31. XXXI.
LIGHTFOOT.
SHE preserved this attitude still, when a footstep
was heard upon the path near at hand, and
raising her head she saw the young Indian, whom
we have twice alluded to in our chronicle.
He was clad as before, in fringed leggins, joined by a pliable
garment of soft doeskin, reaching to his waist, which was
encircled by a leathern belt, upon one side of which were
secured a bundle of arrows:—his feet were protected by ornamented
moccasins, fitting tightly to the high instep and
nervous ankle:—above his brow drooped, as before, the variegated
plume, his badge of chieftainship. As he leaned upon
his long cedar bow and looked upon the child, his bare
breast slightly heaving, and his noble features full of tender
pity and affection, he presented a subject for a great painter.
Cannie rose quickly to her feet, and hastening to his side
said hurriedly:
“Oh, Lightfoot! I thought you were far away! I know
you will help me! Can you take me over the river? Grandpa
is to be tried, and I must not, cannot stay here!—Lightfoot,
you are a good, true friend.”
She stopped, overcome with agitation:—one hand resting
on his arm, her eyes turned up to his face beseechingly.
The young Indian looked into the sweet countenance with a
sudden color on his swarthy cheek, which betrayed the extent
of the interest he felt in the speaker. But when he
spoke, his words were calm and measured; long training
had made self-control a second nature with him. We shall
not record his reply in the broken English which was all he
possessed—though the sad, musical tones made that defective
dialect not destitute of a singular charm.
“Is not Lightfoot the true friend of the Mountain Dove?”
he said. “He has known her very well, and loved her for
many moons—and her father has been kind to the poor Indian
who left his tribe to wander here among the places of
his childhood.”
“And you have been kind, very kind to us, Lightfoot.
You have more than once kept the Indians from attacking
us—and I would have died that day when the moccasin bit
me, if you had not brought the herb to cure me. And now,
Lightfoot, you must be my friend. You must take me over
the river to Mr. Yeardley's—I know he will let me go in his
wagon to the court. Will you, Lightfoot?—do not refuse
me, dear Lightfoot!”
The swarthy cheek again colored slightly, but the voice
was calm when he said:
“Lightfoot loves the little dove of the mountain—he will
do her bidding now and always—he would willingly die for
her.”
And with these grave words, which were accompanied by
a sudden flash of the eye, in which might have been read an
expression of deep tenderness, the young chief assumed the
attitude of one who waits patiently.
Cannie hastened into the house, threw a cloak upon her
shoulders, tied her chip hat under her chin, and came forth
again quickly. The two then rapidly descended the mountain—the
Indian often taking the little hand to assist his
companion over some obstacle in the path—and thus they
finally reached the river. From a sheltered nook, overshadowed
by a great drooping pine tree, Lightfoot silently
produced a gum-log canoe, and placed the girl in it. A
sweep of the long paddle sent it ten yards into the current,
and they were soon on the opposite side of the river. As
carefully concealing the skiff as before, the Indian and his
companion then hastened on, and before very long, came in
sight of Mr. Yeardley's. Lightfoot allowed the girl to go on
alone—and from his hiding-place saw her enter the rude
mansion of the settler, before which a light wagon, drawn
by a pony, was standing. In ten minutes she came out
again, with the rough, but good-humored borderer, who
placed her in the vehicle, got in himself, and drove off.
Lightfoot leaned upon his cedar bow, and followed the
wagon until it was out of sight, with his sad smile and look
of wistful affection. He was thinking of Cannie's parting
words, as she pressed his hand in both of hers and said:
“Come to our house to-morrow, Lightfoot!—you are my
dear, kind friend!”
The words had made his breast thrill, and a joyful light
illumined his features. Then the sadness came, and he
murmured:
“She loves the pale-faced youth. I am naught to her.
But Manitou will speak. It is well.”
With these words he turned and disappeared in the
forest.
