University of Virginia Library

ONEA AND ANYTA.

1. I.

The Yemassee was no longer the great nation.
They had set their fortunes upon a cast, and the
throw was fatal. Civilization triumphed. The
Carolinians, in spite of the sudden massacres under
which they had suffered at the beginning of the
war, were at length successful; and at Coosawhatchie,
or the “town of refuge,” the Yemassees
lost their best leaders. With these, they lost
all spirit, and their surviving warriors were unequal
to the task of restoring their fortunes. Scattered
and without counsel, they yet fled, as if by a common
instinct, to their sacred town of Pocota-ligo,
where, in the presence of their priests and the protection
of their gods, they had faint hopes yet of
effecting by prayers and superstitious ceremonies,
what, hitherto, their own fearless valor had utterly

failed to accomplish. Their resources were now
nearly exhausted — their villages in flames; and relying
as they had done, upon the hope of obtaining
possession of the chief city and provisions of
the whites, their fields had, in the greater number
of cases, been left without cultivation. Their
Spanish allies, always deceitful, after stimulating
them to war, had left them to contend with it single
handed. On hearing of the defeat and slaughter
of the Yemassees, such of them as had been sent
from St. Augustine to their succor, returned to the
shelter of its walls, under the influence of a sudden
panic. The neighboring Indian tribes followed
the base example, and either returned to their forests,
or made concessions, and bound themselves
by treaty to the conquerors, giving hostages for
their future good behavior. Not so with the unhappy
Yemassees. They were still too proud to
beg for that peace, which they yet needed more
than all, and which alone could save them from extermination.
They were too brave to desire peace
when their slain brothers remained unavenged.
They resolved, therefore, to carry on the struggle
to the last; and, crowding into the holy town of
Pocota-ligo, they proceeded to strengthen themselves
in their position, as well as they might,
there to await the approach of the Carolinians.
They fortified the town, somewhat after the fashion
of the European settlers, with the trunks of trees
and the larger branches, rudely bedded together.
This done, divided between hopes and fears, they
passed the brief time which elapsed between their
preparations and the assault. They had not long to
wait. Their defences, which, manned by Europeans,
and against savages, might have proved
adequate to their purposes, proved no barrier
against the pursuer. The impetuous onset of their
sanguine assailants could not be withstood by those,
made already apprehensive by previous experience,
of the result; and their frail bulwarks were stormed,
and Pocota-ligo in flames, in the same fearful hour
of assault. The scene was terrible; but, though
despairing, the Indians did not think of flight.
The men fell, and the women filled their places.
A dreadful massacre ensued: naked and howling,
but tearing and rending as they ran, men, women,
and children, darted to and from the blazing dwellings,
shrieking for that revenge which they could
obtain in part only. They neither gave nor asked
for quarter; and in the darkness of night and the
confusion of the scene, they were enabled to protract
the conflict with the success which must always
follow courage, and the valor of men fighting
fearlessly for their homes. Through the night the
battle lasted, but as soon as the day broke upon
them, the struggle was over. The first glimpses
of the morning found the bayonet at the heart of
the few surviving warriors, who still lived, but only
at the mercy of those to whom in all their successes
they had shown no mercy. But few of them escaped.
Before sunrise, the fight was ended, and
the great nation of the Yemassees was stricken from
existence.

2. II.

On the eastern banks of the Isundiga, or Savannah
river, there is a lofty tumulus, which the
insidious waters of the stream have long since begun
to undermine. On the summit of this tumulus,
the morning after the termination of this fatal
combat, stood a Yemassee warrior. The blood
upon his visage — his torn garments and broken
instruments of war, sufficiently testified to the recent
strifes in which he had been engaged. It
was Echotee, a valiant chief, who stood upon the
tumulus. His limbs were weary with toil and
flight — his eye was dim, and the melancholy sadness
of the Indian mouth was heightened into hate
and anguish. He busied himself in fitting new

sinews to his bow, and sharp flint heads to his arrows.
The hunting shirt which he wore — a finely
dressed buckskin of the brightest yellow, fantastically
inwrought with shells and beads — such decorations
as the tasteful woman, Hiwassee, his wife,
had fondly chosen for the purpose — was torn in
many places, and spots of the darkest red were
contrasted with the bright yellow of the garment.
Wounded, lone, and sorrowing, yet Echotee did
not despair. His eye had exile in it, but not fear;
neither did he despond. Firmness and manly
resolution shared with sorrow the habitations of
his soul. Anxiously, at moments, he looked towards
the forests behind him, as if in expectation;
but their dark intricacies uttered no sound or
voice, and he turned his eyes away in disappointment.
Then, after a brief pause, taking his way
down from the tumulus, he moved to a little streamlet
that trickled at the foot of the mound, and passing
partially through it, at length made its way to the
bosom of the Isundiga. Stooping to the stream,
he drank freely of its waters; then, returning hastily
to the mound, he proceeded, with a slender
shingle, with which he had provided himself, to dig
an opening in the hillock, as if contemplating a
place of sepulture. While he dug, he sang in a
low but unsubdued tone, a chant, in which he lamented
the fortunes of his fellows:—

“They are gone, and the night covers them.
My feet have no companion in the chase — the
hollow woods speak to me with the voices of
shadows — there is no life in their sounds. Where
art thou, Washattee — where speedest thou, whom
none yet has overtaken. On the far hills that rise
blue at the evening I see thee — thou hast found the
valley of joy, and the plum-groves that are ever in
bloom. But who, brother, shall gather thy bones —
who take care of thy spirit — where shall the
children look, when they seek for thy grave. Thou
art all untended in the green valleys, and the ghosts
of the slain bend over thee with many frowns.
Comes she, the maid of thy bosom, to dress the
board of the hunter? Brings she at evening thy
venison? When the night is dark, and the brown
vulture stoops on thy path, and snuffs up blood of
thy spilling, I fear for thee, my brother. Thou
canst not sit in the green valley, for the warrior
lives who has slain thee, and mine arrow may reach
him not. Yet will I sing for thee, Washattee — I
will sing for thee thy death-song, and tell the ghosts
who frown, of thy many victories; thou wert mighty
in the chase — the high hills did not overcome
thee. Thy boyhood was like the manhood of

other men — thou didst not creep in thy childhood.
From the first, thy feet were strong to walk, and
what speed of the warrior was like unto thine?
Well did they call thee the young panther — the eye
and the might of the young panther's mother was
thine. The strong tide, when thou swammest,
bore thee not back — thou didst put it by like an
infant. In the chase, thou wert an arrow which
laughs at the bird's wing — in the battle, thou wert
a keen tooth that goes deep in the heart. Thus
said the Muscoghee, when his eyes swam in the
cloud as he lay under thy knee — thus said the
Catawba, when thy hand struck through the long
willows by the lake of Sarattay. The ghosts of
the Muscoghee and the Catawba shall wait for thy
coming, and meet thee to serve, when thine eye
opens upon the green valley, and thy shadow darts
forward on the silent chase. But thou, oh Yemassee
— thou of the broad arrow and the big wing
— it is sad for thee when none but Echotee may
stand up for thy people. Thy wing is down
among the reeds that lie beside the river — thy
broad arrow is broken on the plain. Thy shadow
grows small upon thy tumulus, and I speak thy
name in a whisper. Opitchi-manneyto looks on
thee in wrath. He joyed in the last cry of Sanutee
— he joyed when the death-song came thick
from the lips of Chigilli — he joyed when the pale
faces cut the sinews in thy thousand arms. Who
shall sing thy greatness, Yemassee — what warrior
to come after? What woman with long hair shall
creep through the forest, looking in the evening
for thy scattered bones? Who shall scare the
wolf from thy carcass, as he tears thy flesh beneath
the moon. The fox burrows under the hearth of
the hunter, and there is no fire to drive him away.
Silence lives lonely in thy dwelling. Thou art
gone. Spirit of many ages! thy voice is sunk
into a whisper; and thy name, it is an echo on the
hill tops. Thy glories are the graves of many
enemies, but thy own grave is unknown.”

The death-chant of the warrior was broken. A
sudden cry of sorrow reached his ears from the
neighboring woods, and was immediately succeeded
by the appearance of about thirty other
Indians, of both sexes, emerging from the shadowy
umbrage. These were all that were left of his
nation. Echotee looked on them for an instant
with sudden interest, but his eyes were again as instantly
dropped upon the ground, and his hands
continued to labor upon the grave which he had
begun. Meanwhile the Indians advanced, bearing
along with them, from the woods, the dead body
of a warrior. This was Washattee, the warrior

whose death-song had been just sung by his brother.
Beside this, Echotee gave no other sign of
sorrow. No trace of that grief which might be
supposed natural to his uttered lamentations, was
visible in his action or face. His words seemed
to fall from lips of marble. His was the majesty
of wo, without its weakness.

Washattee had fled with the few survivors from
the fatal field of Pocota-ligo; but his wounds were
fatal, and he only fled from a quick to a protracted
form of death. He perished in the forests when
no longer in danger from the pursuing foe. They
were now to bury him. The ceremonies of burial
among the savages are usually simple. The warriors,
as they assisted to deposite their comrade in
the grave, chanted over him a song, not unlike
that which has already been recited. They enumerated
his victories over the Catawba, the Muscoghee,
and other nations — his particular successes
in the chase; and their only and common regret
was, that his death had not been avenged in the
blood of the victor. While they sang, Echotee,
who remained silent all the while, placed beside
him, in the grave, his bow, his arrows, knife, pipe,
and a plentiful supply of flint arrow-heads, to meet
the emergencies of the chase in the shady vallies,
to which, according to their faith, his steps were

already bending. This done, and the soft mould
heaped upon him, after a brief consultation, they
stepped one by one into the order of march known
as the Indian file, making but one footstep for the
eyes of the pursuer, and followed, at equal distances,
the guidance of the brave Echotee. By the
side of the latter, came, in tears, the young and
beautiful Hiwassee, the maiden who, but a little
time before, had broken with him the wand of
marriage — the sacred wand of Checkamoysee.
To the deeper western forests they bent their way,
and the shadows of evening soon sank behind them
like a wall, separating them forever from their native
homes.

3. III.

Many years had now elapsed, and men ceased to
remember the once noble nation of the Yemassees
— once the most terrible and accomplished people
of the southern forests. They had even gone out
of the memories of their ancient enemies, the
Creeks; and the Carolinians, while in the full enjoyment
of the fertile lands which had been their
heritage, had almost entirely forgotten the hard
toils and fearful perils by which they had been acquired.

It was in the morning of a bright day in
October, that a small Indian canoe might have
been seen ascending the river St. Mary, up to its
source in the Okeefanokee swamp, a dismal region,
which lies between the Ockmulgee and Flint rivers,
in the state of Georgia.

There were but two persons in the canoe, both
Indian hunters of the Creek nation; a gallant
race, well known for high courage among the
tribes, and distinguished not less by their wild
magnanimity and adventure, than by their daring
ferocity. The warriors were both young, and
were numbered, and with strict justice, among the
ćlite of their people. At peace, for the first time
for many seasons, with all around them, they gave
themselves up to the pleasures of the chase, and
sought, in the hardy trials of the hunt for the bear
and the buffalo, to relieve the inglorious and unwelcome
ease which this novel condition of things
had imposed upon them. Our two adventurers,
forsaking the beaten track, and with a spirit tending
something more than customary to that which
distinguishes civilization, had undertaken an exploring
expedition into the recesses of this vast
lake and marsh, which, occupying a space of nearly
three hundred miles in extent, and in very rainy
seasons almost completely inundated, presented,

amidst the thousand islands which its bosom conceals,
fruitful and inviting materials for inquiry
and adventure. Girt in with interminable forests,
the space of which was completely filled up with
umbrageous vines and a thick underwood, the trial
was one of no little peril, and called for the exercise
of stout heart, strong hand, and a world of
fortitude and patience. It was also the abiding-place
of the wild boar and the panther — the
southern crocodile howled nightly in its recesses —
and the coiled snake, ever and anon, thrust out its
venomous fangs from the verdant bush. With
words of cheer and mutual encouragement, the
young hunters made their way. They were well
armed and prepared for all chances; and fondly
did they anticipate the delight which they would
entertain, on relating their numerous adventures
and achievements, by field and flood, to the assembled
nation, on the return of the ensuing spring.
They took with them no unnecessary incumbrances.
The well tempered bow, the chosen and
barbed arrows, the curved knife, suited to a transition
the most abrupt, from the scalping of the enemy
to the carving of the repast, and the hatchet,
fitted to the adroit hand of the hunter, and ready
at his back for all emergencies, were the principal
accoutrements of the warriors. They troubled
themselves not much about provisions. A little
parched corn supplied all wants, and the dried
venison in their pouches was a luxury, taken on
occasion only. They knew that, for an Indian,
the woods had always a pregnant store; and they
did not doubt that their own address, in such matters,
would at all times enable them to come at it.

Dreary, indeed, was their progress. An European
would have despaired entirely, and given up
what must have appeared, not merely a visionary
and hopeless, but a desperate and dangerous pursuit.
But the determination of an Indian, once
made, is unchangeable. His mind clothes itself
in a seemingly habitual stubbornness, and he is
inflexible and unyielding. Though young, scarcely
arrived at manhood, our warriors were too well
taught in the national philosophy, to have done
any thing half so womanlike as to turn their backs
upon an adventure, devised coolly, and commenced
with all due preparation. They resolutely pursued
their way, unfearing, unswering, unshrinking.
The river narrowed at length into hundreds of diverging
rivulets, and, after having run their canoe
upon the sands, they were compelled to desert it,
and pursue their farther way on foot. They did
not pause, but entered at once upon the new labor;
and now climbing from tree to bank — now wading

along the haunts of the plunging alligator, through
pond and mire — now hewing with their hatchets
a pathway through the thickest branches, they
found enough to retard, but nothing to deter them.
For days did they pursue this species of toil, passing
from island to island — alternately wading and
swimming — until at length, all unexpectedly, the
prospect opened in strange brightness and beauty
before them. They came to a broad and lovely
lake, surrounded on all sides by the forest,
through a portion of which they had passed with
so much difficulty, and to which the storms never
came. It lay sleeping before them with the calm
of an infant, and sheltered by the wood, the wild
vine, and a thousand flowers. In the centre rose
a beautiful island, whose shores were crowned with
trees bearing all species of fruit, and emitting a
most grateful fragrance. The land was elevated
and inviting, and, as they looked, the young warriors
conceived it the most blissful and lovely spot
of earth. Afar in the distance, they beheld the
white habitations of the people of the strange land,
but in vain did they endeavor to reach them.
They did not seek to adventure into the broad and
otherwise inviting waters; for occasionally they
could behold the crocodiles, of the largest and
fiercest class, rising to the surface, and seeming to
threaten them with their unclasped jaws, thickly
studded with their white sharp teeth. While in
this difficulty, they beheld a young maiden waving
them on the opposite bank; and Onea, the youngest
of the two hunters, attracted by the incomparable
beauty of her person, would have leapt without
scruple into the lake, and swam to the side on
which she stood, but that his more grave and cautious
companion, Hillaby, restrained him. They
observed her motions, and perceived that she directed
their attention to some object in the distance.
Following her direction, they found a small canoe
tied to a tree, and sheltered in a little bay. Into this
they entered fearlessly, and putting out their paddles,
passed in a short time to the opposite shore,
the beauty of which, now that they had reached
it, was even more surpassingly great than when
seen afar off. Nor did the young Indian maiden,
in the eye of the brave Onea, lose any of those
charms, the influence of which had already penetrated
his inmost spirit. But now she stood not
alone. A bright young maiden like herself appeared
beside her, and, taking the warriors by the
hand, they sung sweet songs of pleasure in their
ears, and brought them the milk of the cocoa to
refresh them, and plucked for them many of the
rich and delightful fruits which hung over their
heads. There were oranges and dates, and cakes
made of corn and sugar, baked with their own
hands, which they cordially set before them. Many
were the sweet glances and precious sentences
which they gave to the young warriors, and soon
did the gallant Creeks understand, and gladly did
they respond to their kindness. Long would they
have lingered with these maidens, but, when their
repast had ended, they enjoined them to begone —
to fly as quickly as possible, for that their people
were cruel to strangers, and the men of their nation
would certainly destroy them with savage tortures,
were they to return from the distant chase
upon which they had gone, and find the intruders.
“But will they not give you,” said the fearless
Onea, “to be the bride of a brave warrior? I shame
not to speak the name of my nation. They are
men, and they beg not for life. I, myself, am a
man among my people, who are all men. They
will give you to fill my wigwam. I will do battle
for you, Anyta, with the knife and the bow; I
will win you by the strong arm, if the strange
warriors stand in the path.” “Alas,” said the
young girl, “you know not my people. They
are tall like the pine trees, which rise above other
trees; they look down upon your tribe as the prairie
grass that the buffalo tramples down, and the
flames wither. The sun is their father — the earth
their mother — and we are called the daughters of
the sun. They would dash you into the flames, if
you told them of a lodge in the Creek wigwam
for a maiden of our tribe.”

“The Creek is a warrior and a chief, Anyta,
and he will not die like a woman. He can pluck
out the heart of his foe while he begs upon the
ground. I fear not for your people's anger, but I
love the young maid of the bright eye and sunny
face, and would take her as a singing-bird into the
lodge of a great warrior. I will stay in your cabin
till the warriors come back from the hunt. I am
no fox to burrow in the hill side.”

“You will stay to see me perish, then, Onea,”
said the girl — a gleam of melancholy shining
from her large dark eyes — “for my people will
not let me live, when I speak for your life.”

“See you not my bow and arrows, Anyta? Is
not the tomahawk at my shoulder? Look, my
knife is keen — the sapling may speak.”

“Your arm is strong, and your heart true, you
would say to Anyta; but what is one arm, and what
are thy weapons, to a thousand? You must not
linger, Onea; we will put forth in the little canoe.
I will steer to a quiet hollow, and when thou art

in safety I will leave thee, and return to thee
again.”

4. IV.

It was with difficulty the hot-headed Onea was
persuaded to comply with the suggestions of prudence,
and nothing but a consideration for the
safety of the maiden had power to restrain his impetuosity.
But, assured that, in the unequal contest
of which she spoke, his own individual zeal
and valor would prove unavailing, he submitted,
though with evident ill grace, to her directions.
A like scene had, in the meanwhile, taken place
between Hillaby and Henamarsa, Anyta's lovely
companion, which was attended with pretty nearly
the same results. A mutual understanding had the
effect of providing for the two warriors in the same
manner. Entering once more the canoe in company
with, and under the guidance of their mistresses,
they took their way down the lake, until
they lost sight of the island on which they had
first met. They kept on, until, far away from the
main route to the habitations of the tribe, they
came to a beautiful knoll of green, thickly covered
with shrubbery and trees, and so wrapt from the

passing glance of the wayfarer, by the circuitous
bendings of the stream, as to afford them the safety
and secrecy they desired. The maidens informed
them that they alone were in possession of
the fact of its existence, having been cast upon it
by a summer tempest, while wandering over the
rippling waters in their birchen canoe. They
found it a pleasant dwelling-place. The wild
fruits and scented flowers seemed to have purposely
embellished it for the habitation of content and
love, and the singing birds were perpetually carroling
from the branches. The vines, thickly interwoven
above their heads, and covered with
leaves, afforded them the desired shelter; and
gladly did they appropriate, and sweetly did they
enjoy, its pleasures and its privacies. But the day
began to wane, and the approaching evening indicated
the return of the fierce warriors from the
chase. With many vows, and a tender and sweet
sorrow, the maidens took their departure for the
dwellings of their people, leaving the young
chiefs to contemplate their new ties, and the novel
situation in which they had placed themselves.
Nor did the maidens forget their pledges, or prove
false to their vows. Day after day did they take
their way in the birchen bark, and linger till
evening in the society of their beloved. The
hours passed fleetly in such enjoyments, and happy
months of felicity only taught them the beauty
of flowers and their scents, and the delights of an
attachment before utterly unknown. But the wing
of the halcyon ceased to rest on the blessed island.
Impatient of inactivity, the warrior Hillaby came
one day to the vine-covered cabin of Onea; his
looks were sullen, and his language desponding.
He spoke thus:

“It is not meet, Onea, that the hawk should be
clipped of his wings, and the young panther be
caged like a deer; let us go home to our people.
I am growing an old woman. I have no strength
in my sinews — my knees are weak.”

“I would go home to my people,” replied
Onea, “but cannot leave the young fawn who has
taken shelter under my protection. And will
Hillaby depart from Henamarsa?”

“Hillaby will depart from Henamarsa, but Hillaby
has the cunning of the serpent, and can burrow
like the hill-fox. He will no longer take the
dove to his heart, dreading an enemy. He will
go home to his people — he will gather the young
men of the nation, and do battle for Henamarsa.
Onea is a brave warrior — will he not fight for
Anyta?”

“Onea would die for Anyta, but he would not

that Anyta should perish too. Onea would not
destroy the people of his wife.”

“Would they not destroy Onea? They would
hang his scalp in the smoke of their wigwams —
they would shout and dance about the stake when
his death-song is singing. If Onea will not depart
with Hillaby, he will go alone. He will bring
the young warriors; and the dogs who would keep
Henamarsa from his wigwam — they shall perish
by his knife, and the wild boar shall grow fat upon
their carcasses.”

Thus spoke the elder of the two warriors, and
vain were the entreaties and arguments employed
by Onea to dissuade him from his purpose. The
Indian habit was too strong for love, and his sense
of national, not less than individual pride, together
with the supineness of his present life, contrasted
with that restless activity to which he had been
brought up and habituated, rendered all persuasion
fruitless, and destroyed the force of all arguments.
Deep, seemingly, was the anguish of
Henamarsa, when she learned the departure of
her lover. A settled fear, however, took possession
of the bosom of the gentle Anyta, and she
sobbed upon the breast of the brave Onea. She
felt that their happiness was at an end — that the
hope of her people was insecure — that the home

of her fathers was about to suffer violation. She
saw at once all the danger, and did not hesitate
to whisper it in the ear of Onea. All her hope
rested in the belief, that Hillaby would never succeed
in tracing his way back through the intricacies
of the swamp to his own people; or if he did,
that he would not succeed in guiding them to the
precise point in its recesses, in which her tribe had
found its abode. But Onea knew better the capacities
of a warrior among his people. He seized
his bow and equipments, and would have taken
the path after Hillaby, determined to quiet the
fears of his beloved, even by the death of his late
friend and companion; but the maiden restrained
him. She uttered a prayer to the great spirit, for
the safety of herself and people, and gave herself
up to the wonted happiness of that society for
which she was willing to sacrifice every thing.

5. V.

A new trial awaited Onea. One day Anyta
came not. The canoe was paddled by Henamarsa
alone. She sought him in his wigwam.
She sought to take the place of his beloved in his
affections, and would have loaded him with caresses.

“Where is Anyta?” asked the young warrior.

“She is no longer the bride of Onea,” was the
reply. “She has gone into the wigwam of a warrior
of her tribe — Henamarsa will love Onea, in
the place of Anyta.”

“Onea will love none but Anyta,” was the
reply.

“But she is now the wife of Echotee, the young
chief. She can no longer be yours. You will
never see her more.”

“I will tear her from the cabin of the dog — I
will drive my hatchet into his skull,” — said the
infuriated warrior. He rejected all the blandishments
of Henamarsa, and taunted her with her infidelity
to Hillaby. She departed in anger from
his presence, and he lay troubled with his meditations
as to the course he should pursue with regard
to Anyta. His determination was adopted, and
at midnight, in a birchen canoe prepared through
the day, he took his way over the broad lake to
the island. It lay, but not in quiet, stretched out
beautifully under the twinkling stars that shone
down sweetly upon it. These, however, were not
its only lights. Countless blazes illuminated the
shores in every direction — and the sound of lively
music came upon his ear, with an influence that
chafed still more fiercely the raging spirit in his

heart. There were shouts and songs of merriment
— and the whirling tread of the impetuous
dancers bespoke a feast and a frolic, such as are
due, among the Indians, to occasions only of the
highest festivity.

Drawing his bark quietly upon the shore, without
interruption, he went among the revellers.
No one seemed to observe — no one questioned
him. Dressed in habiliments the most fantastic
and irregular, his warlike semblance did not
strike the minds of the spectators as at all inconsistent
with the sports they were pursuing, and he
passed without impediment or check to the great
hall, from whence the sounds of most extravagant
merriment proceeded. He entered with the throng,
in time to witness a solemn ceremonial. There
came, at one side, a gallant chief, youthful, handsome,
and gracefully erect. He came at the head
of a chosen band of youth of his own age, attired
in rich furs taken from native animals. Each of
them bore a white wand, the symbol of marriage.

On the other side came a like party of
maidens, dressed in robes of the whitest cotton,
and bearing wands like the men. What bright
creature is it that leads this beautiful array? Why
does the young Muscoghee start — wherefore the

red spot on the brow of Onea? The maiden who
leads the procession, is his own, the gentle Anyta.
Grief was in her face; her eyes were dewy and
sad, and her limbs so trembled that those around
gathered to her support. The first impulse of
Onea was to rush forward and challenge the array
— to seize upon the maiden in the presence of the
assembly; and, by the strength of his arm, and
the sharp stroke of his hatchet, to assert his claims
to the bride in the teeth of every competitor. But
the warrior was not less wise than daring. He
saw that the maiden was sick at heart, and a fond
hope sprung into his own. He determined to witness
the progress of the ceremony, trusting something
to events. They dragged her forward to
the rite, passive rather than unresisting. The
white wands of the two processions, males and females,
were linked above the heads of Echotee and
Anyta — the bridal dance was performed around
them in circles, and, agreeable to the ritual of the
tribe to which they belonged, the marriage was
declared complete. And now came on the banqueting.
The repast, fruitful of animation, proceeded,
and the warriors gathered around the
board, disposed alternately among the maidens,
Echotee and Anyta presiding. Onea stood apart.

“Who is he who despises our festival — why

does the young man stand away from the board?
The brave man may fight and rejoice — he wears
not always the war paint — he cries not for ever
the war-whoop — he will come where the singing
birds gather, and join in the merriment of the
feast.”

Thus cried a strong voice from the company,
and all eyes were turned upon Onea. The youth
did not shrink from reply —

“The warrior says what is true. It is not for
the brave man to scorn the festival — he rejoices
at the feast. But the stranger comes of a far tribe,
and she who carries the wand must bid him welcome,
or he sits not at the board with the warriors.”

Anyta slowly rose to perform the duty imposed
upon her. She had already recognised the form
of her lover, and her step was tremulous and her
advances slow. She waved the wand which she
held in her hands, and he approached, unhesitatingly,
to her side. The Indians manifested little
curiosity — such a feature of character being inconsistent,
in their notion, with the manliness indispensable
to the warrior. Still there was something
marked in the habit worn by Onea, which taught
them to believe him a stranger. At such a time,
however, the young men, intriguing with their dusky

loves, rendered disguises and deceptions so frequent,
less notice ensued than might otherwise have
been the case, and the repast proceeded without farther
interruption. Then followed the bridal procession
to the future dwelling of the couple. The
whole assembly sallied forth, to the sound of discordant
music, each with a flaming torch within
his hand. They frolicked with wild halloos in the
train of the bridal pair, waving their flaming
torches in every direction. A small stream, consecrated
by a thousand such occurrences, rippled
along their pathway, upon approaching which,
they hurled the lights into its hissing waters, leaving
the entire procession in darkness. This was
one part of the wonted and well known frolic.
The transition from unaccustoned light to solemn
darkness, producing the profoundest confusion,
the merriment grew immense. One party stumbled
over the other, and all were playing at contraries
and cross purposes. Shouts of laughter in
every direction, broke the gloom which occasioned
it, and proved the perfect success of the jest.

But, on a sudden, a cry arose that the bride was
missing. This, perhaps, contributed more than
any thing beside to the good humor of all but the
one immediately concerned, and the complaint and
clamor of the poor bridegroom met with no sympathy.

His appeals were unheeded — his asseverations
received with laughter and shouts of the
most deafening description. All mirth, however,
must have its end; and the joke grew serious.
The bride was really missing, and every thing
was in earnest and unmitigated confusion. Vainly
did the warriors search — vainly did the
maidens call upon the name of Anyta. She
was far beyond the reach of their voices, hurrying
down the quiet lake with Onea, to the green
island of their early loves and unqualified affections.

There was one who readily guessed the mystery
of Anyta's abduction. The heart of Henamarsa
had long yearned for that of Onea. The rejection
of her suit by the scrupulous warrior had
changed its temper into bitterness; and a more
vindictive feeling took possession of her breast.
She determined to be revenged.

The warrior lay at sunset in the quiet bower,
and he slept with sweet visions in his eyes. But
why shrieks the young maiden, and wherefore is the
strong hand upon him? Who are they that bind
with thongs the free limbs of the warrior? Vainly
does he struggle for his release. Many are the
foes around him, and deadly the vengeance which
they threaten. He looks about for Anyta — she

too is bound with thongs. Above him stood the
form of Henamarsa, and he well knew who had betrayed
him, yet he uttered no reproach. She looked
upon him with an eye of mingled love and triumph,
but he gave her no look in return. He knew her not.

They took him back to the island, and added
to his bonds. They taunted him with words of
scorn, and inflicted ignominious blows upon his
limbs. They brought him food and bade him eat
for the sacrifice; for that, at the close of the moon,
just begun, he should be subjected, with the gentle
Anyta, to the torture of fire and the stake. “A
Creek warrior will teach you how to die,” said
Onea. “You are yet children; you know nothing,”
— and he shook his chains in their faces,
and spat on them with contempt.

6. VI.

That night a voice came to him in his dungeon.
Though he saw not the person, yet he knew that
Henamarsa was beside him.

“Live,” said the false one — “live, Onea, and
I will unloose the cords about thy limbs. I will
make thee free of thy keepers — I will carry thee
to a quiet forest, where my people shall find thee

never.” The warrior spake not, but turned his
face from the tempter to the wall of his prison.
Vainly did she entreat him, nor forego her prayers,
until the first glimmerings of the day light urged
her departure. Rising, then, with redoubled fury
from his side, where she had thrown herself, she
drew a knife before his eyes. The blade gleamed
in his sight, but he shrunk not.

“What,” said she, “if I strike thee to the
heart, thou that art sterner than the she-wolf, and
colder than the stone house of the adder? What
if I strike thee for thy scorn, and slay thee like a
fox even in his hole?”

“Is there a mountain between us, woman, and
canst thou not strike?” said the warrior. “Why
speakest thou to me? Do thy will, and hiss no
more like a snake in my ears. Thou hast lost
thy sting — I should not feel the blow from thy
knife.”

“Thou art a brave warrior,” said the intruder,
“and I love thee too well to slay thee. I will seek
thee again in thy captivity, and look for thee to
listen.”

The last night of the moon had arrived, and
the noon of the ensuing day was fixed for the execution
of Onea and Anyta. Henamarsa came
again to the prison of the chief, and love had full

possession of her soul. She strove to win him to his
freedom upon her own conditions. She then proffered
him the same boon upon his own terms; but he
disdained and denied her. Deep was her affliction,
and she now deplored her agency in the captivity
of the chief. She had thought him less inflexible
in his faith; and, judging of his, by the yielding
susceptibilities of her own heart, had falsely believed
that the service she offered would have
sanctioned his adoption of any conditions which
she might propose. She now beheld him ready
for death, but not for dishonor. She saw him
prepared for the last trial, and she sunk down in
despair.

The hour was at hand, and the two were bound
to the stake. The torches were blazing around
them — the crowd assembled — the warrior singing
his song of death, and of many triumphs. But
they were not so to perish. Relief and rescue
were at hand; and looking forth upon the lake,
which his eyes took in at a glance, Onea beheld a
thousand birchen canoes upon its surface, and flying
to the scene of execution. He knew the warriors
who approached. He discerned the war
paint of his nation; he counted the brave men, as
they urged forward their vessels, and called them
by their names. The warriors who surrounded him

rushed, in a panic, for their arms — but how could
they contend with the choice men of the Creeks —
the masters of a hundred nations? The conflict
was brief, though hotly contended. The people of
Onea were triumphant, and the chief and the beautiful
Anyta rescued from their perilous situation.
The people whom they had conquered were bound
with thongs, and the council deliberated upon their
destiny. Shall they go free? shall they die?
were the questions — somewhat novel, it is true,
in the history of the Indians, whose course of
triumph was usually marked with indiscriminate
massacre. The voice of Onea determined the
question, and their lives were spared.

“Will you be of us and of our nation?” asked
the conquerors of the conquered.

“We are the children of the sun,” was the proud
reply — “and can mingle with no blood but our
own.”

“Our young men will not yield the fair lake,
and the beautiful island, and the choice fruits.”

“They are worthy of women and children only,
and to these we leave them. We will seek elsewhere
for the habitations of our people — we will
go into other lands. It is nothing new to our fortunes
that we should do so now. The spoiler has
twice been among us, and the places that knew us

shall know us no more. Are we free to depart?
Let not your young men follow to spy out our new
habitations. Let them take what is ours now, but
let them leave us in quiet hereafter.”

“You are free to go,” was the response, “and
our young men shall not follow you.”

The old chiefs led the way, and the young followed,
singing a song of exile, to which they
claimed to be familiar, and calling themselves the
Seminole — a name, which, in their language, is
supposed to signify, the outcast. All departed,
save Anyta, and she dwelt for long years after in
the cabin of Onea.