University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Nothing interrupted the profound silence with
which the whole party now moved forward, save
the breaking of the long grass beneath their feet,
and the sound of rustling boughts, as their strong
clusters parted before them. They had retraced
for some time, the path which Lucy had so recently
trodden, when the leader of the band
plunged into the midst of a dark thicket to the
left, commanding the rest to follow him. The
way had now become more intricate than ever,
and notwithstanding the utmost exertions of the
impatient travelers, the progress made was but
in considerable, the foremost in the march frequently
pausing to hew away the tangled bushes
which obstructed their steps.

These interruptions, however, occasioned no
inconvenience to the young captive; and indeed
the intervals of rest thus afforded, together with
the slow pace thus necessarily adopted, were all
which prevented her light frame from sinking
under her fatigues.

The beams of a descending sun threw a faint
and obstructed radiance on their way, as they at
length silently emerged into a wide and well trodden
path, which intersected the one they had
previously trodden. They all gazed eagerly

forward, and amid the openings of the foliage
was now plainly discoverable the appearance of
distant water. Then followed a brief interchange
of signals and expressive glances among the
guides, and again they moved silently on. The
darkness was now every moment increasing; and
the eye of the captive, weary of gazing on the
endless and unvarying succession of forest and
sky, sunk heavily downward. Her grieved spirit
wandered sorrowfully away to the distant friends
and home, that she doubted not were lost to her
forever, until the strong and beautiful pictures of
memory seemed living realities; and the thickening
gloom of the forest, and the forms of her
stern and silent companions, only as the moving
pageant of some troubled dream.

A sudden halt in the movement of the advanced
guard, now attracted her attention, and she beheld
herself at once standing on the margin of a
wide river. With the exception of two, her guard
had suddenly deserted her, leaving her to examine
at her leisure, the picturesque beauty of the
opposite shore, now softened with the shades of
the deepening twilight.

After a short interval the Indians reappeared,
dragging from the concealment of the thicket
several small and rude canoes. These were speedily
launched, and the chief again approached
the prisoner. Lucy turned for a moment, shuddering
from the cold dark wave, but there was no
alternative. With a glance of fervent but unmurmured
supplication to heaven, she now followed
her guide to the margin of the stream, and
was soon seated beside him in the rude canoe.
The sound of the plashing wave echoed mournfully
in the stillnes,—the shore seemed receeding

behind them, and in a few moments more, they
were sailing quietly down the current of the
stream.

The broad river was now gradually widening
into a bold and majestic bay; and Lucy
soon found herself, in that frail bark, and with
that savage companion, alone on an inlet of
the wide sea. Meanwhile one by one the stars
of heaven shone out from the soft twilight,
while the outline of the opposite shore seemed
every moment to grow more wild and strange,
amid the gathering shadows. But the eyes of
all were now directed to a bold and woody
promontory, jutting forth from the eastern shore
at no great distance below them.

A shape like that of a fortress now appeared
on its summit, but often ere this had the fantastic
skill of nature mocked the weary eye with
views of distant towns and cities. The illusion,
however, if such it was, seemed only to grow
more strong and distinct upon a nearer survey.
Indeed as they gradually neared the shore the
dark building with its strong outworks and barriers
of defence, might no longer be mistaken,
though the deep obscurity which enveloped the
objects of the shore, prevented minute observations.

Her companion now muttering a few unintelligible
phrases, made rapidly towards the object of
her curiosity, the other canoes following closely
in their rear. A loud quick challenge was now
heard from the shore, while brilliant streams of
light issuing from the buildings above, seemed to
render the darkness without more gloomy by its
contrast. The watchword had been given by
her guides, and in a few moments more, they

were standing on the low landing point just beneath
the fortress.

The idea of her wild and singular situation,
rushed painfully to the mind of the captive, as,
following the steps of her guide, she now perceived
that they were approaching the haunts of
civilized men. There was a confused mingling
of human tones, the song, the whistle, and the
boisterous laugh, the sounds of heavy steps echoing
on the pavement within, the stirring tones of
the fife and drum, and amid their brief interludes
the notes of a softer and more distant music.
They had already passed the entrenchments, and
half fainting with terror and embarrassment, Lucy
soon found herself standing amid a sudden glare
of light at the entrance of the building, every
sense dazzled and bewildered with this unexpected
transition from the gloom and silence of the
forest.

The apartment into which the whole party
were now slowly entering was a high and extremely
spacious hall illuminated by means of
lamps suspended from the ceiling. Many and
various were the forms which now presented
themselves, issuing from the numerous rooms with
which the hall communicated. Servants were
hurrying to and fro, soldiers in the gay French
uniform, gathered in little groups talking and
singing in their foreign tongue, while others
whose rich dress and haughty step denoted them
officers of rank, were slowly moving through the
apartment. Neither was the prospect bounded
by the bewildering succession of objects which
the hall itself presented. The doors on either
side were constantly opening, revealing at every
moment a glimpse of the objects within. Light

music floated from the one directly opposite the
spot where the savages and their captive were
stationed; there was a sound of quick steps moving
within to its melody, and now there appeared
the form of an elegant female gliding for a
moment before the opening door. It would not
be expected that in a situation like this so singular
a groupe could long remain unnoticed. Curious
glances began one by one to fasten upon it,
until Lucy Everett would have welcomed joyfully
even the gloom and shadow of the wilderness.

The various objects around her had however
exerted so absorbing an influence upon her attention,
that the absence of the Indian chief had
not been noticed, until she now perceived him
approaching from a distant part of the hall. He
had no sooner rejoined the party, than commanding
the remainder of his followers to await his return
at the gate of the palace, he selected two of
their number, and immediately sallied forth again
in the same direction, accompanied by them and
the English prisoner. The sight of one so young
and fair, a stranger and a captive, seemed to
create a strong excitement among the various
inmates of the apartment, and a murmur of admiration
and pity followed the group as they
now slowly mounted the staircase.

But the noise and confusion below seemed
gradually to subside, as having at length completed
the ascent, they now traversed several spacious
apartments. Weary of conjecture, faint
and sick with fatigue, at length she paused; and
the chief murmuring a hasty caution to the
guards immediately disappeared.

Voices within the next room were now distinctly
heard. They spoke indeed in a foreign language,

but it was one with which she was in some
measure familiar; and her conceptions of its
meaning were now quickened by an overpowering
curiosity which the singularity of her situation
excited. The deep full toned voice which
now met her ear, was evidently addressing the
savage chief.

“Welcome, welcome, brave Anamanta, we
have awaited you since morning; but surely a
single prisoner is not all your booty.”

“No, brother, the English captives are still in
the wilderness. The Sieur Hertel bade me lead
them to Quebec; but the maiden I have brought
you is young and tender, and I turned aside with
her, that she might not die unredeemed in the
forest.”

“And did not the Sieur pay the ransom of your
prisoners?” exclaimed another and sharper tone.

“For all but her,” rejoined the chief.

“The Saco warriors were treacherous, and
sought to carry her away in secret to grace their
triumph. But the brave Alaska came to me last
night, and warned me of their treachery, and to
day I overtook them in the forest.”

“It is well, Anamanta,” replied the first voice.

“Leave the prisoner here, and I will give you
the gold for her ransom.” A long drawn sigh interrupted
the silence which succeeded.

“There was a time,” exclaimed the Indian sorrowfully,
as the clinking of the precious metal was
heard within—“there was a time, when the
chiefs of my nation would have scorned such an
offering. They went forth gloriously to the fight,
and came back loaded only with the scalps of
their enemies.”

“And that time shall surely come again,” rejoined

the full melodious voice which had first
spoken. “Grieve not, noble Anamant, that time
shall surely come again. But not until the glorious
race of the Mohicans stand once more on
the green soil of their fathers, not until those unholy
heretics have been torn up, root and branch,
from the land which they have polluted, and the
forests of your tribe wave high and free again on
its blood-nourished valleys. So long as a single
vestige of this unholy people stains your ancient
inheritance, ask not for the help of God, nor
of the blessed virgin, nor of the pure church
they have defiled.”

A new and fearful thought darted across the
mind of the captive as those words of denunciation
met her ear. Impious and inexpressibly
dreadful as they had seemed, there was indeed
one to whose character as it had long been revealed
to the colonists, they seemed but too appropriate.
The voice within so rich in its tones, so
musical in its cadence, was surely none other
than that of the Baron de Castine.

The conversation still continued; but Lucy
Everett heard no more. Every other feeling was
at once forgotten in the terror of this discovery.
She looked tremblingly around the apartment.
The mystery was then explained. It was the
palace Castine, that strong hold of superstition
and cruelty whose very name had once chilled
her heart; and she was here, a lone and unprotected
prisoner, within the very walls where all
those fearful plans of ruin for her people had
been maturing, the very scene where the treacherous
peace had been plotted, the ambuscade,
the war-cry, the cold blooded murder.

But these reflections were now interrupted.

The chief again entered the apartment, and Lucy
Everett found herself summoned to the presence
of the object of her terror. Perhaps it was
the consciousness that she had nothing to hope
from his mercy, that now banished the lingerings
of timidity, imparting to the face and graceful
carriage of the maiden, that expression of calm
fearlessness, with which she slowly entered the
apartment of the Baron Castine. It was not until
she had reached its center, that summoning all her
resolution for the effort she slowly raised her eye.

The first object which arrested it was a lofty
and dignified form reclining against the table before
her. His dress was plain and simply elegant,
his features were decidedly handsome, nay
there was an expression irresistibly attractive, in
the large, mild, bright eye that seemed calmly
reading her features. But the unsatisfied glance
of Lucy still wandered on in search of that one
dreaded object which filled her thoughts; and
she immediately discovered at the remote end of
the table, a person who seemed to answer to the
fearful picture, and indeed his whole appearance
formed a striking contrast to that of his companion;
but her glance sunk quietly down, beneath
the searching cunning of his sunken eye.

“And a fair companion for such an one as
thee,” said the same musical voice which a few
minutes since had uttered those fearful threatenings.
Lucy started with surprise, for that voice
fell from the lips of the mild and pleasant looking
stranger, who had first attracted her eye.

“Father Ralle,” he added, turning with a smile
to his companion, “thou shalt shrive the gentle
maiden, and having absolved her from the
guilt of her past heresy, we will seek to initiate

her in the doctrines of the true church. She is
too beautiful to waste her loveliness among the
puritans.

“Holy Virgin,” exclaimed the other in a tone
of affected horror, “how is it possible, that one
who hath wandered even from her infancy in the
wild regions of heresy and sin, should thus be
brought into the fold of the blessed shepherd.
Noble Baron, I doubt not but that puritan girl is
a thousand times more ignorant of the true religion,
than the wildest savage of these forests.”

“That were a shame indeed,” exclaimed the
maiden suddenly and involuntarily, the proud
current of her English blood mounting high in
her young cheek, “it were a sin and a shame for
the daughter of one of its holiest ministers.”

An involuntary start announced the astonishment
of her auditors. They had evidently supposed
their conversation unintelligible to the
subject of it.

“By the rood, Father Ralle,” exclaimed the Baron,
turning with a smile to the surprised and incensed
priest, “the fair heretic is not so ignorant
as you would imagine. Nevertheless you
must be her father confessor, if it were only to
absolve her from the pride and sin of that single
sentence.”

But the high flush of indignant spirit which for
a moment had given energy to her exhausted
frame, was now again vanished. There was yet
however another effort to be made, suppressing
for a moment the sensations of deadly weariness
that oppressed her, she drew nearer to the table
on which they leaned.

“Noble Baron, I pray your pity,” she exclaimed
in a low and faultering voice, “I am my father's

only child—he would purchase my ransom
joyfully.”

“Father Ralle, you will summon the guard,”
exclaimed the Baron shuffling the papers before
him with an air of seeming indifference. “It is
time that these arrangements were completed.
The prisoner may retire to her apartment. Let
it be in the south wing and you may bid Antionette
attend her, until she hears my further
pleasure.”

“Will gold redeem me?” continued the captive,
heedless of his orders, and unfastening from
her neck, as she spoke, a richly set miniature.

“Ah! beautiful Lucy Mc Gregor,” she continued,
gazing for a moment earnestly upon it,
“my mother will grieve bitterly to part with thee,
but surely, thou art not more precious to her than
her own living Lucy. Baron Castine, will this redeem
me?”

The gentlemen seemed alike startled by the
earnestness of her manner and a heavy frown for
a moment knit the smooth brows of the Baron, as
she laid the jewelled miniature on the table before
him.

“A beautiful picture!” exclaimed the priest in
a tone of seeming carelessness. “The diamonds
are of the first water my Lord,” he continued approaching
for a nearer survey, but the Baron had
now drawn it towards him, and shading his face
with his hands was evidently surveying it with
much earnestness.

“Know you aught of the original?” continued
the priest gazing curiously upon the prisoner.
“Methinks she was no heretic.”

“She was—she was,” replied Lucy, with bitterness.
“When the bigots of the Romish church

wiled her away from the true religion and tore
her from her friends and home, then indeed she
became a heretic. My Lord,” she continued
turning to the nobleman who still gazed upon the
miniature, “she was my father's cousin, and this
is the last memorial which is left him of one who
was dearer to him than life. And now that too
is gone—it is yours. The gold is pure, and the
jewels are true and costly—only take not away
his only child. I pray you break not altogether
my poor father's heart.”

The Baron de Castine raised his eye, a new expression
seemed to have gathered on his pale
and haughty features, and Lucy Everett read at
once in that stern, cold, and angry glance, that
her prayer was rejected. Her nature could endure
no more. The objects of the apartment
seemed swimming in sudden darkness before her,
there was a sensation like death, a dim perception
of strange and stern faces bent around her,
and all was vanished. The wild visions of delirium
now succeeded that long train of bewildering
realities; but these were comparatively happy,
for now came the soft and beautiful illusions
of home, a father's arm protected her amid every
danger, and even in the moments of her wildest
suffering, the sweet melody of her mother's voice
lulled and soothed her spirit.