow! Take a long
pull—dat jug's got a long body, an' you may turn it upside
down heap o' times 'fore you'll git all the life out of it. It
gin my arm a smart tire, I kin tell you, to tote it all the way
here! Dat is to say—but sup at it agin, Knuckles,—please de
pigs, you don't know much about what's good, or you would'nt
put it down, tell the red water begins to come into you' eyes.”
“Aw—yaw—yaw! Biskey good too much!”
Was the exclamation, accompanied with a long drawn, hissing
sound, of equal delight and difficulty, which issued spontaneously
from the Indian's mouth, as he withdrew the jug from his lips.
The negro looked at him with manifest satisfaction. His eyes
were suffused with water, and exhibited a hideous stare of excitement
and imbecility. A fixed glaze was overspreading them
the last fleeting gleams of consciousness in the glassy gaze of
the dying. Portions of the liquor which, in his feebleness he had
failed to swallow, ran from the corners of his mouth; and his
fingers, which still clutched the handle of the jug, were contracted
about it like the claws of a vulture in the spasms of a mortal
agony. His head, as if the neck were utterly unsinewed, swung
from side to side in his repeated efforts to raise it to the usual Indian
erectness, and, failing in this attempt, his chin sunk at last
and settled down heavily upon his breast. He was evidently in
prime condition for making a bargain, and, apprehensive that he
might have overdone the matter, and that the fellow might be too
stupid even for the purposes of deception, Mingo hastened with
due rapidity to make the proposition which he had conceived,
and which was of a character with the audacity of his previous
designs.
“Well, Knuckles, my frien', what's to hender us from a trade?
Ef so be you hates woman's and loves Biskey—ef woman's is
a d—n dog, and biskey is de only ting dat you most defections
in dis life,—den gib me you d—n dog, and I'll gib you 'nough
and plenty of de ting you lub. You yerry me?”
“Aw, yaw, yaw, yaw! Biskey berry good!” A torrent of
hiccoughs concluded the reply of the Indian, and for a brief
space rendered the farther accents of the negro inaudible even
to himself.
“To be sure,—da's trute! Biskey is berry good, and da's
wha' I'm sayin' to you, ef you'd only pay some detention. I'm
a offering you, Knuckles—I'm offering to buy you dog from you.
I'll gib you plenty biskey for you dog. Wha' you say, man?
eh?”
“Aw, yaw! Black man want Ingin dog!” The question was
concluded by a faint attempt to whistle. Drunkenness had made
the Catawba more literal than usual, and Mingo's apprehensions
increased as he began to apprehend that he should fail entirely in
reaching the understanding of his companion.
“Psho! git out, Knuckles, I no want you' four-legged dog—
it's you' two-legged dog I day arter. Enty you bin call you
dog?”
“Ya-ou! ramonda yau-ee, Caloya! woman is tree time d—n
dog!”
“To be sure he is. Da's wha we bin say. Now, I want dog,
Knuckles; and you hab dog wha's jis suit me. You call him
Caloya—you dog! You sell me Caloya, I gie you one whole
barrel biskey for da same dog, Caloya.”
“Hah!” was the sudden exclamation of the Indian, as this impudent
but liberal offer reached his senses; but, whether in approbation
or in anger, it was impossible, in the idiot inexpressiveness
of his drunken glance, for the negro to determine. He
renewed his offer with certain additional inducements in the
shape of pipes and tobacco, and concluded with a glowing eulogy
upon the quality of his “powerful, fine, gennywine, fourt'
proof,” the best in Holland's establishment, and a disparaging reference
to the small value of the dog that he was prepared to buy
with it. When he finished, the Indian evidently comprehended
him better, and laboured under considerable excitement. He
strove to speak, but his words were swallowed up in hiccoughs,
which had been increasing all the while. What were his sentiments,
or in what mind he received the offer, the negro vainly strove,
by the most solicitous watchfulness, to ascertain; but he had too
completely overdosed his victim, and the power of speech seemed
entirely departed. This paralysis did not, however, extend entirely
to his limbs. He struggled to rise, and, by the aid of a hickory
twig which grew beside him, he succeeded in obtaining a doubtful
equilibrium, which he did not, however, very long preserve.
His hand clutched at the knife within his belt, but whether the
movement was designed to vindicate his insulted honour, or was
simply spasmodic, and the result of his condition, could not be
said. Muttering incoherently at those intervals which his continual
hiccoughing allowed, he wheeled about and rushed incontinently
towards the hovel, as if moved by some desperate design.
He probably knew nothing definitely at that moment, and had no
precise object. A vague and flickering memory of the instructions
he had given to his wife, may have mingled in with his
thoughts in his drunken mood, and probably prompted him to the
answer, but, having heard in her place of concealment the offensive
proposition which the negro had made her husband, she now
crouched doubly closely and cautious, lest the latter, under this
novel form of provocation, might be moved to vent his wrath
upon her head. Perhaps, too, she fancied, that by remaining
quiet, she might escape the necessity of contributing in any wise
to the execution of the bloody plot in which his commands had
engaged her. Whatever may have been her fear, or the purposes
of the husband, Caloya remained silent. She moved not
from the corner in which she lay, apprehensively waiting events,
and resolved not to move or show herself unless her duty obviously
compelled her.
Mingo, meanwhile, utterly blinded by his prodigious self-esteem,
construed all the movements of the Catawba into favourable
appearances in behalf of his desires; and when Knuckles
entered the hovel calling upon his wife, he took it for granted
that the summons had no other object than to deliver the precious
commodity into his own hands. This conviction warmed
his imagination to so great a degree, that he forgot all his prudence,
and following Knuckles into the wigwam, he prepared to
take possession of his prize, with that unctuous delight and devotedness
which should convince her that she too had made an
excellent bargain by the trade. But when he entered the hovel,
he was encountered by the savage with uplifted hatchet.
“Hello, Knuckles, wha' you gwine to do wid you' hatchet?
You wouldn't knock you bes' frien' 'pon de head, eh?”
“Nigger is d—n dog!” cried the savage, his hiccoughs sufficiently
overcome by his rage to allow him a tolerable clear utterance
at last. As he spoke the blow was given full at the head
of the driver. Mingo threw up his left hand to ward off the
stroke, but was only partially successful in doing so. The keen
steel smote the hand, divided the tendon between the fore-finger
and thumb, and fell with considerable force upon the forehead.
“Oh you d—n black red-skin, you kill mossa best nigger!”
shrieked the driver, who fancied, in the first moment of
his pain, that his accounts were finally closed with the world.
The blood, streaming freely from the wound, though it lessened
his terrors. He felt persuaded that no surgeon could do him
service now, and bitterly did he reproach himself for those amorous
tendencies which had brought him to a fate so unexpected
and sudden. It was the very moment when the exhortations of
the Rev. Jonathan Buckthorn would have found him in a blessed
state of susceptibility and saving grace. The evil one had not
suffered so severe a rebuke in his present habitation for a very
long season. But as the Reverend Jonathan was not nigh to take
advantage of the circumstance, and as the hapless Mingo felt the
continued though impotent struggle of his enemy at his feet, his
earthly passions resumed their sway, and, still believing that he
had not many hours to live, he determined to die game and have
his revenge in his last moments. The Catawba had thrown his
whole remaining strength into the blow, and the impetus had carried
him forward. He fell upon his face, and vainly striving and
striking at the legs of his opponent, lay entirely at his mercy;
his efforts betraying his equal feebleness and fury. At first
Mingo doubted his ability to do anything. Though still standing,
he was for some time incapable of perceiving in that circumstance
any strong reason for believing that he had any considerable portion
of vitality left, and most certainly doubted his possession of
a sufficient degree of strength to take his enemy by the throat.
But with his rage came back his resolution
his vigour.
“Ef I don't stop your kicking arter dis, you red sarpent,
my name's Blind Buzzard. Ef Mingo mus' dead, you shall
dead too, you d—n crooked, little, old, red rascal. I'll squeeze
you t'roat, tell you aint got breat' 'nough in you body to scar'
'way musquito from peeping down your gullet. Lor' ha' massey!—to
'tink Mingo mus' dead 'cause he git knock on de head
by a poor, little, shrinkle up Injun, dat he could eat up wid he
eyes and no make tree bite ob he carcass.”
This reflection increased the wrath of the negro, who prepared
with the most solemn deliberation to take the Indian's life by
strangling him. With this design he let his knee drop upon the
body of the prostrate Knuckles, while his hand was extended in
order to secure an efficient grasp upon his throat. But his movements
corner where she crouched, who, springing forward at the perilous
moment, drew the hatchet from the hand of the sprawling
and unconscious savage and took an attitude of threatening
which effectually diverted the anger of the negro. Surprised at
her appearance, rather than alarmed at her hostility, he began to
conjecture, in consequence of the returning passion which he felt,
that his danger was not so great as he had at first fancied. The
sight of those charms which had led him into the danger, seemed
to induce a pleasant forgetfulness of the hurts which had been
the result of his rashness; and with that tenacity of purpose
which distinguishes a veteran among the sex, the only thought of
Mingo was the renewal of his practices of evil. He thought no
more of dying, and of the Reverend Jonathan Buckthorn, but
with a voice duly softened to the gentler ears which he was preparing
to address, he prefaced his overtures by a denunciation of
the “dead-drunk dog what was a-lying at his foot.” A wretch,
as he loudly declared, who was no more worthy of such a woman
than he was worthy of life.
“But der's a man wha's ready to tak' you, my lubly one, and
tak' care ob you, and treat you as you d'zarb. He's a gempleman—he's
no slouch, nor no sneak. He's always dress in de
bes'—he's always hab plenty for eat and plenty for drink—der's
no scarcity where he hab de mismanagement; and nebber you'll
hab needcessity for work, making mud pot and pan, ef he tak' you
into his defections. I reckon, Caloya, you's want for know who
is dat pusson I tell you 'bout. Who is dat gempleman wha's ready
for do you so much benefactions? Well! look a' yer, Caloya,
and I reckon you'll set eye on de very pusson in perticklar.”
The woman gave him no answer, but still, with weapon uplifted,
kept her place, and maintained a watch of the utmost steadfastness
upon all his movements.
“Wha'! you won't say not'ing? Can't be you care someting
for dis bag of feaders, wha's lie at my foot!”
With these words the irreverent negro stirred the body of
Knuckles with his foot, and Caloya sprang upon him in the same
instant, and with as determined a hand as ever her husband's had
been, struck as truly, though less successfully, at the forehead of
from a feebler arm than his own. His eye detected her design
the moment she moved, and he darted aside in season to avoid the
blow. With equal swiftness he attempted to seize her in his arms
the instant after, but, eluding his grasp, she backed towards the
entrance of the wigwam, keeping her weapon uplifted, and evidently
resolved to use it to the best advantage as soon as an opportunity
offered. Mingo was not to be baffled in this fashion—the
difficulties in the way of his pursuit seemed now reduced to a single
issue—the husband was hors de combat, and the wife—she certainly
held out only because she was still in his presence. To
this moment, Mingo never doubted that his personal prowess and
pretensions had long since impressed Caloya with the most indulgent
and accessible emotions. He advanced, talking all the while
in the most persuasive accents, but without inducing any relaxation
of watchfulness or resolution on the part of the woman. He was
prepared to rush upon, and wrest the hatchet from her hand—and
farther ideas of brutality were gathering in his mind—when he
was arrested by the presence of a new and annoying object which
suddenly showed itself at the entrance and over the shoulder of
the Indian woman. This was no other than his lawful spouse,
Diana.
“Hello, Di! what de dibble you come for, eh?”
“I come for you, to be sure. Wha' de dibble you is doing yer,
wid Injun woman?”
Surprised at the strange voice, and feeling herself somewhat
secure in the presence of a third person, Caloya ventured to look
round upon the new comer. The sight of her comely features
was a signal of battle to the jealous wife, who, instantly, with a
fearful shriek, struck her talons into the cheeks of her innocent rival,
and followed up the assault by dashing her head into her face.
The hatchet fell involuntary upon the assailant, but the latter had
too successfully closed in, to receive much injury from the blow,
which, however, descended upon her back, between the shoulders,
and made itself moderately felt. Diana, more vigorous than the
Indian woman, bore her to the earth, and, doubtlessly, under her
ideas of provocation, would have torn her eyes from their sockets,
but for the prompt interposition of her husband, who, familiar with
to the earth with a single blow of his fist. He might have followed
up this violence to a far less justifiable extent, for the audacity
which his wife had shown had shocked all his ideas of domestic
propriety, but that he was interrupted before he could proceed
further by a hand which grasped tightly his neckcloth from behind,
and giving it a sudden twist, curtailed his powers of respiration
to a most annoying degree. He turned furiously though
with difficulty upon the new assailant, to encounter the severe
eyes of his young master.
Here was an explosion! Never was an unfaithful steward more
thoroughly confounded. But the native impudence of Mingo did
not desert him. He had one of the fairest stories in the world to
tell. He accounted for every thing in the most rational and innocent
manner—but in vain. Young Gillison had the eye of a
hawk when his suspicions were awakened, and he had already
heard the testimony of the Indian woman, whom he could not
doubt. Mingo was degraded from his trust, and a younger negro
put over him. To compensate the Indian woman for the injuries
which she received, was the first care of the planter as he came
upon the ground. He felt for her with increased interest as she
did not complain. He himself assisted her from the ground and
conducted her into the wigwam. There, they found Knuckles
almost entirely insensible. The liquor with which the negro had
saturated him, was productive of effects far more powerful than
he had contemplated. Fit had succeeded to fit, and paralysis
was the consequence. When Gillison looked upon him, he saw
that he was a dying man. By his orders, he was conveyed that
night to the settlement, where he died the next day.
Caloya exhibited but little emotion, but she omitted no attention.
She observed the decorum and performed all the duties of a wife.
The young planter had already learned to esteem her, and when,
the day after the funeral, she prepared to return to her people,
who were upon the Edisto, he gave her many presents which she
received thankfully, though with reluctance.
A year after, at the same season, the “Red Gulley” was occupied
by the whole tribe, and the evening following their arrival,
Col. Gillison, sitting within the hall of his family mansion, was
younger than before, comelier, and far more happy. She was
followed by a tall and manly looking hunter, whom she introduced
as her husband, and who proved to be the famous Chickawa, of
whom poor old Knuckles had been so jealous. The grateful Caloya
came to bring to the young planter a pair of moccasins and
leggins, neatly made and fancifully decorated with beads, which,
with her own hands, she had wrought for him. He received them
with a sentiment of pleasure, more purely and more enduringly
sweet than young men are often apt to feel; and, esteeming her
justly, there were few articles of ordinary value in his possession
with which he would not sooner have parted, than the simple
present of that Catawba woman.
| CHAPTER XII. The wigwam and the cabin | |