CHAPTER XXXII.

More than five months had passed, months of great trouble and anxiety to many. The usual tragedies of life had been enacted in many a house, and in many a home: the dark, ever-recurring scene of death and suffering and grief had passed through the dwellings of rich and poor. Many a farce, too, in public and private, had been exhibited to the gaze; for, in the history of each man and of all the world, the ridiculous and the grand, the sad and the cheerful, stand side by side in strange proximity.

The woods, blazing in their autumnal crimson when last we saw them, had worn and soiled, in about a fortnight, the glorious vestments of the autumn, and cast them to the earth; and now they had put on the green garments of the summer, and robed themselves in the tender hues of youth. The rivers and the streams, bound in icy chains for many a month, now dashed wildly and impetuously along in the joy of lately-recovered freedom, and, swollen by the spring rains, in some places became torrents; in some places, slowly flooded the flat land, marching over the meadows like a vast invading army.

The beasts of the forest were busy in their coverts, the birds in the brake, or on the tree-top; the light clouds skimmed along the soft blue sky; and the wind tossed the light young branches to and fro in its sport. Everything was gay and active on the earth, and over the earth; everything spoke of renewed life, and energy, and hope.

To the fancy of those who have not seen it, the vast primæval forest presents an idea of monotony; and certainly, when seen from a distance, it produces that impression on the mind. Looming dark and sombre, thick and apparently impenetrable, over upland and dell, over plain and mountain, it conveys a sensation of solemnity by its very sameness; and, though the first sight is sublime, its long-continued presence is oppressive. But penetrate into its depths, and you will find infinite variety; now the dense, tangled thicket, through which the panther and the wild cat creep with difficulty, and into which the deer cannot venture; now the quaking morass, unsafe to the foot, yet bearing up the tamarach or cedar, with its rank grasses, its strangely-shaped leaves, and its rich and infinitely varied flowers; now the wide grove, extending for miles and miles, with the tall bolls of the trees rising up distinct and separate, and with little or no brushwood hiding the carpet of dry pine-spindles and cones on which they stand; then the broad savanna, with its grass knee-high, green and fresh and beautiful, and merely a tree here and there to shelter some spot from the sun, and cast a soft blue shadow on the natural meadow; and then again, in many spots, a space of ground where every characteristic of the forest is mingled--here thick and tangled brush, there a patch of open green, here the swamp running along the brook-side, there the sturdy oak or wide-spreading chestnut, standing far apart in reverence for each other's giant limbs, shading many a pleasant slope, or topping the lofty crag.

It was under one of these large trees, on a high bank commanding the whole prospect round for many and many a mile, and in the eastern part of the province of New York, that three red men were seated in the early summer of 1758. A little distance in advance of them, and somewhat lower down the hill, was a small patch of brush, composed of fantastic-looking bushes, and one small blasted tree. It formed, as it were, a sort of screen to the Indians' resting-place from all eyes below, yet did not in the least impede their sight as it wandered over the wide forest world around them. From the elevation on which they were placed, the eye of the red man, which seems, from constant practice, to have gained the keenness of the eagle's sight, could plunge into every part of the woods around where the trees were not actually contiguous. The trail, wherever it quitted the shelter of the branches; the savanna, wherever it broke the outline of the forest; the river, where it wound along in its course to the ocean; the military road from the banks of the Hudson to the head of Lake Horicon; the smallest pond, the little stream, were all spread out to view as if upon a map.

Over the wide, extensive prospect the eyes of those three Indians wandered incessantly, not as if employed in searching for some definite object, the direction of which, if not the precise position, they knew, but rather as if they were looking for anything which might afford them some object of pursuit or interest. They sat there nearly two hours in the same position; and during the whole of that time not more than four or five words passed between them.

At length they began to converse, though at first in a low tone, as if the silence had its awe even for them. One of them pointed with his hand towards a spot to the eastward, saying, "There is something doing there."

In the direction to which he called the attention of his companions was seen spread out, in the midst of the forest and hills, a small, but exquisitely beautiful lake, seemingly joined on to another, of much greater extent, by a narrow channel. Of the former, the whole extent could not be seen; for, every here and there, a spur of the mountain cut off the view, and broke in upon the beautiful waving line of the shore. The latter was more distinctly seen, spread out broad and even, with every little islet, headland, and promontory, marked clear and distinctly against the bright, glistening surface of the waters.

Near the point where the two lakes seemed to meet, the Indians could descry walls, and mounds of earth, and various buildings of considerable size; nay, even what was probably the broad banner of France, though it seemed but a mere whitish spot in the distance.

At the moment when the Indians spoke, coming from a distant point on the larger lake, the extreme end of which was lost to view in a sort of indistinct blue haze, a large boat or ship might be seen, with broad white sails, wafted swiftly onward by a cold north-easterly wind. Some way behind it, another moving object appeared--a boat likewise, but much more indistinct; and, here and there nearer in shore, two or three black specks, probably canoes, were darting along upon the bosom of the lake, like water-flies upon the surface of a still stream.

"The pale-faces take the war-path against each other," said another of the Indians, after gazing for a moment or two.

"May they all perish!" exclaimed the third. "Why are our people so mad as to help them? Let them fight, and slay, and scalp as many of each other as they can, and then the red men tomahawk the remainder."

The other two uttered a bitter malediction, in concert with this fierce, but not impolitic, thought; and then, after one of their long pauses, the first who had spoken, resumed the conversation, saying--

"Yet I would give one of the feathers of the White Bird to know what the pale-faces are doing. Their hearts are black against each other. Can you not tell us, Apukwa? You were on the banks of Horican yesterday, and must have heard the news from Corlear."

"The news from Albany matters much more," answered Apukwa. "The Yengees are marching up with a cloud of fighting-men; and people know not where they will fall. Some think Oswego; some think Ticonderoga. I am sure that it is the place of the Singing Waters that they go against."

"Will they do much in the war-path?" asked the brother of the Snake; "or will the Frenchman make himself as red as he did last year, at the south end of Horicon?"

"The place of the Singing Waters is strong, brother," replied Apukwa, in a musing tone, "and the Frenchmen are great warriors; but the Yengees are many in number, and they have called for aid from the Five Nations. I told the Huron who sold me powder, where the eagles would come down; and I think he would not let the tidings slumber beneath his tongue. The great-winged canoes are coming up Corlear very quick; but I think my words must have been whispered in the French chief's ear, to cause them to fly so quickly to Ticonderoga."

A faint, nearly-suppressed smile came upon the lips of his two companions as they heard of this proceeding; but the younger of the three said--

"And what will Apukwa do in the battle?"

"Scalp my enemies," replied Apukwa, looking darkly round.

"Which is thine enemy?" asked the brother of the Snake.

"Both," answered the medicine-man, bitterly; "and every true Honontkoh should do as I do; follow them closely, and slay every man that flies, be his nation what it may. So long as he be white, it is enough for us. He is an enemy; let us blunt our scalping-knives on the skulls of the pale-faces. Then, when the battle is over, we can take our trophies to the conqueror, and say, 'We have been upon thy side.'"

"But will he not know?" suggested the younger man; "will he listen so easily to the song?"

"How should he know?" asked Apukwa, coldly. "If we took him red men's scalps, he might doubt; but all he asks is white men's scalps, and we will take them. They are all alike, and they will have no faces under them."

This ghastly jest was highly to the taste of the two hearers; and, bending down their heads together, the three continued to converse for several minutes in a whisper. At length, one of them said--

"Could we not take Prevost's house as we go? How many brothers did you say would muster?"

"Nine," answered Apukwa; "and our three selves make twelve." Then, after pausing for a moment or two in thought, he added, "It would be sweet as the strawberry and as easy to gather; but there may be thorns near it. We may tear ourselves, my brothers."

"I fear not," returned the brother of the Snake; "so that I but set my foot within that lodge, with my rifle in my hand, and my tomahawk in my belt, I care not what follows."

"The boy's to die," rejoined Apukwa; "why seek more in his lodge at thine own risk?"

The other did not answer; but, after a moment's pause, he asked--"Who is it has built the lodge still farther to the morning?"

"One of the workers of iron," answered Apukwa, meaning the Dutch. "He is a great chief, they say, and a friend of the Five Nations."

"Then no friend of ours, my brother," responded the other speaker; "for though it be the children of the Stone who have shut the door of the lodge against us, and driven us from the council-fire, the Five Nations have confirmed their saying, and made the Honontkoh a people apart. Why should we not fire that lodge too, and then steal on to the dwelling of Prevost?"

"Thy lip is thirsty for something," said Apukwa. "Is it the maiden thou wouldst have?"

The other smiled darkly; and, after remaining silent for a short space, answered--

"They have taken from me my captive; and my hand can never reach the Blossom I sought to gather. The boy may die, but not by my tomahawk; and, when he does die, I am no better, for I lose that which I sought to gain by his death. Are Apukwa's eyes misty, that he cannot see? The spirit of the Snake would have been as well satisfied with the blood of any other pale-face; but that would not have satisfied me."

"Yet making Prevost's house red will not gather for thee the Blossom," answered Apukwa.

The third and younger of the Indians laughed, saying----

"The wind changes, Apukwa, and so does the love of our brother. The maiden in the lodge of Prevost is more beautiful than the Blossom. We have seen her thrice since this moon grew big; and my brother calls her the Fawn, because she has become the object of his chase."

"Thou knowest not my thought," said the brother of the Snake, gravely. "The maiden is fair, and she moves round her father's lodge like the sun. She shall be the light of mine, too; but the brother of the snake forgets not those who disappoint him; and the boy Prevost would rather have seen the tomahawk falling, than know that the Fawn is in his lodge."

The other two uttered that peculiar humming sound by which the Indians sometimes intimate that they are satisfied; and the conversation which went on between them related chiefly to the chances of making a successful attack upon the house of Mr. Prevost. Occasionally, indeed, they turned their eyes towards the boats upon Lake Champlain, and commented upon the struggle that was about to be renewed between France and England. That each party had made vast preparations was well known, and intelligence of the extent and nature of those preparations had spread far and wide amongst the tribes, with wonderful accuracy as to many of the details, but without any certain knowledge of where the storm was to break.

All saw, however, and comprehended, that a change had come over the British government; that the hesitating and doubtful policy which had hitherto characterized their military movements in America was at an end; and that the contest was now to be waged for the gain and loss of all the European possessions on the North American continent. Already was it known amongst the Five Nations, although the time for the transmission of the intelligence was incredibly small, that a large fleet and armament had arrived at Halifax, and that several naval successes over the French had cleared the way for some great enterprise in the north. At the same time, the neighbourhood of Albany was full of the bustle of military preparation; a large force was already collected under Abercrombie for some great attempt upon the lakes: and from the west news had been received that a British army was marching rapidly towards the French posts upon the Ohio and the Monongahela.

The Indian nations roused themselves at the sound of war; for, though some few of them acted more regularly in alliance with one or the other of the contending European powers, a greater number than is generally believed cared little whom they attacked, or for whom they fought, or whom they slew; and were, in reality, but as a flock of vultures spreading their wings at the scent of battle, and ready to take advantage of the carnage, whatever was the result of the strife.