University of Virginia Library

THE CHURCH IN THE WILDERNESS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF HOBOMOK.

BRYANT.

There is a solitary spot, in a remote part of Maine,
known by the name of Indian Old Point. The landscape
has no peculiar beauty, save the little sparkling
river, which winds gracefully and silently among the
verdant hills, as if deeply contented with its sandy bed;
and fields of Indian corn, tossing their silken tresses to

the winds, as if conscious of rural beauty. Yet there
is a charm thrown around this neglected and almost unknown
place, by its association with some interesting
passages in our earliest history. The soil is fertilized
by the blood of a murdered tribe. Even now the
spade strikes against wampum belts, which once
covered hearts as bold and true, as ever beat beneath a
crusader's shield, and gaudy beads are found, which
once ornamented bosoms throbbing with as deep and
fervent tenderness, as woman ever displayed in the
mild courtesies of civilized life.

Here, one hundred years ago, stood the village of the
Norridgewocks, one of the many tribes of the scattered
Abnakis. These Indians have been less celebrated than
many of their brethren; for they had not the fierce valor
of the Pequods, the sinewy strength of the Delawares, or
the bell-toned language of the Iroquois. They were,
however, an influential nation; of consequence on account
of their numbers, as well as their subtilty. The
Jesuits, too, had long been among them, led by their zeal
to fasten the strong girdle of an imposing faith around
the habitable globe; and they had gained over the untutored
minds of these savages, their usual mysterious
and extraordinary power. The long continued state
of effervescence, produced by the Reformation, tended
to settle this country with rigid, restless, and ambitious
spirits. Our broad lands were considered an ample
tract of debatable ground, where the nations of the
earth might struggle for disputed possession; and terrible
indeed was the contest for religious supremacy between
France and England, during the early part of the
eighteenth century. Of the energy and perseverance
displayed in this cause, there are few more striking examples
than Sebastian Rallè, the apostle of the Norridgewocks.
His rude, cross-crowned church, standing

in the heart of the American wilderness, proved
the ambition and extent of that tremendous hierarchy,
`whose roots were in another world, and
whose far stretching shadow awed our own.' Surrounded
by the wigwams of the Abnakis, it seemed like
an apostle of Antioch descended among savages, pointing
out to them the heaven he had left. Our forefathers
indeed thought it wore a different, and most unholy
aspect; but to romantic minds, the Catholic church,
even in its most degraded state, must ever be an object
of interest. The majestic Latin, so lofty in its
sound, and yet so soulless now to all save the learned,
seems like the fragments of a mighty ruin, which Rome,
in her decaying pride, scattered over the nations of the
earth; and the innumerable ceremonies, more voiceless
than the language in which they are preserved, forcibly
remind one of the pomp and power rivalled only by
attendant corruption. In this point of view only could
the humble church of the Norridgewocks kindle the
imagination; for it had little outward proportion, or
inward splendor. It stood in a sheltered spot, between
two small, verdant hills, with one graceful feathery elm
at its side, bending forward, at every signal from the
breeze, and half shading the cross, as if both bowed
down in worship.

Various opinions were formed of the priest, who
there administered the rites of a mysterious religion.
All agreed that he was a learned man; some
said he was benevolent and kind; while others pronounced
him the most subtle and vindictive of hypocrites.
The English settlers, who resided about three
miles from the village of the Abnakis, regarded him
with extreme aversion; but to the Indians he was the
representative of the Good Spirit. It is true the maxims
of the Jesuits had given something of sternness and cunning

to a character naturally mild and frank; but he
verily thought he was doing God's service, and he did
it with a concentration of power and purpose well worthy
of the respect it inspired. For thirty years he lived
in the wilderness, sharing the dangers and privations
incident to savage life. The languages of all the
neighbouring tribes were familiar to him; and his utterance
could not have been distinguished from that of a
native, had it not been for a peculiarly softened cadence,
and rapid enunciation. A restless light in his small,
hazel eye, and the close compression of his lips, betokened
one, who had, with a strong hand, thrown up
dykes against the overflowing torrent of his own mad
passions. The effort had likewise turned back many a
gentle current of affection, which might have soothed
and refreshed his heart; but let man do his worst,
there are moments when nature will rebound from all
the restraints imposed on her by pride, prejudice, or
superstition.

There were two objects in the secluded residence
of the self-denying Jesuit, on whom he poured forth
in fulness the love he could not wholly stifle within
him. When he came to America, he found
among the savages the orphan son of the Baron de
Castine, by a beautiful young Abnakis. The child was
remarkably pretty and engaging; and the lonely priest,
finding his heart daily warming toward him, induced the
squaw who nursed him, to take up her abode in his own
wigwam. The Indians called him Otoolpha, `The Son
of the Stranger,' and seemed to regard the adopted
one with quite as much interest as their own offspring.
Not a year after Otoolpha and his nurse were domesticated
in the dwelling of the Jesuit, some of the tribe,
on their return from Canada, found a nearly famished
female infant in the wood. Had not Sebastian Rallè

been of the party, its sufferings would, probably, have
met a violent end; but at his suggestion, comfortable
nourishment, and such care as they could give it were
afforded. A nose slightly approaching to aquiline, and
a complexion less darkly colored than usual, betrayed
an origin half European; but as her parentage and
tribe were unknown, they gave her the emphatic name
of Saupoolah, `The Scattered Leaf,' and engrafted her
on the tree of Abnakis. From the first dawn of reason
she gave indications of an impetuous, fearless, and romantic
spirit. The squaw who nursed her, together
with the little Otoolpha, tried in vain to curb her roving
propensities. At four and five years old, she would
frequently be absent several days, accompanied by her
foster brother. The duties of the missionary often
called him far from home, and it was absolutely impossible
for him always to watch over them, either in kindness,
or authority. Their long excursions during his
absence, at first occasioned many anxious and wretched
thoughts; but when he found his wayward protégés invariably
returned, and when he saw they could cross
streams, leap ditches, and thread their way through
the labyrinths of the wilderness, with the boldness and
sagacity of young hunters, he ceased to disturb himself
on their account.

During the whole of their adventurous childhood but
one accident ever happened to them. They had been
at the English settlement to beg some beads in exchange
for their little baskets, and on their return, they
took a fancy to cross the Kennebec, when recent rains
had swollen its deep and beautiful waters. Saupoolah's
life nearly fell a sacrifice to the rapidity of the current;
but her foster brother ran, with the speed of lightning, to
call assistance from the village they had just left. A
muscular, kind hearted woman, by the name of Allan,

lived in a log-house, very near the river. In the midst
of his terror, Otoolpha remembered this circumstance,
and went there for succor. His frightened looks told
his story, even more plainly than his hurried exclamation;—`Ogh!
Saupoolah die'—the Great Spirit drink
her up!' Mrs Allan saved the Indian child at the
risk of her own life, dried her clothes, gave them something
warm and comfortable to eat, and conducted them
into their homeward path in safety. To this woman
and her children Otoolpha and Saupoolah ever after
clung with singular intensity of affection. During their
childish summers, it was a daily occupation to fill baskets
with berries for her little ones, whom they always
chose to feed with their own hands, watching every
morsel of the fruit as it disappeared between their rosy
lips, with the most animated expressions of delight; and
when they arrived at maturer years, they used the great
influence they had with the tribe, to protect Mrs Allan
from a thousand petty wrongs and insults, with which
her white brethren were not unfrequently visited.

Educated by the learned priest, as far as such fetterless
souls could be educated, and associating only with
savages, these extraordinary young people grew up
with a strange mixture of European and aboriginal
character. Both had the rapid, elastic tread of Indians;
but the outlines of their tall, erect figures possessed
something of the pliant gracefulness of France. When
indignant, the expression of their eyes was like light
from a burning-glass; but in softer moments, they had
a melting glance, which belongs only to a civilized and
voluptuous land. Saupoolah's hair, though remarkably
soft and fine, had the jet black hue of the savage;
Otoolpha's was brown, and when moistened by exercise,
it sometimes curled slightly around his high, prominent
forehead. The same mixture of nations was shown in

their costume, as in their personal appearance. Otoolpha
usually wore a brown cloth tunic, with tight sleeves,
and large buttons, under which appeared a scarlet kilt
falling to his knees, in heavy folds, edged with the fur
of the silver fox, and fastened at the waist by a broad
girdle, richly ornamented with Indian hieroglyphics.
A coronet of scarlet dyed fur, to which were fastened
four silver bells, gave indication of his noble descent;
and from his neck were suspended a cross and rosary
of sandal wood, which Sebastian Rallè declared to have
been sanctified by the blessed touch of Innocent the
Eleventh. Saupoolah's dress was nearly similar. Her
tunic was deep yellow; and her scarlet kilt touched the
fur edge of her high, closely fitted, and very gaudy
moccasins. Her cap was not shaped unlike a bishop's
mitre; gaily ornamented with shells and beadwork,
and surmounted by the black feathers of three eagles her
own arrow had slain. In the chase, she was as eager
and keen eyed as Otoolpha. It was a noble sight to
see them, equipped for the chase, bounding along
through the forest. The healthful and rapid blood,
coursing beneath their smooth, brown cheeks, gave a
richness and vividness of beauty, which a fair, transparent
complexion can never boast; and their motions had
that graceful elasticity produced only by activity, unconsciousness,
and freedom. Sebastian Rallè had been several
years at Rome, in the service of the Pope, and had
there acquired a refinement of taste uncommon at that
early period. His adopted children sometimes accompanied
him on his missionary expeditions to Canada and
elsewhere, on which occasions the game they killed
served for his support. When he saw them with their
dark eyes fixed on a distant bird, arrows ready for flight,
their majestic figures slightly bending backward, resting
on one knee, with an advancing foot firmly fixed on
the ground, displaying, by a natural bend of the limb,
outlines most gracefully curved, he gazed upon them
with uncontrolled delight; and he could not but acknowledge
that the young savages, in their wild and
careless beauty, rivalled the Apollos and woodnymphs
to which classic imaginations had given birth. Such
endowments are rare in Indian women; for the toils
imposed upon them, usually weigh down the springs of
the soul, till the body refuses to rebound at its feeble
impulses; but when it does occur, it is the very
perfection of ideal loveliness. Otoolpha would suffer
no one to curb Saupoolah in her wildness and inspiration.
To him and the Jesuit, she was docile and affectionate;
to all others, haughty and impetuous. The
Norridgewocks regarded them both with wonder and
superstition, and frequently called them by a name,
which signified the `Children of the Prophet.' The distant
tribes, who frequently met them in their hunting
excursions, were lost in admiration of their swiftness and
majesty, and called them, by one consent, the `Twin
Eagles of Abnakis.'

Contemptuously as some think of our red brethren,
genius was no rare endowment among them; and seldom
have souls been so rich in the wealth of nature, as
the two powerful and peculiar beings, whom we have
described. Many were the bold and beautiful thoughts
which rushed upon their untutored imaginations, as they
roamed over a picturesque country, sleeping in clefts
where panthers hid themselves, and scaling precipices
from which they scared the screaming eagles. Perhaps
cultivated intellect never received brighter thoughts from
the holy rays of the evening star, or a stormier sense of
grandeur from the cataract, than did these children of
the wilderness. Their far leaping ideas, clothed in brief,
poetic language, were perhaps more pleasant to the secluded

priest, than frequent intercourse with his own
learned, but crafty order. To him they were indeed
as `diamonds in the desert;' and long and painful were
the penances he inflicted upon himself, for an all-absorbing
love, which his erring conscience deemed a sin
against that God, who bestowed such pure, delicious feelings
on his mysterious creatures. The Jesuit was deeply
read in human nature, and it needed but little sagacity
to foresee that Saupoolah would soon be to her brother
`something than sister dearer.' When Otoolpha was
but seventeen, and his companion not quite fifteen,
their frank and childish affection had obviously assumed
a different character. Restlessness when separated,
and timidity and constraint when they met, betrayed
their slavery to a new and despotic power. Sebastian
Rallè observed it with joy. Early disappointment and
voluntary vows had made the best and most luxurious
emotions of our nature a sealed fountain within his own
soul; but the old man had not forgotten youthful hopes
and feelings, and for these beloved ones he coveted all
earth had of happiness. They were married in presence
of the whole tribe, with all the pomp and ceremony
his limited means afforded. This event made no alteration
in the household of the Jesuit. The old squaw,
who had taken care of his adopted children from their
infancy, performed all the services their half civilized
way of life required, and the young hunters led the
same wandering and fearless life as before. At the hour
of sunset, it was the delight of the lonely priest to
watch for their return, from a small opening, which
served as a window to his study. It was a time he usually
devoted to reflection and prayer; but the good man
had virtues, which he called weaknesses and sins, and
a spirit of devotion would not always remain with him
at such seasons. The vine covered hills of France, his
mother's kiss, and a bright, laughing girl, who had won
his heart in early youth, would often rise before him
with the distinctness of visions. The neglected rosary
would fall from his hand, and love, as it first stole over a
soul untainted by sensuality or selfishness, was the
only heaven of which he dreamed. Such were the
feelings with which he awaited the return of Otoolpha
and Saupoolah, on the eleventh of December, 1719.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the season, the day had
been as mild as the first weeks of September. The
drowsy sunshine dreaming on the hemlocks, pines, and
cedars, had drawn forth an unusual fragrance; the
children were at rest in the wigwams; most of the sanups
had gone to Moose Head Lake, on a hunting expedition;
and the few old men who remained, sat at the
doors of their huts smoking their pipes in lazy silence.

Wautoconomese, an aged prophet among them, declared
this unnatural warmth to be a prelude of terrible
things. He had gained his power of judging by a close
observation of electrical phenomena and all the various
changes of the weather, and it was no difficult matter
to make his tribe mistake experience for inspiration.
The women were all in alarm at his predictions; nor is
it strange that the learned Jesuit, living as he did in a
superstitious age, and believing doctrines highly calculated
to excite the imagination, should be more affected
by their terrors than he was willing to acknowledge,
even to himself. These feelings naturally embodied
themselves in anxiety concerning the two eccentric beings,
whose presence was as morning sunshine in his
dreary dwelling. The hour at which they usually returned,
had long since passed; and strong and vigilant
as he knew them to be, fearful thoughts of panthers and
wolves crowded on his heart. Waking, he knew the
fiercest prowlers of the wilderness would have shunned

them; but they might have slept where loup-cerviers
were in ambush, and roused too late for safety.

While philosophy was struggling with these harassing
ideas, and every moment growing weaker in the
contest, he observed in the north a flash more brilliant
than ever precedes the rising sun. For a moment it
was stationary; then it moved, quivered, hurtled, and
flashed, as if there had been `war in heaven,' and the
clouds, rolling themselves up `as a scroll,' showed the
gleaming of javelins, thrown thick and fast along the
embattled line. All at once, a vivid stream of light
from the south towered up, like Lucifer in his terrific
greatness, and rushed onward with a mighty noise. The
fiery forces, nearly meeting at the zenith, were separated
only by a clear, deep spot of blue, surrounded by a
few fleecy clouds. The effect was awful. It seemed
as if the All-seeing Eye were looking down upon a sinful
world, in mingled wrath and pity. The Catholic
bowed his head, and his subdued spirit was mute in
worship and fear. His solitude was soon interrupted by
Wautoconomese, whose trembling agitation betrayed
how little he had foreseen that his pompous prophecies
would be thus sublimely fulfilled. Next the aged squaw,
who, from fear of interrupting her master in his devotions,
had long been crouching in her own corner of the
wigwam, more dead than alive, came in, and reverentially
crossing herself, implored permission to remain.
To these were soon added an accession of almost all the
women in the hamlet. Perhaps Sebastian Rallè was
hardly aware how much the presence of these rude, uninformed
beings relieved his spirit. His explanations
to them, mixed with the consolations of religion, nerved
his mind with new strength; and he began to look upon
the awful appearance in the heavens with a calmness
and rationality worthy of him. By degrees the light

grew dim, then closed upon the speck of blue sky, which
had appeared to keep watch over the souls of superstitious
men, and the glorious scene seemed about to end.
But suddenly a luminous bow shot from north to south
with the rushing sound of a rocket, and divided the
heavens with a broad belt of brightness. The phenomena
of that night had been more extraordinary than any
the Jesuit had ever witnessed; but until that moment
he had known their name and nature; and, with that
strange tendency to a belief in supernatural agency,
which the greatest and wisest minds have, in a state of
high excitement, his cheek now turned pale, and his
heart dropped heavily within him, at what he deemed a
sure presage of ruin to those he loved. Reason would
have indeed told him that it did not comport with the
economy of Providence to change the order of creation
for so insignificant a thing as man; but who is not more
under the influence of feeling than of reason?

Unable to endure the terrific creations of his own fancy,
he left the house, followed only by one of the tribe, and
entered the path by which the young hunters usually returned.
He pursued this route, for nearly a mile, without
seeing any traces of the objects of his anxiety. At
last, he heard a loud `Willoa.' The source of the clear,
ringing sound could not be mistaken; for Saupoolah alone
could give the shrillest tones of the human voice such
depth and smoothness of melody. The Jesuit, by his
long residence with the savages, had acquired their
quickness of eye and ear, and a few moments brought
him within view of his adopted child. She was standing
in a thickly shaded part of the wood, her hand resting on
her brow, looking backward, apparently listening with
eagerness to the coming footsteps. A slight shade of disappointment
passed over her face when she saw Otoolpha
was not with her father; but it soon gave place to

an affectionate smile, at his enthusiastic demonstrations
of joy. From her brief account it appeared they had
early in the evening heard distressed noises apparently
proceeding from a human voice; that they had separated
in search of those from whom it came, and had
thus lost each other. As she finished her story, another
loud shout sent echoing through the forest, betrayed
more anxiety than was common to her fearless nature.
Yet even amid her doubt and perplexity, her romantic
soul was open to the influence of the sublime scene
above her. As they wound along through the forest,
ever and anon shouting with their united voices, in hopes
the echo would arouse Otoolpha, she occasionally fixed
her eye on the bright arch, which still preserved its wavy
radiance, though a little softened by light flashes of
clouds, through which the stars were distinctly visible.
`The arrows have been flying fast among the tribes of
heaven to night,' said she. `The stars have chased their
enemies over the hills. They are returning victorious;
and the moon has spread her mantle in their war path.'

When such thoughts as these came over her, Saupoolah's
eyes had a brightness totally different from the
keenness and outward brilliancy common to fine looking
Indians; it was a light that came from within, gleaming
up from fires deep, deep down in the soul. It was
probably this peculiarity, which had so universally gained
for her the title of `Daughter of a Prophet;' and its
effect on the savage, who had attended the Jesuit, was
instantly observable; for he devoutly crossed himself,
and walked at a great distance from the object of his
veneration. Sebastian Rallè, accustomed as he was to
the wild freaks, and almost infantile tenderness of his
adopted children, had often smiled at their power over
the tribe; yet something of pride, almost of deference,
mingled with his own love of them. Saupoolah's remark,

and the look of inspiration, with which she fixed her
eye on the heavens, awakened in his mind the remembrance
of many a season, when he had listened to their
wild eloquence with wonder and delight. This train of
thought betrayed itself in an eagerly affectionate glance
at Saupoolah, and a loud shout to Otoolpha, that made
the woods ring again. The young wife suddenly assumed
the Indian attitude of intense listening; and joy
flushed her whole face, like a sunbeam, as she exclaimed,
`It is answered!' Another shout! there could be no
mistake. It could not be the reverberation of an echo,
for it was repeated louder and louder, at irregular intervals.
A rapid and devious walk, guided by sounds
which evidently grew nearer, brought Otoolpha in sight.
Quick as a young fawn, overflowing with life and frolic,
Saupoolah bounded forward, and sprang upon his neck.
But the eye of the Jesuit, always rapid and restless in
its movements, quickly glanced from his new found
treasure to the objects around. A European lady,
possessed of much matronly beauty, lay lifeless at his
feet; and a fragile looking boy, apparently eight or nine
years old, was bending over her, and weeping bitterly.
This child, alone in the wilderness with his dead mother,
had uttered those cries of distress and terror, which
had startled Otoolpha and his companion. The sight
of a white man seemed to the desolate boy a pledge of
safety. He nestled close to the side of the priest, and
looking up in his face imploringly, burst into tears.
The heart of the Jesuit was touched. There was something
in the boy's voice and the lady's features, that
troubled the waters of a long sealed fountain. The Indians
exchanged whispers with that air of solemnity,
which the presence of the dead always inspires. They
read a mixed feeling of agony and doubt in the countenance
of Sebastian Rallè, but they did not ask, and
they never knew its origin. After a moment's silence,
during which he seemed struggling with powerful emotion,
he placed his hand gently on the boy's head, and
spoke soothing words in French, which the child understood
with perfect facility. No sigh, no outward sign of
despair escaped him; but there was a marble stillness,
which, like the ominous quiet of a volcano, betrayed
that raging materials were at work within.

He ordered the corpse to be borne to his wigwam
with all possible gentleness; and when the unevenness
of the path occasioned the least violence of motion, he
would cringe, as if an adder had stung him. It was in
vain that Wautoconomese and his frightened companion
sought protection from him, on his return. Remarkable
electrical appearances, in every variety of form, continued
during the whole night; but the miserable man
regarded them not. The lifeless mother was placed in
his study, and he knelt down beside it with the boy, and
spoke not a word. The old squaw brought in her tallest
bayberry wax candles, and tried to prolong her stay in
the room by a thousand little officious arts; but a gentle
signal to withdraw was all she could gain from her
heart stricken master. Day dawned, and found him
unchanged in countenance or position. The boy, weary
with grief and fatigue, had fallen asleep, and lay on the
floor in a slumber as deep and peaceful as if unalloyed
happiness had been his portion. The sight of his tranquil
innocence, as the daylight shone upon his childish
features, brought tears to the eyes of the rigid priest.
It was a charm that broke the spell of agony which had
bound down his spirit. The terribly cold and glassy
look departed from him; but never, after that night,
was Sebastian Rallè as he had been. Affliction did not
soften and subdue him. It deepened the gloom with
which he had long looked upon the world, and seemed

to justify him in giving up his whole soul to the stern
dictates of Jesuitical maxims. Even Otoolpha and
Saupoolah met with occasional harshness; and William
Ponsonby, the English boy, alone received uniform
mildness and affection at his hands. He was a fair and
delicate blossom; such a being as the heart would
naturally cling to for its very fragility and dependence;
but to none on earth, save Sebastian Rallè, was it
known that there were other and deeper reasons for his
peculiar tenderness.

The lady, whom he had loved in early youth, had been
induced by her parents to marry a wealthy Englishman,
in preference to the unportioned Frenchman, whom
alone she had truly loved. Her husband lost much of
his fortune, and joined his countrymen against the
French, during the troubled period between 1690 and
1762. He was taken by the Indians, and his wife
saw him suffer a horrid and lingering death. By the
humanity of one of the savages, she made her escape,
with her youngest son, the only one remaining of eight
fine boys. She well knew the residence of that devoted
lover, whom her weakness of purpose had driven to a
life of solitude and self-denial; and to him she resolved
to appeal for protection. Worn out with wandering and
privation, she died suddenly in the wilderness, when
her arduous journey was well nigh completed; and the
conscientious priest, even in the anguish of a breaking
heart, felt that it was well for him she had died; for to
have seen the widowed one depending upon him for
protection, when the solemn vows of his order had
separated them forever, would have been worse than
death to endure. The affection he had borne the
mother rested on the child; and in him he found, what
he had in vain wished for since his residence in the
New World, a docile and intelligent scholar.

The boy was indeed a sort of `young Edwin;' a sad,
imaginative child, fond of his books, and still more fond
of rambling far and wide with the wayward Saupoolah.
The log-house of good Mrs Allan was the only place
where William spoke in the language of his father; for
English was a hateful sound to the ear of the Jesuit.
The troubles between the neighbouring villages of
English and Abnakis increased daily; and not a few of
the latter were induced to revolt against their spiritual
ruler. Distrust, jealousy, and weakness characterized
all their councils. Their deep, but fluctuating feelings
alternately showed themselves in insults to the priest,
and acts of violence on their neighbours. Representatives
were sent from the English villages on the Kennebec
to the government at Boston, who protested against
Sebastian Rallè, for constantly using his influence to
excite Indian revenge to its utmost rancor; and letters
filled with charges of this nature may still be seen in
the records of the Historical Society. It is probable
that they were, in some measure, well founded; for it
was the dangerous creed of the Jesuits, that all human
power, good or bad, should be made subservient to
one grand end. Yet the Norridgewocks had so much
reason to complain of the fraud and falsehood of the
English, that it is difficult to decide to whom the
greatest share of blame rightfully belongs. Be that as
it may, affairs went from bad to worse. Mutual dislike
became every day more inveterate; and Mrs Allan
was the only one who had not in some way or other
suffered from the powerful arm of the implacable
Otoolpha. His French origin, the great influence he
had over his tribe, and his entire submission to the will
of the Jesuit, procured for him a double portion of
hatred. Dislike was returned with all the fierceness
and impetuosity of his savage nature; and English

mothers often frightened their children into obedience
by the use of his terrible name. In the autumn of
1724, these discontents were obviously approaching
a fearful crisis. A Council Fire was kindled at the
village of the Abnakis; and fierce indeed were the
imprecations uttered, and terrible the resolutions taken
against the English.

Wautoconomese in his fury said, that the Evil Spirit
had governed them ever since William Ponsonby came
among them; and he demanded that the boy should at
once be sacrificed to an offended Deity. The lip of the
venerable priest quivered and turned pale for an instant;
but it passed quickly, and so carefully had even the
muscles of his face been trained in obedience to the
Society of Jesus, that rigid indifference could alone be
read there, as he carelessly asked, `Wherefore should
the child die?' The fierce old prophet watched his
emotions as the snake fixes her infernal eye on the bird
she is charming unto death. `Because the Great Spirit,
who dwells among the windy hills, and covers himself
with the snow mantle, has whispered it in the ear of
the wise man,' said he proudly. `Wherefore else did
he breathe softly on the wood, for four sleeps, and take
his garments from the sun, that it might give warmth to
the pale papoose, on his way through the wilderness?
I tell you, he sent him to Wautoconomese, that he
might sacrifice him instead of the young fawn and the
beaver; for he loves not the white face and the double
tongue of the Yengees.'

`And the love I bear them is such as the panther
gives the stricken deer,' replied the Jesuit. `Ye are
all one! ye are all one!' answered the raging prophet.
`The Yengees say their king has counted more scalps
than any other chief; and you say he is but a boy to
the great king, who lives where the vines run with oil.

Ye both have faces pale as a sick woman. One hisses
like a snake, and the other chatters like a mad cat bird;
but both hunt the poor Indian like a buffalo to his trap.
Wautoconomese was once a very big prophet. The
Great Spirit spoke to him loud, and his tribe opened
their eyes wide, that they might look on him. What is
Wautoconomese now? He speaks the words of the
Great Spirit; and ye laugh when ye tell the young men
of his tribe that his ears are old, and he cannot hear.'

His stormy eloquence awakened the slumbering pride
of his warlike nation; and against the whole race of white
men they inwardly breathed a vow of extermination.

The boy was bound for sacrifice, and evil eyes were
cast upon the Jesuit. The ingratitude of those for
whom he had toiled thirty long years, and the threatened
loss of the dearest object which God had left to cheer
his lonely pilgrimage, seemed to freeze the faculties of
the old man; and that day would have ended his trials
with his life, had not Otoolpha stepped into the centre
of the Council Circle, and, with a low bow to Wautoconomese,
demanded to be heard. He spoke reverently
of the prophet; but, by all the sufferings and kindness
of their French Father, he conjured them not to be
ungrateful to him in his old age. He begged for the
boy's life, and promised to lead his tribe to war against
every white man, woman, and child, from Corratwick
Falls to the Big Sea, if they would thus reward his
victory.

He was a favorite with his tribe, and they listened
to him. After much consultation, they determined on
midnight marches at the end of three weeks, by which
means they intended to surprise and put to death all the
English settlers on the Kennebec. If successful in this
attempt, William Ponsonby was safe; if not, the innocent
child must fall a victim to their savage hatred.

Saupoolah slept little the night after she listened to
the Council of her tribe. She thought of Mrs Allan's
kind looks, when she saved her from drowning; and
she remembered the happy hours when she used to feed
the children from her little berry basket. Could she not
save her from the general ruin? She asked Otoolpha
if no stratagem could be devised. He told her it would
lead to detection, and the life of William and the priest
would be forfeited. In her uneasy slumbers she dreamed
of the murder of her benefactress; and she started up,
declaring she would save Mrs Allan's life at the peril
of her own. Otoolpha resolutely and somewhat harshly
forbade her to do it. It was the first time he had ever
spoken to her in a tone of authority; and her proud
spirit rose against him. `I have loved him,' thought
she, `but not with the tameness of a household drudge;
if such is the service he wants, let him leave Saupoolah,
and find a mate among the slaves of Abnakis.' Her
manner the next day was cold, suspicious, and constrained
towards her husband. She said no more to
him of her plans, but sought advice from the priest.
The heart broken old man was roused into sudden energy,
and solemnly and vehemently forbade her project.
Saupoolah's soul struggled in cords to which she had
been entirely unaccustomed. She was silent, but determined.
That night she left Otoolpha in a sound sleep,
and effected her dangerous purpose secretly. She told
Mrs Allan all the plans of the Norridgewocks, beseeching
her to make no other use of the knowledge,
than to save herself and family. The terrified matron
promised she would not. But could, or ought, such a
promise to be kept?

Time passed on, and threw no light on the dangerous
deed Saupoolah had dared to perform. Fears of its

consequences haunted her own soul, like a restless
demon; and again and again did she extort from Mrs
Allan a vow never to betray her. More than half of
her fault sprang from a kind and generous nature; but
she could not forgive herself for the vexation that had
mingled with better feelings. Her pride and her buoyancy
were both gone; and upon Otoolpha, Sebastian
Rallè, and William Ponsonby, she lavished the most
anxious fondness.

The old priest cared little whether life or death were
his portion; for he was old, and disappointment had
ever been the shadow of his hopes. But for the dead
mother's sake, his heart yearned for the life of the
boy. Saupoolah, ever enthusiastic and self-sacrificing,
promised to convey him away secretly, and place him
under the protection of a Canadian priest. The time
appointed was four days before the intended massacre
of the English, when a Council Fire of one of the
neighbouring tribes would induce most of the Norridgewocks
to be absent. The night preceding his departure
was a weary one to Sebastian Rallè. He spent it at
William's couch in wakefulness and prayer. Affections,
naturally intense, were all centered on this one object;
and he had nerved himself to think that he must part
with him, and then lay him down and die.

The gray tints of morning rose upon him, showing
the whole of his miserable little apartment in cheerless
obscurity. The old priest, stern, philosophic, and rigid
elsewhere, was in the seclusion of his own apartment,
as wayward and affectionate as a child. He stooped
down, and parting William's soft hair, imprinted a kiss
on his forehead. The boy, half unconscious what he did,
fondly nestled his cheek into the hand that rested on him.
Sebastian Rallè looked upward with an expression that
seemed to say, `O Father, would that this cup might

pass from me.' Just then the church bell, with feeble
but sweet tones, announced the hour of early mass.
William was on his feet in an instant, and as quickly
knelt to his venerable friend to receive his customary
benediction. In a few minutes, every living soul in the
hamlet was within the walls of the church. Wigwams
were all quiet, and canoes were wimpling about in Sandy
river. The savages had all bowed down and crossed
themselves before the unseen God. The broken voice
of the Jesuit was heard loudly beseeching, `Ora, ora
pro nobis,' when armed men rushed in amid their peaceful
worship. The clashing of swords, the groans of the
dying, and the yells of the frantic, mingled in one horrid
chaos of clamor. Not one escaped; not one. Some
called out, `Save William Ponsonby and the priest!'
Others aimed at the breast of the Jesuit, as if he had
been the only victim desired. The English boy threw
himself forward and received a stab, aimed at the heart
of his old friend; and the priest, with one convulsive
bound, and one loud shriek of agony, withdrew the
sword and plunged it deeply in his own breast.

Saupoolah's noble heart broke with intensity of suffering.
She fell lifeless by the side of the murdered
William, and a dozen swords at once were pointed at
her. Otoolpha cast one hurried glance upon her; and
man has no power to speak the mingled rage, despair,
and anguish, which that wild glance expressed. With
the concentrated strength of fifty savages, he forced his
way unhurt to the river side, and sprung into Saupoolah's
favorite canoe. The boat filled with water; and
he found that even here the treacherous revenge of his
enemies would reach his life. With desperate strength
he gained the shore, and ran toward the forest. His
coronet and belt made him a conspicuous victim; multitudes
were in pursuit; and he died covered with

wounds. * * * Before the setting of the sun, the pretty
hamlet was reduced to ashes; and the Indians slept
their last sleep beneath their own possessions. * * * For
many years two white crosses marked the place where
the Jesuit and his English boy were buried; but they
have long since been removed. The white man's corn is
nourished by the bones of the Abnakis; and the name
of their tribe is well nigh forgotten.