CHAPTER XXII.

In a small room, under a roof which slanted not in one straight line, but made an obtuse angle in the midst of its descent, lighted alone by a horn lantern, such as was used on board the river-boats at night, sat the stout man whom we have described under the name of Woodchuck. The furniture of the chamber was of the meanest kind; a small half-tester bed, with its dull curtains of a broad red and white checked stuff; a little table jammed close against the wall; a solitary chair; a wash-stand, with the basin and its ewer both somewhat maimed; and a little looking-glass, hanging from a nail driven into the wall, with its narrow, badly-gilt frame, and its plate so distorted that, when one looked in it, the reflection seemed to be making faces at the original. Dull, with imbibing many a year's loaded atmosphere, were those faded walls; and many a guest had written upon them in pencil his own name, or the name of his sweetheart--permanent memorials of transitory tenants, like the long-cherished memories of affections gone to the grave. There were two or three rude distiches, too, and a quatrain somewhat more polished.

But the man who sat there noted none of these things. The dim light, the gloomy aspect of the apartment, might sink in upon his spirit, and render the darkness within more dark: the strange, ill-looking, double slant of the ceiling--the obtrusive two straight lines instead of one, with the blunt, unmeaning angle between them, giving an aspect of brokenness to the roof, as if it were ready to bulge out, and then crash down--might irritate without his knowing why. Still he noted them not with anything like observation. His mind was busy with things of its own--things in which feeling took a share as well as thought--and he was, if not dead, sleeping to the external world. Even his beloved woods, and streams, and fresh air, and open skies, were forgotten for the time.

He argued with himself a case of conscience hard to solve.

He was as brave a man as ever lived--had been habituated all his life to perils of many kinds, and had met them all fearlessly. Wake him in the woods at midnight, you would find him ready. Deafen his ear with the drum or the war-whoop, you could not make him start. He blinked not at the cannon's flash or the blaze of the lightning, and would have faced the fiery-mouthed platoon without a wavering step.

And yet the love of life was strong in him. He had so many joys in the bright treasury of nature; to his simple--nay, wild--tastes, there were so many pleasures in the wide world, that to part with them was hard, very hard.

He had never known how valuable earthly existence was to him till that hour, or how different a thing it is to hazard it in bold daring, or to contemplate the throwing it away in reckless passion, or disappointment, or despair, to calmly and deliberately laying it down as a sacrifice, whatever be the end, the inducement, or the duty.

What was the case of conscience he proposed to himself? Simply this: Whether he should suffer another to die for his act, or place himself not only in the peril from which he had lately escaped, but in the actual grasp of death.

Some men, of enthusiastic spirit and great constitutional fearlessness, might have decided the matter at a dash, and, with the first impulse of a furious nature, have cast themselves under the uplifted tomahawk to save their innocent friend. But he was not such; and I do not intend so to represent him. He was not a man to do anything without deliberation--without calculating all things--though he was generous as most men, as this world goes. All his habits--the very course of his previous life--disposed him to careful forethought. Every day had had its watchfulness, every hour its precaution. The life of the woods in those days was a life of peril and preparation, where forethought might be very rapid, but was always needful.

And now he debated the question with himself:--

"Could he live on and suffer Walter Prevost to die in his place?"

There were strenuous advocates on both sides. But the love of life was the most subtle, if generosity was the most eloquent.

"Poor boy!" he thought, "why should he die for what I have done? Why should he be cut off so soon from all life's hopes and blessings? Why should his father's eyes be drowned in tears, and his sister's heart wrung with grief, when I can save them all? And he so frank and noble, too--so full of every kindly feeling and generous quality--so brave--so honest--so frank--so true-hearted! Innocent, too--innocent of every offence--quite innocent in this case!"

But then spoke self, and he reflected,--

"Am not I innocent, too?--as innocent as he is? Did I ever harm the man? Did I provoke the savage? Did I not slay him in pure self-defence? And shall I lay down the life I then justly protected at the cost of that of another human being, because a race of fierce Indians, unreasoning, blood-thirsty savages, choose to offer a cruel sacrifice to their God of revenge, and have found a victim?

"Still," he continued, taking the other side, "it is for my act the sacrifice is offered, and, if there must be a sacrifice, ought not the victim to be myself? Besides, were it that any worthless life was in jeopardy--were it that of some desperate rover--some criminal--some man without ties, or friendships, or affections--one might leave him to his fate, perhaps, without remorse. But this poor lad, how many hopes are centred in him? what will not his family lose--what will not the world? And I--what am I, that my life should be weighed against his? Is he not my friend, too, and the son of my friend--one who has always overflowed with kindness and regard towards me?"

His resolution was almost taken; but then the cunning pleader, vanquished in direct argument, suggested a self-deceit.

"It is strange," he thought, "that these Indians, and especially their chief, should fix upon one with whom they have ever been so friendly--should choose a youth whom they have looked upon as a brother, when they might surely have found some other victim. Can this be a piece of their savage cunning? They know how well I love the lad, and how much friendship has been shown me by his father. Can they have taken him only as a bait to their trap, without any real intention of sacrificing him, and only in the hope of luring me into their power?"

At first sight the supposition seemed reasonable; and he was inclined to congratulate himself that he had not precipitately fallen into the snare.

"How they would have yelled with triumph," he thought "when they found me bringing my head to the hatchet!"

But speedily his knowledge of the Indian character and habits undeceived him. He knew that in such cases they always made sure of some victim, and that the more near and dear he was to the offender, the better for their purpose--the offender himself first--a relation next--a friend next; and he cast the self-fraud away from him.

But the love of life had not yet done, though obliged to take another course, and suggest modifications. Was there no middle course to be taken? Was it absolutely necessary that he should sacrifice his own life to save that of Walter Prevost? Could not the object be effected without his giving himself up to the savages? Might not some one else fall into their hands? Might not the lad be rescued by some daring effort? This was the most plausible suggestion of all; but it was the one that troubled him most. He had detected so many attempts in his own heart to cheat himself, that he suspected he might be deceiving himself still; and his mind got puzzled and confused with doubts.

He went to the bed, and lay down in his clothes; but he could not sleep without taking some resolution; and, rising again, he pressed his hands upon his aching temples, and determined to cast away self from the question altogether--to look upon it as if it affected some other person than Walter Prevost, and to judge accordingly.

This plan succeeded. He separated the truth from the falsehood, and came to the conclusion that it would be folly to go and give himself up to certain death, so long as there was a chance of saving his young friend by other means; but that it was right to do so if other means failed; and that neither by delay nor by rash and uncertain efforts must he risk the chance of saving him, even by the ultimate sacrifice.

He accordingly made up his mind to re-enter the Indian territory in spite of every peril; to conceal himself as best he could; to watch the Indians as he would watch a wild beast; and to be ready for any opportunity, or for any decision.

Now that his resolution was finally taken, he lay down and slept profoundly.