Chapter 43

"He sat her on a milk-white steed, And himself upon a grey; He never turned his face again, But he bore her quite away." _The Knight of the Burning Pestle._

"Oh, woe is me for Gerrard! I have brought Confusion on the noblest gentleman That ever truly loved." _The Triumph of Love._

The night, though only starry, was scarce less lovely for the absence of the moon. So bright indeed was the milky way, the white girdle, with which the night adorns her azure robe, that you might almost imagine the moon had not disappeared, but only melted and diffused itself in the milder radiance of that fair circlet.

As was always the custom in the country, the family had retired at an early hour, and Bernard quietly left the house to fulfil his engagement with Mamalis. They stood, he and the Indian girl, beneath the shade of the old oak, so often mentioned in the preceding pages. With his handsome Spanish cloak of dark velvet plush, thrown gracefully over his shoulders, his hat looped up and fastened in front with a gold button, after the manner of the times, Alfred Bernard stood with folded arms, irresolute as to how he should commence a conversation so important, and requiring such delicate address. Mamalis stood before him, with that air of nameless but matchless grace so peculiar to those, who unconstrained by the arts and affectations of society, assume the attitude of ease and beauty which nature can alone suggest. She watched him with a look of eagerness, anxious on her part for the silence to be broken, that she might learn the meaning and the object of this strange interview.

Alfred Bernard was too skillful an intriguer to broach abruptly the subject which, most absorbed his thoughts, and which had made him seek this interview, and when at last he spoke, Mamalis was at a loss to guess what there was in the commonplaces which he used, that could be of interest to him. But the wily hypocrite led her on step by step, until gradually and almost unconsciously to herself he had fully developed his wishes.

"You live here altogether, now, do you not?" he asked, kindly.

"Yes."

"Are they kind to you?"

"Oh yes, they are kind to all."

"And you are happy?"

"Yes, as happy as those can be who are left alone on earth."

"What! are there none of your family now living?"

"No, no!" she replied, bitterly; "the blood of Powhatan now runs in this narrow channel," and she held out her graceful arms, as she spoke, with an expressive gesture.

"Alas! I pity you," said Bernard, sighing. "We are alike in this--for my blood is reduced to as narrow a channel as your own. But your family was very numerous?"

"Yes, numerous as those stars--and bright and beautiful as they."

"Judging from the only Pleiad that remains," thought Bernard, "you may well say so--and can you," he added, aloud, "forgive those who have thus injured you?"

"Forgive, oh yes, or how shall I be forgiven! Look at those stars! They shine the glory of the night. They vanish before the sun of the morning. So faded my people before the arms of the white man--and yet I can freely forgive them all!"

"What, even those who have quenched those stars!" said Bernard, with a sinister meaning in his tone.

"You mistake," replied Mamalis, touchingly. "They are not quenched. The stars we see to-night, though unseen on the morrow, are still in heaven."

"Nay, Mamalis," said Bernard, "the creed of your fathers taught not thus. I thought the Indian maxim was that blood alone could wipe out the stain of blood."

"I love the Christian lesson better," said Mamalis, softly. "And you, Mr. Bernard, should not try to shake my new born faith. 'Love your enemies--bless them that curse you--pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you--that you may be the children of your Father which is in heaven.' The orphan girl on earth would love to be the child of her father in heaven."

The sweet simplicity with which the poor girl thus referred to the precepts and promises of her new religion, derived more touching beauty from the broken English with which she expressed them. An attempt to describe her manner and accent would be futile, and would detract from the simple dignity and sweetness with which she uttered the words. We leave the reader from his own imagination to fill up the picture which we can only draw in outline. Bernard saw and felt the power of religion in the heart of this poor savage, and he hesitated what course he should pursue. He knew that her strongest feeling in life had been her affection for her brother. That had been the chord which earliest vibrated in her heart, and which as her heart expanded only increased in tension that added greater sweetness to its tone. It was on this broken string, so rudely snapped asunder, that he resolved to play--hoping thus to strike some harsh and discordant notes in her gentle heart.

"You had a brother, Mamalis," he said, abruptly; "the voice of your brother's blood calls to you from the ground."

"My brother!" shrieked the girl, startled by the suddenness of the allusion.

"Aye, your murdered brother," said Bernard, marking with pleasure the effect he had produced, "and it is in your power to avenge his death. Dare you do it?"

"Oh, my brother, my poor lost brother," she sobbed, the stoical indifference of the savage, pressed out by the crushed heart of the sister, "if by this hand thy death could be avenged."

"By your hand he can be avenged," said Bernard, seeing her pause. "It has not yet been done. That stupid knave, in a moment of vanity, claimed for himself the praise of having murdered a chieftain, but the brave Manteo fell by more noble hands than his."

"In God's name, who do you mean?" asked Mamalis.

"I can only tell you that it is now in your power to surrender his murderer to justice, and to his deserved fate."

Mamalis was silent. She guessed that it was Hansford to whom Bernard had thus vaguely alluded. The struggle seemed to be a desperate one. There in the clear starlight, with none to help, save Him, in whom she had learned to trust, she wrestled with the tempter. But that dark scene of her life, which still threw its shadow on her redeemed heart, again rose up before her memory. The lesson was a blessed one. How often thus does the recollection of a former sin guard the soul from error in the future. Surely, in this, too, God has made the wrath of man to praise him. With the aid thus given from on high, the trusting soul of Mamalis triumphed over temptation.

"I know not why you tempt me thus, Mr. Bernard," she said, more calmly, "nor why you have brought me here to-night. But this I know, that I have learned that vengeance belongs to God. It were a crime for mortal man, frail at best, to usurp the right of God. My brother is already fearfully avenged."

Twice beaten in his attempt to besiege the strong heart of the poor Indian, by stratagem, the wily Bernard determined to pursue a more determined course, and to take the resisting citadel by a coup d'etat. He argued, and argued rightly, that a sudden charge would surprise her into betraying a knowledge of Hansford's movements. No sooner, therefore, had the last words fallen from her lips, than he seized her roughly by the arm, and exclaimed,

"So you, then, with all your religious cant, are the murderess of Thomas Hansford!"

"The murderess! Of Hansford! Is he then dead," cried the girl, bewildered by the sudden charge, "How did they find him?"

"Find him!" cried Bernard, triumphantly, "It is easy finding what we hide ourselves. We have proven that you alone are aware of his hiding place, and you alone, therefore, are responsible for his safety. It was for this confession that I brought you here to-night."

"So help me Heaven," said the trembling girl, terrified by the web thus woven around her, "If he be dead, I am innocent of his death."

"The assassin of Berkenhead may well be the murderess of Hansford," said Bernard. "It is easier to deny than to prove. Come, my mistress, tell me when you saw him."

"Oh, but this morning, safe and well," said Mamalis. "Indeed, my hand is guiltless of his blood."

"Prove it, then, if you can," returned Bernard. "You must know our English law presumes him guilty, who is last with the murdered person, unless he can prove his innocence. Show me Hansford alive, and you are safe. If I do not see him by sunrise, you go with me to answer for his death, and to learn that your accursed race is not the only people who demand blood for blood."

Overawed by his threats, and his stern manner, so different from the mild and respectful tone in which he had hitherto addressed her, Mamalis sank upon the ground in an agony of alarm. Bernard disregarded her meek and silent appeal for mercy, and sternly menaced her when she attempted to scream for assistance.

"Hush your savage shrieking, you bitch, or you'll wake the house; and then, by God, I'll choke you before your time. I tell you, if the man is alive, you need fear no danger; and if he be dead, you have only saved the sheriff a piece of dirty work, or may be have given him another victim."

"For God's sake, do me no harm," cried Mamalis, imploringly. "I am innocent--indeed I am. Think you that I would hurt a hair of the head of that man whom Virginia Temple loves?"

This last remark was by no means calculated to make her peace with Bernard; but his only reply was by the shrill whistle which had been agreed upon as a signal between Holliday and himself. True to his promise, and obedient to the command of his superior, the soldier made his appearance on the scene of action with a promptitude that could only be explained by the fact that he had concealed himself behind a corner of the house, and had heard every word of the conversation. Too much excited to be suspicious, Bernard did not remark on his punctuality, but said, in a low voice:

"Go wake Thompson, saddle the horses, and let's be off. We have work before us. Go!" And Holliday, with habitual obedience, retired to execute the order.

"And now," said Bernard, in an encouraging tone, to Mamalis, "you must go with me. But you have nothing to fear, if Hansford be alive. If, however, my suspicions be true, and he has been murdered by your hand, I will still be your friend, if you be but faithful."

The horses were quickly brought, and Bernard, half leading, half carrying the poor, weeping, trembling maiden, mounted his own powerful charger, and placed her behind him. The order of march was soon given, and the heavy sound of the horses' feet was heard upon the hard, crisp, frozen ground. Mamalis, seeing her fate inevitable, whatever it might be, awaited it patiently and without a murmur. Never suspecting the true motive of Bernard, and fully believing that he was _bona fide_ engaged in searching for the perpetrators of some foul deed, she readily consented, for her own defence, to conduct the party to the hiding place of the hapless Hansford. Surprised and shocked beyond measure at the intelligence of his fate, she almost forgot her own situation in her concern for him, and was happy in aiding to bring to justice those who, as she feared, had murdered him. She was surprised, indeed, that she had heard nothing of the circumstance from Virginia, as she would surely have done, had Bernard mentioned it to the family. But in her ignorance of the rules of civilized life, she attributed this to the forms of procedure, to the necessity for secrecy--to anything rather than the true cause. Nor could she help hoping that there might be still some mistake, and that Hansford would be found alive and well, thus establishing her own innocence, and ending the pursuit.

Arrived nearly at the wigwam, she mentioned the fact to Bernard, who in a low voice commanded a halt, and dismounting with his men, he directed Mamalis to guide them the remaining distance on foot. Leaving Thompson in charge of the horses, until he might be called to their assistance, Bernard and Holliday silently followed the unsuspecting Indian girl along the narrow path. A short distance ahead, they could discern the faint smoke, as it curled through the opening at the top of the wigwam and floated towards the sky. This indication rendered it probable that the object of their search was still watching, and thus warned them to greater caution in their approach. Bernard's heart beat thick and loud, and his cheek blanched with excitement, as he thus drew near the lurking place of his enemy. He shook Holliday by the arm with impatient anger, as the heavy-footed soldier jarred the silence by the crackling of fallen leaves and branches. And now they are almost there, and Mamalis, whose excitement was also intense, still in advance, saw through a crevice in the door the kneeling form of the noble insurgent, as he bowed himself by that lonely fire, and committed his weary soul to God.

"He is here! he lives!" she shouted. "I knew that he was safe!" and the startled forest rang with the echoes of her voice.

"The murder is out," cried Bernard, as followed by Holliday, he rushed forward to the door, which had been thrown open by their guide; but ere he gained his entrance, the sharp report of a pistol was heard, and the beautiful, the trusting Mamalis fell prostrate on the floor, a bleeding martyr to her constancy and faith. Hansford, roused by the sudden sound of her voice, had seized the pistol which, sleeping and waking, was by his side, and hearing the voice of Bernard, he had fired. Had the ball taken effect upon either of the men, he might yet have been saved, for in an encounter with a single man he would have proved a formidable adversary. But inscrutable are His ways, whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, and all that the puzzled soul can do, is humbly to rely on the hope that

"God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain."

And she, the last of her dispersed and ruined lineage, is gone. In the lone forest, where the wintry blast swept unobstructed, the giant trees moaned sadly and fitfully over their bleeding child; and the bright stars, that saw the heavy deed, wept from their place in heaven, and bathed her lovely form in night's pure dews. She did not long remain unburied in that forest, for when Virginia heard the story of her faith and loyalty from the rude lips of Holliday, the pure form of the Indian girl, still fresh and free from the polluting touch of the destroyer, was borne to her own home, and followed with due rites and fervent grief to the quiet tomb. In after days, when her sad heart loved to dwell upon these early scenes, Virginia placed above the sacred ashes of her friend a simple marble tablet, long since itself a ruin; and there, engraven with the record of her faith, her loyalty and her love, was the sweet assurance, that in her almost latest words, the trusting Indian girl had indeed become one of "the children of her Father which is in Heaven."