University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

When consciousness again dawned upon the
soul of Lucy Everett, the objects around her were
entirely changed. It was still night, the moon
was in its meridian, and she was reclining on the
ground, in the midst of an evergreen forest. At
first she supposed that this was none other than
that which adorned the hill behind her father's
dwelling; and fancied that by some unknown
means she had escaped from the power of her
enemy, in time to obtain its concealment. But
a second glance convinced her that she was now
far away from her beloved home, and a captive of
the enemy.

The forest extended in every direction as far
as the eye could penetrate; every where one unmingled
and solemn mass of waving foliage met
her eye, save when she turned it to the pale blue
skies above. Near her, and stretched upon the
ground in a deep and listless slumber, she now
perceived the companion of her misfortunes.
The countenance of Amy was excessively pale,
and had it not been for her low and heavy breathing
she would have deemed it the sleep of death.
But that which excited her deepest horror was the
appearance of several Indian warriors, reposing
at short distances around them. They had chosen

their resting places among the thick underwood,
so that she had not at first been aware of
their presence. The long knife and tomahawk
still lay beside them, and in many instances were
yet strongly clenched. All seemed buried in
deep slumber, and her first thought was to arouse
her sleeping companion, that they might together
effect their escape. She was slowly rising for
this purpose when from beneath the branch of a
large tree before her, the eye of an Indian met
her own with a fierce and steady glance. The
savages had not left their captives unguarded,—
all resistance was in vain, so pillowing her head
upon the grassy hillock she at length sunk into
the slumber, which fear had induced her to
feign.

Ere Lucy again woke to the remembrance of
her captivity, a strong sunlight was piercing the
sombre shades of the forest, and the loud guttural
tones of her Indian guides were mingling
harshly on her ear. She arose and gazed earnestly
around her. Amy was no where in sight; and
the dreadful suspicion of her probable fate, pressed
heavily on the heart of her young mistress.
The noise of rustling foliage now drew the Indians
about her, while they still continued their
singular and animated debate. Meanwhile that
strength and decision of thought, which had long
been nursed in secret within the bosom of Lucy
Everett, was seeking to reveal itself in appropriate
action. The character of the Indians as a
people had long been known to her; and though
that instinctive horror with which the early settlers
of New-England naturally regarded this
savage race, prevented her in some measure from
appreciating those nobler traits of character,

which we who live in later days have leisure to
admire, she still knew that they were human beings,
and that there are in every human heart,
some tender chords to vibrate at the touch of a
skilful hand; that however true to them as a race
those stern features of cruelty, there were still individual
exceptions. She therefore determined
to analyze the various expressions of character in
her savage companions, and to endeavor if possible
to excite in her own behalf, the glow of benevolent
feeling; for without doubt a long and
painful journey was before her, unless indeed
some sudden kindling of wrath should sacrifice
her at once to their fury.

While these thoughts were revolving in her
mind, the Indians continued their debate around
her, with many wild and fierce gestures. They
gazed frequently upon their beautiful captive;
and Lucy fancied that, every time, their glances
returned upon her with a calmer and less ferocious
aspect. There was indeed much in her
appearance to soften the resentment of her savage
guards; for while her youth and the tenderness
of her sex claimed their pity, the beauty of
her person, and the high and graceful demeanor,
seemed well fitted to call forth the more powerful
principle of admiration. Beauty has its influence
even with the savage, and Lucy Everett's
was precisely of that style of which an Indian
would be most likely to acknowledge the power.
There was no obsequious and fawning servility,
no meek intreaty for life—the maiden knew too
well the character of her foe; a haughty smile
was on her lip, her step was free and proud, as
she moved through the windings of the forest,
and the glance of the Indian frequently sunk

beneath the brilliant flashes of spirit that gleamed
from the dark eye of the captive maiden. There
was also manifested on all occasions a kind of
fearless confidence in their generosity, exactly
suited to win the hearts of her proud companions.
Whenever danger approached, she drew nearer
to them, as if claiming their protection, and the
sweet and gentle smile with which their acts of
kindness were rewarded, was rendered more acceptable
by the usual reserve of her manner.

These exertions were not in vain. A spirit of
kindness was gradually diffusing itself through
the hearts of some of her companions, and now
only waited for a meet occasion, or some slight
increase of excitement, to reveal itself in her
favor.

The savage travelers seemed to know no weariness;
from the first break of morning, till the
last glimmerings of day, with untiring steps, they
pursued their route through the wilderness, pausing
only to partake of their light refreshments.
It was the evening of the third day since their
departure from H—, and the moon was shining
bright through the openings of the forest, ere
they had selected their halting place. This was
at length chosen on the banks of a tributary
stream; whose murmurs as it dashed over the
stones in its channel, were all that interrupted the
quiet of nature. To the lovers of the picturesque,
if any had been there to look on, the group, the
hour, the place, would have presented a scene of
peculiar interest. The beautiful and dejected
young captive, the forms of her Indian guards
scattered in strange contrast on the turf and hillocks
around her, the vivid touches of moonlight
on the ragged wave below, the flickering and fitful

glare of the immense blaze which had been
kindled as well for safety, as for the preparation
of their evening repast, together with the gloomy
mass of forest which no ray might pierce, extending
vast and dim around them, were the most obvious
features of the picture.

With the exception of Lucy, by far the most
interesting and prominent figure was that of a tall
and well formed youth, reclining against a fragment
of rock in the center of the group below,
and at that moment an object of fixed and earnest
attention to every individual which composed it.
At another moment, in an hour of security, Lucy
Everett could scarce have regarded without fear
and horror the ferocious aspect of the young savage,
his long hair waving in the night breeze, and
every feature kindled with a glow of unnatural
excitement. But the heart of the captive had
become strangely inured to sights like these;
and amid all the terror and anguish of her long
march, when looks of cunning, and cruelty, and
savage hate, glanced upon her from the eyes of
her fierce conductors, and angry voices rung
around her, there had ever been a tone of kindness
on the lip of the young Alaska, and a look
of pity and compassion, softening the sternness of
his glance. Alaska was the favorite of the whole
party, and the son of the venerable chief who
conducted them. Lucy had from the first regarded
him with a feeling of secret confidence; and
by degrees and almost insensibly, had begun to
hope that he would become her deliverer from
captivity.

But the low tones of the youth had gradually
increased in fierceness like the rush of the coming
storm, and now rung high and wild through

the forest. Every eye was fixed eagerly on him.
Some ancient legend, some tale of high and daring
deeds evidently claimed their attention; the
dark faces around her every moment assuming
some new expression of savage triumph, and every
lip trembling with exclamations of wild excitement.
Then came a burst of song—supported at
first only by the mellow tones of Alaska, but
gradually swelling and deepening until every
voice had mingled with his, and the wild inspiring
melody thrown back on her ear in the loud echoes
of the forest, became overpowering. Lucy turned
shuddering away, and no longer wondered at their
deeds of inhuman daring. But these at last died
away; and on raising her eye amid the silence
that succeeded, she perceived with surprise and
fear, that the attention of the whole party had
become suddenly transferred to herself. Her
apprehensions, however, were soon relieved by
the gestures of the chief, who, after repeated attempts,
at length succeeded in intimating to her
the desire of her companions that she should
furnish them with a specimen of the songs of her
country. Requests in this instance were but commands;
and Lucy, after revolving in her mind the
various simple airs with which she was familiar,
selected one, which, for its exquisite tenderness
and depth of melody, was well worthy of the occasion.
It was one of the beautiful and holy
hymns of the pilgrims; and as it rose amid that
savage throng, now melting on the air in soft and
solemn cadences, and now in loud sweet tones
ringing through the arches whose echoes were
yet dying with the war song of the Indian,—the
effect was thrilling. Even the stern spirits of the
warriors seemed bowed with its influence. The
strains at length ceased, and a confused murmur,
that seemed like approbation, succeeded them.
The young Alaska hid his face; and the fierce
eye of the chief, softened with an expression of
kindly feeling.

“Ecoutez, ecoutez,” exclaimed a low and distinct
voice near her. She turned in amazement.
Hitherto her only communications had been
made by means of gestures; and the idea that
there were any there, who comprehended a language
with which she was familiar, was new
and pleasing. The voice was that of Alaska;
he had approached her unobserved, and perceiving
himself understood now proceeded to
address her in French with ease and fluency.

“Listen, listen, English maiden. Thou art like
my dead sister, and my father loves thee. Elsingah
was tall, and straight, and beautiful as the
morning; her voice was the voice of birds, and
her step like the fleet gliding of the deer. But,
maiden, the dead leaf hath fallen on her grave;
and the voice of Elsingah hath long been silent
in her father's dwelling. She hath built her
bower, where the roses and violets never die, far
away in the land of bright shadows, among the
spirits of the brave and beautiful. But, maiden,
she hath left us desolate. The old chief still
mourns for her, and there is none to call me brother.
And thou art like Elsingah. Thy voice, thy
smile, are like hers; and my father loves thee.
English maiden wilt thou be his daughter.”

The young lady seemed in doubt, how to answer
this singular proposal, but Alaska waited for
her reply.

“And who will soothe my own father,” she
at length exclaimed, vainly endeavoring to repress,

a tear at the thought of her now desolate
home, “and my mother, my own beloved mother,”
she added in broken tones. “Oh Alaska, if you
have mourned for Elsingah, even in the beautiful
and happy homes of blessed spirits, think of those
who mourn for me a captive, a wretched captive
in the power of enemies.”

The youth seemed considerably affected with
this appeal; but the remainder of the party, who
had sometime waited in silence, now interrupted
the conversation, commanding Alaska to interpret
to them the words of the English captive. A
cry of displeasure was heard among them as the
youth obeyed; and a long debate succeeded, to
the captive fearfully incomprehensible, though
conscious that she was herself the subject of it.
The old chief joined in it with expression of
strong interest repeating frequently the name of
Elsingah, and pointing to her whom he would
fain have adopted in her stead. The remainder
of the party, however, manifested signs of strong
disapprobation, and replied to the proposals of
Alaska and their chief with such an air of fierceness
and resolution, that the prisoner could no
longer doubt concerning her doom; and cold and
darkly fell the fearful truths on her heart—the
death of an Indian captive was before her.

Whatever the decision might be, it was evident
that the old chief felt himself compelled to acquiesce
in it; and after casting on Lucy a lingering
look of regret, he quickly stretched himself
on the earth for his evening repose. His example
was soon followed by all except those appointed
guard for the night; and Lucy herself, to
avoid suspicion, reclined her cheek on the cold
and dreary turf.

It was an hour of bitter suffering; and the
young maiden now sought earnestly to recal to
her recollection those lessons of holy truth, which
in moments of gladness had fallen so lightly on
her heart. Earth for her was now no more, its
pleasant toils, its gay hopes and affections, were
all over, and the grave—the lonely and unknown
grave was henceforth to be her resting place.
The last effort had been made for her, and made
in vain; and the elasticity of youthful hope,
which had hitherto borne her with incredible
strength and cheerfulness through the perils of
her long march, now seemed broken and crushed
forever. And after all, she was to die just in the
spring-time of her being, far away from all who
would have soothed the bitterness of death, and
among cruel strangers. The weary night passed
away in tears and agony.

On the first appearance of day, the Indians renewed
their march. Lucy still walked by the side
of the Chief, but though her eye glanced frequently
over the band, she could no where discover
the youthful favorite; and indeed the Indians
themselves seemed uneasy at his absence,
frequently pausing and searching the openings
around them, as if expecting his appearance. At
length, about half an hour after sunrise, Alaska
suddenly presented himself, springing from the
thicket on one side of their path. There were
slight symptoms of agitation on his brow; and his
companions at first, regarded him with suspicious
glances. But a certain air of ease and indifference
which the youth soon assumed, together
with some slight apology, ere long apparently
removed their displeasure.

The whole party now endeavored to quicken

their pace,—they seemed apprehensive of evil at
the slightest noise, manifesting signs of alarm,
and drawing more closely around their prisoner.
But the depressed spirits and wearied frame of the
young captive, could no longer endure the unwonted
hardships of her journey. The hope of
safety which had hitherto given energy to her
steps was gone, and with the recklessness of despair
she now paused suddenly in her path, and
supporting herself against the tree that shaded it,
declared firmly that she could and would go no
further. She had expected death for her temerity,
but the Indians manifested only surprise and
concern; the most savage of them entreating her
to accompany them a little further, and assuring
her that she should then find rest and plenty.
Scarcely able to comprehend their conduct, with
a faint glimmering of hope, she at length yielded;
and her guides now in some measure accommodated
their pace to her exhausted strength.

Meanwhile the prisoner perceived, with deep
regret, that he who had ever manifested the
strongest interest in her welfare, seemed, on the
present occasion, to regard her with indifference,
and even aversion. Alaska was as usual the
amusement of the party. He laughed and sung,
and recited to them tales of ancient valor; but
he seemed now perseveringly to avoid her presence,
and there was a kind of heartless gaiety
in his whole manner which she had never before
discovered.

But in the midst of those bursts of merriment,
the eye of the young Indian suddenly rested on
hers with a glance of deep and secret meaning.
There was an expression of mingled pity, apprehension
and hope; and repressing the exclamation

of astonishment that arose to her lip, she
became at once convinced that this apparent unconcern
in her fate, was only assumed for some
mysterious purpose of kindness. Unwilling however
to attract the suspicions of her companions, by
too close a scrutiny of his conduct, with a strong
effort she confined her glances to the path beneath
and the dense thicket before her.

“Move slower, maiden—as you love life, move
slower,” exclaimed a low voice near her as with
a painful effort she was seeking to quicken her
movement. She looked up in astonishment.
The young warrior was standing on an elevated
stone at a little distance before her; his bow was
drawn, and he seemed deeply intent upon some
distant aim. She almost doubted the evidence
of her senses; for though the voice was that of
Alaska, there was nothing in his countenance
which intimated the slightest consciousness of
her presence, and at that moment darting suddenly
from the rock with a yell of savage delight,
he disappeared in the thicket.

After ascertaining that this mysterious communication
had been listened to by none but herself,
she began at once to comply with the injunction,
being now again fully aware that in
advancing she was only hastening on to a more
cruel and aggravated doom. But the faces of
her conductors, exhibited symptoms of high impatience,
as she again relaxed her efforts, sometimes
almost pausing on her way. They again
renewed their promises of speedy rest; and these
being now ineffectual, threatenings were resorted
to. But the energy of despair was in her heart,
she gazed calmly and resolutely on the glistening

tomahawk, and her step only became yet
more languid.

Meanwhile Alaska and several of his young
companions had moved on with a rapid step, and
now the sounds of a wild and savage song came
ringing through the woods. It was supported by
several voices; but as they drew near, the prisoner
could plainly distinguish amid the pauses, at
the conclusion of every stanza, the single tone of
Alaska chanting on in low and almost inaudible
strains. The inherent love of life had quickened
every sense and she was not long in perceiving
that words of secret intelligence lingered in the
seemingly unmeaning sound.

“Listen, listen, English maiden,” at length
caught her ear; and with downcast eye and
quickened breathing, she waited for his mysterious
communication. It came at length in low
and fitful strains. “Fear not. Wait here. They
will not harm you.” And the voice of the musician
again burst forth in the wild accents of his
native tongue. Irresolute, and almost overcome
with emotion, she awaited the conclusion of the
succeeding stanza. “Another hour, but one
hour more, wait here, or in yonder valley, and you
shall not die. The white conquerors will not
murder you.”

A cry of joy almost escaped the lips of the
young captive; but with a quick effort she concealed
her emotion, still moving on silently and
languidly as before. They were now descending
a hill into a little sheltered nook, overhung with
birch and maple. It was about noon, the sun had
become exceedingly oppressive, and it was the
time which the Indians had usually selected for
refreshment. Lucy ventured therefore, to demand

of them an hour's repose, assuring them,
by signs, that the strength thus acquired would
more than compensate for the loss of time. After
a short debate, the Indians, with much dissatisfaction,
complied with the request.

With an air of as much composure as she could
assume, Lucy now reclined herself in the shadow
of the clustering maples, and leaning her head
on her hand, feigned that repose, the need of
which, she had urged as an excuse for their present
delay.

Meanwhile a profound stillness prevailed among
the savages. They spoke occasionally in low
whispers; and whenever Lucy ventured to lift
her eye, she perceived that they were gazing
anxiously around them, as if in constant expection
of an alarm. The time rolled slowly on;—
to the agitated heart of the captive, minutes seemed
hours, and still no signs of the promised deliverance.
The prescribed period had indeed nearly
elapsed, and Lucy was already shuddering at
the gathering signs of impatience on the countenances
of her conductors when her eye became
suddenly fixed on the opposite thicket. A
human face, fiercely painted, was peeping out
from among the foliage, and quietly and unobservedly
surveying the scene before him. Not
the slightest noise announced his presence, and he
continued for several moments cautiously directing
his glances upon the unconscious objects of
his scrutiny. At length, perceiving that the
prisoner had discovered his presence, he moved
slowly down the bank followed by a close but
single file of Indian warriors.

The surprised guards started hastily on their
feet; but it was too late for flight, and the high

authority of the chief who now approached them,
was such as to preclude the idea of open combat.
The fierce words which immediately ensued, were
to Lucy totally unintelligible; but it was evident
that on the part of her guides an expression of
servility mingled with angry looks, while the
countenance of the stranger chief exhibited only
haughty reproach. The altercation was at last
concluded, and the victor approached the tree
beneath which his prisoner reclined. There was
nothing in the appearance of the stranger at all
calculated to soothe her fears, and yet after
glancing a moment upon her Indian friend, she
was convinced that this was the anticipated succor.
The chief hastened to inform her that she
was to accompany him; and, with a fresh impulse
of strength and hope, she prepared to obey the
intimation.

When the little summit was once more gained,
Lucy Everett turned for a farewell glance at those
whom, a few minutes before, she had regarded as
her murderers. They were still standing in the
same posture in which she had left them, gazing
after her with looks of deadly hate, and even now
scarcely restraining the expressions of their savage
resentment. Alaska had separated himself
from the group; and, as long as Lucy could discern
the sheltered nook, he was still standing with
folded arms, and gazing after her with looks of
mingled joy and sadness. The captive waved
her hand in token of gratitude, and the nodding
foliage soon hid the whole company from her
view.