CHAPTER XI.

STRAITNESS OF THE FAMINE--THE FINAL CONFLICT--FLIGHT AND CAPTURE OF GUATIMOZIN--DESTINY FULFILLED.

~Death opens every door, And sits in every chamber by himself. If what might feed a sparrow should suffice For soldiers' meals, ye have not wherewithal To linger out three days. For corn, there's none; A mouse, imprisoned in your granaries, Were starved to death.~

This shameful defeat was a tremendous blow to the ardent anticipations of the conqueror. Many of the timid and the discontented in his own ranks availed themselves of the opportunity to create divisions, and withdraw from the doubtful contest. The Mexicans, strengthened by the spoils of their assailants, and yet more by the new courage which their late success infused into every heart among them, immediately commenced repairing their works, clearing their canals, and making the most vigorous preparations for maintaining the siege. Their priests, infuriated with the number of sacrifices which they had been enabled to offer to the gods, from the captives of high and low degree taken in the conflict, declared with authoritative solemnity, that the anger of the gods was now appeased, and that they had promised unequivocally, the speedy annihilation of their invading foes. This oracular declaration was, by the order of Guatimozin, published in the hearing of the Indian allies of his adversary. It was a politic stroke, and, if the oracle had not imprudently fixed too early a day for the execution of the predicted vengeance, its effect might have been such as to break for ever the bonds of that unnatural alliance, and leave the little handful of white men, with all their boasted pretensions to immortality, to perish by the hands of their own friends.

But why dwell longer upon the appalling details of this miserable siege. The day of predicted vengeance arrived, and the Spaniards survived it. Their superstitious terror-stricken allies returned to their allegiance. By a judicious administration of reward and discipline, of promise and threatening, all disaffection was hushed. New measures of offence were concerted, with a determination, on the part of the besiegers, to press into the city by degrees, securing every step, as they advanced, by levelling every building, and filling up every ditch, in their progress, till not one stone should be left upon another in Tenochtitlan. This terrible resolution was carried into effect. Every building, whether public or private, palace, temple, or Teocalli, from which they could be annoyed by the indomitable Aztec, was laid waste. The canals were filled up and levelled, so as to give free scope for the movements of the cavalry and artillery. The beautiful suburbs were reduced to a level plain, a dry arid waste, covered with the ruins of all that was dear and sacred in the eyes of the Aztec. Slowly, but surely, the Spaniard pressed on towards the heart of the city, in which the heroic monarch, with his miserable remnant of starving subjects and skeleton soldiers were pent up, dying by thousands of famine and pestilence, and yet ready to suffer a thousand deaths, rather than yield themselves up to the mercy of the foe.

There was now absolutely nothing left, in earth or air, to sustain for another day the poor remains of life in the camp of the besieged. Every foot of ground had been dug over many times, in quest of roots, and even of worms. The leaves and bark had been stripped from every tree and shrub, till there was not a green thing on all those terraces, which were once like the gardens of Elysium. The dead and the dying lay in heaps together, for there was neither life nor spirit in any that breathed, to do the last office for the departed. Pestilence was in all the air, so that many even of the besieging army snuffed it in the breeze that swept over the city, and fell victims to the very fate which their cruel rapacity was inflicting on the besieged.

Famine, cruel, gnawing famine, was in the palace of the Emperor, as well as in the hovel of his meanest subject. That noble prince quailed not before the fate that awaited himself. Had he stood alone in that citadel, with power in his single arm to keep out the foe, he would have stood till death, in whatever form, released him from his post, and spurned every suggestion of compromise or quarter. But the scenes of utter distress which every where met his eye--the haggard ghosts of his friends, flitting restlessly before him, or crawling feebly and with convulsive moans among the upturned earth, in the forlorn hope of finding another root--the dead--the dying--the more miserable living longing for death, and glaring with their horribly prominent, but glazed and expressionless eye-balls on each other--this, this was too much for the heart of Guatimozin.

"What!" he exclaimed, "shall I submit to see my last friend die before my eyes, and my own sweet wife perish of hunger, only to retain for another hour the empty name of king. No. I will endure it no longer. I will go to Malinche, alone, and unaccompanied, and offer my life for yours. He only wants our gold. Let him find that if he can. He will spare _you_, and wreak all his vengeance on my head."

A faint murmur ran through the crowd, and then a feeble expiring "No, never," burst feebly from many lips. One, a little stronger than the rest, arose and said--

"Most gracious sovereign, think not of us. We only ask to live and die with and for you. And the more cruel the death, the more glorious the martyrdom for our country and our gods. Trust not Malinche."

The speaker fainted and fell, with his fist clenched, and his teeth set, as if he felt that he held the last foe in mortal conflict.

"No, never--trust not Malinche--let us die together," was echoed by many sepulchral voices, that seemed more like the groans of the dead, than the remonstrances of the living.

"Trust not Malinche, remember my father," whispered the fond, devoted, faithful, affectionate wife, now the shadow of her former self, beautiful in her queenly sorrow, sublime in her womanly composure.

Guatimozin, the proud, the lofty chief, whose heart had never known fear, whose soul had never been subdued, bowed his head upon the bosom of his wife, and wept. The strong heart, the lion spirit melted.

"Who, who will care for Tecuichpo? Who will cherish the last daughter of Montezuma?"

"Think not of me, Guatimozin, think of yourself and your people, I am resigned to my fate. If I may but die with you, it is all I desire--for how could I live without you. But think not of trusting Malinche. Let us remain as we are. Another day, and we shall all be at rest from our sufferings. And surely it were better to die together by our altars, than to fall into the hands of the treacherous stranger."

"Trust not Malinche," added Karee. "Was it not trust in him that brought all this evil upon us? Think not of submission. You shall see that women can die as well as men. Let Malinche come, and take possession of the remains of these mutilated walls and desolated gardens, but let him not claim one living Aztec, to be his slave, or his subject."

A murmur of approbation followed, and then a long pause ensued. It was like the silence of death. The whole scene would have made an admirable picture. At length the silence was broken by the voice of the young Cacique of Tlacopan.

"My sovereign," said he, in a faint voice, but with something of the energy of despair, "there is yet hope. Let us muster what force we can, of men who are able to stand, and sally out upon the enemy. We cannot do him much harm. But, while he is occupied with us, you and your family, with a few attendants can escape by a canoe over the lake. As many of us as have life and strength to do it, will follow you, under cover of the coming night. Your old subjects will flock around you there, and we may yet, when we shall have tasted food, and become men again, make a stand somewhere against the foe, and drive him out."

"It is well! it is well!" was the feeble response on every side.

"I cannot leave you," replied the monarch. "What! shall your king fly, like a coward, while his people rush upon the enemy only to cover his retreat? No, that were worse than death--worse than captivity!"

"It is not flight, my beloved sovereign," responded the Cacique, "it is an honorable stratagem of war, for the good of the nation, not less than your own. When _you_ are gone, we have no head, and we fall at once into the captivity we so much dread. Leave us but the name and person of Guatimozin to rally around, and it will be a tower of strength, which can never fail us."

"Yes, yes, it is right," was whispered on every side--"Go, noble monarch, go at once. It is a voice from heaven to save us."

To this counsel the priests added their earnest advice, and even Tecuichpo ventured to say, "it whispered of hope to her heart." Guatimozin suffered himself to be overruled. The canoes were made ready in the grand canal, which yet remained open on the eastern side. All that could be safely taken of treasure, and of convenient apparel, was carefully stowed. The Queen and other ladies of the court, with her faithful Karee, all wasted to skeletons, and moving painfully, like phantoms of beauty in a sickly dream, were conveyed to the barges. The Emperor and his attendants followed, and all was in readiness for the departure. At that moment the martial horn was sounded from the great Teocalli, and the shadowy host of the Aztec army staggered forth to offer battle to the enemy. It was a fearful sight. It seemed as if the armies of the dead, the mighty warriors of the past, had risen from their graves, to fight for their desecrated altars, and to defend those very graves from profanation. Feebly, but fearfully, with glaring eyes and hideous grin, they rushed upon the serried ranks of the besiegers. A kind of superstitious terror seized them, as if these shapes were something more than mortal. For a moment they gave way to panic, and fell back without striking a blow. Roused by the stentorian voice of Cortez, they rallied instantly, and discharging their heavy fire arms, swept away whole ranks of their frenzied assailants. It was a brief conflict. Many of the Aztecs fell by the swords of the Spaniards, and the spears of their merciless allies. Some fell, faint with their own exertions, and died without a wound. Some grappled desperately with the foe, content to die by his hand, if they could first quench their burning thirst with one drop of his blood.

At length, a long blast from the horn sounded a retreat. The poor remnant turned towards the city, and were suffered to escape unmolested to their desolate homes.

Meanwhile, the little fleet of Guatimozin had put forth upon the lake. The canoes separated, as they left the basin of the canal, taking different directions, the better to escape the observation of the brigantines. The precaution was a wise one, but unavailing. The watchful eye of the besieging general was there. The brigantines gave chase to the fugitives. Bending to their paddles with the utmost strength of their feeble emaciated arms, they found their pursuers gaining upon them. Casting their gold into the lake, Guatimozin directed them to cease their exertions, and wait the approach of the enemy.

"Not without one little effort more, I beseech you," exclaimed Karee. "See, my chinampa is close at hand. Let us try to gain that. It has food on its trees for many days, and I have there a place of concealment, curiously contrived beneath the water, where you and the queen may remain without fear of detection, till we can effect your escape to the shore."

In an instant the paddles were in the water, and the canoe shot ahead with unusual speed. The combined energy of hope and despair nerved every arm, and fired every heart. They neared the beautiful chinampa. Their eyes feasted on its fresh and cooling verdure, and its ripe fruits hanging luxuriantly on every bough. Their ears were ravished with the music of the birds, who had long since deserted their wonted haunts in the capital.

While the chase was gaining rapidly upon them, another of those fearful brigantines, which had hitherto been concealed by the thick foliage of the chinampa, rounded its little promontory, and appeared suddenly before them. Instantly, every paddle dropped, every arm was paralyzed. Not a word was spoken. In passive silence each one waited for his doom, which was now inevitable. When the Spaniard had approached within hailing distance, the Emperor rose in his little shallop, and, waving his hand proudly, said, "I am Guatimozin."

The royal prisoners were treated with the utmost deference and respect. Being brought into the presence of Cortez, the monarch, pale, emaciated, the shadow of what he had been, approached with an air of imperial dignity, and said--

"Malinche, I have done what I could to defend myself and protect my people. Now I am your prisoner. Do what you will with me, but spare my poor people, who have shown a fidelity and an endurance worthy of a better fate."

Cortez, filled with admiration at the proud bearing of the young monarch, assured him that not only his family and his people, but himself should be treated with all respect and tenderness. "Better," said Guatimozin, laying his hand on the hilt of the general's poignard, "better rid me of life at once, and put an end to my cares and sufferings together."

"No," replied Cortez, "you have defended your capital like a brave warrior. I respect your patriotism, I honor you valor, and your firm endurance of suffering. You shall be my friend and the friend of my sovereign, and live in honor among your own people."

The keen eye of the monarch flashed with something like indignation, when allusion was made to the king of Castile, and to himself as his vassal.

"In honor I _cannot_ live," he said proudly, "for I am defeated. A king I _cannot_ be, for he is no king who is subject to another. I am your prisoner. The gods have willed it, and I submit."

Renewing his politic assurances of friendship and favor, the conqueror sent for the wife and family of his captive, first ordering a royal banquet to be prepared for them. Supported by Karee, leaning on the arm of the devoted Nahuitla, the lord of Tlacopan, the queen was ushered into the presence of the conqueror. Her appearance struck the general and his officers with admiration. Timid as she was by nature, she had the air and port of inborn royalty; and, in deference to her husband, she would not have allowed herself to quail before the assembled host of Castile, dreaded as they were, and had long been. With a becoming courtesy, she returned the respectful salutations of Malinche and his cavaliers, and asked no other favor than to share the fate of her lord.

What that fate was, and how the Castilian knight redeemed his pledges to his unfortunate and noble captives, is matter of historical record. It is the darkest page in the memoir of that wonderful chief--a foul blot upon the name even of _that_ man, who was capable of requiting the superstitious reverence and confidence of a Montezuma, with a treacherous and inglorious captivity in his own palace, and a yet more inglorious death at the hands of his own subjects. History must needs record it, dark and painful as it is. Romance would throw a veil over it.

* * * * *

Years of intense suffering, of harrowing bereavement, of insult, humiliation, and every species of mental and social distress, were yet appointed to the daughter of Montezuma, the bride of Guatimozin. Her predicted destiny was fulfilled to the letter. She bowed meekly to her fate, sustaining every reverse with a fortitude and composure of soul, that indicated a mind of uncommon resources. It was a long, dark, stormy day, "but in the evening time there was light." It was the light of faith. She abandoned the false gods of her fathers, and found true and lasting peace in the cross of Jesus Christ.

THE FLIGHT

OF

THE KATAHBA CHIEF.

Go now to Greece, Or Rome--to Albion's sea-girt isle--to Gaul, Ancient or modern--to the fiery realm Of Turk or Arab--to the ice-bound holds Of Alaric and Attila--and find, If find thou canst, a nobler race of men-- More firm, more brave, more true--swifter of foot, Or readier in action.

THE FLIGHT OF THE KATAHBA CHIEF.

Go not to the chase, my brave hunter, to-day, There's a mist o'er the sun--there's a snare in the way; Manitto revealed last night in my dream A deep dark shadow o'erhanging the stream; The deer, from his thicket, sprung out in thy path-- Then he changed to a tiger, and roared in his wrath-- Then the warrior hunter, so fearless and brave, Was driven away, like a captive slave; Then the smoke rolled up, and the flames curled high, And the forest rung with the foeman's cry; Then the wind swept by with a desolate wail-- The avenger of blood was on thy trail;-- Minaree looked out at the cabin door, But her bold brave hunter returned no more. Go not to the chase, my brave hunter, to-day, There's a mist o'er the sun--there's a snare in the way.

So, in sweetly plaintive strains, chanted the beautiful young bride of a Katahba chief, as she prepared his frugal morning meal, while he was busying himself in examining the string of his bow, replenishing his quiver with straight polished shafts, and renewing the edge of his trusty hatchet.

In all the forest homes of the native tribes, there was not a fairer flower than Minaree, the loved and devoted wife of the brave Ash-te-o-lah. The only daughter of a chief of the Wateree tribe, which was one branch of the great family of the Katahbas, she inherited the spirit and pride of her father, with all the simple beauty, and unsophisticated womanly tenderness of her mother. She was the idol of Ash-te-o-lah's heart; for, savage as the world would call him, and ignorant of the codes of chivalry and of the courtly phrase of love, he was as true to all the warmer and purer affections, which constitute the bliss of domestic life, as to the lofty sentiments of heroic virtue, which made him early conspicuous in the councils of his people. Though fearless as the lion, fleet as the roe, and adventurous, sagacious and powerful as any that ever sounded the war-whoop, or startled the deer, in those interminable wilds--he was noble, generous, warm-hearted, and devotedly tender to the objects of his love.

The winning tones, and the affectionate glances of Minaree, as she chanted her simple prophetic lay, had almost won Ash-te-o-lah from his purpose. But, half doubting whether her oracular dream was any thing more than a little artifice of affection, and always superior to that prevailing superstition of his people, which gave to dreams all the sanctity and force of divine revelation, and excited by the preparations he had been making, he flung his rattling quiver to his back, whispered a gentle intimation that Ash-te-o-lah feared neither tiger nor foeman, and returning the affectionate glance of his bride, left the wigwam.

It was a clear bright summer morning. There was a balmy sweetness in the air, and melody in all the groves; but they won not the ear, they regaled not the sense of Minaree, whose heart sunk within her, as she saw her beloved Ash-te-o-lah launch his canoe into the stream, and dash away over its glassy surface, like a swallow on the wing. Ere he dipped his paddle in the water, he turned and gracefully waved her a parting salute, the affectionate desire to stay and soothe the troubled spirit of her dream, still struggling with that lofty pride which told him that he had never yet shrunk from any form of danger, or known the name of fear.

The lands bordering on the Katahba, were covered, for many a league, with a dense and thriving population. More than twenty tribes were clustered there into one powerful fraternity, capable of bringing two thousand warriors into the field. Their grounds were extensively cultivated, their forests abounded with the choicest game, and their rivers with fish, and they regarded themselves as the most prosperous of the nations.

Nothing could exceed the romantic beauty and loveliness of some of their villages. Stretching along the banks of the rivers, and embowered deeply in the luxurious forests of that favored clime, the numerous wigwams, simple enough in their construction, but adorned here and there with the trophies of war or the chase, and often alive with the athletic sports of the young Indians, formed a scene as animated and picturesque as ever glowed on the bosom of the earth--a scene of patriarchal life, such as cannot now be found among all the families of men.

Conspicuous among them all was the wigwam of Ash-te-o-lah. The hand of Minaree was visible in the tasteful arrangement of a few simple ornaments about the door, and the trailing of a white flowering vine over its walls, which fell in luxuriant festoons, or floated in feathery pensiles on every side.

Minaree stood in the door of the wigwam, watching the retreating form of her lord, as his light canoe swept down with the current of the river, till it was lost in the distance, and then pensively, and as if unconsciously to herself, resumed her solemn chant, weaving the while a wreath of her wild flowering vine.

He has gone to the chase, my brave hunter has gone-- He will not return in the moonlight, or morn; Minaree shall look out at the cabin door, But her bold brave hunter shall come no more; There's a cloud in her wigwam--a fire in her brain, For her warrior hunter shall ne'er come again.

Gently and placidly flowed the Katahba--every tree and shrub mirrored in its beautiful waters. Not a sound disturbed the perfect stillness; not even the hum of the cricket, or the song of the bird. It seemed an utter solitude. Then a light canoe was seen slowly gliding down the stream. A noble looking Indian was standing in it, erect and tall, with his paddle poised, as if wrapped in meditation, or unwilling to disturb the quiet and charm of the silence. It was a scene to awaken a sense of poetic beauty, even in the mind of an untutored savage. It thrilled the soul of Ash-te-o-lah, and held him some moments in admiring contemplation. Suddenly starting from his unwonted reverie, he rounded a jutting promontory, and moored his skiff, carefully concealing it amid the overhanging shrubs.

There was something surpassingly graceful and majestic in the figure of this noble son of the forest. Formed by nature in her most perfect mould, tall, sinewy, athletic, yet with every feature and every limb rounded to absolute grace, he was a fine subject for a painter or sculptor. His dress consisted of a beautiful robe, gracefully flung over one shoulder, and confined at the waist by a richly ornamented belt. His hair was wrought into a kind of crown, and ornamented with a tuft of feathers. Equipped with bow and quiver, he seemed intent on game; and yet one might have imagined, from his keen glance and cautious manner, that he expected a foe in ambush.

Ash-te-o-lah was soon on the track of the deer, which, starting from the thicket, bounded away with the speed of the wind. Pursuing with equal pace, the bold hunter dashed into the depths of the forest, watching for a favorable moment to take the deadly aim. The arrow was on the string, and about to be raised to fly at his panting victim, when the shrill war-whoop burst suddenly on his ear. It arrested his step, for a moment, but not his arm; for the arrow sped as if nothing had occurred to divert its course, and buried itself in the heart of the flying deer.

Perceiving, at a glance, that a party of the Senecas, the old and deadly enemies of the Katahbas, were down upon him, and had cut off his retreat to the river, he held on his course, as before, but with redoubled speed, intending, if possible, to secure a refuge from his pursuers, in a cavern about five miles distant. Fleet as the wind, he would have gained his purpose, if the course had been direct, for there was not a red man in the wide forests of America, who could outrun Ash-te-o-lah. Dividing themselves into several parties, and taking different courses to intercept his flight, his enemies gave instant chase to the fugitive. One party followed close on his trail, but he was soon lost to their view. Another struck off northwardly, towards a bend in the West Branch, where the rapids afforded an opportunity for crossing the stream without impeding his flight. A third made for a deep cut, or ravine, about a mile further down, where a fallen tree, extending from bank to bank, served the purpose of a bridge.

Ash-te-o-lah soon perceived that his enemies were divided, and resolved that, if they _did_ intercept or overtake him, it should cost them dear. Halting a little in his flight, and taking to the covert of a tree, he drew upon the foremost of his pursuers, and laid him dead in the path. The next in the pursuit, pausing a moment over his fallen brother, shared the same fate. Knowing, as by instinct, that the other parties would endeavor to cut him off at the rapids and the bridge, he dashed forward, in a straight line for the stream, plunged into the water, and holding his bow aloft, struggled with a powerful arm to reach the other side. He gained the bank, just as his pursuers made their appearance on the opposite shore. Turning suddenly upon them, he levelled another shaft with such unerring aim, that one of their number fell bleeding into the stream. Another and another, in the act of leaping over the bank, received the fatal shaft into his heart. Hearing the distant whoop, which indicated that the other party had reached the bridge, Ash-te-o-lah waited not for another victim, but bounded away for his mountain fastness. The little delay which had been necessary to cut off five of his pursuers, had given an advantage to the other parties, who were now on the same side of the stream with himself, and gaining upon his steps. No sooner was this perceived, than the heroic fugitive turned upon the nearest of them, and, with the same infallible aim, laid him dead in the path. Still another had fallen before his sure aim, and his bow was strained for another shot, when one of the other party, who had made a circuit, and come up behind him unperceived, leaped upon, and held him pinioned in his powerful grasp. His struggles were terrible; but he was immediately surrounded, overpowered and disarmed.

Though seven of their number had fallen in this brief chase, the brave Senecas were so struck with admiration at the wonderful skill and noble bearing of their captive, that they did not, as usual, instantly avenge the slain, by taking the life of the slayer; but resolved to take him along with them, and to lead him in triumph into the midst of the council of their nation, there to be disposed of by the united voices of their chiefs.

It was a sad triumph, for they were filled with grief and mortification for the loss of so many of their brave kindred, all fallen by the hand of one of the hated Katahbas, and he now completely in their power. Though stung with shame, and thirsting for a worthy revenge, yet such was their love of martial virtue, that, during all their long journey homeward, they treated their haughty captive with far greater respect and kindness than if he had acted the part of a coward, and suffered himself to fall into their hands without any attempt at resistance. As for him, with an unsubdued spirit, and an air of proud superiority, he marched in the midst of his enemies, as if defying their power, and scorning the vengeance from which it was impossible to escape. To one unaccustomed to the modes of Indian warfare, and the code of Indian etiquette, who might have witnessed that triumphant procession, Ash-te-o-lah would have appeared the proud and absolute prince, surrounded by his admiring and subservient life-guard, rather than the subdued and helpless captive, escorted by his enemies to an ignominious execution.

Arrived within the territories of their own tribe, the triumph of the captors began. The whole nation was roused to revenge the death of their lost heroes. In every village, as they passed along, the women and children were permitted to beat and insult the unresisting captive, who bore every indignity with stoical indifference, and proud disdain, never indicating by word or look, the slightest sense of mortification or pain, nor bating one jot of his lofty and scornful bearing.

Before the great council of assembled chiefs, he maintained the same tone of fearless dignity and self-respect. His very look was defiance, that quailed not before the proudest glance of his enemy, nor showed the slightest symptom of disquietude, when the decision of the council was announced, condemning him to die by the fiery torture. It might reasonably be imagined that his past sufferings, his tedious marches, his scanty fare, lying at night on the bare ground, exposed to the changes of the weather, with his arms and legs extended and cramped in a pair of rough stocks, the insulting treatment, and cruel scourgings of the exasperated women and children, who were taught to consider it a virtue to torment an enemy, along with the anticipation of those more bitter sufferings which he was yet to endure, would have impaired his health, and subdued his hitherto proud and unyielding spirit. Such would have been the effect of similar circumstances upon the physical frame, and stout-hearted fortitude of the great majority of the heroes of that pale-faced race, who boast of a proud superiority over the unlettered children of the forest. There are few so hardy, that they could endure, not only without a murmur, but without shrinking, what Ash-te-o-lah had already suffered--few so courageous, that they could hear, with an unmoved countenance, the terrible doom which his enemies had prepared for him, or witness undisturbed the fearful arrangements, and horrid ceremonies, that were designed to give intensity and effect to its infliction.

Ash-te-o-lah was insensible to fear, and would sooner have undergone a thousand torturing deaths, than permit his enemies to see that he was conscious even of suffering. So nobly did he sustain his courage amid the trial, so well did he act his heroic part, that his enemies, who admired and inculcated the same unflinching fortitude, were surprised and vexed at his lofty superiority, and resolved, by every possible aggravation of his sufferings, to break down and subdue his proud indomitable spirit.

The hour of execution had arrived. The pile was ready for its victim. Every engine of torture, which savage ingenuity could invent, was exhibited in dreadful array, within the area selected for the trying scene. The whole nation was assembled to witness, and take part in the ceremony, which had, in their view, all the solemnity and sacredness of a religious rite. Ash-te-o-lah was led forth, unpinioned, into the midst--for the red man would scorn the weakness of leading a victim in chains to the altar.

The place of sacrifice was an open space near the bank of the river, the dark forest frowning over it on every side, the entire foreground being filled and crowded with an eager, angry multitude, to whom a sacrifice was a feast, and revenge the sweetest luxury that could be offered to their taste. Their wild parade, their savage dances, their hideous yells and demoniacal looks and gestures, designed to terrify, only fired the soul of Ash-te-o-lah to a yet prouder and more majestic bearing. His firm step, his unblenching eye, his fearless and lofty port, touched even his executioners with admiration, and struck his guards with a momentary awe.

Suddenly, as with a bolt from the cloud, he dashed down those who stood in his way, sprung out, and plunged into the water, swimming underneath, like an otter, only rising occasionally to take breath, till he reached the opposite shore. He ascended the steep bank at a bound; and then, though the arrows had been flying thick as hail about him from the time that he took to the water, and though many of the fleetest of his enemies were, like very blood-hounds, close in pursuit of him, he turned deliberately around, and with a graceful and becoming dignity, took a formal leave of them, as if he would acknowledge the extraordinary favors they had shown him. Then, raising the shrill war-whoop of defiance, as his last salute, till some more convenient opportunity should be afforded him to do them a warrior's homage, he darted off, like a beast broke loose from its torturing enemies. Inspired with new strength by his sudden release, and the returning hope of life, he flew with a winged speed, so as entirely to distance the fleetest of his eager pursuers. Confident in his speed, and assured that his enemies could neither overtake nor surprise him, he rested nearly a whole day, to recruit his wasted strength, and watch an opportunity to gain, if possible, some further advantage over those who were scenting his track, and thirsting for his blood.

Passing a considerable distance beyond a spot, which his well-trained sagacity told him would be the natural resting place of his pursuers, he retraced his steps, walking carefully backwards, and planting each step with great precision, in the very tracks he had just made, so as effectually to conceal the artifice of his return. In this way, he came to a high rock, in which there was a considerable fissure, very narrow at the top, but widening toward the ground, and so concealed by the dense shrubbery that grew around, that it could only be discovered by the most careful scrutiny. Into this fissure he thrust himself, scrupulously replacing every leaf that had been disturbed by his entrance, and adjusting the whole so as not to excite the slightest suspicion in his keen-sighted enemies. Here he awaited their approach.

It was near night of the second day, when the Senecas reached the spring where Ash-te-o-lah lay concealed, and where he had already rested nearly a whole day. Following his track some distance beyond, and not doubting he was yet in advance, they returned without suspicion to the spring, lighted their fires, partook hastily of their simple meal, and laid themselves down to sleep, in perfect security. They were five in number, powerful men, and thoroughly armed, after their own peculiar fashion. Ash-te-o-lah, from his narrow cavern, had watched all their movements. He well knew that they slept soundly, for they had satisfied themselves that no danger was near. But he also knew equally well how wakeful is the sleep of an Indian, and how almost impossible it is to surprise him, even in his soundest sleep. Every circumstance of his situation occurred to him, to inspire him with heroism, and urge him to attempt an impossibility, though his life was the certain forfeit of a failure. He was naked, torn, and hungry. His enraged enemies, who had so recently held him in their toils, and made him ready for a sacrifice, were now come up with him. In their little camp was every thing to relieve his wants. He would not only save his own life, but get great honor and sweet revenge, if he should succeed in cutting them off.

Resolution, a convenient spot, and a sudden surprise, might effect this main object of all his wishes and hopes. Creeping cautiously out from his covert, and approaching the sleepers with the noiseless and stealthy cunning of a fox, he seized one of their tomahawks, and wielding it with inconceivable power and rapidity, left four of them in an eternal sleep, before the fifth had time to awake and spring to his feet. The struggle that ensued was terrible; but Ash-te-o-lah had the advantage in every respect, and the conflict ended in a very few minutes, by leaving him alone in the camp of his enemies.

Selecting from the spoils of the fallen a suitable dress for himself, with the choicest of their bows, a well-stored quiver, a tomahawk, and an ample pouch of provisions, and securing to his belt the scalps of his yet breathing victims, Ash-te-o-lah set off afresh, with a light heart, and a bounding step, for the sunny vales of the Katahba. Resolved not to hazard any of the advantage he had gained, he did not allow himself any sleep, for several successive nights, only as he reclined, for a few moments, a little before day, with his back to a tree, and a clear space about him, where he could not be taken by surprise. Growing more secure, as he approached his home, and discovered no sign of his pursuing enemy, he sought out the spot where he had killed seven of the chase, in the first day of his flight, opened their yet fresh graves, added their scalps to the five then hanging to his belt, burnt their bodies to ashes, and returned in safety, laden with his hard earned trophies, to gladden his humble wigwam, and thrill the council of his people with the story of his singular adventures.

Her prophetic dream had made so deep an impression upon the mind of Minaree, that, from the first, she did not expect "the bold hunter's return." His lengthened absence troubled, but did not surprise her. She yielded him to a stern fate, from which there was no escape; and with a calmness which we, of another race, too often regard as coldness and insensibility, prepared to follow him to the spirit land. His return was to her soul like a visit from that land--a gift from the Great Spirit--and ever after, to the deep devotion of her early love, was added that peculiar reverence, that tender, holy affection, which the Indians every where cherish for the departed.

When the second party of the Senecas, in the course of the third day of the pursuit, arrived at the camp of their slaughtered people, the sight gave them a greater shock than they had ever known before. In their chilled war council they concluded, that he who had performed such surprising feats in his defence, before he was captured, and since that in his naked and unarmed condition, would, now that he was well armed and free, be a match for them all, if they should continue the pursuit. They regarded him as a wizard enemy, whose charmed life it was vain and wicked to attempt. They, accordingly, buried their comrades, and returned, with heavy hearts, to their homes.

MONICA,

OR

THE ITEAN CAPTIVE.

What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears Have sunk beneath time's noiseless tide!-- The red man at his horrid rite, Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,-- His bark canoe, its track of light Left on the wave beneath the moon;-- His dance, his yell, his council fire, The altar where his victim lay, His death song, and his funeral pyre, That still, strong tide hath borne away.

MONICA.

~"Speak not, but fly-- There are a thousand winged deaths behind, Thirsting for blood. Hope, life, and liberty Are all before; and this good arm is pledged To guide thee."~

The grave of the Indian is a temple, a sort of gateway to heaven. Around it linger the tenderest affection, the purest devotion of the surviving friend. The grass and flowers that grow over it are never suffered to wither. The snow and the rain are not permitted to remain upon it. The least profanation of that sacred place would be visited with a more terrible vengeance than an affront to the living. Nothing illustrates more clearly the cruel injustice we have done to our red brethren of the forest, by regarding and treating them only as savages, and delineating them always and every where, as destitute of all the refined sympathies of humanity--than this prevailing national characteristic, an affectionate reverence for the dead, and a religious regard for the sepulchres and bones of their ancestors. It touches one of the deepest cords in the human heart. It springs from the very fountain head of social and moral refinement. It links the visible and material, with the unseen and spiritual world; blending all that is tender, and pure, and subduing, in the one, with all that is bright, hopeful, and inviting, in the other. Its existence in any heart, or its prevalence among any people, is proof sufficient that that heart is not wholly hardened in selfishness, and that people not wholly given over to barbarism.

The infant child of an Itean mother lay dead in her tent. He was a beautiful boy, and already the fond mother had read in his brilliant eye, and the vigorous movements of his tiny limbs, the heroic deeds of the future chieftain. But her darling hope was nipped in the very germ. Her only son was shrouded for the grave, and the hour of burial had come. His shroud was a blanket, in which the head, as well as the body, was completely enveloped. His bier was a train, or Indian sled, in the form of a common snow-shoe, on which the body was laid, without a coffin, and secured by bandages from side to side. Into this train was harnessed a favorite dog of the family, when it was drawn with slow and solemn step, to the grave, preceded by the priest or medicine man of the village, in his gorgeous robes of office, and followed by the parents and sister of the child, with all the inmates of the neighboring wigwams.

Arriving at the grave, the procession stopped, and gathered round the bier, the women and children seating or prostrating themselves on the ground, the men standing in a grave and solemn circle around them. The dog, still remaining in his harness, was then shot, and the medicine man, standing over it, addressed it in the following strain, "Go on your journey to the Spirit land. Long and weary is the way you have to go. Linger not on the journey, for precious is the burden you carry. Swim swiftly over the river, lest the little one be lost in the stream, and never visit the camp of its fathers. When you come to the camp of the White-headed Eagle, bark, that they may know who it is you bring, and come out and welcome the little one among its kindred band."

The body was then laid in the grave, on its little train. The dog was placed by its side, with a kettle of food at its head, to supply it on the journey. A cup, containing a portion of the mother's milk, freshly drawn, was also put into the grave for the use of the child. The earth was laid gently over it, and covered with the fresh sod, the mother, and her female friends, chanting, the while, a plaintive dirge, designed to encourage the spirit of the departed on its dark and perilous journey. The mother held in her hand a roll of bark, elaborately decorated with feathers and bead-work, encompassed with a scarf of broadcloth, highly embroidered. This was intended as a memento of the deceased, to be sacredly preserved in the family lodge. Such mementoes are always seen there, after the death of a friend, and one may always know, by their number, how many of that household have gone to the spirit-land. It is usually placed upright in the spot where the departed was accustomed to sit, dressed in the same ornaments and bands that he wore while living. At every family meal, a portion of food is set before it. If it be a child who has died, the mother offers it a cup of milk, wraps it in the cradle bands of her lost infant, and bears it about with her wherever she goes.

An Indian grave is a protected spot. That which is described above, was surrounded by a small enclosure of logs, and covered with a roof of bark, to shield it from the rain. At its head, a small round post was set, painted with vermilion. Other decorations were displayed upon the wall of the enclosure, which were carefully guarded, and frequently replaced, as they were soiled by the rains, or torn and defaced by the violence of the winds. Day after day, the bereaved mother and sister visited that grave, taking their work with them, and sitting down by its side, chanted their plaintive lullaby to that sleeping infant, and cheered on that faithful dog in his wearisome journey, charging him not to lag or go astray in traversing the plain, nor suffer his precious burden to fall into the water, in crossing the deep dark rapid river to the spirit land.

Weeks and months had passed since that humble grave was made, and that precious treasure confided to its bosom. It was a calm glorious evening in mid-summer. The moon shone brightly on the Itean encampment. There was not, in the whole valley of the west, a more beautiful spot for a settlement. The smooth open green-sward was closely surrounded with trees on three sides. On the other, the land gradually sloped towards the river, which flowed quietly by, ever and anon sparkling in the moonbeams, or reflecting the dark forest and flowery banks in its azure depths.

The wigwams in the opening were all closed. Their inmates were at rest. Presently, the buffalo-skin, that served as a door to the principal cabin, was drawn aside, and the beautiful daughter of the chief emerged into the light, and passed swiftly on to the river. Following its course a short distance, by the narrow path that threaded the woods on its bank, she came to the little grave, threw herself on the earth by its side, and wept. It was Monica, the sister of that buried infant, the same whom we saw at his grave when it was first opened, and who had daily, since that time, sung over it her simple song.

The grief and disappointment of the mother, in the loss of her only son, was not more deep or sincere, or enduring, than that of this affectionate and devoted sister. From the moment of his birth, he was the idol of her soul. She looked forward to the time, in her ardent imagination very near at hand, when, emulating the virtues and deeds of his father, he should become the noblest chief of his tribe. She had pictured to herself the many wonderful exploits he should achieve, and the love and veneration with which he would be regarded throughout the nation. But now, those hopes were blasted, those visions had all faded into darkness. Time had not soothed her disappointment, or softened the poignancy of her grief. Waking or sleeping, the image of her lost brother was before her. She longed to follow him, that she might overtake him on the way, and help him in his passage over that fearful stream.

She had laid down that night, as usual, and slept by the side of her mother. Her dreams were troubled. She thought that arid plain and dark river were before her. The faithful dog was struggling with the waves. The little ark which held that precious treasure, was buffeted about by the winds. Chilled with the cold, and terrified by the dark howling storm, the lone child sobbed bitterly, and looked imploringly round for his mother. In her distress and agitation, she awoke. Unable to sleep, or even to rest, she rose, and ran to the grave.

"I come, I come, my precious one, I am ever by your side-- Fear not, your voyage is almost done Over that dismal tide; The winds shall hush, the storm pass o'er, And a friendly band shall come To meet you on the spirit shore, And bid you welcome home. Fear not, for love that never sleeps Shall guard you o'er that wave; And mother her constant vigil keep Beside your quiet grave."

Having chanted her simple lay of love, Monica turned from the grave, stepped into a canoe, and paddled down the stream. Overcome with grief, she dropped her paddle, sat pensively down in her shallop, and left it to follow its course down the current. For several hours it glided silently on. She gave no heed to the hours, till morning broke in the east. Suddenly starting up from her long dream, she looked for her paddle. It was gone. Seeing a bough floating on the water near her, she leaned out to catch it, as the canoe passed on. It was decayed, and broke in her hand. Throwing it from her, she looked eagerly about for some other means of reaching the shore. At length, passing under the shadow of an immense tree, that overhung the stream, she seized a branch that almost dipped into the water, and drawing herself in to the bank, sprang on shore.

Slowly and doubtfully the timid girl threaded the thick forest, scarcely knowing which way to turn. Hoping to find some friendly wigwam near, she sounded the shrill call of her tribe. The call was instantly answered, but not by a friendly voice. Two stern and stalwart warriors of the Pawnee tribe, who were deadly enemies to the Iteans, chanced to be passing that way, and, recognizing the call as that of an enemy, sprang from the thicket, seized the trembling maiden, and bore her away in triumph. Many a weary league she travelled on by the side of her merciless captors, ere she reached their distant encampment. Worn, exhausted in strength and desponding in heart, she fell to the earth in the midst of the throng that gathered around her, and besought them to kill her at once, and let her go to her poor infant brother.

The Pawnees were not only hostile to the Iteans, but were, in some respects, the most savage tribe in the great valley. They alone, of the North American Indians, continued, down the present century, and far within it, to practice the savage rite of sacrificing human victims on the altar of their gods. With them it was a propitiatory sacrifice, offered to the _Great Star_, or the planet Venus. This dreadful ceremony annually preceded the preparations for planting corn, and was supposed to be necessary to secure a fruitful season. The victim was always some prisoner, who had been captured in war, or otherwise; and there was never wanting an individual who coveted the honor of making a captive from some hostile tribe, and dedicating the spoils of his prowess to the national benefit.

The captors of Monica were in quest of a victim for this sacrifice, when they wandered away alone, and prowled for several days, about the encampment of her tribe. With this view, they bore her away in triumph, deaf to all her entreaties and tears, and gave her in charge to the priests, to be made ready against the return of the season.

The best wigwam in the village was assigned for her accommodation. Cheerful companions of her own age were given her. The most sedulous attention was paid to her wants. She was dressed in gay apparel, continually feasted on the choicest luxuries which their fields and hunting grounds afforded, and treated with the utmost tenderness by all about her. Every possible means was employed to allay her grief, and promote that cheerfulness of spirit, which is essential to health and comeliness, in order that she might thus be made a more suitable and acceptable offering.

The personal charms of Monica required no such system of treatment, in order to their full development. She was a rare specimen of native grace and loveliness, and would have been a fitting model, in every feature and limb, for a Phidias or a Praxitiles. The exceeding beauty and gentleness of their captive, while it won the admiration and regard of all her young companions, only made her, in the view of the priests and chiefs of the tribe, a more desirable victim for the altar.

For a long time, Monica was inconsolable. Deprived of that dearest privilege of visiting daily the grave of her brother, distracted in view of the anxiety which her mother would feel for her, she refused to be comforted, or to take any pleasure in the means employed to amuse her. Time and kindness, however, and the promise that she should, by and by, return to her father-land, restored, in a degree, her serenity of mind. She was too affectionate and confiding, to reject the sympathy and kindness even of an enemy. Grateful for the unwearied efforts which her companions made to amuse and comfort her, she came, at last, to regard them as friends. Gratitude begat affection. Affection created confidence. She unburdened her heart of the sorrows that oppressed it. By that effort, the burden was lightened. Something of the elasticity and vivacity of youth returned. She sang and played, if not to amuse herself, yet to gratify others, whose assiduous kindness, and seemingly generous sympathy, she had no other means of repaying. Thus, entirely ignorant of the terrible doom that awaited her, Monica passed the winter of her captivity, looking ever forward to the opening spring as the period of her promised release, and return to the wigwam of her mother.

At length the fatal day arrived, and every thing was ready for the sacrifice. The whole Pawnee tribe was assembled to witness and take part in the solemnities. From every side, they were seen emerging from the thick forest, or gliding noiselessly over the bosom of the silver stream, leaping from cliff to cliff of the distant hills, or winding down their steep passes and narrow defiles, to meet in the great central village, around the grand council fire of the nation. The whole tribe was there--the chiefs in all their gaudy array of bead-work, feathers, and paint, their embroidered moccasins, their gaily wrought tunics and belts, their polished rifles, and glittering tomahawks--the women and children, and the rank and file of the people, in all the finery and gewgaws they could command. It was a brave sight to those accustomed to the barbaric finery and wild sports of the Indian, but fearful and hideous to one unused to the rude painted visages and half naked forms of the warriors.

The awful hour of those dreadful orgies was announced by all those discordant shouts and hideous yells, which, with those primitive races, serve the purpose of trumpet, drum and bell. The stake was set, and the faggots made ready, in the centre of the great opening. The priests stood at their post, and the vast multitude of eager excited witnesses thronged around, waiting in terrible expectation for the consummation of that horrid rite, and kindling into phrenzy in view of the mad revelry that would follow. Presently, the outer ranks of that crowding circle made way, and opened a passage to the ring within. Through this living avenue, a company of chiefs marched in, singing, or rather shouting, a wild song, and dancing in fantastic measures. At their head was the captor of Monica, leading the timid girl by the hand. She was arrayed in the most showy and expensive style of Indian costume, the various decorations of her person comprising all that was beautiful and rare in ornament, according to the uncultivated taste of that people. Unconscious still of the doom that awaited her, and hoping, perhaps, that this was to be the festival of her freedom, when she would be sent away in peace to her home, she entered the circle with a cheerful face, and an elastic step, smiling on her young companions as she passed, and wondering at the cold look, or sometimes averted eye, with which her salutation was answered.

It was not until she was led quite up to the stake, and saw the fearful faggots piled around it, that she comprehended the meaning of these mysterious preparations. Her awful doom flashed upon her, like a bolt from heaven. With one loud, piercing, heart-rending shriek, she fell to the earth, and called upon her mother. She was lifted up by the stern priest, placed upon the pile, and bound to the stake. With wild incantations, and horrid yells, the dread orgies were commenced. The torch was lighted, and ready to be applied. At that instant, a shrill whoop burst from the adjoining wood. A brave young warrior, leaping into the midst of the circle, rushed to the stake, cut the cords that bound the helpless victim, tore her away from the pile, and, dashing back through the panic-struck crowd, flung her upon a fleet horse which he had prepared for the occasion, sprung himself upon another, and was soon lost in the distant windings of the wood.

It was the act of a moment. Even the Indian warriors, who are not easily surprised, or put off their guard, were confounded and paralysed. Before they could comprehend the object of this sudden phantom, this rash interruption of their festival, their victim was gone. The bare stake, and the useless heap of faggots were there. The proud chief, who furnished the victim, and the fierce-looking priests, who were to officiate in the dark rites of the sacrifice, stood in blank astonishment around, as if a bolt from the cloud had smitten them. A momentary silence prevailed among that mighty throng. A low murmur succeeded, like the distant moans of a coming storm: then, like the tempest, bursting in all its wrath, fierce cries of vengeance from a thousand flaming tongues, furious discordant yells and shouts, accompanied with frantic gestures, and looks of rage, such as would distort the visage of a fiend. Some of the fleetest started off in hot but vain pursuit. Those who remained, promised themselves a day of terrible retribution. The mothers secretly rejoiced in the escape; while those of the young girls who had been the chosen companions of the captive, gave vent to their joy and gratitude in wild songs and dances.

In this manner, that turbulent assembly broke up. Without the usual feast and its accompanying games, they scattered to their several homes, coolly meditating revenge, and darkly foreboding the famine that should ensue from the absence of the accustomed sacrifice.

Meanwhile, the fugitives held on their way, with the speed of the wind. Not a word was spoken. It was a race of life and death, and every faculty of the rescuer as well as of the rescued was absorbed in the one idea and effort to escape. Over hill and plain, and shallow stream, those foaming steeds flew on, pausing not even to snuff the breeze, till they had cleared the territory of the Pawnees, and reached a sheltered nook within the precincts of a neutral tribe. Here, as among all the Indian tribes the woman is considered competent to take care of herself in all ordinary emergencies, her deliverer left her, giving her ample directions for the way, and cautioning her to use the utmost diligence to avoid pursuit.

"But, tell me first," she cried, tears of grateful joy standing in her eyes, "tell me to whom I am indebted for this miraculous escape--that, in all my prayers to the Great Spirit, I may call down his blessing upon your head."

"I am Petalesharro," replied the youth, modestly. "My father is Latalashaw, the chief of my tribe. We do not believe, with our people, that the Great Spirit delights in the sacrifice. He loves all his red children, and they should all love one another."

"But, will not your chiefs revenge upon your head this interference with their solemn rites? If any national calamities follow, will they not charge them all to your account? I could not bear that my generous deliverer should be struck down by those terrible hands, in the prime of his youth, as the reward of his heroic benevolence. Better that I should return and submit to the fate they had prepared for me."

"Fear not for me, Monica. Petalesharro fears not to meet the assembled council of his nation. Not a brave among them all will raise a hand to hurt him. He will make them know that the Great Star needs not the blood of the captive. And never again shall the fires be kindled for that cruel sacrifice."

Encouraged by the words of the young chief, Monica turned, with a strong heart, towards her home, still some four hundred miles distant. The same kind providence which had rescued her from the devouring flames, still guided and guarded her solitary way, and gave her strength and spirits for her toilsome journey.

On the second day of her pilgrimage, as she climbed the summit of a range of hills that ran athwart her path, she was alarmed by the appearance of a considerable body of armed men, just emerging from a distant ravine of the same range, in a direction that would lead them immediately across her path. They were too far off to enable her to discern, by their dress and accoutrements, to what tribe they belonged. She supposed they must be Pawnees in pursuit of their lost captive. If she attempted to pass on before them, they would discover her track, and soon overtake her flight. She had nothing to do, therefore, but wait till they had passed, in the hope of eluding their eager scent. Concealing herself in the thicket, in a position that overlooked the valley, she awaited with composure the coming of that fearful band. They descended into the valley, and, to the utter consternation of Monica, began to pitch their tents under the shade of a spreading oak, on the bank of a little stream. She watched the movement with an anxious heart, not knowing how she should escape, with a pursuing enemy so near. Her consternation and anxiety were soon, however, changed to joy, when one of the company, approaching the vicinity of her hiding place, to cut a pole for his tent, was recognized as a chief of her own tribe. Springing from the thicket with a scream of delight, which startled the whole encampment, and brought every brave to his feet, with his hand on the trigger of his rifle, she rushed into the midst of her astonished people, and was received with silent joy, as one restored from the dead. Under their protection, the remainder of her journey was safely and easily performed. Before the moon, which was then crescent, had reached her full, Monica had embraced her mother, and added a fresh flower to the grave of her brother.

The brave, the generous, the chivalrous Petalesharro returned to his father's tent with the fearless port and composed dignity of one whose consciousness of rectitude placed him above fear. He was a young man, just entered upon manhood, and a general favorite of his tribe.[E] His countenance, as represented in Col. McKenney's magnificent work upon the North American tribes, is one of uncommon beauty of feature. In its mildness of expression, it is almost effeminate. But in heart and soul he was a man and a hero. His courage, and the power of his arm, were acknowledged by friend and foe; and on the death of his father, he was raised to the chieftaincy of his tribe. The season which followed his noble act of humane, may we not say religious chivalry, was one of uncommon fertility, health and prosperity. "_The Great Star_" had not demanded the victim. And the Pawnees never again polluted their altars with the blood of a human sacrifice.

[E] Major Long, in his "Expeditions to the Rocky Mountains," thus describes Petalesharro, as he appeared in his native wilds, and among his own people, in the full costume which he wore on the occasion of some great festival of his tribe.

"Almost from the beginning of this interesting fete, our attention had been attracted to a young man, who seemed to be the leader or partisan of the warriors. He was about twenty-three years of age, of the finest form, tall, muscular, exceedingly graceful, and of a most prepossessing countenance. His head-dress, of war-eagles' feathers, descended in a double series upon his back, like wings, down to his saddle-croup; his shield was highly decorated, and his long lance by a plaited casing of red and blue cloth. On enquiring of the interpreter, our admiration was augmented by learning that he was no other than Petalesharro, with whose name and character we were already familiar. He is the most intrepid warrior of the nation, the eldest son of Letalashaw, and destined, as well by mental and physical qualifications, as by his distinguished birth, to be the future leader of his people."

Petalesharro visited Washington in 1821, where his fine figure and countenance, and his splendid costume attracted every eye. But there was that in his history and character, which had gone before him, that secured for him a worthier homage than that of the eye. His act of generous chivalry to the Itean captive was the theme of every tongue. The ladies of the city caused an appropriate medal to be prepared, commemorating the noble deed, and presented it to him, in the presence of a large assemblage of people, who took a lively interest in the ceremony. In reply to their complimentary address, the brave young warrior modestly said--"My heart is glad. The white woman has heard what I did for the captive maid, and they love me, and speak well of me, for doing it. I thought but little of it before. It came from my heart, as the breath from my body. I did not know that any one would think better of me for that. But now I am glad. For it is a good thing to be praised by those, who only praise that which is good."

TULA,

OR

THE HERMITESS OF ATHABASCA.

I thought to be alone. It might not be! There is no solitude in thy domains, Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast, He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief.

TULA.

~Death is not all-- Not half the agony we suffer here: The cup of life has drugs, more bitter far, That must be drained.~

That solitary wigwam, in the outskirts of the village, was the home of Kaf-ne-wah-go, an aged Chippeway warrior, who had weathered the storms, and outlived the wars, of three score and ten seasons, and was yet as fiery in the chase, and as mighty and terrible in battle, as any of the young chiefs of his tribe. His voice in the council was, like the solemn tones of an oracle, listened to with a reverence approaching to awe, and never disregarded. His sons all inherited the spirit of their father, and distinguished themselves among the braves in fight, and the sages in council. Three of them fell in battle. One was principal chief of the western division of the Chippeway family. Another, the brave Ish-ta-le-o-wah, occupied the first in that group of wigwams in yonder grove, about a hundred yards from his father's.

The only daughter of the good old sachem, the child of his old age, and "the light of his eyes," was the fairest and loveliest wild-flower, that ever sprung up amid the interminable wildernesses of the Western World. Tula, the singing bird, was distinguished among the daughters of the forest, not only for those qualities of person and character which are recognized as graces among the Indians, but for some of those peculiar refinements of feeling and manner, which are supposed to be the exclusive product of a civilized state of society. She was remarkable for the depth and tenderness of her affection, and for her ingenuity, industry and taste. Her dress, and those of her father and brother, exhibited the traces of her delicate handiwork; while the neat and tasteful arrangement of the humble cabin, superior in all that makes home comfortable and pleasant to any in the village, bore testimony to her industry and skill.

Tula had many suitors. There was scarce a young brave in the tribe who did not seek or desire her. But O-ken-ah-ga, the only son of their great chief, won her heart. She became his bride, but she remained, with him and their first-born child, in the tent of her aged parents, who could not live, as they said, "when the singing bird, the light of their eyes was gone."

* * * * *

It was mid-summer. The night was still, clear, and lovely. All nature seemed to breathe nothing but calmness and peace. But the heart of man--how often and how sadly is it at variance with nature! The inmates of that humble wigwam were all wrapped in a profound sleep, not dreaming of danger near. The infant, nestling in his mother's bosom, by a sudden start roused her to partial consciousness. A deep groan, as of one in expiring agonies, awakened all her faculties. She sprung up and called upon her husband--

"O-ken-ah-ga, what is the matter?"

Another deep groan, and a stifled yell of triumph, was the only answer.

Staring wildly round, what a scene of horror met her eyes! Her father, her mother, her husband, pierced with many wounds, and weltering in their yet warm blood, lay dead before her; while a band of fierce and terrible enemies, of the Athapuscow tribe, stood over them, with the reeking instruments of death in their hands, their eyes gleaming with savage delight, and their whole faces distorted with the most fiend-like expression of rage and triumph. With the true instinct of a mother, she clasped her infant to her breast, and bowed her head in silence, utterly unable to give any utterance to the bitterness of her wo. It was this silence that saved her and her child from an instant participation in the fate of the mangled ones around her. The first word spoken, would have brought down that reeking tomahawk upon their heads. The Athapuscows were few in number, and their only safety consisted in doing their work of revenge with secrecy and despatch, for the Chippeways were many and powerful, and to disturb the slumbers of one of them would be to rouse the whole tribe in a moment.

The work of death was done. The scalps of their victims hung dripping at the belts of the murderers, and the spoils of the cabin were secured. The spoilers turned to depart, and Tula, in obedience to their word, without complaint or remonstrance, rose and followed them. Gathering up a few necessary articles, among which she contrived to conceal her babe, she took one farewell look upon the loved ones, whom death had so suddenly and fearfully claimed, and left them, and the home of her youth, for ever.

With cautious stealthy steps, the murderous band plunged into the deep forest, threading their way through its intricate mazes, with inconceivable skill and sagacity, till they reached an opening, on the bank of the Wapatoony river, where a considerable detachment of their tribe was temporarily encamped. Delivering their prisoner into the hands of the women, the braves proceeded at once to the council of the chiefs, to show their trophies, and relate the incidents of their scout.

When the Athapuscow women, in examining the contents of the poor captive's bundle, discovered the still sleeping infant, they seized him as they would have done a viper, and dashed him on the ground. In vain did the fond mother plead for her child. In vain did the voice of nature, and a mother's instinct in their own bosoms, plead for the innocent. It was an enemy's child, a hated Chippeway, and that was enough to stifle every other feeling in their hearts, and make even "an infant of days" an object of intense and implacable hatred. With the Indian, the son of an enemy is an enemy, doomed only to death or torture. The daughter may be spared for slavery or sacrifice.

* * * * *

The morning dawned with uncommon brilliancy and beauty upon the Chippeway village, and warriors and children were astir with the earliest light, some to fish in the smooth stream, that, like a silver chain, bound their two beautiful lakes together--some to look after the traps they had set over-night--some to prepare for the hunt--and some for the merry games and athletic sports of the village. The quick eye of Ish-ta-le-o-wah soon discovered that all was not right in the tent of his father. Kaf-ne-wah-go was not abroad, as usual, with his net in the stream. O-ken-ah-ga was not seen among the hunters with his bow, nor among the wrestlers on the green. No smoke was seen curling among the branches of the old tree that overshadowed his mother's tent. All was still as the house of the dead.

"Why sleep the brave so long, when the light of day is already on the hill-top, and coming down upon the valley. Has the snake crept into the tent of Kaf-ne-wah-go, and charmed the father with the children? I must go and see."

The loud and piercing yell of Ish-ta-le-o-wah, as he looked in upon that desolate wigwam, roused the whole village, like the blast of a trumpet. The counsellors and braves of the nation were soon on the spot. The whole scene was understood in a moment, as clearly as if a written record of the whole had been left behind. Pursuit, and the recovery of the captive Tula and her child, were instantly resolved; and, ere the sun had surmounted the eastern barrier of their beautiful valley, Ish-ta-le-o-wah, with a band of chosen braves, was on the trail of the foe.

With the keen eye and quick scent of a blood-hound, they followed the almost obliterated track, through forest and brake, through swamp and dingle, over hill and prairie, till it was lost on the border of the Athabasca lake. Though the party in retreat was large, so well were they all trained in the Indian tactics of flight and concealment, that it required a most experienced eye to keep on their track. They had marched, according to custom, in Indian file, each carefully walking in the steps of the other, so that, to an unpractised observer, there would appear to have been but one wayfarer in the path. Wherever it was practicable, the path was carried over rocks, or the soft elastic mosses, or through the bed of a running brook, with the hope of eluding the pursuer. But no artifice of the Athapuscow could elude the well-trained eye of the Chippeway. He would instantly detect the slightest trace of a footstep on the ground, or the passage of a human body through the thicket. In one place, the edges of the moss had been torn, or a blade of grass trampled in upon it; in another, the small stones of the surface had been displaced, showing sometimes the fresh earth, and sometimes the hole of a worm uncovered, with half the length of its astonished occupant protruded to the light, as if investigating the cause of the sudden unroofing of his cell. Here some dry stick broken, or the bark of a protruding root peeled off, would betray the step of the fugitive; and there a shrub slightly bent, or a leaf turned up and lapped over upon another, or a few petals of a wild flower torn off and scattered upon the ground, would reveal the rude touch of his foot, or arm, or the trailing of his blanket, as he passed. Even on the bare rock, if a few grains of earth had been carried forward, or a pebble, a leaf, a dry stick, or a bit of moss, adhering to the foot had been deposited there, it was instantly noticed and understood. The rushing of the waters in the brook did not always replace, in a moment, every stone that had been disturbed in its bed, nor restore the broken limb, nor the bent weed, to its place. So quick and intuitive were these observations, that the march of the pursuer was as rapid and direct as that of the pursued. The one would seldom lose more time in hunting for the track, than the other had consumed in his various artifices of concealment.

On arriving at the lake, it was evident that a considerable number of the enemy had been encamped, and that they had just embarked. Their fires were still smoking, and the rocks were not yet dry, from which they had pushed off their canoes, in the haste of their departure.

The Chippeway was not easily diverted from his purpose. With the speed of a chamois, he climbed a tall cliff, which, jutting boldly out into the lake, concealed its great eastern basin from his view. Arrived at the summit, he discerned, dimly relieved in the distant horizon, a number of moving specks, which he knew to be the canoes of the retreating foe. In the double hope of avenging the dead, and recovering the living from captivity, he continued his course along the shores of the lake, and, early the next morning, fell once more upon the trail of his enemy. Pursuing it a short distance into the forest, it suddenly divided, one part continuing on to the east, and one striking off toward the south. In neither of them could he discover the track of his sister. Her captors had placed her, with their own women, in the middle of the march, so that the large and heavy track of the warriors who came after, should cover and obliterate the lighter traces of her foot.

Taking the eastern track, and moving on with accelerated speed, he overtook the flying party in the act of encamping for the night. Concealing himself carefully from view, and watching his opportunity when all were busily engaged in pitching their tents, he raised the terrible war-whoop, with a volley of well directed arrows, and rushed, with his whole band, upon his unarmed victims. Not one of them escaped; and, so sudden and complete was the retribution, that not one remained to tell where the captive Tula had been carried. The real murderers had escaped with their captives, and the vengeance intended for _them_ had fallen upon the heads of their innocent comrades.

* * * * *

Tula was treated with kindness by the Athapuscow chief, who claimed her as his own. Every means was tried to reconcile her to her new lot, and to make her content to be the wife of her enemy. But her heart was bound up with the memories of the dead. Her parents, her husband, her child, filled all her thoughts. And the idea of being for ever bound to those whose hands were stained with the blood of these precious lost ones, was not to be endured for a moment. She was inconsolable, and her captors, for a time, respected her grief. Day after day, they travelled on, with long and weary marches, till the face of the country was changed, and the green forest gave way to the barren and rocky waste, that skirts the northern borders of the great valley of prairies. As they advanced, they grew more and more secure against pursuit, and less watchful of their captive. At length, she suddenly disappeared from their view.

They had pitched for the night, on the bank of the north branch of the Sascatchawan. The night was dark and tempestuous. The lightnings flashed vividly from the dark cloud, and threatened to "melt the very elements with fervent heat." The hoarse thunders roared among the wildly careering clouds, and reverberated along the shores of the stream, and the cliffs of the distant mountains, as if those everlasting barriers were rent asunder, and nature were groaning from her utmost depths. The Indian feared not death, in whatever shape it might come. But he feared the angry voice of the Great Spirit. He shrunk with terror to the covert of his tent, and covered his eyes from the fearful glare of those incessant flashes, and prayed inwardly to his gods.

The poor disconsolate captive lay trembling under the side of the tent. She thought of the storm that had swept over her beautiful home, and desolated her heart in the spring time of its love. She looked at her savage captors, now writhing in the agonies of superstitious fear, which her more absorbing private grief alone prevented her from sharing to the full. They heeded her not. They scarcely remembered that she was among them. Something whispered to her heart--"No eye but that of the Great Spirit sees you. He bids you escape from your enemies."

In the ten-fold darkness that follows the all-revealing flash from the storm-cloud, Tula slipped noiselessly under the edge of the robe that sheltered her from the beating rain, and plunging into the stream, swam with the current a few rods, till she was arrested by a thick covert of overhanging shrubs, which grew to the water's edge. Thinking she might be able to cover her head with these bushes, while her body was hid by the water, she crept cautiously under, close to the bank, when, to her surprise and joy, she found that this shrubbery covered and curiously concealed a crevice in the jutting rock, sufficiently large to admit a free entrance to an ample cave within. Having carefully adjusted every limb and leaf without, and replaced with instinctive sagacity, the mosses that had been disturbed by her feet, she devoutly thanked the good spirit for her hope of deliverance, and anxiously watched for the morning.

The dark cloud of the night had passed over. The voice of the tempest was hushed. The day broke clear and cloudless, amid the singing of birds, and the quickened music of the swollen stream. The first thought of the Athapuscow chief, as he started from his troubled slumbers, was of his captive. But she was gone. With a shrill and angry whoop, he roused the whole band, and all started in pursuit. The old woods rung again with the whoop and yell of the pursuers, and were answered by the sullen echoes of the hills and cliffs around. But neither wood, nor hill, nor cliff, revealed the hiding-place of the captive. The heavy torrents of rain had obliterated every mark of her footsteps, and neither grass, nor sand, nor the yielding soil of the river-bank afforded any clue to the path she had taken.

Safe in the close covert of her new found retreat, the poor captive heard all the loud and angry threats of her disappointed pursuers. She even heard their frequent conjectures and animated discussions of the means to be adopted for her recovery, and often, they were so near to her place of refuge, that she could see their anxious and angry looks, as they passed, and almost feel their hands among the bushes that sheltered her, and the quick tramp of their feet over the roof of her cave. But there was no track or mark, on land or water, to guide them to that spot, and so naturally had every leaf been adjusted, that it had not attracted a single suspicion from any one of those sagacious and quick-sighted inquisitors.

Two hours of fruitless search for a hiding place, or a track that should reveal the course of her flight, brought them to the conclusion that the Great Spirit had taken her away, and that it was not for man to find her path again. With this conviction, they struck their tents, swam the stream, and resumed their march to the south.

Too cautious to leave her covert at once, and wearied with her anxious watchings, Tula composed herself to sleep, as soon as the last sound of the retiring party died on her ear. The sun had declined half way to his setting, when she awoke. She listened, with a suspicions ear for every sound without. The singing of birds, the rustling of the leaves, and the murmur of the waters, were all that disturbed the silence of the scene. She put her ear to the rock, but it brought nothing to her sense that revealed the presence of man. With extreme caution, she ventured to look out from her cave, and, by slow degrees, peering on every side for some concealed enemy, she emerged into the light, and dropping noiselessly into the stream, swam to a point on the opposite shore, from which she could obtain a good view of the recent encampment. It was deserted and still. Not a trace was left behind, except the trampled grass, and the blackened embers.

Recrossing the stream, she commenced, with a light step, and a hopeful spirit, the seemingly impossible task of finding her way back to her home and her people. The consciousness of freedom buoyed her up, and inspired her with a new hope, at almost every step. With a light heart, and an elastic step, she bounded away over the desolate waste, that lay between the river and the forest, having neither path, nor track, nor land-mark, to guide her way, and with nothing but the instinct of affection to point out the course she should take. She had been so absorbed with her many griefs, during the long and weary march hitherto, and so little did she dream of the possibility of escape, that she had scarcely taken any notice of the direction, or attempted to observe any land-marks to guide her return. The way by which she had been led was circuitous and irregular, and she had only the vague general ideas, that her home was near "the star that never moves," and that she had been leaving her shadow behind, to aid her in her solitary wanderings. With a hopeful courageous heart, she sought only to widen the distance between her cruel captors and herself, trusting that her way would open as she went, and that her guardian angel, her tutelar divinity, would keep her from going astray. _Her_ tutelar divinity was the moon, whose light and protection she invoked, with a devout, if not an enlightened faith. While she could enjoy her mild clear light, she was always happy and secure; but when those beams were withdrawn, a shadow came over her soul that was full of dark forebodings and anxious fears.

She had travelled several leagues, without seeing a track of any kind, and without the consciousness of fatigue or hunger. When night came on, she was just entering a deep forest, whose impenetrable shade made a sudden transition from twilight to utter darkness. With no star to guide her, and with no appearance of a path through thickets which seemed never to have been penetrated by a human footstep, she was soon bewildered, and felt that it was vain to proceed. With a few half-ripe nuts for a supper, and the soft moss which had gathered about the trunk of a fallen tree for a bed, she committed herself to sleep.

About midnight, her slumbers were disturbed by a heavy rustling among the bushes, at no great distance, accompanied by a constant crackling, as of some large animal, trying to penetrate the thicket. Perceiving that it approached nearer at every step, she seized a club, with which she had provided herself before entering the forest, and hastened to climb into the nearest tree. As she ascended, it began to grow lighter overhead. The stars looked smilingly down upon her, but it was darker than ever below. She breathed a silent prayer to the star of her faith--the bright orb where she supposed her guardian angel resided--and took courage. The mysterious step approached nearer and nearer. She soon perceived that it was a bear, and supposed he would follow her into the tree. She therefore seated herself upon a stout limb, a few feet from the main trunk, and prepared to give him a warm reception. Presently the heavy trampling ceased, and was followed by a silence vastly more oppressive than the previous noise.

In this condition, the remaining hours of the night passed away. With the first light of the morning, the shaggy intruder was discerned, quietly reposing near the foot of the tree, and showing no signs of being in haste to depart. That he was conscious of the presence of a stranger, was evident only from an occasional upward glance of his eye, and a significant turning of the nose in that direction, as if there was something agreeable in prospect.

Tula would have been no match for Bruin on level ground, but she felt confident of her power in the position she had chosen, and therefore quietly waited the movements of her adversary. For two or three hours, he behaved himself with the gravity of a true philosopher, coolly expecting to weary out the patience of his victim by a close siege, and so save himself the trouble of taking the tree by assault. But Tula was as patient and prudent as Bruin, and could endure hunger, and thirst, and wakefulness as well as he. Rousing at length from his inactivity, he travelled round and round the tree, as if taking its measure, and estimating the probable result of an encounter. Tula watched his motions with more interest than anxiety, hoping soon to be relieved from her imprisonment, and at liberty to pursue her journey. It was near noon, when, having satisfied himself that offensive measures were necessary, he began to climb the tree. Having reached the leading branch, and embraced the trunk to raise himself to that on which Tula was seated, the brave girl rose suddenly to her feet, and brought down her club upon the enemy's nose with such desperate and well directed force, as to send him, stunned and insensible, to the ground. Without allowing him a moment to recover, she leaped down to his side, and dealt a succession of heavy blows upon his head, till the blood flowed in torrents, and his struggles and his breathing ceased.

* * * * *

In this manner, many days and nights passed on, during which she encountered many imminent dangers, and severe conflicts, and made but little progress. Hunger, weariness, a continual sense of danger, and that sickness of the heart, which solitude and suspense beget, were her inseparable companions. Every day, her hope of ultimately reaching the home of her childhood grew fainter and fainter. But she had a woman's endurance, and a woman's fertility of resource. She never for a moment repented her flight. She would have preferred death in any form to a forced espousal with the murderer of her family. Sometimes with roots and herbs, sometimes with nutritious mosses, and sometimes with wild fruits and nuts, she continued to satisfy the cravings of appetite, and to sustain her severely tried fortitude, for the fatigues and perils that were yet before her.

The forest seemed interminable; and so indeed it might well have been regarded, for she was continually travelling round and round, in the same track, having only an occasional glimpse of the sun to direct her way, or a view of the stars, when she climbed some tall tree at night. She knew little of the direction in which she was going; but she was sure that that forest lay between her enemy and her home, and was therefore resolved, at any expense of labor and suffering, to find her way through it, or perish in the attempt.

After several weeks of incredible toil, fatigue, hardship and danger, the brave persevering Tula emerged into a wide opening, having a considerable mountain on one side, and a large sheet of water, and a stream from the mountain pouring into it, on the other. It was a beautiful spot, but the whole aspect of it was new and strange. She was confident she had not passed that way, while a captive in the hands of the Athapuscows. She was now wholly at a loss which way to turn. To retrace her steps through the intricacies of that dark forest, would be as vain as the thought of it was appalling. To go on, when she was absolutely certain she was out of her track, seemed little less than madness. To choose either the right hand or the left, was to leap in the dark, and involve herself in new doubts and difficulties. She needed rest. Her apparel was torn by her difficult passages through the tangled thickets, and her frequent contests with the enemies she found there. Pondering deeply on the difficulties before her, she began to think, that if there was any place of shelter near, she would make herself a new home, and live and die alone in the great wilderness.

"And why," said she to herself, "why should I return to the wigwam of my father? Kaf-ne-wah-go is not there. My mother, she has gone with him to the spirit land. O-ken-ah-ga waits no longer for my return. I left my brave chief in his blood. His voice will no longer be heard in the valley, with the hunters, nor his shout in the battle. He fell in the glory of his strength, like the young oak that is full of sap, and whose roots have struck deep into the earth. And my child, the son of O-ken-ah-ga, alas! he has not even a grave to sleep in. He lies on the cold bosom of the earth, and I know not where. Why then should I return to a desolate home, only made more desolate by the memory of what it was?"

With such thoughts as these, she beguiled her inward yearnings for the spot where all her joys had been, and where all her hopes were buried. Wandering on the shores of the lake and the stream by day, and seeking such shelter as she could find in the clefts of the rocks at night, she sought for a place where she might provide a suitable protection against the cold and the storms of winter, which were not far distant. Wild berries and fruits afforded her only sustenance for a considerable time, until her own ingenuity provided her with the means of procuring a more certain substantial diet.

Having found a convenient spot in a deep ravine of the mountain, which opened towards the south, and was consequently always exposed to the sun, she immediately commenced the construction of a place to dwell in. The spot selected was romantic and beautiful in the extreme, and seemed to have been designed by nature "for some especial use." It was sufficiently elevated to command a fine view of the opening, including all the meanderings of the river, and the whole extent of the lake, and yet it was not difficult of access, nor so high as to be too much exposed to the wintry storms. It was a little nook, chipped out from the solid rock, having a smooth slaty floor, about twelve feet square, with a semi-circular recess of about half that depth into the side of the mountain. A jutting rock, about ten feet above this floor, and overhanging it on every side, formed a natural ceiling. It only needed to be enclosed on two sides, to make a lodge that any of the great caciques of the wilderness might be proud of.

Fortunately Tula was not entirely destitute of tools to work with. A piece of an iron hoop, about six inches in length, and the shank of an arrow head, also of iron, both of which she had picked up while among the Athapuscows, constituted her whole stock. With these, which she sharpened upon the rocks, she contrived to cut down a number of young saplings, and shape them to her purpose. Planting two of them upright upon the outer line of the floor, and laying the end of one against the inside, and the end of the other against the outside of the cornice, or overhanging ceiling, she bound them firmly together with green withes. In this manner she went all round, leaving a space open for a door on the sunny side. This done, she wove it, inside and out, with willow boughs, stuffing the intervening spaces with moss, till it was entirely impervious to the weather. The door was of close basket-work hung at the top, and secured at the sides, in a storm, or during the night, by means of withes fastened round the door-posts. This served the double purpose of door and window, while a crevice in the rock above, performed the part of a chimney.

The work went on slowly and heavily at first, but patience and perseverance, which can conquer all but impossibilities, accomplished it before the cold weather set in. Meanwhile, the ingenuity of the fair builder had found means to make a fire upon the hearth. Her materials for that purpose were two hard sulphureous stones, which, by long friction, or hard knocking, produced a few sparks. These, communicated to touchwood, were soon formed into a blaze.

When fruits, berries and nuts failed, her ready ingenuity supplied her with other means of sustaining life. She had, among her scanty stock of furniture, a few deer-sinews, which, with the Indians, are a common substitute for thread. With the aid of these, she managed to snare partridges, rabbits and squirrels. She also killed several beavers and porcupines. The sinews of the rabbit's legs and feet were twisted with great dexterity, to supply the place of deer-sinews, when _they_ were gone. Their skins also, with those of the squirrels, served to replenish her exhausted wardrobe, supplying, under her skilful hand, a neat and warm suit of winter clothing. Her industry was as untiring as her ingenuity was fruitful of resources. Forlorn as her situation was, she was composed and resigned, if not contented, and seemed to find pleasure in employing every moment of her waking hours in some useful or ornamental contrivance.

Her dress evinced much taste, and exhibited no little variety of ornament. The materials, though rude, were very curiously wrought, and so judiciously arranged, as to give to the whole a pleasing and romantic effect. Her tunic was composed of the skins of squirrels and rabbits, in alternate strips of grey and white. It was secured at the waist by a belt of skin, beautifully wrought with porcupine quills, colored pebbles, and strips of bark of various brilliant hues. Her mantle, which was large, was of the fairest and most delicate skins, arranged with a certain uniformity and harmony of design, which gave it all the grace and beauty, without the stiffness, of a regular pattern. It had a tasteful border, of brilliant feathers, and, like the belt before described, was fastened by a clasp of an unique and original contrivance, being made of the beaks and claws of her captives, arranged and secured so as to interlock with each other. Her head-dress, leggings and moccasins, were equally perfect in style and effect.

Besides accomplishing all this work, in her solitude, and even laying in a stock of provisions in advance, sufficient for her wants, in case of a long season of storms, sickness, or any other exigency, she had found time to make several hundred fathoms of net-twine, by twisting the inner rind, or bark, of willow boughs, into small lines. Of these, she intended to make a fishing-net, as soon as the spring should open, and thus enlarge her sources of subsistence and enjoyment.

* * * * *

It was past mid-winter. The snow lay deep and hard upon all the northern hills and valleys. The lakes and rivers were frozen. The fountains of nature were sealed up, and verdure, and fruitfulness, and almost all the elements of life, seemed to have followed the sun in his journey to the far south. A company of English traders, under the guidance of a party of Indians, were traversing the country from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean, in quest of furs and peltries. Emerging from a deep forest into a broad open plain, they discovered the track of a strange snow-shoe, which, from its lightness, they judged to belong to a woman. Not knowing of any encampment in that vicinity, it excited the more curiosity. They followed it. It led them a considerable distance out of their way, across the valley, and into the gorge of the mountain on its southern side. Pursuing it still, as it ascended by a circuitous path, they came to a small cabin, perched like an eagle's nest in the clefts of the rock. They entered, and found a young and beautiful woman sitting alone at her work. It was Tula, the hermitess of Athabasca. For more than seven moons she had not seen a human face, nor heard a human voice, nor did she ever expect again to see the one, or hear the other. She had become reconciled to her lot. She loved the solitude where her spirit could commune with the departed, undisturbed, and where only the sun, the moon, and the stars, and the Great Spirit that controlled and guided them all, could read her thoughts, and know the history of her griefs.

The first surprise being over, Tula offered the strangers a place by her fire, and such other hospitalities as her cabin afforded.

"How comes the dove alone in the eagle's nest?" enquired the leader of the party.--And then, regarding her with a look of admiration, added--"does she not fear the hawk or the vulture, here in the cold cliffs of the mountain?"

Tula replied by relating the story of her life--her bereavement--her captivity--her escape--her weary wanderings--her hardships--and the repose she had found in her solitude; and concluded by saying, "If the eagle's nest be lonely and cold, it is quiet and safe. It is not too high for the moon to smile upon. It is not too cold for Tula."

"Would the 'singing bird' seek out her people, and let her song be heard again among the trees of the valley?"

"Tula is no longer the singing bird. Her song is shut up in her heart. Her heart is with her kindred in the spirit land. Her father's cabin is more desolate than the wilderness, or the mountain top. Her tree is plucked up by the roots. It cannot live again."

After some considerable persuasion, in which the voice of the humane Englishman--suggesting that, if the Ottawas had discovered her retreat, the Athapuscows might discover it also,--had its full share of weight, the fair hermitess consented to accompany the strangers; though she could not conceal her regret, in abandoning her snug little castle, to set off on a new pilgrimage, she knew not whither.

"It matters little to Tula where she goes, so that she does not meet the Athapuscow. His hands are red with the blood of her father, her husband, her child. Let her never see his face, or walk in his shadow."

* * * * *

The singular romance of Tula's story, the comeliness of her person, and her approved accomplishments, touched the hearts of some of the young braves of the party. They had not gone far on their way, before a contest arose between them, who, according to immemorial usage among the tribes, should claim the privilege of making her his wife. The dispute--to which she was no party, for her views were not so much as consulted in the matter--ran very high, and had nearly resulted in serious consequences. The poor girl was actually won and lost, at wrestling, by near half a score of different men, in the course of as many days. When, at length, a compromise was effected, and the prize awarded to Lak-in-aw, a young warrior of the Temiscamings, Tula refused to receive the pipe at his hands, or to listen in any way to his suit.

"Tula is buried in the grave of O-ken-ah-ga," she said. "Tula will walk alone on the earth. Her heart is in the spirit land. It will never come back. It has nothing here to love."

* * * * *

Onward--onward--over interminable fields of snow and ice, where scarce a green thing appeared to relieve the utter desolation, the party proceeded, with their prize, on their journey to the far north. She was treated with chivalric tenderness and respect, and her comfort and convenience consulted in all the arrangements of the way. She needed but little indulgence, and solicited _none_. She was capable of enduring the fatigues and hardships of a man. She never flagged in the march, nor lingered a moment, when the word was given to go forward.

In traversing a deep valley near the eastern extremity of the Great Slave Lake, their track was crossed by that of a considerable party of Indians, returning from an expedition to the fur regions of the north. Their course lay along the southern border of the lake. Perceiving their encampment at no great distance, on the other side of the valley, it was resolved to visit them, and, if they were found to be friendly, to join their camp for the night. On approaching the spot, they were met by the chief, who, with a few attendants, came out to bid them welcome to his tent. He was a fine specimen of a young Indian brave--one who, in his green youth, had gained laurels, which it usually requires a life-time to win. His costume, though adapted to the severity of the climate, was tasteful and picturesque, and so fitted and arranged as to develop, to the best advantage, the admirable proportions of his person.

The parley that ensued was a fine specimen of Indian courtesy and diplomacy. But it was suddenly and violently interrupted, when Tula, who had remained in the rear of her party, with the Englishmen, came up. At the first sight of the young chief, she uttered a loud and piercing shriek--for the extremes of joy and grief use similar tones and gestures--and rushing forward, pushed aside friend and stranger alike, and flung herself upon his neck, exclaiming--"Ish-ta-le-o-wah!--my brother! my brother!"

* * * * *

Transcriber's Note

The following changes were made to the original text:

Accents were restored to the Table of Contents.

Page 5, "Ka-ree-o-than" changed to "Karee-o-than" (Tezcuco--Karee-o-than)

Page 12, "Kaf-na-wa-go" changed to "Kaf-ne-wah-go" (wigwam of Kaf-ne-wah-go)

Page 20, "skillfully" changed to "skilfully" (craftily and skilfully worked)

Page 35, "paralasis" changed to "paralysis" (struck with instant paralysis)

Page 40, "acknowledgements" changed to "acknowledgments" (ample acknowledgments)

Page 50, "terrestial" changed to "terrestrial" (paradise of terrestrial sweets)

Page 53, "harrass" changed to "harass" (harass his soul)

Page 58, "anything" changed to "any thing" (his position any thing but)

Page 60, "discomfitted" changed to "discomfited" (among the discomfited Cholulans)

Page 66, "unappeaseable" changed to "unappeasable" (an unappeasable fate)

Page 67, "suprised" changed to "surprised" (continually surprised and delighted)

Page 73, "cortege" changed to "cortege" (the royal cortege)

Page 78, "mein" changed to "mien" (proud and haughty mien)

Page 102, "chastly" changed to "chastely" (chastely decorated)

Page 121, "it's" changed to "its" (Oozing its bitterness)

Page 125, "beseiged" changed to "besieged" (heads of the besieged)

Page 193, "to day" changed to "to-day" (my brave hunter, to-day) [First instance on page]

Page 205, "calmess" changed to "calmness" (a calmness which we)

Page 227, "Kaf-ne-wa-go" changed to "Kaf-ne-wah-go" (home of Kaf-ne-wah-go)

Page 227, "Ish-ta-le-ah" changed to "Ish-ta-le-o-wah" (the brave Ish-ta-le-o-wah)

Page 245, "patridge" changed to "partridge" (to snare partridges)

Page 247, "controled" changed to "controlled" (controlled and guided)

Page 250, "grief" was typeset on the incorrect line and was repositioned accordingly (joy and grief use)

All other inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation were retained as printed in the original text.

End of Project Gutenberg's Sketches of Aboriginal Life, by V. V. Vide