Chapter 6

The eggs and butter and milk for which he had rowed across the lake were covered with green leaves under one of the boat-benches.

Straight above him, mass on mass, rose those protruding ribs of the earth, the rocks. He lay back in the boat's stern and gazed at their summit of pinetrees and ferns. Bunches of gigantic ferns sprouted from every crevice, and not a leaf of the array but was worth half a lifetime's study. Yet Adam's eye wandered aimlessly over it all, as if it gave him no pleasure. Nor did he seem to wish that a little figure would bend from the summit, half swallowed in greenness and made a vegetable mermaid from the waist downward, to call to him. He was so haggard the freckles stood in bold relief upon his face and neck.

The hiss of a boat and the sound of row-locks failed to move him from his listless attitude. He did, however, turn his eyes and set his jaws in the direction of the passing oarsman. Louis Satanette was all in white flannel, and flush-faced like a cream-pink rose with pleasant exhilaration. He held his oars poised and let his boat run slowly past Adam.

"What have you the matter?" he exclaimed, with sincere anxiety.

"Oh, it's naught," said Adam. "I'm just weary, weary."

"You have been gone a very, very long time," said Louis, using the double Canadian adjective. "Mrs. Macgregor is on the lookout."

Adam thought of her when she was _not_ on the lookout. He also thought of her tidying things about the camp in the morning, and singing as he pulled from the bay. Perhaps she was on another sort of lookout then.

"I'll go in presently," he muttered.

"Beg pardon?" said Louis Satanette, bending forward, and giving the upward inflection to that graceful Canadian phrase which asks a repetition while implying that the fault is with the hearer.

"I said I'd go in presently. There's no hurry."

"Allow me to take you in," said Louis. "You have approached too close to the altars of the sylvan gods, and their sacrificial smoke has overcome you. Don't you see it rising everywhere from the woods?"

"The sylvan gods are none of my clan," remarked Adam, shifting his position impatiently, "and it's little I know of them. There's a graat dail of ignorance consailed aboot my pairson."

Louis Satanette laughed with enjoyment:

"Well, _au revoir_. I will put up my sail when I turn the points. It will be a long run up the lakes, with this haze hanging and not wind enough to lift it."

"Good-day to ye," responded Adam. "We'll likely shift camp before you're this way."

"In so short a time?" exclaimed Louis.

"In so lang a time. I'm soul-sick of it. It's lone; it's heavy. The fine's too great for the pleasure of the feight. Look, now,--there were two rough laddies up Glazka way, in my country, and they came to fists aboot a sweethairt, the fools. But when they are stripped and ready, one hits the table wi's hond, and says he, 'Ay, Georgie, I'm wullin' to feight ye, but wha's goin' to pay the fine?'"

Louis Satanette laughed again, but as if he did not know just what was meant."

"It's a cautious mon, is the Scotchmon," said Adam, "but no' so slow, after all."

"Oh, never slow!" said Louis. "Very, very fast indeed, to leave this paradise in the midst of the summer."

"'Farewell to lovely Loch Achray,'" sighed Adam: "Where shall we find, in any land, So lone a lake, so sweet a strand?"

Louis made a sign of adieu and dipped his oars.

"It's only _au revoir_," said he, shooting past. "Be very, very far from parting with Magog too early."

"'So lone a lake, so sweet a strand,'" repeated Adam, dropping his head back against the stern.

He did not move while the sound of the other's oars died away behind him. He did not move while the afternoon shadows spread far over the water.

The long Canadian twilight advanced stage by stage. First, all Magog flushed, as if a repetition of the old miracle had turned it to wine. Then innumerable night-hawks uttered their four musical notes in endless succession, upon the heights, down in the woods, from the mainland mountain. The north star became discernible almost overhead. Then, with slow and irregular strokes, Adam pulled away from the cliff, and brought his keel to grate the sand in front of his tent.

Eva was sitting there on a rock, huddling a shawl around her.

"Oh, Adam Macgregor!" she began, in a low voice, "and do you condescend to bring your wraith back to me at last?"

"It's nothing but my wraith," said Adam, lifting his eggs and butter and milk, and stepping from the boat. "The mon in me died aboot noon."

Eva walked along by his side to the cool-box, where he deposited his load.

"What is the matter with you, laddie, that you look and talk so strangely?"

"Oh, naught," said Adam, turning and facing her. "I but saw you kissing Louis Satanette on the hill to-day."

III.

THE FLAMING SWORD.

The changes which passed over her face were half concealed by the twilight. She was grieved, indignant, and frightened, but over all other expressions lurked the mischievous mirth of a bad child.

"I meant to tell you about it," she said.

"Hearken," said Adam, with a fierce stare. "I've stayed out on the lake all day, and I'm quiet. At first I wasn't. But when he came by I gave him nothing but a good word."

"I wish you'd scolded him instead of me," said Eva, propping her back against the table and puckering her lips.

"_He_ did naught," said Adam, "but what any man would do that got lave. It's you that gave him lave that are to blame."

"Don't be so serious about a little thing," put forth Eva. "We just walked over to the counterfeiters' hole, and coming back we picked strawberries, and he teased me like a girl, and caught hold of me and kissed me. We've been such good friends in camp. I think it's this easy, wild life made me do it."

"She'll blame the very sky over her instead of taking blame to herself," ground out Adam from between his jaws. "I sat in me boat below and saw you arch your head and look at him ways that I remember. My God! why did you make this woman so false, and yet so sweet that a mon canna help loving her in spite o' his teeth?"

"Because I'd die if folks didn't love me," burst out Eva, with a sob. "And if men can't help loving me, what do you blame me for?"

"What right have you to breathe such a word when you're married to me?"

"But I'm not used to being married yet," pleaded Eva. "And I forgot, this once."

"It's once and for all," said Adam, "You'll never be to me what you were before. Is it the English-Canadian way to bring up women to kiss every comer?"

"I didn't kiss anybody but Louis Satanette," maintained Eva, "and I didn't really _want_ to kiss _him_"

"Never mind," said Adam. "Don't trouble your butterfly soul about it." And he turned away and walked toward the tent.

"I'll not love you if you say such awful things to me," she flashed after him.

"Ye can't take the breeks off a Hielandman," he replied, facing about, "Ye never loved me. Not as I loved you. And it's no loss I've met, if I could but think it."

"Oh, Adam!" Now she ran forward and caught him around the waist. "Don't be so hard with me. I know I am very bad, but I didn't mean to be."

Some faint perception of that coarse fibre within her was breaking with horror through her face. She held to his hands after he had separated her from his person and held her off.

"All that you do still has its effect on me," said the man, gazing sternly at her. "I love ye; but I despise myself for loving ye. This morn I adored ye with reverence; this night you're as a bit o' that earth."

Eva let go his hands and sat down on the ground. As he made his preparations in the tent he could not help seeing with compassion how abjectly her figure drooped. All its flexible proud lines, were suddenly gone. She was dazed by his treatment and by the light in which he put her trifling. She sat motionless until Adam came out with one of the cots in his arms.

"I'm to sleep upon the hill in the pine woods to-night," said he. "Go into the tent, and I'll fasten the flaps. You shan't be scared by anything."

"Let me get in the boat and leave the island, if you can't breathe the same air with me," said Eva. staggering up.

"No, I can't breathe the same air with ye to-night, but ye'll go into the tent," said Adam, with authority.

"I'll not stay there," she rebelled. "I'll follow you. You don't know what may be on this island."

"There can be nothing worse than what I've seen," said Adam; "and that's done all the hairm it can do."

"Oh, Adam, are we both crazy?" the small creature burst out, weeping as if her heart would break. "Don't go away and leave me so. I am not real bad in my heart, I know I am not; and if you would be a little patient with me and help me, I shall get over my silly ways. There is something in me, you can depend upon, if I _did_ do that foolish thing. And my mother didn't live long enough to train me, Adam; remember that. Won't you please kiss me? My heart is breaking."

He put down the cot and took her by the shoulders, trembling as he did so from head to foot:

"My wife, I belaive what you say. I'd give all the days remaining to me if I could strain ye against my breast with the feeling I had this morn. But there comes that sight. I never shall see the hill again, I never shall see a spot of this island again, without seeing your mouth kissing another man. Go into the tent. God knows I'd die before hairm should come to you. But not to-night can I stay beside you. Or kiss you."

He carried her into the tent and put her on her bed. She had made all the night-preparations herself, placing the pillows on both cots and turning back the sun-sweetened blankets.

Adam left her sobbing, buttoned the tent-flaps outside, and placed a barricade of kettles and pans which could not be touched without disturbing him on the hill. Then, taking up his own bed, he marched off through the ferns, edging his burden among dense boughs as he ascended.

When he had made the joints of his couch creak with many uneasy turnings, had clinched at leaves, and started up to return to the tent, only to check himself in the act as often as he started, he lost consciousness in uneasy dreams rather than fell asleep.

He was smothering, and yet could not open his lips to gasp for a breath of air. Then he was drowning: he gulped in vast sheets of water upon his lungs. An alarm sounded from Eva's barricade. He heard the pans and kettles clanging and her own voice in screams which pierced him, yet he could not move. A nightmare of heat enveloped him; the smothering element pouring upon his lungs was not water, but smoke; and he knew if no effort of will could move his body to her rescue he must be perishing himself.

After these brief sensations his existence was as blank as the empty void outside the worlds, until his ears began to throb like drums, and he felt water, like the tears he had shed in the morning, running all over his face. Eva held him in her arms, and alternately kissed his head and drenched it from the lake.

Moreover, he was in the boat, outside the bay, and their island glowed like a furnace before his dazzled eyes.

Those pine woods where he had gone to sleep were roaring up toward heaven in a column of fire. The tent was burning, all its interior illuminated until every object showed its minutest lines. He thought he saw some of Eva's dark hairs in an upturned hair-brush on the wash-stand.

Fire ran along the cliff-edge and dropped hissing brands into the lake. Old moss logs and pine-trees dry as tinder sent out sickening heat. The light ran like a flash up the tree over their stove, and in an instant its crown was wavering with flames. The grass itself caught here and there, and in whatever direction the eye turned, new fires as instantaneously sprang out to meet it.

Stumps blazed up like lighted altars, or like huge gas-jets suddenly turned on. Adam saw one log lying endwise downhill, one side of which was crumbling into coals of fierce and tremulous heat, while from the other side still sprung unsinged a delicate tuft of ferns.

The smoke was driving straight upward in a quivering current, and in Lake Magog's depths another island seemed to be on fire.

Sublime as the sight was, all these details impressed themselves on the man in an instant, and he turned his face directly up toward the woman.

"Darling, your face looks blistered," said Adam.

"It feels blistered," replied Eva. "I'll put some water on it, now that you've caught your breath again. I thought I could not get you out from those burning trees."

"But you dragged me down the hill?"

"Yes, and then dipped you in the lake and pushed off with you in the boat. I don't know how I did it. But here we are together."

Adam bathed her face carefully himself, and held her tight in his arms. The unspeakable love of which he had dreamed, and the heat of the burning island, seemed welding them together without other sign than the fact.

Not a word was sighed out for forgiveness on either side. They held each other and floated back into the lake. Adam took an oar and occasionally paddled, without wholly releasing his hold of Eva.

"Don't you remember our fish's nest?" she whispered beside his neck. "I wonder if the slim little silver thing is swimming around over the gravel hollow, frightened by all this glare? I hope those overhanging bushes won't catch fire and drop coals on her; for she's a silly thing,--she might not want to dart out in deep water and lose her unhatched family."

Adam smiled into his wife's eyes. He was quite singed, but did not know it.

"Ay, burn," he spoke out exultantly, apostrophizing the island. "Burn up our first home and all. It's worth it. We're the other side o' the world of fire now. We've passed through it, and are afloat on the sea of glass."

M. H. CATHERWOOD.

PROBATION.

Full slow to part with her best gifts is Fate: The choicest fruitage comes not with the spring, But still for summer's mellowing touch must wait, For storms and tears that seasoned excellence bring; And Love doth fix his joyfullest estate In hearts that have been hushed 'neath Sorrow's brooding wing. Youth sues to Fame: she coldly answers, "Toil!" He sighs for Nature's treasures: with reserve Responds the goddess, "Woo them from the soil." Then fervently he cries, "Thee will I serve,-- Thee only, blissful Love." With proud recoil The heavenly boy replies, "To serve me well--deserve."

FLORENCE EARLE COATES.

THE PIONEERS OF THE SOUTHWEST.

TWO PAPERS. II.

The route of Robertson lay over the great Indian war-path, which led, in a southwesterly direction, from the valley of Virginia to the Cherokee towns on the lower Tennessee, not far from the present city of Chattanooga. He would, however, turn aside at the Tellico and visit Echota, which was the home of the principal chiefs. While he is pursuing his perilous way, it may be as well to glance for a moment at the people among whom he is going at so much hazard.

The Cherokees were the mountaineers of aboriginal America, and, like most mountaineers, had an intense love of country and a keen appreciation of the beautiful in nature, as is shown by the poetical names they have bequeathed to their rivers and mountains. They were physically a fine race of men, tall and athletic, of great bravery and superior natural intelligence. It was their military prowess alone that enabled them to hold possession of the country they occupied against the many warlike tribes by whom they were surrounded.

They had no considerable cities, or even villages, but dwelt in scattered townships in the vicinity of some stream where fish and game were found in abundance. A number of these towns, bearing the musical names of Tallassee, Tamotee, Chilhowee, Citico, Tennassee, and Echota, were at this time located upon the rich lowlands lying between the Tellico and Little Tennessee Rivers. These towns contained a population, in men, women, and children, estimated at from seven to eight thousand, of whom perhaps twelve hundred were warriors. These were known as the Ottari (or "among the mountains") Cherokees.

About the same number, near the head-waters of the Savannah, in the great highland belt between the Blue Ridge and the Smoky Mountains, were styled the Erati (or "in the valley") Cherokees. Another body (among whom were many Creeks), nearly as large, and much more lawless than either of the others, occupied towns lower down the Tennessee and in the vicinity of Lookout Mountain. These, from their residence near the stream of that name, were known as the Chickamaugas.

These various bodies were one people, governed by an Archimagus, or King, who, with a supreme council of chiefs, which sat at Echota, decided all important questions in peace or war. Under him were the half-or vice-king and the several chiefs who governed the scattered townships and together composed the supreme council. In them was lodged the temporal power. Spiritual authority was of a far more despotic form and character. It was vested in one person, styled the Beloved man or woman of the tribe, who, over a people so superstitious as the Cherokees, held a control that was wellnigh absolute. This person was generally of superior intelligence, who, like the famous Prophet of the Shawnees, officiated as physician, prophet, and intercessor with the invisible powers; and, by virtue of the supernatural authority which he claimed, he often by a single word decided the most important questions, even when opposed by the king and the principal chiefs.

Echota was located on the northern bank of the Tellico, about five miles from the ruins of Fort Loudon, and thirty southwest from the present city of Knoxville. It was the Cherokee City of Refuge. Once within its bounds, an open foe, or even a red-handed criminal, could dwell in peace and security. The danger to an enemy was in going and returning. It is related that an Englishman who, in self-defence, once slew a Cherokee, fled to this sacred city to escape the vengeance of the kindred of his victim. He was treated here with such kindness that after a time he thought it safe to leave his asylum. The Indians warned him against the danger, but he left, and on the following morning his body was found on the outskirts of the town, pierced through and through with a score of arrows.

About two hundred cabins and wigwams, scattered, with some order but at wide intervals, along the bank of the river, composed the village. The cabins, like those of the white settlers, were square and built of logs; the wigwams were conical, with a frame of slender poles gathered together at the top and covered with buffalo-robes, dressed and smoked to render them impervious to the weather. An opening at the side formed the entrance, and over it was hung a buffalo-hide, which served as a door. The fire was built in the centre of the lodge, and directly overhead was an aperture to let out the smoke. Here the women performed culinary operations, except in warm weather, when such employments were carried on outside in the open air. At night the occupants of the lodge spread their skins and buffalo-robes on the ground, and then men, women, and children, stretching themselves upon them, went to sleep, with their feet to the fire. By day the robes were rolled into mats and made to serve as seats. A lodge of ordinary size would comfortably house a dozen persons; but two families never occupied one domicile, and, the Cherokees seldom having a numerous progeny, not more than five or six persons were often tenants of a single wigwam.

These rude dwellings were mostly strung along the two sides of a wide avenue, which was shaded here and there with large oaks and poplars and trodden hard with the feet of men and horses. At the back of each lodge was a small patch of cleared land, where the women and the negro slaves (stolen from the white settlers over the mountains) cultivated beans, corn, and potatoes, and occasionally some such fruits as apples, pears, and plums. All labor was performed by the women and slaves, as it was considered beneath the dignity of an Indian brave to follow any occupation but that of killing, either wild beasts in the hunt or enemies in war. The house-lots were without fences, and not an enclosure could be seen in the whole settlement, cattle and horses being left to roam at large in the woods and openings.

In the centre of Echota, occupying a wide opening, was a circular, tower-shaped structure, some twenty feet high and ninety in circumference. It was rudely built of stout poles, plastered with clay, and had a roof of the same material sloping down to broad eaves, which effectually protected the walls from moisture. It had a wide entrance, protected by two large buffalo-hides hung so as to meet together in the middle. There were no windows, but an aperture in the roof, shielded by a flap of skins a few feet above the opening, let out the smoke and admitted just enough light to dissipate a portion of the gloom that always shrouded the interior. Low benches, neatly made of cane, were ranged around the circumference of the room. This was the great council-house of the Cherokees. Here they met to celebrate the green-corn dance and their other national ceremonials; and here the king and half-king and the princes and head-men of the various towns consulted together on important occasions, such as making peace or declaring war.

At the time of which I write, several of the log cabins of Echota were occupied by traders, adventurous white men who, tempted by the profit of the traffic with the Cherokees, had been led to a more or less constant residence among them. Their cabins contained their stock in trade,--traps, guns, powder and lead, hatchets, looking-glasses, "stroud," beads, scarlet cloth, and other trinkets, articles generally of small cost, but highly prized by the red-men, and for which they gave in exchange peltries of great value. The trade was one of slow returns, but of great profits to the trader. And it was of about equal advantage to the Indian; for with the trap or rifle he had gotten for a few skins he was able to secure more game in a day than his bow and arrow and rude "dead-fall" would procure for him in a month of toilsome hunting. The traders were therefore held in high esteem among the Cherokees, who encouraged their living and even marrying among them. In fact, such alliances were deemed highly honorable, and were often sought by the daughters of the most distinguished chiefs. Consequently, among the trader's other chattels would often be found a dusky mate and a half-dozen half-breed children; and this, too, when he had already a wife and family somewhere in the white settlements.

These traders were an important class in the early history of the country. Of necessity well acquainted with the various routes traversing the Indian territory, and with the state of feeling among the savages, and passing frequently to and fro between the Indian towns and the white settlements, they were often enabled to warn the whites of intended attacks, and to guide such hostile parties as invaded the Cherokee territory. Though often natives of North Carolina or Virginia, and in sympathy with the colonists, they were, if prudent of speech and behavior, allowed to remain unmolested in the Indian towns, even when the warriors were singing the war-song and brandishing the war-club on the eve of an intended massacre of the settlers.