 | CHAPTER XI.
THE DOOM AND THE HOPE. Clara Moreland, or, Adventures in the far
South-west |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE DOOM AND THE HOPE.
Four of the warriors immediately separated from the
others, and, without a word being spoken, proceeded to
bind the arms of Langee and myself behind our backs.
We were then conducted out of the house into the open
air, where we were closely guarded by six of the party
just returned from the expedition; while those within
proceeded, in due Indian form, to settle the question as to
what should be our fate.
Never did I think nature so beautiful, as when I first
beheld it after a week's confinement; and were I but free
once more to enjoy it, I fancied I could be content with
almost any other fortune. The day was clear, the air
delightful, and the sun stood in mid-heaven, pouring down
his bright rays and giving to every object a charming
mellowness of aspect, which appeared the more beautiful
to me, because I believed I should soon lose sight of all
forever.
Presently I heard Indian voices in the Council House—
but not understanding their language, I knew nothing that
was said. Langee did, however; but he was not allowed
to communicate with me. Once, after a rather long, loud,
fiery speech, Langee turned his dark, hollow eyes mournfully
upon me, and slightly shook his head, which I understood
to mean that our doom was, or would be, sealed.
The deliberations of the Indians lasted some two or
three hours—during which time the villagers, of all ages,
decorum that surprised me, considering that they were
savages. None were allowed to advance within the
ring made by our guard, which was perhaps ten feet in
diameter; but outside of this they formed a complete
circle, and conversed in low, quiet tones. Occasionally
hands clenched, and fierce eyes glared upon me; but being
a stranger to them, and of a race which they esteemed
natural enemies, I thought if they did not maltreat me, I
had reason to be grateful for their forbearance.
Toward Langee, however, whom most of them had
known in former years, and whom they evidently regarded
as more Indian than white, the looks directed were those
of sympathy; and I fancied I saw enough to warrant the
conclusion that the popular vote would go against his condemnation,
at the same time that it would approve of mine.
In vain I looked among the crowd, in every direction,
for one glimpse of the sweet, sad face of Clara—for if
alive, and permitted to do so, I knew she would endeavor
to see me. But no! no—alas! no—she was nowhere to be
seen; and I began to entertain the horrible suspicion that
she had been put to death. If so, the guilt I believed
rested with Dundenah, as the supreme authority of the
tribe in the absence of her father; and the bare idea that
her hands were imbrued in the blood of her I loved, made
me regard her as a demoness of hell's worst type—the more
devilish, that her knowledge and intelligence should have
ennobled her above those by whom she was surrounded.
While occupied with these thoughts, Dundenah made her
appearance. All moved respectfully aside, to give her an
opportunity to approach us.
“Why is Langee here, thus guarded?” she said,
addressing the Hermit in English, that none of the others
might understand.
“Because, in following your directions, with regard to
this youth, I unfortunately incurred the displeasure of
your father.”
“How so?”
“By telling the youth, when doomed to die, to demand
a trial by Council. Kenneloo says I either told him how
to answer, or translated his answer falsely.”
“And is the great chief not satisfied to allow him a
trial by Council?” cried Dundenah, with flashing eyes.
“Would he doom him to the stake without a consultation?”
“You see I am a prisoner for obeying you—that will
best answer your questions,” replied Langee.
“But Langee shall not suffer for obeying the Leaping
Fawn,” she returned, quickly. “Dundenah will save him.
She swears it, by the great Wandewah!” Then turning
to me: “Would the Dark-Eye content him with life and
liberty and a home among the Wepecoolahs?”
“Ere I answer, Dundenah,” I returned, with compressed
lips, fixing my eyes keenly upon hers, “you must
tell me what has become of the Blue-Eye?”
For a few moments she looked at me as though she
would annihilate me on the spot; and then slowly and
impressively replied:
“No prisoner so bold as to decline answering the
daughter of the great Kenneloo, ever lived to boast of it.”
“Well,” I rejoined, with considerable asperity in my
tone, “you can take my life, for it is in your power, but
force me to answer you cannot.”
For some moments Dundenah fairly glared upon me, so
enraged did she seem at the audacity of my reply. Then
compressing her thin lips, as one trying to speak calmly,
under the excitement of the most intense passion, she
rejoined:
“And does the Dark-Eye thus show his gratitude to
Dundenah for her endeavors to save his life?”
“I acknowledge no cause for gratitude, when you have
taken from me that which is dearer than life,” I replied.
“Only tell me the Blue-Eye is safe and well, and
I am your slave, to obey your slightest command; but if
you have wronged her, I solemnly invoke the curse of
Heaven upon you!”
“The Dark-Eye is sealing his own doom,” she rejoined,
sharply.
“Be it so; I can die but once, and death puts an end to
your tyranny.”
For perhaps a minute after I said this, her keen, black,
searching eyes remained fixed upon mine, while every feature
seemed to quiver with the struggle of pent up rage.
Then stamping her foot upon the ground, she fairly hissed
forth:
“The Dark-Eye has chosen;” and darted into the
Council House.
I now indeed felt that my last hope was gone, and regretted
that I had been so hasty; for my death could not
benefit Clara, whether living or dead herself; and if living,
the news of my untimely end would only add a lasting
grief to her misery. It was too late, however, to recall
my words; and not knowing what moment I might now be
called upon to play my last part in the great drama of life,
I turned my thoughts inwardly, and strove to make my
peace with Heaven.
It was perhaps an hour after this, when a messenger
came from the Council, and bade our guard conduct us into
the presence of our Indian judges.
As we entered, Kenneloo was seated at the far end of
the building, with Dundenah standing just behind him, and
the warriors, equally divided, ranged along the circular
I did not fail to perceive a peculiar expression of triumph,
which assured me that the question of life and death had
been settled to his satisfaction.
I next glanced at Dundenah. She was standing just behind
her father, motionless as a statue, with her arms
crossed on her bosom, and her eyes bent on the ground. I
was struck with the aspect of her features. The look of
fiery, haughty pride was no longer there; but in its place
one of dejection, if not of sorrow. The change was for
the better; and as I now beheld her countenance, I could
truly pronounce it lovely. Could it be that one who looked
thus, was an incarnate demoness, devoid of the more gentle
feelings which belong to her sex? No! it was impossible.
Such an expression could never find place upon the countenance
of one whose heart was steeled to pity, mercy, and
all the nobler and holier emotions!
As these thoughts passed through my mind, Dundenah
raised her eyes, and their glance encountered mine. At
first she seemed disposed to resume that look of haughty
pride, which, till now, she had ever displayed in my presence;
but from some cause, perhaps because she perceived
on my features an expression more in unison with her own
feelings, she finally let her dark eyes rest upon me with a
gleam of gentleness, and even of pity, that I had never
before believed her capable of feeling, and I began to wonder
what could possibly have occurred to effect so great a
change so suddenly.
The chief, however, soon claimed my attention. After
surveying us for a few moments in silence, with a savage
smile of triumph upon his repulsive features, he rose and
addressed himself to Langee. His words were few—but
the utterance was slow and harsh. When he had done, he
resumed his seat, and fixed his black, snakey eyes upon my
my sentence from the lips of the Hermit.
“It is as I feared, my young friend,” began Langee;
“you are already doomed to die by torture.”
I started, and felt the blood rush to my temples, and
then retreat to my heart, as these horrible words fell upon
my ear; for notwithstanding I had believed myself fully
prepared to hear this sentence without exhibiting any
emotion, I now found that a faint hope that so severe a one
would never be passed upon me, had all along been mingling
with the contemplation.
Recollecting that the eyes of my foes were upon me,
and that they were secretly enjoying the triumph of seeing
a white man pale and tremble, I immediately regained an
outward composure, and, in a calm, even tone of voice, inquired:
“When is this sentence to be executed?”
“To-morrow,” he replied, sadly.
“And in what manner?”
“You are to die at the stake, by a slow fire.”
“And you, my friend?”
“In case you suffer, my sentence is not so severe,” he
replied; “but if aught should occur to prevent your dying
at the stake, I am to be put to death in your place.”
“Then it seems they think it possible something may
occur to prevent their sentence being carried into execution?”
“Kenneloo has provided for such a contingency, that he
may not be cheated of his horrible sacrifice,” replied the
Hermit.
“And when I am dead, are you to be set at liberty?” I
inquired.
“No! the revengeful Kenneloo has effected a sentence
of degradation. I am to take my place among the Soolepcooms,
such time as his savage chiefship may see proper to restore
me to equal fellowship with his heathen followers.”
This seemed to come forth with more bitterness than any
sentence which I had heard Langee utter since my captivity;
and it was accompanied by a wild rolling of his
hollow eyes, and a look generally, that presaged the stirring
up of those dark, fierce passions, which, ere now, had torn
and rent him like one possessed of a devil, and which perhaps
had cost him years of suffering and prayerful struggle
to subdue and control.
“But you may find an opportunity to escape,” I said, in
a low tone; “and if you do, oh! use it! and, for the love
of Heaven! bear tidings of my fate to Colonel Moreland,
of Houston, Texas, and tell him that his daughter is either
dead or here a prisoner!”
The chief here spoke to Langee in a harsh tone, who
said to me in English:
“Kenneloo is getting impatient; he thinks our interview
unnecessarily prolonged. A thought strikes me! Would
you not rather die a sudden death now, than wait for the
stake to-morrow, and undergo the most excruciating tortures?”
I reflected a moment, and replied:
“You forget, Langee, that were I to die now, you would
be required to take my place.”
“And you forget,” he said, “that Dundenah has sworn
by Wandewah I shall not suffer.”
“What then do you propose?”
“Rush at once upon Kenneloo, as he sits there, and, my
word for it, he brains you on the impulse of the moment.”
I considered my chances of escape, and resolved to do
it; for better a speedy death to-day, I thought, than a
if it were possible for him to get away from the savages,
to do so, and let the friends of Clara know what had become
of her. I then bade him farewell, and turned to rush
upon the chief—when, to my surprise, I found myself confronted
with Dundenah. Her proud, haughty look had
now returned, and her glance and air were stern, as she
said:
“The design of the Dark-Eye and Langee is known to
Dundenah, and she has foiled it.”
She then spoke a few words to her father, who immediately
arose and broke up the Council. He passed out
of the Council House, followed by his warriors, with the
exception of the six who had charge of us. These latter
placed both Langee and myself on our backs, on the ground,
and proceeded to bind our limbs, so that we had no use
of them. They then went out, leaving one as sentry at
the door.
Dundenah did not immediately follow them. For a few
moments she stood with her arms folded on her bosom—a
favorite attitude with her—and her eyes bent on the
ground. Then she took two or three hasty turns up and
down the Council House, and paused between Langee and
myself, as we lay on our backs about six feet apart. Fixing
her piercing black eyes on the Hermit, she said, in a
low, but severe tone:
“Till Dundenah's ears heard the base counsel of
Langee, she did not think him treacherous to the Leaping
Fawn and Kenneloo.”
“If you call my counsel to the Dark-Eye, to save himself
from torture, treachery, I have nothing to say—only,
that I am sorry my plan did not succeed,” replied the
other.
And had it succeeded, Langee would have relied on
the oath of Dundenah to save him from the stake?
“Well, was that treachery to believe you would keep
your oath?” queried the other.
“No! but it was treachery to seek to snatch the prisoner
from the hands of the Wepecoolahs,” replied Dundenah;
“and it is well none understood Langee but the
Leaping Fawn, or he would scarce be living now. Dundenah
fears Langee has given her oath too broad a
license. She swore he should not suffer for obeying her—
but to urge the Dark-Eye to speedy death, was none of
her command.”
“Well! well! what would you?” said the Hermit,
rather impatiently.
“Dundenah would warn Langee against rashness. Had
the Dark-Eye died by his counsel, the blood of the Dark-Eye
would now be on the head of Langee.”
“I venture to say the Dark-Eye does not view the matter
in that light himself!” rejoined the Hermit.
“By no means,” I replied: “I sincerely believe you
meant your advice for the best, Langee; and I thank you
for it; although, as matters turned out, it failed to benefit
me.”
“Then the Dark-Eye wishes death?” cried Dundenah,
turning sharply upon me.
“No, I do not wish for death; but I am already
doomed; and I prefer a speedy death to one of torture.”
“And the Dark-Eye would rather die now than take
his chances of escape?”
“What chances? I know not there are any.”
“And think you Dundenah is powerless among her
tribe?”
“By no means; but you will make no effort to save
me.”
“How knows the Dark-Eye that?”
“I judge it from what passed between us at a former
interview.”
“Was it not by the advice of Dundenah that the Dark-Eye
demanded the trial by Council?”
“I was told so; and then I was also led to believe that
Dundenah would make an effort to save me.”
“And does the Dark-Eye think otherwise now?”
“I have reason to think so. Am I not already condemned?”
“Would the Dark-Eye content him with a home among
the Wepecoolahs?”
“No,” I replied—“I certainly could not be contented
here.”
“Not even with the Blue-Eye for a companion?” queried
my singular interrogator, closely watching my features.
“Ha! does the Blue-Eye live then? is she safe and
well?” cried I, quickly.
“Would the Dark-Eye content him to remain among
the Wepecoolahs, with the Blue-Eye for a companion?”
repeated Dundenah, in a tone that I fancied was a little
tremulous.
“I cannot say I would be contented here, Dundenah,”
I answered; “but if assured that the Blue-Eye is safe
and well, and that we may be permitted to be together
occasionally, I will accept my life with almost any
conditions.”
“Let the Dark-Eye beware then how he seeks to hasten
his existence to a close!” replied Dundenah; and turning
on her heel, she immediately quitted the Council
House.
After reflecting for a short time on what she had
of it.
“I am inclined to think that your companion is uninjured,”
he replied; and was about to add something more,
when the sentry came running to us, spoke to him in the
Indian tongue, and made signs to me that we must hold
no further communication with each other.
Wearily, wearily the hours passed away, and the day
dragged to a close. The position in which I lay would
have been continually painful, had not my mind been so
much occupied with other matters. I recalled the words
and manner of Dundenah, and hope of two kinds began to
faintly dawn in my breast,—first, that Clara was alive
and well; and secondly, that by some means my life
would be preserved.
Granting that this hope would not prove fallacious, the
sequence which I ventured to calculate kept my brain
active, and on the wings of conjecture I travelled far into
the future. Should my life be preserved, and should
Clara and I again meet, I thought that on the strength of
so much good fortune I could safely found the greater
hope of providential escape from the savages with my fair
companion—and, with her also, ultimate happiness.
But the mental structure I thus reared and enlarged,
I found, upon reconsideration, had a very small foundation,
and I knew that the slightest adverse force would
topple it down a mass of ruins.
Night came on—but no one came to visit us—not even
to offer us food. This did not surprise me in my own
case; but I thought it strange that Langee should be
treated thus severely, unless it were the intention of the
Indians to put him to death also.
Several times I was on the point of asking him, in a
low tone, what construction he put upon this treatment;
recalled the conversation I had had with Dundenah, and
thought it best to keep silent, and not draw upon myself
any further savage displeasure.
Hours of deep, lonely silence thus passed away, with
the Hermit within six feet of me, when an incident took
place which I will record in the following chapter.
| CHAPTER XI.
THE DOOM AND THE HOPE. Clara Moreland, or, Adventures in the far
South-west | |