CHAPTER XIII
In a small room, under a roof which slanted out in a straight line,but made an obtuse angle in the midst of descent, lighted alone by ahorn lantern, such as was used on board the river boats at night, satthe stout man whom we have described under the name of Brooks. Littlefurniture of any kind did the room contain. There was a smallhalf-tester bed with its dull curtains of a broad red and whitecheckered stuff; there was the little table at the side of the room,jammed close against the wall; there was the solitary chair; thewashstand, with its basin and its ewer, both somewhat maimed; therewas the little looking-glass hanging from a nail driven in the wall,with its narrow, badly gilt frame, and its plate so distorted thatwhen one looked in it the reflection seemed to be making faces at theoriginal. Dull with imbibing many a year's loaded atmosphere, werethose faded walls; and many a guest had written upon them, in pencil,his own name or the name of his sweetheart--permanent memorials oftransitory tenants, long-cherished memories of affections gone to thegrave. There were two or three distiches, too, and a quatrain somewhatmore polished.
But the man who sat there noted none of those things. The dim light,the gloomy aspect of the room, might sink in upon his spirit, andrender the darkness within more dark; the strange, ill-looking doublearch of the ceiling, the obtrusive two straight lines instead of one,with the blunt, unmeaning angle between them, giving an aspect ofbrokenness to the roof, as if it were ready to bulge out and thencrash down, might irritate, without his knowing why. But still lienoted them not with anything like observation. His mind was busy withthings of its own--things in which feeling took a share, as well asthought--and he was, if not dead, sleeping to the external world. Evenhis beloved woods and streams, and fresh air, and open skies, wereforgotten for the time.
He argued with himself a case of conscience hard to solve.
He was as brave a man as ever lived; habituated all his life to perilsof many kinds, and had met them all fearlessly. Wake him in the woodsat midnight, you would find him ready. Deafen his ear with the drum orthe war-whoop, you could not make him start. He blinked not at thecannon flash, or the blaze of the lightning; and would have faced thefiery-mouthed platoon without a wavering step.
And yet the love of life was strong in him. He had so many joys inthe bright treasury of nature; to his simple, nay, wild tastes, therewere so many pleasures in the wide world, that to part with them washard--very hard.
He had never known how valuable earthly existence was to him till thathour. He had never felt how different a thing it is to hazard it inbold daring, or to contemplate the throwing of it away in recklesspassion, or disappointment and despair, from calmly and deliberatelylaying it down as a sacrifice, whatever be the end, the inducement, orthe duty.
What was case of conscience he proposed to himself? Simply this:whether he should suffer another to die for his act, or place himselfnot only in the peril from which he had lately escaped, but in theactual grasp of death. Some men of enthusiastic spirit and greatconstitutional fearlessness might have decided the matter at a dash,and, with the first impulse of a generous nature, cast themselvesunder the uplifted tomahawk to save their innocent friend. But he wasnot such, and I do not intend so to represent him. He was not a man todo anything without deliberation, without calculating all things,though he was as generous as most men, as this world goes. All hishabits, the very course of his previous life, disposed him to carefulforethought. Every day had had its watchfulness, every hour itsprecaution. The life of the woods, in those days, was a life of periland preparation, where consideration might be very rapid, but wasalways needful.
And now he debated the question with himself. Could he live on andsuffer Walter Prevost to die in his place? There were strenuousadvocates on both sides, but the love of life was the most subtle, ifgenerosity was the most eloquent.
"Poor boy!" he thought. "Why should he die for what I have done?Why should he be cut off so soon from all life's hopes and blessings?Why should his father's eyes be drowned in tears, and his sister'sheart wrung with grief, when I can save them all? And he so frank andnoble, too! so full of every kindly feeling and generous quality--sobrave--so honest--so true-hearted! Innocent, too! Innocent of everyoffence--quite innocent in this case!"
But then spoke self, and he thought: "Am not I innocent, too? Asinnocent as he is? Did I ever harm the man? Did I provoke the savage?Did I not slay him in pure self-defence? And shall I lay down the lifeI then justly protected at the cost of that of another human being,because a race of fierce Indians, unreasoning, bloodthirsty savages,choose to offer a cruel sacrifice to their god of revenge, and havefound a victim?
"Still," he continued, taking the other side, "it is for my act thesacrifice is offered; and, if there must be a sacrifice, ought not thevictim to be myself? Besides, were it any worthless life that was injeopardy--were it that of some desperate rover--some criminal--someman without ties, or friendships, or affections, one might leave himto his fate, perhaps, without remorse; but this poor lad--how manyhopes are centered in him! What will not his family lose? What willnot the world? And I--what am I, that my life should be weighedagainst his? Is he not my friend, too, and the son of my friend, onewho has always overflowed with kindness and regard toward me?"
His resolution was almost taken; but then the cunning pleader,vanquished in direct argument, suggested a self-deceit.
"It is strange," he thought, "that these Indians, and especiallytheir chief, should fix upon one with whom they have ever been sofriendly--should choose a youth whom they have looked upon as abrother, when they might surely have found some other victim. Can thisbe a piece of their savage cunning? They know how well I love the lad,and how much friendship has been shown me by his father. Can they havetaken him as a bait to their trap, without any real intention ofsacrificing him, and only in the hope of luring me into their power?"
At first sight, the supposition seemed reasonable, and he was inclinedto congratulate himself that he had not precipitately fallen into thesnare. "How they would have yelled with triumph when they found mebringing my head to the hatchet!"
But speedily his knowledge of the Indian character and habitsundeceived him. He knew that in such cases they always made sure ofsome victim, and that the more near and dear he was to the offenderthe better for their purpose--himself first, a relation next, a friendnext; and he cast the self-fraud away from him.
But the love of life had not yet done, though obliged to take anothercourse and suggest modifications. Was there no middle course to betaken? Was it absolutely necessary that he should sacrifice his ownlife to save that of Walter Prevost? Could the object not be effectedwithout his giving himself up to the savages? Might not someone elsefall into their hands? Might not the lad be rescued by some daringeffort? This was the most plausible suggestion of all, but it was theone that troubled him the most. He had detected so many attempts inhis own heart to cheat himself, that he suspected he might bedeceiving himself still; and his mind got puzzled and confused withdoubts.
He went to the bed and lay down in his clothes, but he could not sleepwithout taking some resolution; and rising again, he pressed his handsupon his aching temples, and determined to cast away self from thequestion altogether--to look upon it as if it affected some otherperson and Walter Prevost, and judge accordingly.
His plan succeeded. He separated the truth from the falsehood, andcame to the conclusion that it would be folly to go and give himselfup to certain death as long as there was a chance of saving his youngfriend by other means; but that it was right to do so if other meansfailed; and that neither by delay nor even uncertain efforts, must herisk the chance of saving him by the ultimate sacrifice. He made uphis mind accordingly, to re-enter the Indian territory in spite ofevery peril, to conceal himself as best he could, to watch the Indiansas he would watch a wild beast, and be ready for any opportunity orfor any decision; and when his resolution was finally taken he laydown and slept profoundly.