69. LXIX.
THE SON OF WAR EAGLE.
AT sight of the young man, as we have said,
Lightfoot, who had risen to his feet, with his
hand on his knife, uttered a low guttural exclamation
of astonishment.
The two persons, who represented so nobly the great
races from which they drew their blood, remained for some
moments motionless, surveying each other without speaking.
They were strongly contrasted, and yet singularly
alike in those subtler and less perceptible traits which underlie
the mere outward appearance. There was the same
frank gaze, clear, penetrating, unshrinking—the look of the
eagle upon the sun: the same proud simplicity of attitude;
the same erect carriage of person. They stood thus, no
inapt representatives and types of the Caucasian and the
Indian—the civilized European and the untutored North
American—the court and the trackless wilderness.
Their glance was not one of hostility or suspicion. Each
had recognized in the other a pure and noble soul—but still
the inevitable circumstances of their position made them
use due caution. It was not two boys filled with chimerical
ideas of human goodness and unwavering confidence, who
stood thus, confronting each other. They were strong
men—with their feelings deeply aroused—opposed at a
critical moment, on a critical occasion.
Lightfoot, without removing his hand from his knife, said
in a low tone;
“Why is the young pale-face in the heart of his enemies?”
Falconbridge pointed to Miss Argal, and replied:
“I came to seek her.”
“She is your friend?”
“More than my friend.”
“The young man uttered the words with such dangerous
animation and distinctness, that Lightfoot raised his hand
quickly, and said in a whisper:
“Hist! Beware how you speak so loudly. The members
of the tribe will wake at the noise, and your blood will
flow.”
“I care not,” returned Falconbridge, who gazed with
flushed cheeks at Miss Argal as she slumbered serenely, a
happy smile playing fitfully upon her lips; “so she is saved
from the diabolical cruelty of these savage beasts, I count
my own life as nothing.”
The words affected Lightfoot like a blow. His head rose
haughtily, and he fixed upon Falconbridge one of those
burning glances which seem to measure the foe—as a tiger
measures the enemy upon whom he is about to spring.
But the emotion of rage was plainly instinctive. It did not
last. The expression of menace disappeared almost as
quickly as it came, and a deep sadness fell like the shadow
of a cloud on the flashing eyes and proud lip. With drooping
head, the Indian murmured:
“Be silent! I am the son of War Eagle, and in other
days the blood of him who uttered such words would have
run out of his heart! But my heart is changed. Lightfoot
no longer strikes in this quarrel. His heart says, `Yes, my
tribe is cruel, is bloody'—but he is still a Catawba, a chief.
Let the young pale-face respect the feelings of a chief.”
The noble voice went to the heart of Falconbridge. His
cheeks reddened with impulsive shame, at thus wounding,
unnecessarily, the feelings of his companion. He stretched
out his hand, and said, frankly:
“I would beg forgiveness—I meant not to hurt you, son
of War Eagle. Let us speak not as foes, but as brothers
for I know, I feel, that you are here as the protector of
women and children. I would know that even if one of
those children were not this one before me.”
And he pointed to Cannie.
The Indian gravely took the proffered hand, and then
said:
“Does the young pale-face come to rescue the young
woman?”
“Yes.”
“Does he come alone?”
And the penetrating eyes of the Indian chief looked full
into the eyes of his companion. Falconbridge replied, with
ready presence of mind, that he alone had made his way to
the cavern. He felt instinctively that in this critical moment,
when the aid of Lightfoot was of inestimable value,
it would be wholly unnecessary and equally cruel to present
to him the tragic alternative of acting with his own tribe
against the whites, or with his adopted people against the
Indians. He evaded thus the question, and added quickly:
“What plan of escape have you devised?”
Lightfoot, in low, rapid tones, explained everything, and
added:
“The hour has nearly arrived. The band are sleeping—
I will go and reconnoitre. But before the son of War Eagle
goes, let him say to the young pale-face that his tribe are
not wholly fierce and cruel—they are very noble often,
though their eyes are different from the eyes of the whites.
The Good Spirit made the world of land and water, and valley
and mountain—he traced out the rivers, and rolled
round the seasons, through the hours of unremembered
years, for all the tribes of all the mighty nations. He gave
to one of these great tribes, the whites, another land—to us
he gave the prairies blooming with a hundred flowers—the
great wide forests—the pathless lakes—and lofty mountains.
We lived in the prairies, and upon the mountains—we paddled
on the lakes. The Evil Spirit often made us fight with
each other; but not always. Then came the pale-faces, and
they dyed the soil with the blood of braves. Wherever an
Indian met a white, he met an enemy—it was life or death.
This has made all the tribes so bloody—this makes the Evil
Spirit laugh, and triumph. The son of War Eagle felt his
heart turn cold within him—he wandered from his tribe—
one day a prophet of the whites spoke to him of the Son of
the Great Spirit, and he listened. Then he left his people,
and became a believer. To-day he would not bear his knife
against either—he would turn away, and bury his sufferings
in silence. If the knife strikes him, let it strike—he will
die a Christian chief of the Catawbas!”
With these words, the young Indian left the cavern, and
noiselessly descending the winding stair to the cave beneath,
disappeared from the eyes of his companion. Falconbridge
looked after him for a moment, then hastily going
to Miss Argal's side, laid his hand upon her arm.
The young lady opened her eyes, and gave a quick start,
as she saw Falconbridge. Then covering her face with her
hands, she murmured with burning blushes:
“Do not speak to me—I am not worthy!”
