 | CHAPTER IX. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
O Holiest! to this world of sin and gloom,
Not in thy dread omnipotent array;
And not by thunders strewed
Was thy tempestuous road,
Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way:
But thee, a soft and naked child,
Thy mother undefiled,
In the rude manger laid to rest
From off her virgin breast.
The blood of the bee-hunter curdled in his veins as he
listened to Peter's business-like and direct manner of treating
this terrible subject. Putting the most favourable view
on his situation, it was frightful to look on. Admitting
that this fanatical savage were sincere in all his professions
of a wish to save him and Margery, and le Bourdon did
not, nay, could not doubt this, after his calm, but ferocious
revelations; but, admitting all this to be true, how was he
to escape with his charming bride, environed as they were
by so large a band of hostile Indians. Then the thought
of abandoning his other companions, and attempting, in
cold selfishness, to escape with Margery alone, was more
than he could bear. Never before, in his adventurous and
bold life, had le Bourdon been so profoundly impressed
with a sense of his danger, or so much overcome.
Still, our hero was not unmanned. He saw all the hazards,
as it were, at a glance, and felt how terrible might
be the result should they really fall into the hands of the
warriors, excited to exercise their ingenuity in devising the
with a manly steadiness that did him credit, even while
he sickened at the prospect.
Peter had told his story in a way to add to its horrible
character. There was a manner of truth, of directness,
of work, if one may use such an expression on such a
subject, that gave a graphic reality to all he said. As if
his task was done, the mysterious chief now coolly arose,
and moved away to a little grove, in which the missionary
and the corporal had thrown themselves on the grass, where
they lay speculating on the probable course that the bands
in their neighbourhood would next pursue. So thoroughly
possessed was the clergyman with his one idea, however, that
he was expressing regret at his failure in the attempt to convince
the savages that they were Jews, when Peter joined them.
“You tired—you lie down in daytime, like sick squaw,
eh?” asked the Indian, in a slightly satirical manner.
“Bess be up, sich fine day, and go wid me to see some
more chief.”
“Most gladly, Peter,” returned the missionary, springing
to his feet with alacrity—“and I shall have one more opportunity
to show your friends the truth of what I have
told them.”
“Yes, Injin love to hear trut'—hate to hear lie. Can
tell 'em all you want to say. He go too, eh?” pointing to
the corporal, who rather hung back, as if he saw that in
the invitation which was not agreeable to him.
“I will answer for my friend,” returned the confiding
missionary, cheerfully. “Lead on, Peter, and we will
follow.”
Thus pledged, the corporal no longer hesitated; but he
accompanied Parson Amen, as the latter fell into the tracks
of the chief, and proceeded rapidly in the direction of the
spring in the piece of bottom-land, where the council first
described had been held. This spot was about two miles
from the palisaded house, and quite out of view, as well as
out of reach of sound. As they walked side by side,
taking the footsteps of the great chief for their guides, the
corporal, however, expressed to his companion his dislike of
the whole movement.
“We ought to stand by our garrison in times like these,
a garrison; and Injins seldom do much on a well-built and
boldly-defended spot of that natur'. They want artillery,
without which their assaults are never very formidable.”
“Why talk you of warlike means, corporal, when we
are in the midst of friends? Is not Peter our known and
well-tried associate, one with whom you and I have travelled
far; and do we not know that we have friends among
these chiefs, whom we are now going to visit? The Lord
has led me into these distant and savage regions, to carry
his word, and to proclaim his name; and a most unworthy
and unprofitable servant should I prove, were I to hesitate
about approaching them I am appointed to teach. No, no;
fear nothing. I will not say that you carry Cæsar and his
fortunes, as I have heard was once said of old, but I will
say you follow one who is led of God, and who marches with
the certainty of being divinely commanded.”
The corporal was ashamed to oppose so confident an
enthusiasm, and he offered no further resistance. Together
the two followed their leader, who, turning neither to the
right hand nor to the left, soon had them out of sight of
the castle, and well on their way towards the spring. When
about half the distance was made, the direction took the
party through a little thicket, or rather along its margin,
and the missionary, a good deal to his surprise, saw Pigeonswing
within the cover, seemingly preparing for another
hunt. This young warrior had so lately returned from one
excursion of this nature, that he was not expected to go
forth so soon on another. Nor was he accustomed to go
out so early in the day. This was the hour in which he
ordinarily slept; but there he was, beyond a question, and
apparently looking at the party as it passed. So cold was
his manner, however, and so indifferent did he seem, that
no one would have suspected that he knew aught of what
was in contemplation. Having satisfied himself that his
friend, the bee-hunter, was not one of those who followed
Peter, the Chippewa turned coldly away, and began to examine
the flint of his rifle. The corporal noted this
manner, and it gave him additional confidence to proceed;
for he could not imagine that any human being would manifest
so much indifference, when sinister designs existed.
Peter turned neither to the right hand nor to the left,
until he had led the way down upon the little arena of
bottom-land, already described, and which was found well
sprinkled with savages. A few stood, or sat about in
groups, earnestly conversing; but most lay extended at
length on the greensward, in the indolent repose that is so
grateful to an Indian warrior in his hours of inaction. The
arrival of Peter, however, instantly put a new face on the
appearance of matters. Every man started to his feet, and
additions were made to those who were found in the arena
by those who came out of the adjacent thickets, until some
two or three hundred of the red men were assembled in a
circle around the newly-arrived pale-faces.
“There,” said Peter, sternly, fastening his eye with a
hostile expression on Bough of the Oak and Ungque, in
particular—“There are your captives. Do with them as
you will. As for them that have dared to question my
faith, let them own that they are liars!”
This was not a very amicable salutation, but savages are
accustomed to plain language. Bough of the Oak appeared
a little uneasy, and Ungque's countenance denoted dissatisfaction;
but the last was too skilful an actor, to allow many
of the secrets of his plotting mind to shine through the
windows of his face. As for the crowd at large, gleams
of content passed over the bright red faces, illuminating
them with looks of savage joy. Murmurs of approbation
were heard, and Crowsfeather addressed the throng, there,
where it stood, encircling the two helpless, and as yet but
half-alarmed victims of so fell a plot.
“My brothers and my young men can now see,” said
this Pottawattamie, “that the tribeless chief has an Injin
heart. His heart is not a pale-face heart — it is that of a
red man. Some of our chiefs have thought that he had
lived too much with the stranger, and that he had forgotten
the traditions of our fathers, and was listening to the song
of the medicine-priest. Some thought that he believed
himself lost, and a Jew, and not an Injin. This is not so.
Peter knows the path he is on. He knows that he is a
red-skin, and he looks on the Yankees as enemies. The
scalps he has taken are so numerous they cannot be counted.
He is ready to take more. Here are two that he gives to
bring us more. He will continue to bring them, until the
pale-faces will be as few as the deer in their own clearings.
Such is the will of the Manitou.”
The missionary understood all that was said, and he was
not a little appalled at the aspect of things. For the first
time, he began to apprehend that he was in danger. So
much was this devout and well-intentioned servant of his
church accustomed to place his dependence on a superintending
Providence, that apprehension of personal suffering
seldom had any influence on his exertions. He believed
himself to be an object of especial care; though he was ever
ready to admit that the wisdom which human minds cannot
compass, might order events that, at first sight, would seem
to be opposed to that which ought to be permitted to come
to pass. In this particular Parson Amen was a model of
submission, firmly believing that all that happened was in
furtherance of the great scheme of man's regeneration,
and eventual salvation.
With the corporal, it was very different. Accustomed
to war with red men, and most acquainted with them in their
worst character, he ever suspected treachery, and had followed
Peter with a degree of reluctance he had not cared
to express. He now thoroughly took the alarm, however,
and stood on his guard. Although he did not comprehend
more than half of that which Peter had said, he understood
quite enough to see that he and the missionary were
surrounded by enemies, if not by executioners.
“We have fallen into a sort of ambush, here, Parson
Amen,” cried the corporal, rattling his arms, as he looked
to their condition, “and it's high time we beat the general.
If there were four on us, we might form a square; but, being
only two, the best thing we can do will be to stand back to
back, and for one to keep an eye on the right flank, while
he nat'rally watches all in front, and for the other to keep an
eye on the left flank, while he sees to the rear. Place your
back close to mine, and take the left flank into your part
of the look-out. Closer, closer, my good sir; we must
stand solid as rooted trees, to make anything of a stand.”
The missionary, in his surprise, permitted the corporal
to assume the position described, though conscious of its
the corporal's manner, and the rattling of his arms, induced
the circle to recede several paces; though nothing like
alarm prevailed among them. The effect, nevertheless,
was to leave the two captives space for their evolutions, and
a sort of breathing time. This little change had the appearance
of something like success, and it greatly encouraged
the corporal. He began to think it even possible to
make a retreat that would be as honourable as any victory.
“Steady—keep shoulder to shoulder, Parson Amen, and
take care of your flank. Our movement must be by our
left flank, and everything depends on keeping that clear.
I shall have to give you my baggonet, for you're entirely
without arms, which leaves my rear altogether exposed.”
“Think nothing of your arms, Brother Flint — they
would be useless in my hands, in any case; and, were we
made of muskets, they could be of no use against these
odds. My means of defence come from on high; my
armour is faith; and my only weapon, prayer. I shall not
hesitate to use the last on this, as on all other occasions.”
The missionary then called on the circle of curious savages
by whom he was surrounded, and who certainly contemplated
nothing less than his death, in common with
those of all his white companions, to unite with him in addressing
the throne of Grace. Accustomed to preach and
pray to these people in their own dialect, the worthy parson
made a strong appeal to their charities, while supplicating
the favours of Divine Providence in behalf of himself and
his brother captive. He asked for all the usual benedictions
and blessings on his enemies, and made a very happy
exposition of those sublime dogmas of Christianity, which
teach us to “bless them that curse us,” and to “pray for
those who despitefully use us.” Peter, for the first time in
his life, was now struck with the moral beauty of such a
sentiment, which seldom fails, when duly presented, of producing
an effect on even the dullest minds. His curiosity was
touched, and instead of turning coldly, as had been his intention,
and leaving the captives in the hands of those to
whom he had delivered them, he remained in the circle,
and paid the closest attention to all of the proceedings.
He had several times previously heard the missionary speak
he deemed it possible to realize such a thing in practice.
The Indians, if not absolutely awe-struck by the singular
spectacle before them, seemed well disposed to let the missionary
finish his appeal; some wondering, others doubting,
and all more or less at a loss to know what to make of an
exhibition so unusual. There stood the corporal, with his
back pressed closely to that of his companion, his musket
at “make ready,” and his whole mien that of a man with
every nerve screwed to the sticking point; while the missionary,
the other side of the picture, with outstretched
arms was lifting his voice in prayer to the throne of the
Most High. As this extraordinary scene continued, the
corporal grew excited; and ere long his voice was occasionally
heard, blended with that of the clergyman, in terms
of advice and encouragement.
“Blaze away, Mr. Amen,” shouted the soldier. “Give
'em another volley—you're doing wonders, and their front
has given ground! One more such volley as the last, and
we'll make a forward movement, ourselves—attention!—
prepare to march by the left flank, as soon as there is a
good opening!”
That good opening, however, was never made. The
savages, though astonished, were by no means frightened,
and had not the smallest idea of letting their captives
escape. On the contrary, Bear's Meat, who acted as commander-in-chief
on this occasion, was quite self-possessed,
and so far from being impressed with the missionary's
prayer, he listened to it only in the hope of hearing some
admission of weakness escape. But the excitement of the
corporal soon produced a crisis. His attempts to make a
movement “by the left flank,” caused his column of defence
to be broken, and obtaining no assistance from Parson
Amen, who was still pouring out his soul in prayer,
while endeavouring to bring things back to their original
state, he suddenly found himself surrounded and disarmed.
From that instant, the corporal changed his tactics. So
long as he was armed, and comparatively free, he had bethought
him only of the means of resistance; now that
these were denied him, he submitted, and summoned all
his resolution to bear the penalties of his captivity, in a
was the third time that Corporal Flint had been a prisoner
among the Indians, and he was not now to learn the nature
of their tender mercies. His forebodings were not
of the most pleasant character; but that which could not
be helped, he was disposed to bear with manly fortitude.
His greatest concern, at that fearful moment, was for the
honour of his corps.
All this time, Parson Amen continued his prayer. So
completely was his spirit occupied with the duty of offering
up his petition, that he was utterly unconscious of what
else had passed; nor had he heard one of the corporal's
appeals for “attention,” and to be “steady,” and to march
“by the left flank.” In a word, the whole man was intent
on prayer; and when thus employed, a six-pounder discharged
in the circle, would bardly have disconcerted him.
He persevered, therefore, uninterrupted by his conquerors,
until he concluded in his own way. Having thus fortified
his soul, and asked for succour where he had now so long
been accustomed to seek and to find it, the worthy missionary
took his seat quietly on a log, on which the corporal
had been previously placed by his captors.
The time had arrived for the chiefs to proceed in the
execution of their purposes. Peter, profoundly struck with
the prayers of the missionary in behalf of his enemies, had
taken a station a little on one side, where he stood ruminating
on what he had just heard. If ever precept bore the
stamp of a divine origin, it is this. The more we reflect
on it, the clearer do our perceptions of this truth become.
The whole scheme of Christ's redemption and future existence
is founded in love, and such a system would be
imperfect while any were excluded from its benefits. To
love those who reciprocate our feelings is so very natural,
that the sympathies which engender this feeling, are soonest
attracted by a knowledge of their existence; love producing
love, as power increases power. But to love those who
hate us, and to strive to do good to those who are plotting
evil against ourselves, greatly exceeds the moral strength
of man, unaided from above. This was the idea that puzzled
Peter, and he now actually interrupted the proceedings,
in order to satisfy his mind on a subject so totally new to
the permission of the principal chiefs, awakening in their
bosoms, by means of his explanations, some of the interest
in this subject that he felt himself.
“Brother medicine-man,” said the mysterious chief,
drawing nearer to the missionary, accompanied himself by
Bear's Meat, Crowsfeather, and one or two more, “you
have been talking to the Great Spirit of the pale-faces. We
have heard your words, and think them well. They are
good words for a man about to set out on the path that leads
to the unknown lands. Thither we must all go some time,
and it matters little when. We may not all travel the same
path. I do not think the Manitou will crowd tribes of different
colours together, there, as they are getting to be
crowded together, here.
“Brother, you are about to learn how all these things
really are. If red men, and pale-faces, and black men are
to live in the same land, after death, you will shortly know
it. My brother is about to go there. He and his friend,
this warrior of his people, will travel on that long path in
company. I hope they will agree by the way, and not
trouble each other. It will be convenient to my brother to
have a hunter with him; the path is so long, he will be
hungry before he gets to the end. This warrior knows how
to use a musket, and we shall put his arms with him in his
grave.
“Brother, before you start on this journey, from which
no traveller ever returns, let his colour be what it may, we
wish to hear you speak further about loving our enemies.
This is not the Indian rule. The red men hate their enemies,
and love their friends. When they ask the Manitou
to do anything to their enemies, it is to do them harm.
This is what our fathers taught us: it is what we teach our
children. Why should we love them that hate us? why
should we do good to them that do us harm? Tell us now,
or we may never hear the reason.”
“Tell you I will, Peter, and the Lord so bless my words,
that they may soften your hearts, and lead you all to the
truth, and to dependence on the mediation of his blessed
Son! We should do good to them that do evil to us, because
the Great Spirit has commanded us so to do. Ask
words that are spoken by any but those who have been
taught by the Manitou, himself? The devils tell us to revenge,
but God commands us to forgive. It is easy to do
good to them that do good to us; but it tries the heart
sorely to do good to them that do us evil. I have spoken
to you of the Son of the Great Spirit. He came on earth,
and told us with his own mouth all these great truths; he
said that next to the duty of loving the Manitou, was the
duty of loving our neighbours. No matter whether friend
or enemy; it was our duty to love them, and do them all the
good we can. If there is no venison in their wigwams,
we should take the deer from off our own poles, and carry it
and put on theirs. Why have I come here to tell you this?
When at home, I lived under a good roof, eat of abundance,
and slept in a soft and warm bed. You know how it is
here. We do not know to-day what we shall eat to-morrow.
Our beds are hard, and our roofs are of bark. I come,
because the Son of the Manitou, he who came and lived
among men, told us to do all this. His commands to his
medicine-men were, to go forth, and tell all nations, and
tribes, and colours, the truth—to tell them to `love them
that sought to do them harm, and to do good for evil.' ”
Parson Amen pausing a moment to take breath, Ungque,
who detected the wavering of Peter's mind, and who acted
far more in opposition to the mysterious and tribeless chief
than from any other motive, profited by the occasion thus
afforded to speak. Without this pause, however, the breeding
of an Indian would have prevented any interruption.
“I open my mouth to speak,” said The Weasel, in his
humblest manner. “What I say is not fit for the wise
chiefs to hear. It is foolish, but my mind tells me to say
it. Does the medicine-man of the pale-faces tell us that
the Son of the Great Spirit came upon earth, and lived
among men?”
“I do; such is our belief; and the religion we believe
and teach cometh directly from his mouth.”
“Let the medicine-man tell the chiefs how long the Son
of the Great Spirit stayed on earth, and which way he went
when he left it?”
Now, this question was put by Ungque through profound
had obtained some such idea of the great sacrifice, as would
be apt to occur to the mind of a savage. He foresaw that
the effect of the answer would be very likely to destroy
most of the influence that the missionary had just been
building up, by means of his doctrine and his prayers.
Parson Amen was a man of singular simplicity of character,
but he had his misgivings touching the effect of this
reply. Still, he did not scruple about giving it, or attempt
in any manner to mystify or to deceive.
“It is a humiliating and sad story, my brethren, and one
that ought to cause all heads to be bowed to the earth in
shame,” he answered. “The Son of the Great Spirit came
among men; he did nothing but good; told those who
heard him how to live and how to die. In return for all
this, wicked and unbelieving men put him to death. After
death his body was taken up into Heaven—the region of
departed spirits, and the dwelling-place of his Father,
where he now is, waiting for the time when he is to return
to the earth, to reward the good and to punish the wicked.
That time will surely come; nor do I believe the day to be very distant.”
The chiefs listened to this account with grave attention.
Some of them had heard outlines of the same history before.
Accounts savouring of the Christian history had
got blended with some of their own traditions, most probably
the fruits of the teachings of the earlier missionaries,
but were so confused and altered, as to be scarcely susceptible
of being recognised. To most of them, however, the
history of the incarnation of the Son of God was entirely
new; and it struck them as a most extraordinary thing altogether,
that any man should have injured such a being!
It was, perhaps, singular that no one of them all doubted
the truth of the tradition itself. This they supposed to
have been transmitted with the usual care, and they received
it as a fact not to be disputed. The construction
that was put on its circumstances will best appear in the
remarks that followed.
“If the pale-faces killed the Son of the Great Spirit,”
said Bough of the Oak, pointedly, “we can see why they
wish to drive the red men from their lands. Evil spirits
I am glad that our great chief has told us to put the foot
on this worm and crush it, while yet the Indian foot is large
enough to do it. In a few winters they would kill us, as
they killed the Spirit that did them nothing but good!”
“I am afraid that this mighty tradition hath a mystery
in it that your Indian minds will scarcely be willing to receive,”
resumed the missionary, earnestly. “I would not,
for a thousand worlds, or to save ten thousand lives as worthless
as my own, place a straw in the way of the faith of
any; yet must I tell the thing as it happened. This Son of
the Great Spirit was certainly killed by the Jews of that day,
so far as he could be killed. He possessed two natures, as
indeed do all men; the body and soul. In his body, he
was man, as we all are men; in his soul he was a part of
the Great Spirit himself. This is the great mystery of our
religion. We cannot tell how it can happen, but we believe
it. We see around us a thousand things that we
cannot understand, and this is one of them.”
Here Bear's Meat availed himself of another pause, to
make a remark. This he did with the keenness of one
accustomed to watch words and events closely, but with a
simplicity that showed no vulgar disposition to scepticism.
“We do not expect that all the Great Spirit does can be
clear to us Indians,” he said. “We know very little; he
knows everything. Why should we think to know all that
he knows? We do not. That part of the tradition gives
us no trouble. Indians can believe without seeing. They
are not squaws, that wish to look behind every bush. But
my brother has told too much for his own good. If the
pale-faces killed their Great Spirit, they can have no Manitou,
and must be in the hands of the Evil Spirit. This
is the reason they want our hunting-grounds. I will not
let them come any nearer to the setting sun. It is time to
begin to kill them, as they killed their Great Spirit. The
Jews did this. My brother wishes us to think that red men
are Jews! No; red men never harmed the Son of the
Great Spirit. They would receive him as a friend, and
treat him as a chief. Accursed be the hand that should
be raised to harm him. This tradition is a wise tradition.
It tells us many things. It tells us that Injins are not
tells us that the red men have always lived on these hunting-grounds,
and did not come from towards the rising sun.
It tells us that pale-faces are not fit to live. They are too
wicked. Let them die.”
“I would ask a question,” put in Peter. “This tradition
is not new. I have heard it before. It entered but a
little way into my ears. I did not think of it. It has now
entered deeper; and I wish to hear more. Why did not
the Son of the Great Spirit kill the Jews?—why did he
let the Jews kill him? Will my brother say?
“He came on earth to die for man, whose wickedness
was so deep, that the Great Spirit's justice could not be
satisfied with less. Why this is so, no one knows. It is
enough that it should be so. Instead of thinking of doing
harm to his tormentors and murderers, he died for them,
and died asking for benefits on them, and on their wives
and children, for all time to come. It was he who commanded
us to do good to them that do harm to us.”
Peter gave the utmost attention to this answer, and when
he had received it, he walked apart, musing profoundly.
It is worthy of being observed, that not one of these savages
raised any hollow objections to the incarnation of the
Son of the Great Spirit, as would have been the case with
so many civilized men. To them this appeared no more
difficult and incomprehensible than most of that which
they saw around them. It is when we begin to assume the
airs of philosophy, and to fancy, because we know a little,
that the whole book of knowledge is within our grasp, that
men become sceptics. There is not a human being now in
existence who does not daily, hourly see that which is just
as much beyond his powers of comprehension, as this account
of the incarnation of the Deity, and the whole doctrine
of the Trinity; and yet he acquiesces in that which
is before his eyes, because it is familiar and he sees it,
while he cavils at all else, though the same unknown and
inexplicable cause lies behind everything. The deepest
philosophy is soon lost in this general mystery, and, to the
eye of a meek reason, all around us is a species of miracle,
which must be referred to the power of the Deity.
While thus disposed to receive the pale-face traditions
their own policy and purposes. The principal chiefs now
stepped aside, and held a brief council. Though invited
to do so, Peter did not join them; leaving to Bough of the
Oak, Ungque and Bear's Meat the control of the result. The
question was, whether the original intention of including
this medicine-priest among those to be cut off, should, or
should not, be adhered to. One or two of the chiefs had
their doubts, but the opinion of the council was adverse.
“If the pale-faces killed the Son of their Great Spirit,
why should we hesitate about killing them?” the Weasel
asked, with malicious point, for he saw that Peter was now
sorely troubled at the probability of his own design being
fully carried out. “There is no difference. This is a
medicine-priest — in the wigwam is a medicine-bee-hunter,
and that warrior may be a medicine-warrior. We do not
know. We are poor Injins that know but little. It is not
so with the pale-faces: they talk with the conjurer's bees,
and know much. We shall not have ground enough to take
even a muskrat, soon, unless we cut off the strangers. The
Manitou has given us these; let us kill them.”
As no one very strenuously opposed the scheme, the
question was soon decided, and Ungque was commissioned
to communicate the result to the captives. One exception,
however, was to be made in favour of the missionary. His
object appeared to be peaceful, and it was determined that
he should be led a short distance into the surrounding thicket,
and be there put to death, without any attempt to torture,
or aggravate his sufferings. As a mark of singular
respect, it was also decided not to scalp him.
As Ungque, and those associated with him, led the missionary
to the place of execution, the former artfully invited
Peter to follow. This was done simply because the Weasel
saw that it would now be unpleasant to the man he hated
— hated, merely because he possessed an influence that
he coveted for himself.
“My father will see a pleasant sight,” said the wily
Weasel, as he walked at Peter's side, towards the indicated
spot; “he will see a pale-face die, and know that his foot
has been put upon another worm.”
No answer was made to this ironical remark, but Peter
stationed, surrounded by a guard. Ungque now advanced,
and spoke.
“It is time for the medicine-priest of the pale-faces to start
after the spirits of his people who have gone before him,”
he said. “The path is long, and unless he walks fast, and
starts soon, he may not overtake them. I hope he will see
some of them that helped to kill the Son of his Great Spirit,
starving, and foot-sore, on the way.”
“I understand you,” returned the missionary, after a few
moments passed in recovering from the shock of this communication.
“My hour is come. I have held my life in
my hand ever since I first put foot in this heathen region,
and if it be the Creator's will that I am now to die, I bow
to the decree. Grant me a few minutes for prayer to my
God.”
Ungque signed that the delay should be granted. The
missionary uncovered his head, knelt, and again lifted up
his voice in prayer. At first the tones were a little tremulous;
but they grew firmer as he proceeded. Soon they
became as serene as usual. He first asked mercy for himself,
threw all his hopes on the great atonement, and confessed
how far he was from that holiness which alone could
fit him to see God. When this duty was performed, he
prayed for his enemies. The language used was his mother
tongue, but Peter comprehended most of that which was
said. He heard his own people prayed for; he heard his
own name mentioned, as the condemned man asked the
mercy of the Manitou in his behalf. Never before was the
soul of this extraordinary savage so shaken. The past
seemed like a dream to him, while the future possessed a
light that was still obscured by clouds. Here was an exemplification
in practice of that divine spirit of love and
benevolence which had struck him, already, as so very
wonderful. There could be no mistake. There was the
kneeling captive, and his words, clear, distinct, and imploring,
ascended through the cover of the bushes to the
throne of God.
As soon as the voice of the missionary was mute, the
mysterious chief bowed his head and moved away. He
was then powerless. No authority of his could save the
eyes, was now too painful to bear. He heard the single
blow of the tomahawk which brained the victim, and he
shuddered from head to foot. It was the first time such a
weakness had ever come over him. As for the missionary,
in deference to his pursuits, his executioners dug him a
grave, and buried him unmutilated on the spot where he
had fallen.
| CHAPTER IX. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter | |