 | CHAPTER VI. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
The painted chief and pointed spear;
And reason's self shall bow the knee,
To shadows and delusions here.
Freneau.
A BRIGHT moon reflected on the earth for about an hour
the light of the sun, as the latter luminary disappeared.
By its aid the bee-hunter, who still continued in the tree,
was enabled to watch the movements of the canoes of the
Indians, though the persons they contained soon got to be
so indistinct as to render it impossible to do more than
count their numbers. The last he made out to be five each
in three of the canoes, and six in the other, making twenty-one
individuals in all. This was too great an odds to think
of resisting, in the event of the strangers turning out to be
hostile; and the knowledge of this disparity in force admonished
all the fugitives of the necessity of being wary
and prudent.
The strangers landed just beneath the hut, or at the precise
spot where Whiskey Centre was in the habit of keeping
his canoe, and whence Boden had removed it only an hour
or two before. The savages had probably selected the
place on account of its shores being clear of the wild rice,
and because the high ground near it promised both a lookout
and comfortable lodgings. Several of the party strolled
upward, as if searching for an eligible spot to light their
fire, and one of them soon discovered the cabin. The
warrior announced his success by a whoop, and a dozen of
the Indians were shortly collected in and about the chienté.
All this proved the prudence of the course taken by the
fugitives.
Blossom stood beneath the tree, and the bee-hunter told
her, as each incident occurred, all that passed among the
strangers, when the girl communicated the same to her
brother and his wife, who were quite near at hand in one
of the canoes. As there was no danger of being over-heard,
the parties, two of whom at least were now fond of holding
this sort of communion.
“Do they seem to suspect the neighbourhood of the occupants
of the cabin?” asked Margery, when the bee-hunter
had let her know the manner in which the savages had
taken possession of her late dwelling.
“One cannot tell. Savages are always distrustful and
cautious when on a war-path; and these seem to be scenting
about like so many hounds which are nosing for a trail.
They are now gathering sticks to light a fire, which is
better than burning the chienté.”
“That they will not be likely to do until they have no
further need of it. Tell me, Bourdon, do any go near the
thicket of alders where we have hidden our goods?”
“Not as yet; though there is a sudden movement and
many loud yells among them!”
“Heaven send that it may not be at having discovered
anything we have forgotten. The sight of even a lost
dipper or cup would set them blood-hounds on our path, as
sure as we are white and they are savages!”
“As I live, they scent the whiskey! There is a rush
towards, and a pow-wow in and about the shed—yes, of a
certainty they smell the liquor! Some of it has escaped
in rolling down the hill, and their noses are too keen to
pass over a fragrance that to them equals that of roses.
Well, let them scent as they may—even an Injin does not
get drunk through his nose.”
“You are quite right, Bourdon: but is not this a most
unhappy scent for us, since the smell of whiskey can hardly
be there without their seeing it did not grow in the woods
of itself, like an oak or a beech?”
“I understand you, Margery, and there is good sense in
what you say. They will never think the liquor grew
there, like a blackberry or a chestnut, though the place is
called Whiskey Centre!”
“It is hard enough to know that a family has deserved
such a name, without being reminded of it by those that
call themselves friends,” answered the girl pointedly, after
a pause of near a minute, though she spoke in sorrow
rather than in anger.
In an instant the bee-hunter was at pretty Margery's
side, making his peace by zealous apologies and winning
protestations of respect and concern. The mortified girl
was soon appeased; and, after consulting together for a
minute, they went to the canoe to communicate to the husband
and wife what they had seen.
“The whiskey after all is likely to prove our worst
enemy,” said the bee-hunter as he approached. “It would
seem that in moving the barrels some of the liquor has
escaped, and the nose of an Injin is too quick for the odour
it leaves not to scent it.”
“Much good may it do them,” growled Gershom—
“they've lost me that whiskey, and let them long for it
without gettin' any as a punishment for the same. My
fortun' would have been made could I only have got them
two barrels as far as Fort Dearborn before the troops
moved!”
“The barrels might have been got there, certainly,” answered
le Bourdon, so much provoked at the man's regrets
for the destroyer which had already come so near to bringing
want and ruin on himself and family, as momentarily
to forget his recent scene with pretty Margery; “but
whether anything would have been in them is another question.
One of those I rolled to the brow of the hill was
half empty as it was.”
“Gershom is so troubled with the ague, if he don't take
stimulants in this new country,” put in the wife, in the
apologetic manner in which woman struggles to conceal
the failings of him she loves. “As for the whiskey, I
don't grudge that in the least; for it's a poor way of getting
rich to be selling it to soldiers, who want all the reason
liquor has left 'em, and more too. Still, Gershom
needs bitters; and ought not to have every drop he has
taken thrown into his face.”
By this time le Bourdon was again sensible of his mistake,
and he beat a retreat in the best manner he could,
secretly resolving not to place himself any more between
two fires, in consequence of further blunders on this delicate
subject. He now found that it was a very different
thing to joke Whiskey Centre himself on the subject of
his great failing, from making even the most distant allusion
a brother's weakness, with a liveliness of feeling that brutal
indulgence had long since destroyed in the object of their
solicitude. He accordingly pointed out the risk there was
that the Indians should make the obvious inference, that
human beings must have recently been in the hut, to leave
the fresh scent of the liquor in question behind them. This
truth was so apparent that all felt its force, though to no
one else did the danger seem so great as to the bee-hunter.
He had greater familiarity with the Indian character than
any of his companions, and dreaded the sagacity of the
savages in a just proportion to his greater knowledge. He
did not fail, therefore, to admonish his new friends of the
necessity for vigilance.
“I will return to the tree and take another look at the
movements of the savages,” le Bourdon concluded by saying.
“By this time their fire must be lighted; and by the
aid of my glass, a better insight may be had into their plans
and feelings.”
The bee-hunter now went back to his tree, whither he
was slowly followed by Margery; the girl yielding to a
feverish desire to accompany him, at the very time she was
half restrained by maiden bushfulness; though anxiety and
the wish to learn the worst as speedily as possible prevailed.
“They have kindled a blazing fire, and the whole of the
inside of the house is as bright as if illuminated,” said le
Bourdon, who was now carefully bestowed among the
branches of his small tree. “There are lots of the red
devils moving about the chienté, inside and out; and they
seem to have fish as well as venison to cook. Ay, there
goes more dry brush on the fire to brighten up the picture,
and daylight is almost eclipsed. As I live, they have a
prisoner among 'em!”
“A prisoner!” exclaimed Margery, in the gentle tones
of female pity—“Not a white person, surely?”
“No—he is a red-skin like all of them—but—wait a
minute till I can get the glass a little more steady. Yes—
it is so—I was right at first!”
“What is so, Bourdon—and in what are you right?”
“You may remember, Blossom, that your brother and I
spoke of two Injins who visited me in the openings. One
we found dead and scalped, after he had left us; and the
last is now in yonder hut, bound and a prisoner. He has
taken to the lake on his way to Fort Dearborn, and has,
with all his craft and resolution, fallen into enemy's hands.
Well will it be for him if his captors do not learn what
befel the warrior who was slain near my cabin, and left
seated against a tree!”
“Do you think these savages mean to revenge the death
of their brother on this unfortunate wretch?”
“I know that he is in the pay of our general at Detroit,
while the Pottawattamies are in the pay of the English.
This of itself would make them enemies, and has no doubt
been the cause of his being taken; but I do not well see
how Injins on the lake here can know anything of what
has happened some fifty miles or so up in the openings.”
“Perhaps the savages in the canoes belong to the same
party as the warrior you call Elksfoot, and that they have
had the means of learning his death, and by whose hand
he fell.”
The bee-hunter was surprised at the quickness of the
girl's wit, the suggestion being as discreet as it was ingenious.
The manner in which intelligence flies through the
wilderness had often surprised him, and certainly it was
possible that the party now before him might have heard
of the fate of the chief whose body he had found in the
openings, short as was the time for the news to have gone
so far. The circumstance that the canoes had come from
the northward was against the inference, however, and after
musing a minute on the facts, le Bourdon mentioned this
objection to his companion.
“Are we certain these are the same canoes as those
which I saw pass this afternoon?” asked Margery, who
comprehended the difficulty in an instant. “Of those I
saw, two passed first, and one followed; while here are
four that have landed.”
“What you say may be true enough. We are not to
suppose that the canoes you saw pass are all that are on
the lake. But let the savages be whom they may, prudence
tells us to keep clear of them if we can; and this more so
be an American Injin, is treated by them as an enemy.”
“How are the savages employed now, Bourdon? Do
they prepare to eat, or do they torture their prisoner?”
“No fear of their attempting the last to-night. There
is an uneasiness about them, as if they still smelt the liquor;
but some are busy cooking at the fire. I would give all
my honey, pretty Margery, to be able to save Pigeonswing!
He is a good fellow for a savage, and is heart and hand
with us in this new war, that he tells me has begun between
us and the English!”
“You surely would not risk your own life to save a savage,
who kills and scalps at random, as this man has
done!”
“In that he has but followed the habits of his colour
and race. I dare say we do things that are quite as bad,
according to Injin ways of thinking. I do believe, Margery,
was that man to see me in the hands of the Pottawattamies,
as I now see him, he would undertake something
for my relief.”
“But what can you, a single man, do when there are
twenty against you?” asked Margery, a little reproachfully
as to manner, speaking like one who had more interest in
the safety of the young bee-hunter than she chose very
openly to express.
“No one can say what he can do till he tries. I do not
like the way they are treating that Chippewa, for it looks
as if they meant to do him harm. He is neither fed, nor
suffered to be with his masters; but there the poor fellow
is, bound hand and foot near the cabin door, and lashed to
a tree. They do not even give him the relief of suffering
him to sit down.”
The gentle heart of Margery was touched by this account
of the manner in which the captive was treated, and she
inquired into other particulars concerning his situation,
with a more marked interest than she had previously manifested
in his state. The bee-hunter answered her questions
as they were put; and the result was to place the girl
in possession of a minute detail of the true manner in
which Pigeonswing was treated.
Although there was probably no intention on the part
time, tortured he must have been by the manner in which
his limbs and body were confined. Not only were his
arms fastened behind his back at the elbows, but the hands
were also tightly bound together in front. The legs had
ligatures in two places, just above the knees and just below
the ancles. Around the body was another fastening, which
secured the captive to a beech that stood about thirty feet
from the door of the cabin, and so nearly in a line with the
fire within and the look-out of le Bourdon, as to enable the
last distinctly to note these particulars, aided as he was by
his glass. Relying on the manner in which they had secured
their prisoner, the savages took little heed of him;
but each appeared bent on attending to his own comfort,
by means of a good supper, and by securing a dry lair in
which to pass the night. All this le Bourdon saw and
noted too, ere he dropped lightly on his feet by the side of
Margery, at the root of the tree.
Without losing time that was precious, the bee-hunter
went at once to the canoes and communicated his intention
to Waring. The moon had now set, and the night was
favourable to the purposes of le Bourdon. At the first
glance it might seem wisest to wait until sleep had fallen
upon the savages, ere any attempt were made to approach
the hut; but Boden reasoned differently. A general silence
would succeed as soon as the savages disposed of themselves
to sleep, which would be much more likely to allow his
footsteps to be overheard, than when tongues and bodies
and teeth were all in active movement. A man who eats
after a long march, or a severe paddling, usually concentrates
his attention on his food, as le Bourdon knew by
long experience; and it is a much better moment to steal
upon the hungry and weary, to do so when they feed, than
to do so when they sleep, provided anything like a watch
be kept. That the Pottawattamies would neglect this latter
caution le Bourdon did not believe; and his mind was
made up, not only to attempt the rescue of his Chippewa
friend, but to attempt it at once.
After explaining his plan in a few words, and requesting
Waring's assistance, le Bourdon took a solemn leave of the
party, and proceeded at once towards the hut. In order
well now briefly to explain the position of the chienté, and
the nature of the ground on which the adventurer was required
to act. The hut stood on a low and somewhat abrupt
swell, being surrounded on all sides by land so low, as
to be in many places wet and swampy. There were a good
many trees on the knoll, and several thickets of alders and
other bushes on the lower ground; but, on the whole, the
swamps were nearly devoid of what is termed “timber.”
Two sides of the knoll were abrupt; that on which the
casks had been rolled into the lake, and that opposite,
which was next to the tree whence Boden had so long been
watching the proceedings of the savages. The distance
between the hut and this tree was somewhat less than a
mile. The intervening ground was low, and most of it
was marshy; though it was possible to cross the marsh by
following a particular course. Fortunately this course,
which was visible to the eye by daylight, and had been taken
by the fugitives on quitting the hut, might be dimly traced
at night by one who understood the ground, by means of
certain trees and bushes, that formed so many finger-posts
for the traveller. Unless this particular route were taken,
however, a circuit of three or four miles must be made, in
order to pass from the chienté to the spot where the family
had taken refuge. As le Bourdon had crossed this firm
ground by daylight, and had observed it well from his tree,
he thought himself enough of a guide to find his way
through it in the dark, aided by the marks just mentioned.
The bee-hunter had got as far as the edge of the marsh
on his way towards the hut, when pausing an instant to
examine the priming of his rifle, he fancied that he heard
a light footstep behind him. Turning, quick as thought,
he perceived that pretty Margery had followed him thus
far. Although time pressed, he could not part from the
girl without showing that he appreciated the interest she
manifested in his behalf. Taking her hand, therefore, he
spoke with a simplicity and truth, that imparted to his
manner a natural grace that one bred in courts might have
envied. What was more, with a delicacy that few in courts
would deem necessary under the circumstances, he did not
in his language so much impute to concern on his own
her brother and sister; though in his inmost heart a throbbing
hope prevailed that he had his share in it.
“Do not be troubled on account of Gershom and his
wife, pretty Margery,” said the bee-hunter, “which, as I
perceive, is the main reason why you have come here; and
as for myself, be certain that I shall not forget who I have
left behind, and how much her safety depends on my prudence.”
Margery was pleased, though a good deal confused. It
was new to her to hear allusions of this sort, but nature
supplied the feeling to appreciate them.
“Is it not risking too much, Bourdon?” she said. “Are
you sure of being able to find the crossing in the marsh,
in a night so very dark? I do not know but looking so
long at the bright light in the cabin may blind me, but it
does seem as if I never saw a darker night!”
“The darkness increases, for the star-light is gone; but
I can see where I go, and so long as I can do that there is
not much fear of losing my way. I do not like to expose
you to danger, but—”
“Never mind me, Bourdon—set me to do anything in
which you think I can be of use!” exclaimed the girl,
eagerly.
“Well then, Margery, you may do this: Come with me
to the large tree in the centre of the marsh, and I will set
you on a duty that may possibly save my life. I will tell
you my meaning when there.”
Margery followed with a light, impatient step; and, as
neither stopped to speak or to look around, the two soon
stood beneath the tree in question. It was a large elm that
completely overshadowed a considerable extent of firm
ground. Here a full and tolerably near view could be
had of the hut, which was still illuminated by the blazing
fire within. For a minute both stood silently gazing at the
strange scene; then le Bourdon explained to his companion
the manner in which she might assist him.
Once at the elm, it was not so difficult to find the way
across the marsh, as it was to reach that spot, coming from
the chienté. As there were several elms scattered about in
the centre of the marsh, the bee-hunter was fearful that he
compelled to retrace his steps, and that at the imminent
hazard of being captured. He carried habitually a small
dark lantern, and had thought of so disposing of it in the
lower branches of this very elm, as to form a focus of it,
but hesitated about doing that which might prove a guide
to his enemies as well as to himself. If Margery would
take charge of this lantern, he could hope to reap its advantages
without incurring the hazard of having a light
suspended in the tree for any length of time. Margery
understood the lessons she received, and promised to obey
all the injunctions by which they were accompanied.
“Now, God bless you, Margery,” added the bee-hunter.
“Providence has brought me and your brother's family together
in troublesome times; should I get back safe from
this adventure, I shall look upon it as a duty to do all I can
to help Gershom place his wife and sister beyond the reach
of harm.”
“God bless you, Bourdon!” half whispered the agitated
girl. “I know it is worth some risk to save a human life,
even though it be that of an Injin, and I will not try to
persuade you from this undertaking; but do not attempt
more than is necessary, and rely on my using the lantern
just as you have told me to use it.”
Those young persons had not yet known each other a
single day, yet both felt that confidence which years alone,
in the crowds of the world, can ordinarily create in the
human mind. The cause of the sympathy which draws
heart to heart, which generates friendships, and love, and
passionate attachments, is not obvious to all who choose to
talk of it. There is yet a profound mystery in our organization,
which has hitherto escaped the researches of both
classes of philosophers, and which it probably was the design
of the Creator should not be made known to us until
we draw nearer to that great end which, sooner or later, is
to be accomplished in behalf of our race, when “knowledge
will abound,” and we shall better understand our
being and its objects than is permitted to us in this our
day of ignorance. But while we cannot trace the causes
of a thousand things, we know and feel their effects.
Among the other mysteries of our nature is this of sudden
women for women, awaken confidence and friendship; and
as between those of different sexes, excite passionate attachments
that more or less colour their future lives. The
great delineator of our common nature, in no one of the
many admirable pictures he has drawn of men, manifests
a more profound knowledge of his subject, than in that in
which he pourtrays the sudden and nearly ungovernable
inclination which Romeo and Juliet are made to display
for each other; an inclination that sets reason, habit, prejudice,
and family enmities, at defiance. That such an attachment
is to be commended, we do not say; that all can
feel it, we do not believe; that connections formed under its
influence can always be desirable, we are far from thinking:
but that it may exist we believe is just as certain as any
of the incomprehensible laws of our wayward and yet admirable
nature. We have no Veronese tale to relate here,
however, but simply a homely legend, in which human feeling
may occasionally be made to bear an humble resemblance
to that world-renowned picture which had its scenes
in the beautiful capital of Venetian Lombardy.
When le Bourdon left his companion, now so intensely
interested in his success, to pick his way in the darkness
across the remainder of the marsh, Margery retired behind
the tree, where the first thing she did was to examine her
lantern, and to see that its light was ready to perform the
very important office which might so speedily be required
of it. Satisfied on this point, she turned her eyes anxiously
in the direction of the hut. By this time every trace of
the bee-hunter was lost, the hillock in his front forming too
dark a back-ground to admit of his being seen. But the
fire still blazed in the chienté, the savages not having yet
finished their cooking, though several had satisfied their
appetites, and had already sought places where they might
stretch themselves for the night. Margery was glad to see
that these last individuals bestowed themselves within the
influence of the fire, warm as was the night. This was
done most probably to escape from the annoyance of the
musquitoes, more or less of which are usually found in the
low lands of the new countries, and near the margins of
rivers.
Margery could distinctly see the Chippewa, erect and
bound to his tree. On him she principally kept her looks
riveted, for near his person did she expect first again to
find the bee-hunter. Indeed, there was no chance of seeing
one who was placed beneath the light of the fire, since the
brow of the acclivity formed a complete cover, throwing
all below it into deep shade. This circumstance was of
the greatest importance to the adventurer, however, enabling
him to steal quite near to his friend, favoured by a
darkness that was getting to be intense. Quitting Margery,
we will now rejoin le Bourdon, who by this time was approaching
his goal.
The bee-hunter had some difficulty in finding his way
across the marsh; but floundering through the impediments,
and on the whole preserving the main direction, he got out
on the firm ground quite as soon as he had expected to
do. It was necessary for him to use extreme caution.
The Indians according to their custom had dogs, two of
which had been in sight, lying about half-way between the
prisoner and the door of the hut. Boden had seen a savage
feeding these dogs; and it appeared to him at the time as
if the Indian had been telling them to be watchful of the
Chippewa. He well knew the services that the red men
expected of these animals, which are kept rather as sentinels
than for any great use they put them to in the hunts.
An Indian dog is quick enough to give the alarm, and he
will keep on a trail for a long run and with considerable
accuracy, but it is seldom that he closes and has his share
in the death, unless in the case of very timid and powerless
creatures.
Nevertheless, the presence of these dogs exacted extra
caution in the movements of the bee-hunter. He had
ascended the hill a little out of the stream of light which
still issued from the open door of the hut, and was soon
high enough to get a good look at the state of things on
the bit of level land around the cabin. Fully one-half of
the savages were yet up and in motion; though the processes
of cooking and eating were by this time nearly
ended. These men had senses almost as acute as those of
their dogs, and it was very necessary to be on his guard
against them also. By moving with the utmost caution, le
was within ten yards of the captive. Here he placed his
rifle against a small tree, and drew his knife, in readiness
to cut the prisoner's thongs. Three several times, while
the bee-hunter was making these preparations, did the two
dogs raise their heads and scent the air; once, the oldest
of the two gave a deep and most ominous growl. Singular
as it may seem, this last indication of giving the alarm was
of great service to le Bourdon and the Chippewa. The
latter heard the growl, and saw two of the movements of
the animals' heads, from all which he inferred that there
was some creature, or some danger behind him. This naturally
enough induced him to bestow a keen attention in
that direction, and being unable to turn body, limbs, or
head, the sense of hearing was his only means of watchfulness.
It was while in this state of profound listening that
Pigeonswing fancied he heard his own name, in such a
whisper as one raises when he wishes to call from a short
distance with the least possible expenditure of voice. Presently
the words “Pigeonswing,” and “Chippewa,” were
succeeded by those of “bee-hunter,” “Bourdon.” This
was enough: the quick-witted warrior made a low ejaculation,
such as might be mistaken for a half-suppressed
murmur that proceeded from pain, but which one keenly
on the watch, and who was striving to communicate with
him, would be apt to understand as a sign of attention.
The whispering then ceased altogether, and the prisoner
waited the result with the stoic patience of an American
Indian. A minute later the Chippewa felt the thongs giving
way, and his arms were released at the elbows. An arm
was next passed round his body, and the fastenings at the
wrist were cut. At this instant a voice whispered in his
ear—“Be of good heart, Chippewa—your friend, Bourdon,
is here. Can you stand?”
“No stand,” answered the Indian in a low whisper—“too much tie.”
At the next moment the feet of the Chippewa were released,
as were also his knees. Of all the fastenings none
now remained but that which bound the captive to the tree.
In not cutting this, the bee-hunter manifested his coolness
and judgment; for were the stout rope of bark severed,
to stand. His thongs had impeded the circulation of the
blood, and the usual temporary paralysis had been the
consequence. Pigeonswing understood the reason of his
friend's forbearance, and managed to rub his hands and
wrists together, while the bee-hunter himself applied friction
to his feet, by passing his own arms around the bottom
of the tree. The reader may imagine the intense anxiety
of Margery the while; for she witnessed the arrival of le
Bourdon at the tree, and could not account for the long
delay which succeeded.
All this time, the dogs were far from being quiet or satisfied.
Their masters, accustomed to being surrounded
at night by wolves and foxes, or other beasts, took little
heed, however, of the discontent of these creatures, which
were in the habit of growling in their lairs. The bee-hunter,
as he kept rubbing at his friend's legs, felt now but
litle apprehension of the dogs, though a new source of
alarm presented itself by the time the Chippewa was barely
able to sustain his weight on his feet, and long before he
could use them with anything like his former agility. The
manner in which the savages came together in the hut, and
the gestures made by their chief, announced pretty plainly
that a watch was about to be set for the night. As it was
probable that the sentinel would take his station near the
prisoner, the bee-hunter was at a loss to decide whether it
were better to commence the flight before or after the rest
of the savages were in their lairs. Placing his mouth as
close to the ear of Pigeonswing as could be done without
bringing his head into the light, the following dialogue
passed between le Bourdon and the captive.
“Do you see, Chippewa,” the bee-hunter commenced,
“the chief is telling one of his young men to come and
keep guard near you?”
“See him, well 'nough. Make too many sign, no to
see.”
“What think you — shall we wait till the warriors are
asleep, or try to be off before the sentinel comes?”
“Bess wait, if one t'ing. You got rifle—got tomahawk
—got knife, eh?”
“I have them all, though my rifle is a short distance behind
me, and a little down the hill.”
“Dat bad—nebber let go rifle on war-path. Well you
tomahawk him—I scalp him—dat 'll do.”
“I shall kill no man, Chippewa, unless there is great
occasion for it. If there is no other mode of getting you
off, I shall choose to cut this last thong, and leave you to
take care of yourself.'
“Give him tomahawk, den—give him knife, too.”
“Not for such a purpose. I do not like to shed blood
without a good reason for it.”
“No call war good reason, eh? Bess reason in world.
Pottawattamie dig up hatchet ag'in Great Fadder at Wash'ton—dat
no good reason why take his scalp, eh?”
In whispering these last words the Chippewa used so
much energy, that the dogs again raised their heads from
between their fore paws and growled. Almost at that instant
the chief and his few remaining wakeful companions
laid themselves down to sleep, and the young warrior designated
as the sentinel left the hut and came slowly towards
the prisoner. The circumstances admitted of no delay;
le Bourdon pressed the keen edge of his knife across the
withe that bound the Indian to the tree; first giving him
notice, in order that he might be prepared to sustain his
own weight. This done, the bee-hunter dropped on the
ground, crawling away out of the light; though the brow
of the hill almost immediately formed a screen to conceal
his person from all near the hut. In another instant he
had regained his rifle, and was descending swiftly towards
the crossing at the marsh.
| CHAPTER VI. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter | |