CHAPTER XIII
THENDARA NO MORE
Astounded at the apparition, yet instantly aware of his purpose, Isprang forward to meet him. That he did not immediately know me in myforest dress was plain enough, for he hastened my steps with an angryand imperious gesture, flung himself from his saddle, laid down hisrifle, and strode to the heap of ashes that had once been thecouncil-fire of Thendara--now Thendara no more.
His face was still flushed with passion when I came up, my riflecradled in the hollow of my left arm; his distorted features workedsilently as he pointed at the whitening ashes. Suddenly he burst outinto a torrent of blasphemy.
"What in God's name does this mean?" he shouted. "Have the Iroquoisdared leave this fire before I've had my say?"
His rifle rested between him and me, barrel tilted across a rottinglog, butt in the wet marsh grass. I took a quick step forward anddislodged the weapon, as though by accident, so that it lay where Icould set my foot upon it if necessary. Instantly he faced me, alert,menacing; his dusky eyes lighted to a yellow glare; but when his gazemet mine sheer astonishment held him dumb.
"Captain Butler," I said, controlling the fierce quiver in my voice,"it is not this dead council-fire of Thendara that concerns a YellowWolf-whelp."
"No," he said, drawing a long breath, "it is not this fire thatconcerns us--" The voice died in his throat. Astonishment stilldominated; he stared and stared. Then a ghastly laugh stretched hisfeatures--a soundless, terrible laugh.
"So you have come to Thendara after all!" he said. "In your fringes andthrums and capes and bead-work I did not know you, Mr. Renault, nor didI understand that Gretna Green is sometimes spelled Thendara!" Hepointed at the ashes; an evil laugh stretched his mouth again:
"Thendara _was_! Thendara _will be_! Thendara--Thendara no more! AndI am too late?"
The evil, silent laugh grew terrible: "Well, Mr. Renault, I hadbusiness elsewhere; yet, had I known you had taken to forest-running, Iwould have come to meet you at Thendara. However, I think there isstill time to arrange one or two small differences of opinion that havearisen between you and me."
"There is still time," I said slowly.
He cast an involuntary glance at his rifle; made the slightest motion;hesitated, looking hard at me. I shook my head.
"_Not_ that way?" he inquired blandly. "Well," with a cool shrug, "thatwas _one_ way to arrange matters, Mr. Renault--and remember I offeredit! Remember that, Mr. Renault, when men speak of you as they speak ofBoyd!"
The monstrous insult of the menace left me outwardly unmoved; yet Iwondered he had dared, seeing how helpless he must be did I but raisemy rifle.
"Well, Mr. Renault," he sneered, "I was right, it seems, concerningthat scrap o' treason unearthed in your chambers. God! how you floutedthat beast, Sir Henry, and his fat-headed adjutant!"
He studied me coldly: "Do you mean to let me have my rifle?"
"No."
"Oh! you mean murder?"
"I am no executioner," I said contemptuously. "There are those a-plentywho will paint black for a guinea--after a court martial. There arethose who _paint for war_, too, Mr. Butler."
I talked to gain time; and, curiously enough, he seemed to aid me,being in nowise anxious to force my hand. Ah! I should have beensuspicious at that--I realized it soon enough--yet the Iroquois,leaving Thendara for the rites at the Great Tree, were not yet out ofsound of a shout, or of a rifle-shot--though I meant to take him alive,if that were possible. And all the while I watched his every carelessgesture, every movement, every flutter of his insolent eyelids, readyto set foot upon his rifle and hold him to the spot. He no longerappeared to occupy himself with the recovery of his rifle; he woreneither pistol nor knife nor hatchet; indeed, in his belt I saw a rollof paper, closely scribbled, and knew it to be a speech composed fordelivery at this fire, now burned out forever.
He placed his hands on his hips, pacing to and fro the distance betweenthe fire and the edge of the Dead Water, now looking thoughtfully upinto the blue sky, now lost in reverie. And every moment, I believed,was a precious moment gained, separating him more and more hopelesslyfrom his favorite Senecas, whom he might even now summon by a shout.
Presently he halted, with an absent, upward glance, then his gazereverted to me; he drew out a handsome gold watch, examined it withexpressionless interest, and slowly returned it to the fob-pocket.
"Well, sir," he inquired, "do I take it that you desire to furtherdetain me here, or do you merely wish to steal my rifle?"
"I think, truly, that you no longer require your rifle, Mr. Butler," Isaid quietly.
"A question--a matter of opinion, Mr. Renault." He waved his handgracefully. "Who are your red friends yonder?" pointing toward the twodistant forms at the edge of the willows.
"An Oneida and a quarter-breed."
"Oh--a squaw? By the head-gear I take the smaller one to be a Huronsquaw. Which reminds me, Mr. Renault," he added, with a dull stare,"that the last time I had the pleasure of seeing your heels you wereheaded for the nearest parson!"
That awful, soundless laugh distorted his mouth again:
"I could scarcely be expected to imagine," he added, "that it was asfar as this to Gretna Green. Is the Hon. Miss Grey with you here?"
"No, Mr. Butler, but your wife is with me."
"Oh!" he sneered; "so you have learned at last what she is?"
"You do not understand," I continued patiently. "I speak of your wife,Mr. Butler. Shall I name her?"
He looked at me narrowly. Twice his lips parted as though to speak, butno sound came.
"The woman yonder is Lyn Montour," I said in a low voice.
The yellow flare that lighted his black eyes appalled me.
"Listen to me," I went on. "That I do not slay you where you stand isbecause _she_ is yonder, watching us. God help her, you shall do herjustice yet! You are my prisoner, Mr. Butler!" And I set my foot uponhis rifle.
He did not seem to hear me; his piercing gaze was concentrated on thetwo distant figures standing beside the horse.
I waited, then spoke again; and, at the sound of my voice, he wheeledon me with a snarl.
"You damned spy!" he stammered; "I'll stop your dirty business now, byGod!" and, leaping back, whipped a ranger's whistle to his lips, wakingthe forest echoes with the piercing summons ere I had bounded on himand had borne him down, shoulder-deep in moss and marsh-grass.
Struggling, half smothered by the deep and matted tangle, I heard thestartled shout of the Oneida; the distant crashing of many men runningin the underbrush; and, throttling him with both hands, I dragged himto his feet and started toward the Oneida, pulling my prisoner with me.But a yell from the wood's edge seemed to put fresh life into him; hebit and scratched and struggled, and I labored in vain to choke him orstun him. Then, in very desperation and fear of life, I strove to killhim with my hands, but could not, and at last hurled him from me toshoot him; but he had kicked the flint from my rifle, and, as I leveledit, he dropped on the edge of the Dead Water and wriggled over, splash!into the dark current, diving as my hatchet hit the waves. Then I heardthe loud explosion of rifles behind me; bullets tore through the scrub;I turned to run for my life. And it was time.
"Ugh!" grunted the Oneida, as I came bursting headlong through thewillows. "Follow now!" He seized the horse by the bridle; the girlmounted; then, leading the horse at a trot, we started due souththrough the tossing bushes.
A man in a green uniform, knee-deep in the grass, fired at us from theStacking-Ridge as we passed, and the Oneida shook his rifle at him witha shout of insult. For now at last the whole game was up, and mymission as a spy in this country ended once and forever. No chance nowto hobnob with Johnson's Greens, no chance to approach St. Leger andHaldimand. Butler was here, and there could be no more concealment.
Such an exhilaration of savage happiness seized me that I lost my head,and begged the Oneida to stop and let me set a flint and give the RoyalGreens a shot or two; but the wily chief refused; and he was wise, forI shou
ld have known that the Sacandaga must already be a swarming nestof Johnson's foresters and painted savages.
The heat was terrific in the willows; sweat poured from the half-nakedOneida as he ran, and my hunting-shirt hung soaked, flapping across mythighs.
We had doubled on them now, going almost due west. Far across the VlaieI could see dark spots moving along the Dead Water, and here and therea distant rifle glimmering as the sun struck it. Now and then a faintshout was borne to our ears as we halted, dripping and panting in thebirches to reconnoiter some open swale ahead, or some cranberry-bogcrimsoning under the October sun.
We swam the marshy creek miles to the west, coming out presently into arutty wagon-trail, which I knew ran south to Mayfield; but we dared notuse it, so steered the dripping horse southeast, chancing rather tocross Frenchman's Creek, four miles above Varicks, and so, by a circlebearing east and south, reaching the Broadalbin trail, or some saferoad between Galway and Perth, or, if driven to it, making for Saratogaas a last resort.
My face was burned deep red, and I was soaked from neck to heels, sothat my moccasins rubbed and chafed at every step. The girl had sat hersaddle while the horse swam, so that her legs only were wet. As for theOneida, his oiled and painted skin shed water like the plumage of aduck. Lord knows, we left a trail broad and wet enough for even aHessian to follow; and for that reason dared not halt north ofFrenchman's Creek or short of Vanderveer's grist-mill.
As I plodded on, rifle atrail, I began to comprehend the full import ofwhat had occurred since the day before, when I, with soul full ofbitterness, had left Burke's Inn. Was it only a day ago? By Heaven, itseemed a year since I had looked upon Elsin Grey! And what a change infortune had come upon us in these two score hours! Free to wed now--ifwe dared accept the heart-broken testimony of this poor girl--if wedared deny the perjured testimony of a dishonored magistrate, leaguedwith his fellow libertine, who, thank God, had at length learnedsomething of the fury he used on others. Strange that in all this war Ihad never laid a rifle level save at him; strange that I had never seenblood shed in anger, through all these battle years, except the bloodthat now dried, clotting on my cheek-bone, where his shoulder-bucklehad cut me in the struggle. His spurs, too, had caught in the skirt ofmy hunting-shirt, tearing it to the fringed hem, and digging a furrowacross my instep; and the moccasin on that foot was stiff with blood.
Ah, if I might only have brought him off; if I might only have carriedthis guilty man to Johnstown! Yet I should have known that Sir John'smen were likely to be within hail, fool that I was to take thedesperate chance when a little parley, a little edging toward him, asudden blow might have served. Yet I was glad in my heart that I hadnot used craft; cat traits are not instinctive with me; craft, stealth,a purring ambush--faugh! I was no coward to beat him down unawares. Ihad openly declared him prisoner, and I was glad I had done so. Why, Imight have shot him as we talked, had I been of a breed to domurder--had I been inhuman enough to slay him, unwarned, before thevery eyes of the woman he had wronged, and who still hoped for mercyfrom him lest she pass her life a loathed and wretched outcast amongthe people who had accepted her as an Iroquois.
Thinking of these things which so deeply concerned me, I ploddedforward with the others, hour after hour, halting once to drink and toeat a little of our parched corn, then to the unspotted trail oncemore, imperceptibly gaining the slope of that watershed, the streams ofwhich feed the Mayfield Creek, and ultimately the Hudson.
Varicks we skirted, not knowing but Sir John's scouts might be inpossession, the peppery, fat patroon having closed his house and takenhis flock to Albany; and so traveling the forest east by south, madefor the head waters of that limpid trout-stream I had so often fished,spite of the posted warnings and the indignation of the fat patroon,who hated me.
I think it was about four o'clock in the afternoon when, pressingthrough brush and windfall, we came suddenly out into a sunny road.Beside the road ran a stream clattering down-hill over its stony bed--aclear, noisy stream, with swirling brown trout-pools and rapids,rushing between ledges, foaming around boulders, a joyous, rolicking,dashing, headlong stream, that seemed to cheer us with its gay clamor;and I saw the Oneida's stern eyes soften as he bent his gaze upon it.Poor little Lyn Montour slipped, with a sigh, from her saddle, while myhorse buried his dusty nose in the sparkling water, drawing deep, colddraughts through his hot throat. And here by the familiar head watersof Frenchman's Creek we rested in full sight of the grist-mill aboveus, where the road curved west. The mill-wheel was turning; a man cameto the window overlooking the stream and stood gazing at us, and Iwaved my hand at him reassuringly, recognizing old Vanderveer.
Beyond the mill I could see smoke rising from the chimneys of theunseen settlement. Presently a small barefoot boy came out of the mill,looked at us a moment, then turned and legged it up the road tight ashe could go. The Oneida, smoking his pipe, saw the lad's hasty flight,and smiled slightly.
"Yes, Little Otter," I said, "they take us for some of Sir John'speople. You'll see them coming presently with their guns. Hark! Theregoes a signal-shot now!"
The smacking crack of a rifle echoed among the hills; a conch-horn'smelancholy note sounded persistently.
"Let us go on to the Yellow Tavern," I said; and we rose and limpedforward, leading the horse, whose head hung wearily.
Before we reached the Oswaya mill some men in their shirt-sleeves shotat us, then ran down through an orchard, calling on us to halt. Onecarried a shovel, one a rifle, and the older man, whom I knew as aformer tenant of my father, bore an ancient firelock. When I called outto him by name he seemed confused, demanding to know whether we wereWhigs or Tories; and when at length he recognized me he appeared to bevastly relieved. It seemed that he, Wemple, and his two sons had beenburying apples, and that hearing the shot fired, had started for theirhomes, where already the alarm had spread. Seeing us, and supposing wehad cut him off from the settlement, he had decided to fight his waythrough to the mill.
"I'm mighty glad you ain't shot, Mr. Renault," he said in his thin,high voice, scratching his chin, and staring hard at the Oneida."Seein' these here painted injuns sorter riled me up, an' I up an' letye have it. So did Willum here. Lord, sir, we've been expecting SirJohn for a month, so you must kindly excuse us, Mr. Renault!"
He shook his white head and looked up the road where a dozen armed menwere already gathered, watching us from behind the fences.
"Sir John is on the Sacandaga," I said. "Why don't you go to Johnstown,Wemple? This is no place for your people."
He stood, rubbing his hard jaw reflectively.
"Waal, sir," he piped, "it's kind er hard to leave all you've got inthe world." He added, looking around at his fields: "I'd be a pauper ifI quit. Mebbe they won't come here, after all. Mebbe Sir John will godown the Valley."
"Besides, we ain't got our pumpkins in nor the winter corn stacked,"observed one of his sons sullenly.
We all turned and walked slowly up the road in the direction of the bigyellow tavern, old Wemple shaking his head, and talking all the whilein a thin, flat, high-pitched voice: "It seems kind'r hard that SirJohn can't quit his pesterin' an' leave folks alone. What call has heto come back a-dodgin' 'round here year after year, a-butcherin' hisold neighbors, Mr. Renault? 'Pears to me he's gone crazy as a mad dog,a-whirlin' round and round the same stump, buttin' and bitin' andclawin' up the hull place. Sakes alive! ain't he got no human natur'?Last Tuesday they come to Dan Norris's, five mile down the creek, an'old man Norris he was in the barn makin' a ladder, an' Dan he was gonefor the cow. A painted Tory run into the kitchen an' hit the old womanwith his hatchet, an' she fetched a screech, an' her darter, 'Liza, shescreeched, too. Then a Injun he hit the darter, and he kep' a-kickin'an' a-hittin', an' old man Norris he heard the rumpus out to the barn,an' he run in, an' they pushed him out damn quick an' shot him in thelegs. A Tory clubbed him an' ripped his skelp off, the old man on hisknees, a-bellowin' piteous, till they knifed him all to slivers an'kicked what was left o' him into
the road. The darter she prayed an'yelled, but 'twan't no use, for they cut her that bad with hatchets shewas dead when Dan came a-runnin'. 'God!' he says, an' goes at theinimy, swingin' his milk-stool--but, Lord, sir, what can one man do? Hewas that shot up it 'ud sicken you, Mr. Renault. An' then they was twolittle boys a-lookin' on at it, too frightened to move; but when thedestructives was a-beatin' old Mrs. Norris to death they hid in thefence-hedge. An' they both of 'em might agot clean off, only thelittlest one screamed when they tore the skelp off'n the old woman; an'he run off, but a Tory he chased him an' ketched him by the fence, an'he jest held the child's legs between his'n, an' bent him back an' cuthis throat, the boy a-squealin' something awful. Then the Tory skelpedhim an' hung him acrost the fence. The only Norris what come out of itwas the lad who lay tight in the fence-scrub--Jimmy. He's up at myhouse; you'll see him. He come here that night to tell us of themgoin's on. He acts kinder stupid, like he ain't got no wits, an' hejests sets an' sets, starin' at nothin'--leastways at nothin' I kinsee----"
His high-pitched, garrulous chatter, and the horrid purport of it, wereto me indescribably ghastly. To hear such things told without tremor oremphasis or other emotion than the sullen faces of his two strappingsons--to hear these incredible horrors babbled by an old man whose fatemight be the same that very night, affected me with such anoverpowering sense of helplessness that I could find no word toreassure either him or the men and boys who now came crowding aroundus, asking anxiously if we had news from the Sacandaga or from thenorth.
All I could do was to urge them to leave their homes and go toJohnstown; but they shook their heads, some asserting that Johnstownwas full of Tories, awaiting the coming of Walter Butler to rise andmassacre everybody; others declaring that the Yellow Tavern, which hadbeen fortified, was safer than Albany itself. None would leave house orland; and whether these people really believed that they could hold outagainst a sudden onslaught, I never knew. They were the usual mixtureof races, some of low Dutch extraction, like the Vanderveers andWemples, some high Dutch, like the Kleins; and, around me, I saw,recognized, and greeted people who in peaceful days had been settled inthese parts, and some among them had worked for my father--honest,simple folk, like Patrick Farris, with his pretty Dutch wife andtow-headed youngsters; and John Warren, once my father's head groom,and Jacob Klock, kinsman of the well-known people of that name.
The Oneida, pressed and questioned on every side, replied in guardedmonosyllables; poor Lyn Montour, wrapped to the eyes in her blanket,passed for an Iroquois youth, and was questioned mercilessly, until Iinterposed and opened the tavern door for her and for Little Otter.
"I tell you, Wemple," I said, turning on the tavern porch to addressthe people, "there is no safety here for you if Walter Butler or SirJohn arrive here in force. It will be hatchet and torch again--the samestory, due to the same strange Dutch obstinacy, or German apathy, orYankee foolhardiness. In the grain belt it is different; there thefarmers are obliged to expose themselves because our army needs bread.But your corn and buckwheat and pumpkins and apples can be left for aweek or two until we see how this thing is going to end. Be sensible;stack what you can, but don't wait to thresh or grind. Bury yourapples; let the cider go; harness up; gather your cattle and sheep;pack up the clock and feather bed, and move to Johnstown with yourfamilies. In a week or two you will know whether this country is to begiven to the torch again, or whether, by God's grace, Colonel Willettis to send Walter Butler packing! I'll wait here a day for you. Thinkit over.
"I have seen the Iroquois at the Sacandaga Vlaie. I saw Walter Butlerthere, too; and the woods were alive with Johnson's Greens. The onlyreason why they have not struck you here is, no doubt, because therewas more plunder and more killing to be had along the Sacandaga. Butwhen there remain no settlements there--when villages, towns, hamletsare in ashes, like Currietown, like Minnesink, Cherry Valley, Wyoming,Caughnawaga, then they'll turn their hatchets on these lone farms,these straggling hamlets and cross-road taverns. I tell you, to-daythere is not a house unburned at Caughnawaga, except the church andthat villain Doxtader's house--not a chimney standing in the MohawkValley, from Tribes Hill to the Nose. Ten miles of houses in ashes, tenmiles of fields a charred trail!
"Now, do as you please, but remember. For surely as I stand here themilitia call has already gone out, and this country must remain exposedwhile we follow Butler and try to hunt him down."
The little throng of people, scarcely a dozen in all, received mywarning in silence. Glancing down the road, I saw one or two womenstanding at their house doors, and children huddled at the gate, allintently watching us.
"I want to send a message to Colonel Willett," I said, turning to theOneida. "Can you go? Now?"
The tireless fellow smiled.
"Give us what you have to eat," I said to Patrick Farris, whose roundand rosy little wife had already laid the board in the big room inside.And presently we sat down to samp, apple-sauce, and bread, with a greatbowl of fresh milk to each cover.
The Oneida ate sparingly; the girl mechanically, dull eyes persistentlylowered. From the first moment that the Oneida had seen her he hadnever addressed a single word to her, nor had he, after the first keenglance, even looked at her. This, in the stress of circumstances, theforced and hasty marches, the breathless trail, the tension of theThendara situation, was not extraordinary. But after excitement andfatigue, and when together under the present conditions, two Iroquoiswould certainly speak together.
Anxious, preoccupied as I was, I could not help but notice howabsolutely the Oneida ignored the girl; and I knew that he regarded heras an Oneida invariably regards a woman no longer respected by the mostchaste of all people, the Iroquois nation.
That she understood and passionately resented this was perfectly plainto me, though she neither spoke nor moved. There was nothing for me todo or say. Already I had argued the matter with myself from everystandpoint, and eagerly as I sought for solace, for a ray of hope, Icould not but understand how vain it were to ask a cynical world tobelieve that this young girl was Walter Butler's wife. No; with hisdenial, with the averted faces of the sachems on the Kennyetto, as sheherself had admitted, with the denial of Sir John, what evidence couldbe brought forward to justify me in wedding Elsin Grey? Another thing:even if Sir John should admit that, acting in capacity of a magistrateof Tryon County, he had witnessed the marriage of Walter Butler and LynMontour, what civil powers had a deposed magistrate; a fugitive who hadbroken parole and fled?
No, there was no legal tie here. I was not now free to wed; Iunderstood that as I sat there, staring out of the window into the redwest, kindling to flame behind the Mayfield hills.
The Oneida, rolling himself in his blanket, had stretched out on thebare floor by the hearth; the girl, head buried in her hands, satbrooding above the empty board. Farris fetched me ink and quill and theonly sheet of paper in the settlement; but it was sufficiently large totear in half; and I inked my rusty quill and wrote:
"Yellow Tavern, Oswaya on Frenchman's Creek.
"COLONEL MARINUS WILLETT:
"_Sir_--I have the honor to report that the scout of two, under my command, proceeded, agreeable to orders, as far as the Vlaie, called Sacandaga Vlaie, arriving there at dawn and in time for the council and rites of Thendara, which were held at the edge of the Dead Water or Vlaie Creek.
"I flatter myself that the Long House has abandoned any idea of punishing the Oneidas for the present--the council recognizing my neutral right to speak for the Oneida nation. The Oneidas dissenting, naturally there could be no national unanimity, which is required at Thendara before the Long House embarks upon any Federal policy.
"Whether or not this action of mine was wise, you, sir, must judge. It may be that what I have done will only serve to consolidate the enemy in the next enterprise they undertake.
"My usefulness as a spy in Sir John's camp must prove abortive, as I encountered Captain Walter Butler at the Dead Water, who
knows me, and who is aware of my business in New York. Attempting to take him, I made a bad matter of it, he escaping by diving. Some men in green uniforms, whom I suppose were foresters from Sir John's corps, firing on us, I deemed it prudent to take to my heels as far as the settlement called Oswaya, which is on Frenchman's Creek, some five miles above Varicks.
"The settlement is practically defenseless, and the people hereabout expect trouble. If you believe it worth while to send some Rangers here to complete the harvest, it should, I think, be done at once. Patrick Farris, landlord at the Yellow Tavern, estimates the buckwheat at five thousand bushels. There is also a great store of good apples, considerable pitted corn, and much still standing unstacked, and several acres of squashes and pumpkins--all a temptation to the enemy.
"I can form no estimate of Sir John's force on the Sacandaga. This letter goes to you by the Oneida runner, Little Otter, who deserves kind treatment for his services. I send you also, under his escort, an unfortunate young girl, of whom you have doubtless heard. She is Lyn Montour, and is by right, if not by law, the wife of Captain Walter Butler. He repudiates her; her own people disown her. I think, perhaps, some charitable lady of the garrison may find a home for her in Johnstown or in Albany. She is Christian by instinct if not by profession.
"Awaiting your instructions here, I have the honor to remain, Your humble and ob't servant,
"CARUS RENAULT, "_Regt. Staff Capt_."
The sun had set. Farris brought a tallow dip. He also laid a fire inthe fireplace and lighted it, for the evening had turned from chill tosheer dry cold, which usually meant a rain for the morrow in theseparts.
Shivering a little in my wet deerskins, I sanded, folded, directed, andsealed the letter, laid it aside, and drew the other half-sheet towardme. For a few moments I pondered, head supported on one hand, thendipped quill in horn and wrote:
"_Beloved_--There is a poor young girl here who journeys to-night to Johnstown under escort of my Oneida. Do what you can for her in Johnstown. If you win her confidence, perhaps we both may help her. Her lot is sad enough.
"Dearest, I am to acquaint you that I am no longer, by God's charity, a spy. I now hope to take the field openly as soon as our scouts can find out just exactly where Major Ross and Butler's Rangers are.
"To my great astonishment, disgust, and mortification, I have learned that Walter Butler is near here. He evidently rode forward, preceding his command, in order to be present at an Iroquois fire. He was too late to work anybody a mischief in that direction.
"It is now our duty to watch for his Rangers and forestall their attack. For that purpose I expect Colonel Willett to send me a strong scout or to recall me to Johnstown. My impatience to hold you in my arms is tempered only by my hot desire to wash out the taint of my former duties in the full, clean flood of open and honorable battle.
"Time presses, and I must wake my Oneida. See that my horse is cared for, dearest. Remember he bore me gallantly on that ride for life and love.
"I dare not keep Colonel Willett's report waiting another minute. Good night, my sweet Elsin. All things must come to us at last.
"CARUS."
I dried the letter by the heat of the blazing logs. The Indian stirred,sat up in his blanket, and looked at me with the bright, clear eyes ofa hound.
"I am ready, brother," I said gently.
It was cold, clear starlight when Farris brought my horse around. I setLyn Montour in the saddle, and walked out into the road with her, myhand resting on her horse's mane.
"Try not to be sad," I whispered, as she settled herself in thestirrups like a slim young trooper, and slowly gathered bridle.
"I am no longer sad, Mr. Renault," she said tremulously. "I comprehendthat I have no longer any chance in the world."
"Not among your adopted people," I said, "but white people understand.There is no reason, child, why you should not carry your head proudly.You are guiltless, little sister."
"I am truly unconscious of any sin," she said simply.
"You have committed none. His the black shame of your betrayal! And nowthat you know him for the foul beast he is, there can be no earthlyreason that you should suffer either in pride or conscience. You arepitifully young; you have life before you--the life of a white woman,with its chances, its desires, its aims, its right to happiness. Takeit! I bid you be happy, little sister; I bid you hope!"
She turned her face and looked at me; the ghost of a smile trembled onher lips; then, inclining her head in the sweetest of salutes, shewheeled her horse out into the tremulous starlight. And after her stolethe tall Oneida, rifle slanted across his naked shoulders, stridingsilently at her stirrup as she rode. I had a momentary glimpse of theirshadowy shapes moving against the sky, then they were blotted out inthe gloom of the trees, leaving me in the road peering after themthrough the darkness, until even the far stroke of the horse's feetdied out, and there was no sound in the black silence save the hushedrushing of the stream hurrying through the shrouded hollow below.
Not a light glimmered in the settlement. The ungainly tavern, everywindow sealed with solid shutters, sprawled at the cross-roads, astrange, indistinct silhouette; the night-mist hung low over the fieldsof half-charred stumps, and above the distant bed of the brook a bandof fog trailed, faintly luminous.
Never before had I so deeply felt the desolation of the northland. In awilderness there is nothing forbidding to me; its huge earth-bedded,living pillars supporting the enormous canopy of green, its vastness,its mystery, its calm silence, may awe yet nothing sadden. But a vagueforeboding enters when man enters. Where his corn grows amid thecinders of primeval things, his wanton gashes on tree and land, hisbeastly pollution of the wild, crystal waters, all the restlessness,and barrenness, and filth, and sordid deformity he calls hishome--these sadden me unutterably.
I know, too, that Sir William Johnson felt as I do, loving the forestfor its own beautiful, noble sake; and the great Virginian, who caredmost for the majestic sylvan gardens planted by the Almighty, grievedat destruction, and, even in the stress of anxiety, when his carpentersand foresters were dealing pitilessly with the woods about West Pointin order to furnish timber for the redoubts and the floats for thegreat chain, he thought to warn his engineers to beware of waste causedby ignorance or wantonness.
Where rich and fertile soil is the reward for the desperate battle withan iron forest, I can comprehend the clearing of a wilderness, andadmire the transformation into gentle hills clothed in green, meadows,alder-bordered waters, acres of grain, and dainty young orchards; buthere, in this land, only the flats along the river-courses are worthyof cultivation; the rest is sand and rock deeply covered with theforest mast, and fertile only while that lasts. And the forest oncegone, land and water shrivel, unnourished, leaving a desert amidcharred stumps and the white phantoms of dead pines. I was ever averseto the cutting of the forests here, except for selected crops ofripened timber to be replaced by natural growth ere the next crop hadripened; and Sir William Johnson, who was wise in such matters, set usa wholesome example which our yeomen have not followed. And alreadylands cleared fifty years since have run out to the sandy subsoil; yetstill the axes flash, still the great trees groan and fall, crashingthrough and smashing their helpless fellows; and in God's own gardenwaters shrink, and fire passes, and the deer flee away, and rain fails,because man passes in his folly, and the path of the fool isdestruction.
Where Thendara was, green trees flourish to the glory of the Holder ofHeaven.
Where the forest whitens with men, the earth mourns in ashes for thelost Thendara--Thendara! Thendara no more!