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.
END OF VOLUME I.
