CHAPTER XIII
THE HIDDEN CHILDREN
So silently, suddenly, and with such incredible swiftness had thishappened, and so utterly unprepared were we for this devilish audacity,that the Erie had shoved his trade-rifle against my ribs and firedbefore anybody comprehended what he was about.
But he had driven the muzzle so violently against me that the blowknocked me breathless and flat on my face, and his rifle, slippingalong with the running swivel of my pouch buckle, was discharged,blowing the pouch-flap to fragments, and setting fire to my thrumswithout even scorching my body.
As, partly stunned, I lay on the moss, choking in the powder smoke, myhead still ringing with the crash of the old smooth-bore, man after manleaped over me like frantic deer, racing at full speed toward theriver. And I swayed to my knees, to my feet, and staggered after them,beating out the fire on my smoking fringes as I ran.
The Erie took the bank at one bound, struck the river sand like a ball,and bounded on. Both Oneidas shot at him, and I tried to wing him inmid-stream, but my hands were unsteady from the shock, and he wentunder like a diver-duck, drifted to the surface under the willows farbelow, and was out and among them before we could fire again.
The sight of him tore a yell of fury from the Oneidas' throats; but theMohican, rifle a-trail, was speeding low and swiftly, and we sprangforward in his tracks.
A few moments later the Sagamore gave tongue to the fierce, hystericalview-halloo of his Wolf Clan; the Oneidas answered till the forest rangwith the dreadful tumult of the pack-cry. Then, as I ran up breathlessto where they were crouching, a more terrible whoop burst from them.The quarry was at bay.
It was where the river turned south, making a vast and glassy bay. Asmooth cliff hung over it, wet and shining with the water from hiddensprings, and sheering down into profound and limpid depths.
High on the face of the cliff, squatted on a narrow shelf, and hiddenby the rocky formation, our quarry had taken cover. The twisted strandsof a wild grapevine, severed by his knife, hung dangling below hiseyrie, betraying his mode of ascent. He had gone up hand over hand,aided by his powerful shoulder muscles and by his feet, which must havestuck like the feet of flies to the perpendicular wall of rock.
To follow him, even with the aid of the vine he had severed, had beenhopeless in the face of his rifle fire. A thousand men could not havetaken him that way, while his powder and lead held out, for they wouldhave been obliged to ascend one by one in slow and painful file, and hehad but to shove his gun-muzzle in their faces as they appeared.
The war-yelps of the Oneidas had subtly changed their timbre so thatever amid the shrill yelling I marked the guttural snarls of baffledrage. The Mohican lay on his belly behind a tree, silent, but his eyeswere like coals in their red intensity.
Presently the Oneidas, lying prone at our side, ceased their tumult andbecame silent. And for a long while we lay waiting for a shot.
All this time the Erie had given no sign of life, and I had begun tohope that he had been hit and would ultimately perish there, as wildthings perish in solitude and silence.
Then the Mohican said in my ear:
"Unless we can stir him to move and expose himself, we must lose him.For his fellows will surely track us to this place."
"Good God! By what unfortunate accident should such a hiding placeexist so near!" I said miserably.
The Sagamore's stern visage slightly relaxed.
"It is no accident, Loskiel. Do you not suppose he knew it was here?Else he had never dared attempt what he did."
"The vile Witch-cat has been here many a time," said the Grey-Feather,his ferocious gaze fixed on the cliff.
"Is the Mole dead?" I asked.
"He is with his God--Tharon or Christ, whichever it may be, Loskiel."
"The Mole must not be scalped," said Tahoontowhee softly. "If theSenecas pass that way they will have at last one thing to boast of."
I said to the Mohican:
"Hold the Erie. The Night-Hawk and I will go back and bury our deadagainst Seneca profanation."
"Let the Grey-Feather go, Loskiel."
"No. The Mole was Christian. Does a Christian fail his own kind at thelast?"
"Loskiel has spoken," said the Mohican gravely. "The Grey-Feather and Iwill hold the filthy cat."
So we went back together across the river, the young Oneida and I; andwe hid the Mole deep in the bed of a rotting log, and laid hisTestament on his breast over the painted cross, and his weapons besidehim. Then, working cautiously, we rolled back the log, replaced thedead leaves, brushed up the deep green pile of the moss, and smoothedall as craftily us we might, so that no Seneca prowling might suspectthat a grave was here, and disinter the dead to take his scalp.
Over the blood-wet leaves where he had fallen, we made a fire of drytwigs, letting it burn enough to deceive. Then we covered it as hunterscover their ashes; the Oneida took the Erie's hatchet; and we hastenedback to the others.
They were still lying exactly where we left them. Neither the Erie northey had stirred or spoken. And, as I settled down in my ambush besidethe Mohican, I asked him again whether there was any possible way toprovoke the Erie so that he might stir and expose some portion of hislimbs or body.
The Night-Hawk, who carried strapped to his back the quiver of anOneida adolescent containing a boy's short bow and a dozen game arrows,consulted with the Grey-Feather in a low voice.
Presently he wriggled off to where some sun-dried birch-bark flutteredin the river breeze, returned with it, shredded it with care, strunghis bow, tipped an arrow with the bark, and held it out to me.
I struck flint to steel, lighted my tinder, and set the shred of barkafire.
Then the Night-Hawk knelt, bent his bow, and the blazing arrow soaredwhistling with flame, and fell behind the rock on the shelf.
Arrow after arrow followed, whizzing upward and dropping accurately;but the wet mosses of the cliff extinguished the flashes.
As the last arrow fell, flared a moment, then merely smoked, aninsulting laugh came from aloft, and my Indians uttered fierceexclamations and cuddled their rifle-stocks close to their cheeks,fairly trembling for a shot.
"Dogs of Oneidas!" called the Erie. "Go howl for your dead pig of aStockbridge slave."
"The Mole wears his scalp with Tharon!" retorted the Grey-Feather,choking with fury. "But Tahoontowhee's hatchet is still sticking in theSenecas' heads!"
"For which the Night-Hawk shall burn at the Seneca stake, sobbing hisdeath-song!" shouted the Erie, so fiercely that for a moment we laysilent, hoping that by some ungovernable movement he might exposehimself.
"Taunt him!" I whispered; and the Mohican said with a derisive laugh:
"Four scalp-tufts from the mangy Cats of Amochol trim myhatchet-sheath. When the young men ask me what this sparse and sicklyfur may be, I shall strip it off and cast it at their feet, saying itis but Erie filth to spit upon."
"Liar of a conquered nation!" roared the Erie, "for every priest ofAmochol who fell by Otsego under your cowardly butcher's knife, aSiwanois Sagamore shall burn three days, and yet live to die thefourth! The day that August dies, so shall the Sagamore die at theFestival of Dreams in Catharines-town!"
"I shall remember," said I in a low voice to the Sagamore, "that theOnon-hou-aroria is to be celebrated in Catharines-town on the last dayof August."
He nodded, then:
"A Mohican Sagamore insults a dirty priest of Amochol! I do you honourby offering you battle, with knife, with hatchet, with rifle, withnaked hands! Choose, spawn of Atensi--still-born kitten of Iuskeha,choose! Not one soul except myself will raise hand against you. ByTharon, I swear it! Choose! And the victor passes freely and whither hewills!"
The Erie mocked him from his high perch:
"Squirrels talk! Long since has your Tharon been hurled headlong intoBiskoonah by Atensi and her flaming grandson!"
At this awful blasphemy, the Mohican fairly blanched so that under hispaint his skin grew ashy for a moment.
The Grey-Feather shouted:
"Lying and degraded priest! Mowawak Cannibal of a Sinako Cat! It isAtensi herself who burns with Iuskeha in Biskoonah; and thesacrilegious fires lick your altars!"
The Erie laughed horribly:
"Where is your fool of a stripling called Loskiel? Is he there withyou? Or did my hatchet fetch him such a clip that he died of fright anda bullet in his belly?"
"He is unharmed," replied the Mohican, tauntingly. "A squaw shootsbetter than a Cat!"
"A lie! I saw my rifle blow a hole in his body!"
"Hatchet and rifle failed. The Ensign, Loskiel, laughed, asking whatforest-flies were buzzing at his ear. Loskiel spits on Cats, andbrushes their flying hatchets from his ears as others brush mosquitos!"
"Let him speak, then, to prove it!" shouted the Erie, incredulously.
But I remained silent.
Then the Erie's ferocious laugh rang out from the cliff.
"Now, you Mohican slave and you Oneida dogs, you shall know the powerof Amochol. For what was done to Loskiel and to the Praying Mole, willbe done to you all on the last day of this month, when the Dream Feastis held at Catharines-town! You shall die. And others shall die--not asyou, but on the red altar of the Great Sachem Amochol! Strangled,disemboweled, sacrificed to clothe Atensi!"
The Grey-Feather, unable any longer to retain his self-control, wasgetting to his feet, staring wildly up at the cliff; but the Mohicandrew him back into his form and held him there with powerful grip.
"Listen," he hissed, "to what this warlock blabbs."
The Erie laughed, evidently awaiting a retort. None came, and helaughed again triumphantly.
"Amochol's arm is long, O you Oneida dogs who howl outside the LongHouse gates! Amochol's eyes are like the white-crested eagle's eyes,seeing everything, and his ears are like the red buck's ears, so thatnothing stirs unheard by him.
"Phantoms arise and walk at night; Amochol sees. Under earth and water,demons are breathing; Amochol hears. Then we Eries listen, too, andmake the altar fires burn hotter. For the ghosts of the night and thedemons that stir must be fed."
He waited again, doubtless expecting some exclamation of protestagainst his monstrous profession. After a moment he went on:
"Spectres and demons must be fed--but not on the foul flesh of dogslike you! We cut your throats to feed the Flying Heads."
He paused; and as no reply was forthcoming, the sorcerer laughedscornfully.
"Your blood becomes water! You cringe at the power of Amochol. But thered altar is not for you. Listen, dogs! Had I not found it necessary toslay your stripling, Loskiel, he had been burned and strangled an thataltar!... And there is another at Otsego who shall die strangled on thealtar of Amochol--the maiden called Lois! Long have we followed her.Long is the arm of the Red Priest--when his White Sorceress dreams forhim!
"And now you know, you Mohican mongrel, why Amochol was at Otsego. Hisarm reaches even into the barracks of Clinton! Because to Atensi thesacrifice of these two would be grateful--the maiden Lois and yourLoskiel. Only the pure and guarded pleasure her. And these two areHidden Children. One has died. The other shall not escape us. She shalldie strangled by Amochol upon his own altar!"
I sat up, sick with horror and surprise, and stared at the Mohican foran explanation. He and the Oneidas were now looking at me very gravelyand in silence. And after a moment my head dropped.
I knew well enough what the brutal Erie meant by "Hidden Children." Butthat I was one I never dreamed, nor had it occurred to me that Lois wasone, in spite of her strange history. For among the Iroquois and theiradopted captives there are both girls and boys who are spoken of as"Hidden Persons" or "Hidden Children." They are calledTa-neh-u-weh-too, which means, "hidden in the husks," like ears of corn.
And the reason is this: a mother, for one cause or another, or perhapsfor none at all, decides to make of her unborn baby a Hidden Child. Andso, when born, the child is instantly given to distant foster-parents,and by them hidden; and remains so concealed until adolescence. And,being considered from birth pure and unpolluted, a girl and a boy thushidden are expected to marry, return to their people when informed bytheir foster-parents of the truth, and bring a fresh, innocent, anduncontaminated strain into their clan and tribe.
What the Erie said seemed to stun me. What did this foul creature knowof me? What knowledge had this murdering beast of Lois? AndAmochol--what in God's name did the Red Sorcerer know of us, or of ourhistory?
Even the horrid threat against Lois seemed so fantastic, so unreal, someaningless, that at the moment, it did not impress me even with itsunspeakable wickedness.
The Sagamore touched my arm as though with awe and pity, and I liftedmy head.
"Is this true, brother?" he asked gently.
"I do not know if it is," I said, dazed.
"Then--it is the truth."
"Why do you say that, Mayaro?"
"I know it, now. I suspected it when your eyes first fell on theGhost-bear rearing on my breast. I thought I knew you, there at MajorLockwood's house in Poundridge. It was your name, Loskiel, and yourknowledge of your red brothers, that stirred my suspicions. And when Ilearned that Guy Johnson had sheltered you, then I was surer still."
"Who, then, am I?" I asked, bewildered.
The three Indians were staring at me as though that murderer aloft onhis eyrie did not exist. I, too, had forgotten him for the moment; andit was only the loud explosion of his smooth-bore that shocked us tothe instant necessity of the situation.
The bullet screamed through the leaves above us; we clapped our riflesto our cheeks, striving to glimpse him. Nothing moved on the rockyshelf.
"He fired to signal his friends," whispered the Mohican. "He mustbelieve them to be within hearing distance."
I set my teeth and stared savagely at the cliff.
"If that is so," said I, "we must leave him here and pull foot."
There was a tense silence, then, as we rose, an infuriated yell burstfrom the Oneidas, and in their impotence they fired blindly at thecliff, awaking a very hell of echo.
Through the clattering confusion of the double discharge, the demoniaclaughter of the Erie rang, and my Oneidas, retreating, hurled backinsult and anathema, promising to return and annihilate every livingsorcerer in the Dark Empire, including Amochol himself.
"Ha-e!" he shouted after us, giving the evil spirits' cry. "Ha-e!Ha-ee!" From his shelf he cast a painted stick after us, which camehurtling down and landed in the water. And he screamed as he heard usthreshing over the shallows: "Koue! Askennon eskatoniot!"
The thing he had cast after us was floating, slowly turning round andround in the water; and it seemed to be a stick something thicker thanan arrow and as long, and painted in concentric rings of black,vermillion, and yellow.
Then, as we gave it wide berth, to our astonishment it suddenlycrinkled up and was alive, and lifted a tiny, evil head from the water,running out at us a snake's tongue that flickered.
That this was magic my Indians never doubted. They gave the thing onehorrified glance, turned, and fairly leaped through the water till theshallow flood roared as though a herd of deer were passing over.
As for me, I ran, too, and felt curiously weak and shaken; though Isuspected that this wriggling thing now swimming back to shore was thepoison snake of the Ksaurora, and no Antouhonoran witchcraft at all, asI had seen skins of the brilliant and oddly marked little serpent atGuy Park, whither some wandering Southern Tuscaroras had brought them.
But the bestial creature of the cliff had now so inspired us all withloathing that it was as though our very breath was poisoned; and inswift and silent file we pushed forward, as if the very region--land,water, the air itself--had become impure, and we must rid ourselves ofthe place itself to breathe.
No war-party burning to distinguish itself ever travelled more swiftly.Sooner than I expected, we crossed the small creek which joins theriver from the east, opposite the Old England District, and saw theruins of Unadilla across the water.
Here was a known ford; and we crossed to Old Unadilla, where thatpretty river and the Butternut run south into the broadeningSusquehanna.
At this place we halted to eat; and I was of two minds whether to go bythe West Branch of the Delaware, by Owaga and Ingaren across theStanwix Treaty Line to Wyalusing, and from thence up the river to theChemung and Tioga Point; or to risk the Chenango country and travelsouthwest by Owego, and so cutting off that great southern loop thatthe Susquehanna makes through the country of the Esaurora.
But when I asked the opinion of my Indians, they were of one mindagainst my two, saying that to follow the river was the easiest,swiftest, and safest course to Tioga Point.
They knew better than did I. This side of Tioga the Oneidas knew theground as well as the Siwanois; but beyond, toward Catharines-town,only my Siwanois knew. Indeed, if my Oneidas remained with me at allbeyond Tioga I might deem myself lucky, in such dread and detestationdid they hold that gloomy region where the Wyoming Witch brooded herdeadly crew, and where the Toad Woman, her horrible sister, fed thesecret and midnight fires of hell with the Red Priest, Amochol.
A grey hawk was circling above us mewing. Truly, our nerves had beensomewhat shattered, for as we rose and resumed pack and sack, a distantpartridge drumming on his log startled us all; and it was as though wehad thought to hear the witch-drums rolling at the Onon-hou-aroria, andthe hawk mewing seemed like the Sorcerers calling "Hiou! Hiou! Hiou!"And the Unadilla made a clatter over its stones like the False-Facesrattling their wooden masks.
"Eheu!" sighed the pines above us as we sped on; and ever I thought ofOkwencha and the Dead Hunter. And the upward roar of a partridge coveybursting in thunder through the river willows was like the flight ofthe hideous Flying Heads.
On we went, every sound and movement of the forest seeming to spur usforward and add flight-feathers to our speeding feet. For in myIndians, ascendant now, was the dull horror of the supernatural; and asfor me my hatred of the Sorcerers was tightening every nerve to thepoint of breaking.
As I travelled that trail through the strange, eternal twilight of thegreat trees, I vowed to myself that Amochol should die; that theSagamore and I would guide a thousand rifles to his pagan altar and laythis foul priesthood prone upon it as the last sacrifice.
Then I recalled the Black-Snake's threat against Lois; and shuddered;then the astounding reason he had given for the Red Priest's designupon us both set me dully wondering again.
Fear that his emissaries might penetrate our lines stirred me; and Iremembered the moccasins she had received, and the messages sewedwithin them. If a red messenger had found her every year and had leftat her door, unseen, a pair of moccasins, why might not an invisibleassassin find her, too? Already, within our very encampment, she hadreceived another pair of moccasins and a message entirely differentfrom the customary one.
Whoever had brought it had come and gone unseen.
Distressed, perplexed, half sick with fear for her, I plodded on behindthe Mohican, striving to drive from me the sombre thoughts assailingme, trying to reassure myself with the knowledge that she was safe atOtsego with her new friends, and that very shortly now she would bestill safer in Albany, and under the shrewd and kindly eye of Mr. Hake.
The sun had set; the pallid daylight lingering along the forest edgesby the river grew sickly and died. And after a little the Mohicanhalted on a hillock, and we cast our packs from us and peered around.
The forms of rocks took dim shape all about us, huge slabs and benchesof stone, from which great bushes of laurel and rhododendron spread,forming beyond us an entangled and impenetrable jungle.
And under these we crawled and lay, listening for snakes. But thereseemed to be none there, though our rocky fastness was a very likelyplace. And after we had eaten and emptied our canteens, the two Oneidaswent out on guard to the eastern limit of the rocks; and the Sagamoreand I lay on our sides, facing each other in the dark. And for a whilewe lay there, neither of us speaking. Finally I said under my breath:
"Then I am one of the Hidden People."
"Yes, brother," he replied very gently.
"Tell me why you believe this to be true. Tell me all you know."
For a little while the Mohican lay there very silent, and I did notstir. And presently he said:
"It was in '57, Loskiel, when I first laid eyes on you."
"What!"
"I am more than twice your age. You were then three years old."
In my astonishment it occurred to me that instead of twenty-two I wasnow twenty-five years of age, if what the Mohican said were true.
"Listen, Loskiel, blood-brother of mine, for you shall hear the truthnow--the truth which Guy Johnson never told you.
"It was in '57; Munro lay at Fort William Henry; Webb at Fort Edward;and Montcalm came down from the lakes with his white-coats and Huronsand shook his sword at Munro and spat upon Webb.
"Then came Sir William Johnson to Webb with half a thousand Iroquois.And because Sir William was the only white man we Delawares trusted,and in spite of his Iroquois, three Mohicans offered theirservices--the Great Serpent, young Uncas, and I, Mayaro, Sagamore ofthe Siwanois."
He paused, then with infinite contempt:
"Webb was a coward. Nor could Sir William kick him forward. He layshivering behind the guns at Edward; and Fort William Henry fell. Andthe white-coats could do nothing with their Hurons; the prisoners fellunder their knives and hatchets--soldiers, women, little children.
"When Montcalm had gone, Webb let us loose. And, following the trail ofmurder, in a thicket among the rocks we came upon a young woman with achild, very weak from privation. Guy Johnson and I discovered them--hea mere youth at that time.
"And the young woman told him how it had been with her--that herhusband and herself had been taken by the St. Regis three yearsbefore--that they had slain her husband but had offered her noviolence; that her child had been born a few weeks later and that theSt. Regis chief who took her had permitted her to make of it a HiddenPerson.
"For three years the fierce St. Regis chief wooed her, offering her thefirst place in his lodge. For three years she refused him, living in abush-hut alone with her child, outside the St. Regis village, fed bythem, and her solitude respected. Then Munro came and his soldiersscattered the St. Regis and took her and her baby to the fort. And theSt. Regis chief sent word that he would kill her if she ever married."
So painfully intent was I on his every low-spoken word that I scarcedared breathe as the story of my mother slowly unfolded.
"Guy Johnson and I took the young woman and her child to Edward," hesaid. "Her name was Marie Loskiel, and she told us that she was thewidow of a Scotch fur trader, one Ian Loskiel, of Saint Sacrament."
There was another silence, as though he were not willing to continue.Then in a quiet voice I bade him speak; and he spoke, very gravely:
"Your mother's religion and Guy Johnson's were different. If that werethe reason she would not marry him I do not know. Only that when hewent away, leaving her at Edward, they both wept. I was standing by hisstirrup; I saw him--and her.
"And--he rode away, Loskiel.... Why she tried to follow him the nextspring, I do not know.... Perhaps she found that love was stronger thanreligion.... And after all the only difference seemed to be that sheprayed to the mother of the God he prayed to.... We spoke of ittogether, the Great Serpent, young Uncas, and I. And Uncas told usthis. But the Serpent and I could make nothing of it.
"And while Guy Johnson was at Edward, only he and I and your motherever saw or touched you.... And ever you were tracing with your babyfingers the great Ghost Bear rearing on my breast----"
"Ah!" I exclaimed sharply. "That is what I have struggled to remember!"
He drew a deep, unsteady breath:
"Do you better understand our blood-brotherhood now, Loskiel?"
"I understand--profoundly."
"That is well. That is as it should be, O my blood-brother, pure frombirth, and at adolescence undefiled. O
f such Hidden Ones were theWhite-Plumed Sagamores. Of such was Tamanund, the Silver-Plumed; andthe great Uncas, with his snowy-winged and feathered head--HiddenPeople, Loskiel--without stain, without reproach.
"And as it was to be recorded on the eternal wampum, you were found atGuy Johnson's landing place asleep beside a stranded St. Regis canoe;and your dead mother lay beside you with a half ounce ball through herheart. The St. Regis chief had spoken."
"Why do you think he slew her?" I whispered.
"Strike flint. It is safe here."
I drew myself to my elbow, struck fire and blew the tinder to a glow.
"This is yours," he said. And laid in my hand a tiny, lacquered folderstriped with the pattern of a Scotch tartan.
Wondering, I opened it. Within was a bit of wool in which stillremained three rusted needles. And across the inside cover was writtenin faded ink:
"Marie Loskiel."
"How came you by this?" I stammered, the quick tears blinding me.
"I took it from the St. Regis hunter whom Tahoontowhee slew."
"Was he my mother's murderer!"
"Who knows?" said the Sagamore softly. "Yet, this needle-book is a poorthing for an Indian to treasure--and carry in a pouch around his neckfor twenty years."
The glow-worm spark in my tinder grew dull and went out. For a longwhile I lay there, thinking, awed by the ways of God--so certain, soinscrutable. And understood how at the last all things must berevealed--even the momentary and lightest impulse, and every deepestand most secret thought.
Lying there, I asked of the Master of Life His compassion on us all,and said my tremulous and silent thanks to Him for the dear, sad secretthat His mercy had revealed.
And, my lips resting on my mother's needle-book, I thought of Lois, andhow like mine in a measure was her strange history, not yet fullyrevealed.
"Sagamore, my elder brother?" I said at last.
"Mayaro listens."
"How is it then with Lois de Contrecoeur that you already knew she wasof the Hidden Children?"
"I knew it when I first laid eyes on her, Loskiel."
"By what sign?"
"The moccasins. She lay under a cow-shed asleep in her red cloak, herhead on her arms. Beside her the kerchief tied around her bundle layunknotted, revealing the moccasins that lay within. I saw, and knew.And for that reason have I been her friend."
"You told her this?"
"Why should I tell her?"
There was no answer to this. An Indian is an Indian.
I said after a moment:
"What mark is there on the moccasins that you knew them?"
"The wings, worked in white wampum. A mother makes a pair with wingseach year for her Hidden One, so that they will bring her little childto her one day, swiftly and surely as the swallow that returns withspring."
"Has she told you of these moccasins--how every year a pair of them isleft for her, no matter where she may be lodged?"
"She has told me. She has shown me the letter on bark which was foundwith her; the relics of her father; this last pair of moccasins, andthe new message written within. And she asked me to guide her toCatharines-town. And I have refused.
"No, Loskiel, I have never doubted that she was of the Hidden People.And for that reason have I been patient and kind when she has beset mewith her pleading that I show to her the trail to Catharines-town.
"But I will not. For although in rifle dress she might go with us--nay,nor do I even doubt that she might endure the war-path as well as anystripling eager for honour and his first scalp taken--I will not haveher blood upon my hands.
"For if she stir thither--if she venture within the Great Shadow--theghouls of Amochol will know it. And they will take her and slay her ontheir altar, spite of us all--spite of you and me and your generals andcolonels, and all your troops and riflemen--spite of your whole armyand its mighty armament, I say it--I, a Siwanois Mohican of theEnchanted Clan. A Sagamore has spoken."
Chill after chill crept over me so that I shook as I lay there in thedarkness "Who is this maiden, Lois?" I asked.
"Do you not guess, Loskiel?"
"Vaguely."
"Then listen, brother. Her grandfather was the great Jean Coeur whomarried the white daughter of the Chevalier de Clauzun. Her mother wasMlle. Jeanne Coeur; her father the young Vicomte de Contrecoeur, of theRegiment de la Reine--not that stupid Captain Contrecoeur of theregiment of Languedoc, who, had it depended on him, would never haveventured to attack Braddock at all.
"This is true, because I knew them both--both of these Contrecoeurcaptains. And the picture she showed to me was that of the officer inthe Regiment de la Reine.
"I saw that regiment die almost to a man. I saw Dieskau fall; I sawthat gay young officer, de Contrecoeur, who had nicknamed himself JeanCoeur, laugh at our Iroquois as he stood almost alone--almost the lastman living, among his fallen white-coats.
"And I saw him dead, Loskiel--the smile still on his dead lips, and hiseyes still open and clear and seeming to laugh up at the white cloudssailing, which he could not see.
"That was the man she showed me painted on polished bone."
"And--her mother?" I asked.
"I can only guess, Loskiel, for I never saw her. But I believe she musthave been with the army. Somehow, Sir William's Senecas got hold of herand took her to Catharines-town. And if the little Lois was born thereor at Yndaia, or perhaps among the Lakes before the mother was madeprisoner, I do not know. Only this I gather, that when the Cats ofAmochol heard there was a child, they demanded it for a sacrifice. Andthere must have been some Seneca there--doubtless some adopted Senecaof a birth more civilized--who told the mother, and who was persuadedby her to make of it a Hidden One.
"How long it lay concealed, and in whose care, how can I know? But itis certain that Amochol learned that it had been hidden, and sent hisCat-People out to prowl and watch. Then, doubtless did the mother sendit from her by the faithful one whose bark letter was found by the newfoster-parents when they found the little Lois.
"And this is how it has happened, brother. And that the Cat-People nowknow she is alive, and who she is, does not amaze me. For they aresorcerers, and if one of them did not steal after the messenger when heleft Yndaia with the poor mother's yearly gift of moccasins, then itwas discovered by witchcraft."
"For Amochol never forgets. And whom the Red Priest chooses for hisaltar sooner or later will surely die there, unless the Sorcerer diesfirst and his Cat-People are slain and skinned, and the vile altar isdestroyed among the ashes of its accursed fire!"
"Then, with the help of an outraged God, these righteous things shallcome to pass!" I said between clenched teeth.
The Sagamore sat with his crested head bowed. And if he were in ghostlycommunication with the Mighty Dead I do not know, for I heard himbreathe the name of Tamanund, and then remain silent as thoughlistening for an answer.
I had been asleep but a few moments, it seemed to me, when theGrey-Feather awoke me for my turn at guard duty; and the Mohican and Irose from our blankets, reprimed our rifles, crept out from under thelaurel and across the shadowy rock-strewn knoll to our posts.
The rocky slope below us was almost clear to the river, save for a bushor two.
Nothing stirred, no animals, not a leaf. And after a while the profoundstillness began to affect me, partly because the day had been one totry my nerves, partly because the silence was uncanny, even to me. AndI knew how dread of the supernatural had already tampered with thesteadiness of my red comrades--men who were otherwise utterly fearless;and I dreaded the effect on the Mohican, whose mind now was surchargedwith hideous and goblin superstitions.
In the night silence of a forest, always there are faint sounds to beheard which, if emphasizing the stillness, somehow soften it too.Leaves fall, unseen, whispering downward from high trees, and settlingamong their dead fellows with a faintly comfortable rustle. Smallanimals move in the dark, passing and repassing warily; one hears thehigh feathered ruffling and the plaint of sl
eepy birds; breezes playwith the young leaves; water murmurs.
But here there was no single sound to mitigate the stillness; and, hadI dared in my mossy nest behind the rocks, I would have contrived sameslight stirring sound, merely to make the silence more endurable.
I could see the river, but could not hear it. From where I lay, closeto the ground, the trees stood out in shadowy clusters against thevague and hazy mist that spread low over the water.
And, as I lay watching it, without the slightest warning, a head waslifted from behind a bush. It was the head of a wolf in silhouetteagainst the water.
Curiously I watched it; and as I looked, from another bush another headwas lifted--the round, flattened head and tasselled ears of the greatgrey lynx. And before I could realize the strangeness of theirproximity to each other, these two heads were joined by a third--thesnarling features of a wolverine.
Then a startling and incredible thing happened; the head of the bigtimber-wolf rose still higher, little by little, slowly, stealthily,above the bush. And I saw to my horror that it had the body of a man.And, already overstrained as I was, it was a mercy that I did not faintwhere I lay behind my rock, so ghastly did this monstrous vision seemto me.