University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Was the mind of the governour shipwrecked? or
why was it, that, amid this pressure and whirl of calamity,
every movement was attended with a renewal
of distress? The spectres that had filled his room, and
walked round him with their arms folded—what were
they? The old man was not superstitious, but he shuddered,
as he recalled to mind that, once before, as
he stood upon a broken cliff overlooking the water, immediately

after his arrival in America, all alone, and
in the brightness of noonday, he found, on lifting up
his head from a posture of profound meditation, he
found himself encompassed with a multitude of strange
faces. He shouted, and they vanished! A bloody war
broke out, ere the moon changed; and the portentous
visitation was followed by the ravaging of his possessions—the
pillage of his dwelling, the slaughter of his
household—the captivity of his wife—his Elvira,—
whom he rescued, amid fire and smoke, upon that very
precipice where he had been beset by shadows, just as
she had been stripped and bound, naked and helpless,
to a young sapling, and left to swing over a frightful
chasm, in the wind, while the accursed Indians levelled
their rifles, and whirled their tomahawks at her, in
mere wantonness. Yes, yes, his blood curdled—what
new calamity portended this fearful apparition? Where
was it to happen? Where was he to encounter it?
Not, Oh God! not, as it would seem, in the very spot
where they had appeared to him, in his bed-chamber,
in the very solitude and sanctity of his retirement, the
hallowed and consecrated place of his affections! Oh,
let it not be there. Look where he would, there was
no comfort for him. Should he anticipate the savages?
or should he lie still, and abide their assault? Should
he despatch messengers for Harold? or should he subdue
his inquietude and pray for his return? Indeed
he knew not. The times were of that apalling nature,
that he feared to decide. Do what he would, destruction
and fire must follow.

Harold had been gone a whole week; no tidings,
none. What could have happened? `The boy is too full
of adventure, too rash, headstrong,' thought the governour,
again and again. `Of what use are wisdom and experience
to such creatures? I forget mine, the moment
that I hear the deep, tremulous agitation of his voice,
or see the keen glancing of his eye. Heaven forgive
me! But if he return—Great God! he must return—
he shall, he shall. Father, forgive me! Bless me once
more with the sight of him, and he shall never leave me

again, never! (in a lower voice) never, in so wild and
unknown an adventure.'

It was true that Harold had appointed a time for his
return. That time had not yet elapsed, but why no
message from him? Good or evil, we know not of
aught that hath betided him, and besides, can his return
be depended on—would he be punctual? was such a
creature, ringing his alarums, and bounding away, at
every impulse, was he to keep time, and march like
clock work? as well might ye listen for tunes from the
wild harp ringing in the wind of heaven. Ask ye the
Eolian Lyre to keep touch and time with the science
of earth, and then look to Harold for like obedience!

The council assembled. It was the eighth day of
Harold's absence. They were busy in conducting a negociation
with certain friendly chiefs, then in town;
some of whom were at the council, sitting upon matts,
with their legs across, and their stern countenances
composed to the unrelenting expression of their characters:—immoveable,
passionless. Heavens! what a picture!—Beings
of whirlwind and flame; they, in whose
bosoms the most deadly and unsparing thoughts are
forever concocting their venom, and writhing and coiling—they!—seated
around the council fire, meditating
carnage, war, peace, death and annihilation—they wear,
for ever and ever, the same brown and settled motionlessness.
Creatures of bronze, with hearts of lava! Beings,
over whose fiery and whirling material, a crust
only has been formed! who shall read them? who fathom
them? The eye, that mirror of the soul—ye may search
it with the fascination and power of the basilisk, the
beam of inquiry comes back, like an arrow shot, heedlessly,
against something of polished and glittering adamant—blunted—pointless—shattered!
The lip—there
is no curling, no writhing, no scornful lifting of that
most expressive feature; no!—but shut firmly, and fixed,
as if it were sealed; and all beneath were death or torpor.
Wo to the watchers of signs and symptoms! The
brow—who shall measure the amplitude of an Indian
thought, by the sweep and fashion of his brow? Who
shall tell, by studying him, if his nature sleep, or, like

the whirlwind, is already on the wing? Eye, lip, and
brow! what are they to him who would gaze upon, and
read the meditation of an Indian, even in his most unguarded
moment? Nothing—nothing! a mockery, a
defiance. Alike in sorrow and in shame; in wrath, the
fiercest and fellest. Alike in the unimaginable battle—
in night and tempest—in peace and war—in bloodshed
and in hunting. Alike at all times, at all seasons, in all
ages, in all trials, and under all temptations! How, then,
shall you read the Indian? You may not. You are only
set to beware of a growing loneliness, a more inscrutable
serenity; for these increase, as the moment approaches
which is about to tear up your foundations
like a mine—prostrate and scatter your strong places,
like a hurricane. Watch him in his hour of festivity.
Does he abstain from strong drink? Beware! Does he
sit alone—avoiding with a little more than his habitual
seriousness, all communion? shunning, with an appearance
of accident, his chosen companions? Beware! He
would lull you. The plot is gathering. It will burst
in thunder.

Some of these inscrutable beings were seated about
the chamber. A stranger's voice was heard at the landing.
They turned not, spoke not, made no sign; but
the eyes of each, like those of the rattle snake, were
glittering toward the entrance. The voice was rude
and heavy, and the demand for admittance was made
with the emphasis and bearing of authority. It was refused.

Two or three loud words were heard—a blow—a
shout! and something fell heavily against the door. It
yielded, and a man, a soldier, staggered into the room,
reeling under the effect of a tremendous blow. He
was followed by a fierce, tall savage.

The hand of every Indian was instantly upon the
hilt of his ornamented knife, and his limbs were contracted,
and gathered beneath him, as preparing to leap
upon his feet.

The whole council rose from their chairs. Tomahawks
were grappled; and the working of restrained
muscular force could be distinctly seen, beneath the

pacifick folding of some arms. The guard at the landing,
angry at the treatment of their comrade, who had
been ordered to admit nobody, but by a special order,
were following up the stranger with looks full of menace
and determination; and the governour, who never
went unarmed after the interview with Logan, placed
his hand calmly, but resolutely, upon the trigger of a
horse pistol before him.

The stranger walked forward. He stood face to face
with the governour, in the very centre of the chamber,
unmoved, unarmed, unintimidated by all this threat and
preparation.

`Who are you?' said the governour.

The stranger threw down a folded paper upon the
table. It was handed to the governour.

An exclamation broke wildly from his lips. He looked
at the stranger with terrour and admiration; measured
him from head to foot. Suddenly, why does his
countenance change? Does he recognise him? He does!
and the sweat starts out upon his forehead. His lip
quivers, and he half raises his pistol.

The stranger made a correspondent motion, and
threw his eyes with the avidity and effect of lightning,
first at the governour, then, at the council, the Indians,
the guard, and the door. What sympathy! as he moved,
they moved, and the faces about him waxed pale and
deathly, like countenances seen through a vapour—
his form seemed to contract and dilate, and the blood
and breath rattled in his chest? What did he meditate?
We know not. He was not put to the trial.

`I desire a private conference,' said he.

The governour's eyes rolled in their sockets, at the
sound of his voice, and he could hardly suppress a
deep groan. He was on the point of refusing, with
violence; but a moment's reflection, and another
glance at the immoveable features before him, convinced
him that he would be as safe alone, as with all his
council and troops about him. `Gentlemen,' said he,
turning solemnly to the board, in a firm voice, `we will
meet again this evening.' They departed. The Indian

chiefs rose, but, looking at each other, hesitated to
follow.

The governour thanked them with his hand, and signified
that he would not profit by their protection.
Still there was a lowering, a manifest unwillingness to
depart, in their manner. They went, however: but the
governour observed, and his blood ran cold at the sight,
a secret and terrible brightning of the eye, exchanged
between two of the youngest, both of whom, at the
same moment, made a significant motion of the foot.

Quicker than lightning, the stranger made a correspondent
motion. He reddened—his bosom heaved,
and he stamped with vexation. What could this mean!
The governour was not certain, but yet it appeared to
him that there was some interchange of dreadful
thought, between the retiring chiefs; a sort of malicious
triumph, as of discovery, in their manner. He felt a
growing concern for the life of his brave, but implacable
enemy, and determined to apprise him of what he
had seen.

Another glance—the secret was his own. This stranger
was no Indian. It had been discovered by the position
of his feet. There was the mystery. He had forgotten
to turn them inward; and, therefore, had belied
his costume.

`Your business, sir. Be brief,' said the governour.
An angry and quick motion of the stranger's arm made
him recoil, as he answered—`You know me governour.'

`Yes,—Logan'—was the reply. `Logan, among the
red men.'

`I understand you, governour. The red men are my
brothers. Very well. In ten words then—I am Logan.
I would marry a I ogan. The tribe refuse. They are
your mortal enemies. They are afraid of you. They
are able, with my assistance, to lay waste the village
of every Indian ally that you have on earth. Now!
will you be at peace with them? If yea, there are your
treaties. If no, the tomahawk.'

`Answer me, I have no time to lose. Before another
sun, your answer is enregistered. There will be no

appeal. Peace or war? If yea, we, I, I will fight for
you, die for you. If no, mark me—another moon—
you and your whites—every man of them, are swept
from the earth Mark me. I know it. I say it. And
you know me, me! I would weep at your ruin—but
that time has gone by. I have shed my last tears. I
shall never weep again. No! not, if the heavens were
melting above me, and the earth were running with
blood. Enough; another moon, and not a white man
breathes within our ancient hunting ground; no woman;
no infant—none! within the circumference of our dominion—the
two oceans—Another moon—ye are exterminated,
extinct, forgotten! What say you?'

`I can save you, I, alone. At my intercession, you
are spared till now. Think not that I shall relent. No,
I owe no allegiance to aught but the red men. Pity to
the whites, though my veins may be infected with their
detestable blood, pity to them, were treason to the God
of the Indians.'

`Be at peace with us. I will marry a Logan. I will
be your friend, your friend! as I have been your enemy.
You understand me. And look you here, governour;
we have known each other before—our fathers too—
but that is passed. I have forgotten that—with this
very arm! ay, by this very hand, the blood of your
dearest, your best beloved on earth, shall mingle with
your own. Am I to be eluded? Did I ever threaten,
but the deed followed? Yea, governour, ere another
moon, your children, your little ones (his voice faltered)
from the north to the south, from the east to the
west, with all their white habitations, shall lie smoking
and even with the earth. What say you?'

`To-morrow, I will reply.'

`To-morrow, ha! ha! ha!' shouted the imperious
stranger.

The governour's hair rose upon his head—his chest
rattled—He stood gasping with rage and horrour.'

`Devil!—Thou fiend of hell,' he cried—`Thy voice
hath betrayed thee again! Was it indeed thou, and thy
bloodhounds, that leaped the precipice before our bayonets?'

Another laugh! The governour would have pistoled
him on the spot. But Logan sternly put the muzzle
aside, and answered, coldly, carelessly—

`Yes! It was I, I that sacked your dwelling. I, that
saved your wife. Why I did it, I know not. It was an
impulse. She was naked, bound, when I discovered
her. I claim no merit for what I did, but I was reeking
and weary with the blood of men, your bravest and
best; and I was sickening with that of women. Therefore,
I gave you the intelligence that I did—at the
wood—'

`You—was that you?'

`Yes. Would you know the full weight of your obligation?
I owed you a favour. You know what it is.
While you did your duty, I did mine. It was I that
ran to you amid a shower of bullets, to tell you where
we lay. it was I, too, that, at the hazard of my neck,
leaped a precipice when you approached us so rashly.
It was I, too, that prevented an ambuscade on your return,
in which you would infallibly have perished.
There! are you weary? nay, nay, release my hand. I
am satisfied. You owe me nothing. I only ask you to
behave like a man. Your answer.'

`To-morrow.'

`To-morrow again! Governour are you possessed.
(His face wrinkled with mockery and scorn.) To-morrow,
man!—there is no to-morrow for you. To-night,
this very night, nay, this instant!—now, now, here on
this spot, you must determine! What say you? Yea
or nay?'

`Logan,' said the governour, with a steady and
solemn voice. `You have prevailed!—Yea!'

Logan was affected. He stood subdued for a moment—The
awful magnanimity of a great heart, in its
extremest agony, affected him.

`Logan,' resumed the old man, `there's my hand.
I tell thee, for I do know thee, that I do not believe thee,
to the full extent of thy tremendous denunciations;
but yet I do know thee. Thou wondrous and terrible
spirit—so erring and luminous—I do not believe what

thou sayest—but I believe that thou believest it. Will
that appease the growing menace of thy front?'

Logan turned away from the steady and great aspect
before him, borne up on an equality with his own,
by a frame as majestick as his own, even in its decay.
It was the countenance of one intent on martyrdom.
A sudden shivering ran over him, from the crown of
his head to the sole of his foot; and his heart bounded
against his Indian breast plate of ornamented silver: and
there was a gasping, for a moment, as of intellectual
suffocation, in his strong breath—his voice died away,
and his face was hidden in the lifted folds of his panther
skin.

`Governour,' said he, at last, raising his locked
hands—`Governour! (his voice was inconceivably
tremulous and broken, but solemn and deep; a voice,
that even in its whispering, sounded like the efforts of
an imprisoned tempest to escape, and rage and devastate)—`governour,
enough, enough! (he grasped the
old man's hand, and held it to his hot, throbbing temples)
you have saved your life, your own life—the life
of your adopted—even, her!—that of your wife: ay!'—
(a pause)—`and—and—though I have hitherto cared
little for the boon—you have saved my life; and it is
welcome to me now! But you assent;' (he grew more
intensely energetick and fixed in his manner, hurrying
as he proceeded, till his voice became thrilling in its
elevation and cadence beyond all enduring,) `but for
your assent, this very hand,' (he extended his arm before
him, as he continued, stretching the fingers as if
he felt them sticking together with blood, as far apart
as he could, and gazed on them, with a mingled expression
of melancholy and desperation,) `this very hand,
this very night too, had been besmeared again—again,
with the blood of old age and infancy! Yea, but for
this treaty,' he continued, stooping and whispering to
the governour—`old man, thus made with me, by a
single word I had been—nay thou, thou thyself hadst
been, the murderer of hundreds—of whom?—of thy
countrymen—our countrymen!'

`Our countrymen! gracious heaven! how? where?'

It was too late. Logan was gone. His strong bound
rang for a moment, like the sound of one leaping in
armour and harness upon his naked feet, down the
broad stair case, and then, like the reiterated tramp of
an unshod war-horse, at his fiercest speed; and then,
with three or four clattering reverberations, it died away
in echoes. Logan hath cleared guard and guard house,
watch and watchman, steel and ball!