University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE RECOVERY.

The first recollection I have after the events described
in the foregoing chapter, I opened my eyes in a small
cabin or hut, constructed of sticks, bark, earth and
skins, and found myself lying upon a mat in one corner,
with a few skins thrown over me to protect me from the
cold. There was no person present; and I looked around
with a bewildered air, trying to recollect where I was, and
what had happened. Then something vague, but horrible,
began to float through my mind, like the confused remembrance
of a hideous dream; and from this it gradually
took the form of reality; till, one by one, memory placed
before me the incidents which are already known to the
reader.

I recalled to mind my captivity, and all that had followed,
up to the time when I received what I then believed
to be my death-wound; and this led me to try and feel
the nature and extent of that wound.

But when I attempted to raise my arm for the purpose,
I found it stiff and sore, and that I was in reality almost
as weak as an infant. This set me into a train of calculation
as to the amount of time which had elapsed since my
hurt; but I soon found that I really could not determine
whether I had remained unconscious an hour, a day, or a
week; while the dressing of my wounds, though in a rude
way, seemed to denote that my heroic deliverer had so
far triumphed that I had fallen into friendly hands.

While my mind was thus occupied, a female entered
the hut; and as she drew near me, I recognized the features
of the mother who had accompanied Dundenah to
adopt me as her son.

It was no pleasant recollection, that fate had so ordained
it that I must henceforth have an Indian mother; but
since it was to be so, I was rejoiced to perceive that the
features of my new parent were by no means repulsive,
and that she at least had a clean and tidy appearance.

As she came up, I fixed my eyes upon her, and inquired
how long I had lain there? and what had become of Dundenah?

She evidently understood nothing but the name of the
Leaping Fawn; but she looked pleased to hear me speak;
and pointing to the door, made some reply in the guttural
tone peculiar to the Indian of nearly every tribe.

She then made signs that she would call Dundenah, and
immediately went out. In a few minutes she returned,
and, to my great delight, was accompanied by the object
of her inquiry.

The step and bearing of Dundenah were still as graceful
and proud as ever; but I noticed that her eye had lost
its fiery fierceness of expression, that the brown hue of
her cheeks had faded, and that her features generally
were softened by a shade of sadness amounting almost to
melancholy.

These changes, though they added the charm of loveliness
to what was before a cold, rigid beauty, I was not
pleased to see—for they betokened sorrow in the heart of
one, who had, no matter from what motive, generously and
heroically perilled her life to save mine.

As she came up to my side, she bent down, and fixing
her dark eyes upon mine, gently touched my hand with
hers, and said, in a tone of deep feeling:

“Does the Dark-Eye know Dundenah?”

“Yes,” I replied; “and may I cease to know any
thing, when I forget that I owe my life to your noble
conduct!”

Tears involuntarily started to the eyes of the maiden;
and bowing her face upon her hands, she wept for the first
time in my presence.

I was deeply moved at this display of feeling; and in a
gentle tone, I asked her the cause of her sorrow: but she
only wept the more, without making me any reply.

At last she raised her head, and looking upward, said,
solemnly:

“Thanks to the Great Wandewah, that the Dark-Eye
is restored to his senses!”

“And how long have I been unconscious?” I inquired.

“Ten suns have set and rose since the knife of Ochlee
pierced the side of the Dark-Eye.”

I could hardly credit the statement, that ten days had
passed since I had been rescued from the tortures of the
stake. It seemed rather like a horrible dream—from
which, after a few hours of troubled sleep, I had awakened
—and I so expressed myself to my companion.

“Yes,” she replied, “ten weary days and nights has
death hung over the Dark-Eye; but the Great Wandewah
has been pleased not to call him to the Spirit-Land.”

“And where is the Blue-Eye?” I inquired, with no
little anxiety. “I trust no harm has befallen her?”

The face of Dundenah instantly flushed to the temples;
and again fixing her eyes upon me with one of those peculiar
expressions—which, as I have before remarked, I
knew not how to interpret—she said:

“Does the image of the pale-faced maiden ever dwell
in the mind of the Dark-Eye?”

“She is seldom absent from my thoughts,” I answered.

Again she regarded me, for a few moments, with the
same singular expression of countenance; and then slowly
turned aside her head, with what I fancied was a sorrowful,
melancholy air.

“But you have not answered my question concerning
the Blue-Eye!” I persisted.

“She is safe and well,” was her reply.

“Thanks, Dundenah, for this cheering news!” I rejoined.
“Is she a close prisoner?”

“She has the same freedom as others of her sex. She
has long been a member of the tribe.”

“Has she ever been here to see me?”

“Daily.”

“And how does she bear herself?”

“She weeps when with the Dark-Eye, and at all times
seems sad and dejected.”

“Poor Clara!” I ejaculated: “would to Heaven she
were with her friends!”

“Could the Dark-Eye content him to remain with the
Wepecoolahs, were the Blue-Eye absent?” inquired Dundenah,
quickly.

“I would that she were with her friends; and I know
too well the obligation that binds me here, to think of
accompanying her,” I replied.

“There are many who will promise much in the hour
of difficulty and danger, and forget their promise when
difficulty and danger are past,” said Dundenah.

“It may be so, Dundenah, but count not me among
their number.”

“And the Dark-Eye would have his companion in captivity
among her friends, and yet himself remain with the
Wepecoolahs?”

“Even so. But can she be sent home?”

“It is far—very far—to the home of the Blue-Eye,”

said my companion, reflectingly: “but Kenneloo is powerful
to accomplish his will.”

“And who can so plead with him as Dundenah?” I
rejoined, with a ray of hope that, through her, I might yet
accomplish the deliverance of Clara.

“But if Kenneloo is powerful to do his will, he is also
wilful in his power,” returned Dundenah. “He will be
loth to give up a prisoner; and I fear his daughter might
plead to him in vain.”

“But you will try, Dundenah?” I said, watching her
countenance: “For my sake!” I added, a few moments
afterward.

“For the sake of the Dark-Eye, Dundenah will try,”
she replied, in a tone of earnest simplicity, turning upon
me a look so sweet and gentle, that I could hardly realize
she was the same cold, proud, haughty being I had first
known her.

“Thanks! thanks! a thousand thanks for your kindness!”
I rejoined, in a tone of exhilaration. “And now
will you render my obligation to you still greater, by letting
me see the Blue-Eye at once?”

Dundenah shook her head gently.

“The Dark-Eye is too weak to-day,” she said—“he
must not be overtaxed. He needs rest to bring back his
strength—for now he is like an infant.”

She then turned to my Indian mother, and said a few
words to her in her native tongue. The latter immediately
took down a bladder from a peg in the wall, and
poured therefrom into a horn-cup some kind of liquid.
This cup she handed to Dundenah, who handed it to me,
saying:

“Let the Dark-Eye drink this, and forget his sorrows
in sleep.”

“Perhaps,” said I, as I took the cup and looked at its

dark contents, “it will send me to that sleep which has no
waking.”

Dundenah forwned, bit her lips, and rejoined, rather
sternly:

“Is the Dark-Eye then suspicious of those who have
periled their lives to save his?”

“Forgive me!” I returned: “I meant no offence: I
will drink it presently. But first tell me of my wound!”

“It is healing—though thought at the time to be mortal,”
she replied.

“And she who struck the blow?”

“Died by the hand of Dundenah,” cried my companion,
with something of her original fierceness. “She was a
Soolepcoom, and unworthy to live.”

This, be it remarked, was the second time I had heard
the word Soolepcoom mentioned; and though I have
explained its signification to the reader, by way of convenience,
yet it was not till afterward, during my captivity,
that I learned it myself.

“And she whom I struck down with the knife?” I
pursued.

“Is still living. There—drink!”

“One question more, Dundenah: What became of
Langee?”

“He escaped the vengeance of the Wepecoolahs,” she
replied, with another frown.

“Was he pursued?”

“Yes, by twenty warriors.”

“Thank God that he has escaped!” was my mental
ejaculation.

I now again looked at the contents of the cup—and not,
if truth must be told, without strong misgivings that it
might prove a deadly narcotic.

Not that I thought Dundenah or my Indian mother

wished my death—for if so, why had they endangered
their lives to save mine? or why not have sent me to my
last sleep during my unconsciousness?

No! I had no fears that they meant me ill—but rather
that they might have mistaken the quantity they were
giving me.

Had there been an opportunity to have thrown a part
of it away, without being observed, I certainly should
have done so; but the eyes of Dundenah were upon me;
and I could not think of offending her, or of wounding her
sensitive feelings, by exhibiting to her such a want of confidence
in her prescription. I therefore raised the cup
slowly to my lips—but probably with an air of hesitation
—for she said, in a quick, proud tone:

“If the Dark-Eye fears to drink, give the cup to Dundenah,
and she will drain it.”

I hesitated no longer; but, without a word in reply,
instantly drank off the liquid. It had a slightly bitter,
pungent taste—but was neither nauseous nor unpleasant.
Its effect, however, was quick and powerful; for scarcely
had I swallowed it, when I felt a soft delicious languor
begin to steal over me. I no longer had any animation or
energy; and if my own father had then appeared to me,
and told me I was free, I should not have taken the trouble
to make him a reply. Soon the lids of my eyes began
to close—slowly, gradually, as by their own volition—and
then, free from care and sorrow, and perfectly happy, I
sunk into a sweet oblivion.

When I again opened my eyes, it was night—but what
time of night I had no means of knowing. The hut was
dark—or rather, only lighted by the ruddy gleam of a
fire, which was burning on the common, and which shone
in through a few crannies at the door, where hung several

skins to keep out the cold, for it was now late in the fall,
and the nights here were frosty.

I felt refreshed by my sleep, but somewhat faint for
want of food, and very thirsty. I peered around the hut,
as well as I could, but could see no person in attendance.

Thinking there might be some one within the sound of
my voice, I spoke in a loud tone. Instantly a bundle,
rolled up in one corner, appeared endowed with life, and
presently a human figure stood up, and, going to the door,
withdrew the skins, so that the fire on the common could
shine in upon the spot where I lay. Then the figure
advanced to my side, and I recognized the features of my
Indian mother.

I made signs to her that I was both hungry and thirsty.
She seemed to have anticipated this, and prepared accordingly—for
she immediately brought me a cup of water,
and some kind of gruel, of which I drank to my satisfaction
and felt much strengthened and refreshed. She then
looked to my wounds—taking off the bandages, wetting
them in some kind of solution, and replacing them again—
and all with a care and tenderness that won upon my
feelings.

This done, and having carefully covered me with skins,
she held up her open palms, as a sign that she had finished.
I nodded, and pointed to her pallet; and she immediately
retired, leaving me to myself. I regretted I could not
make myself understood in language—for there were
several questions I wished to ask—but as this could not
be, I again composed myself to sleep; and, aided by the
narcotic, of which I still felt the influence, I was soon in
the land of dreams.

When I again awoke, the sun was brightly shining; and
my Indian mother—or Omema, as she was called—was
standing in the doorway, looking out upon the common.

She instantly came to me, brought me some more gruel,
and, while I was engaged in drinking it, went out.

In a few minutes, to my surprise and joy, Clara entered
hastily; and, approaching me with a quick, nervous step,
she dropped upon her knees by my side, and burying her
face in her hands, burst into tears.

“Clara!” I said, in a choking voice; “dear Clara—
God bless you!—do not weep!”

But the sound of my voice only appeared to increase
her emotion—for she fairly sobbed aloud, and swayed back
and forth, her eyes still covered by her hands, through the
fingers of which the hot tears were trickling fast. I spoke
to her again—but she took no notice of me; and I thought
it best to remain silent till her overcharged feelings had
found proper vent.

At length she grew calmer; and suddenly clasping her
hands, and turning her soft, tearful eyes and pale face
upward, fervently ejaculated:

“God be praised, that he lives to speak to me again!
God be praised!”

“Clara! dear, dear Clara!” I said, and then stopped:
for my heart was too full to say more; and already my
own eyes were dim with tears that I had in vain tried to
repress.

“Oh! Henry,” she said, turning her soft blue eyes upon
me, in whose liquid depths was a soul of earnest tenderness:
“Oh! Henry—I have prayed for this—daily, nightly,
hourly—and God has granted my prayer. I have shed
many, many bitter tears of sorrow; but these you see
are tears of joy—thankful joy. Oh! to meet you living—
conscious—and to hear you speak my name—is happiness
enough for once—more would turn my brain. And you
will recover, and need no longer fear the stake! Oh!

this is too much! too much!” and drooping her head upon
her breast, she sobbed anew.

“Bless you, dear Clara! Heaven bless you!” was all
I could utter in reply, as I clasped her soft hand and bedewed
it with tears.

At length we both became more composed, when I continued:

“But tell me, dear Clara, how has it been with you in
your captivity? I can see by your pale, wasted features,
that you have suffered greatly in mind—but have you been
roughly treated and abused?”

“The day you were to undergo the tortures,” she
replied, “Dundenah confined me in the lodge, by binding
my hands and feet—for she said if I were at liberty, my
imprudence would ruin all her plans—though what those
plans were, I knew not at the time, and had no idea that
she intended to save you. I caught a glimpse of the
Indians hurrying you away to the stake; and thinking I
should never see you again in life, I became almost frantic.
How I broke from my bonds, I scarcely know; but I did
break from them, and ran to you, in the hope that they
would let me die with you.”

“God bless you, Clara!”

“You saw how I was then treated by the chief—but it
was the first and only time he ever laid violent hands upon
me. I believe he might have done so, at other times, but
that he seems to fear offending Dundenah, who has great
influence over him, and I am under her special protection.”

“And how has she treated you?”

“Her acts have been kind—but her words and manner
cold and constrained. It is only when she speaks of you,
dear Henry, that she exhibits any thing like tender or
sympathetic feeling; and as if ashamed of this, she ever
tries to hide it under a still more haughty exterior.”

“She does speak of me then?” I said, quickly.

“Often—in fact, she seldom holds any conversation with
me, without in some manner introducing you into it.”

It was now for the first time that a startling suspicion
flashed across my mind, of what undoubtedly the reader
has ere this fixed upon for a certainty—namely: that the
Indian maiden had conceived for me a passion, the nature
and extent of which might be determined from her previous
acts, her powerful energies, and the firmness of her
character. A hundred things I had not before thought of,
now rushed upon my recollection, all tending to confirm
this startling idea.

And startling it was; for if it really were as I feared,
I foresaw that serious, if not terrible, consequences must
ultimately ensue to one or all of us.

This then, perhaps, was why Clara and I had been
separated, and not allowed to meet, till fate or Providence
had unexpectedly thrown us together: this then accounted
for the strange manner of Dundenah, whenever I had inquired
after my companion in captivity, and her steady
refusal to answer my questions, leading me to the inference
that she had been foully dealt with: this then was why
she had seemed so ready to take her life, or set her at
liberty, at my request: and this, to conclude, was the
secret spring of her noble conduct in saving my life, and
trusting in my honor to remain forever with the tribe.

All these things, I say, now flashed upon me at once;
and I involuntarily sighed, as I thought of what might be
the result.

“Why do you sigh, Henry, and seem so dejected?” inquired
Clara, tenderly.

“Is it not enough to make me sigh and be dejected, to
recollect that I am doomed here to hopeless captivity?” I
replied, evasively—for if Clara suspected nothing, I

thought it better not to add to her troubles by telling her
my suspicions.

“And is our captivity indeed hopeless?” inquired she,
sorrowfully.

“Mine, I fear, is—but I hope better things for you,”
I replied.

“How so?” she asked, quickly.

I repeated the conversation I had the day before held
with Dundenah concerning her.

“And you really think I may be set at liberty?—or
rather, be escorted home to my parents?”

“I think I may prevail upon Dundenah—or rather,
that Dundenah may prevail upon her father, to have this
effected,” I replied.

“And you, dear Henry—what will become of you?”

“I must remain here,” I sighed.

“But surely, if you can accomplish so much for me,
you can do as much for yourself? If Dundenah will let me
go, she certainly will not refuse you the same privilege?”

“She cannot liberate me without endangering her own
life, Clara.”

“How so?”

I explained to her how that, in saving me from the
torture, Dundenah and Omema had become responsible
with their lives for my becoming an Indian, and remaining
with the tribe.

“But perhaps,” suggested Clara, “Dundenah might
prevail upon the Indians to consent to your departure?”

I had good reason to believe that Dundenah would make
no such effort in my behalf; and I gave Clara to understand
it was hopeless to expect it, without saying wherefore.

“Then will I remain also,” returned Clara, firmly.

“But think of your parents? your friends?”

“Oh! my dear parents!” cried she, bursting into tears
—“how have they borne my loss? I fear it has killed
my poor mother already.”

“The more reason, then, that you should return to
them, without delay,” I urged.

“And leave you here a prisoner?”

“But I shall be a prisoner if you stay, dear Clara—so
that your going will make my fate no worse.”

“But I should be afraid to go if you were not along,
dear Henry. No! no! I will remain and take my chance
with you.”

I thought of Warncliff, my rival, to whom her hand was
pledged—and of her stern father insisting upon having the
fatal ceremony performed that would indeed separate her
forever from me—and I urged her no more; for in her
present captivity there was hope in life; but in that other
captivity, her hope of release must be fixed on the grave.

I therefore changed the conversation, by inquiring how
it was that, if at liberty, she had never come to visit me in
the Council House?

“I was not permitted,” she replied. “Dundenah warned
me, that should I either see you—or, by my voice, in any
way make known to you that I was living—she would take
care to make good the separation in future, by sending me
to a neighboring tribe. To have been so separated, would
have been worse than death, and fear kept me silent.”

“And how was it you saw not the Hermit?”

“On the return of the warriors, I was secreted by
Dundenah, lest, seeing me in their wrath, I should be
slain. By her instructions, I had previously been adopted
into the tribe—so that I could not be tried for the stake as
you were.”

“In what manner were you adopted into the tribe?” I
inquired.

As Clara was about to reply, the Leaping Fawn appeared,
and said that for the present our interview must
close, as I must not be fatigued with too much conversation.
Clara accordingly took her departure; but seemed,
I fancied, in better spirits than at any time since our
capture.