CHAPTER XXXVII.

The storm, prognosticated from the red aspect of the setting sun on the night before, had not descended when Edith Prevost left the door of her father's house. No raindrops fell, no wind even stirred the trees; and it was only a sort of misty obscurity to the westward which gave token, to eyes well acquainted with the forest, that the promise of the preceding sunset would yet be fulfilled. Overhead, all was clear and blue; and the sun, though some white haze hung round its broad disk, was powerful for the season of the year.

Edith's companions were only Chando the negro, the good woman Sister Bab, whose kindness, faithfulness, and intelligence had all been tried, and Woodchuck, who refused to take a horse from the stable, but set out on foot by Edith's side.

"You can't canter a step of the way, Miss Edith," he said; "so I can keep up with you, I guess; for the road, such as it is, is better fitted for two feet than four."

As she turned from the door, tears were in Edith's eyes, arising from many a mingled source. She had seen her father and him whom she loved as well, though differently, depart suddenly to danger and to battle. Her brother was far away, and she could not help thinking him still in peril. Not only was the future of all uncertain--for so the future of every one is--but the uncertainty was dark, and, as it were, more tangible than is generally the case with the dim, misty approach of the coming time. There was not only a cloud, but the cloud was threatening.

Nor was this all. There are times in the course of almost every life, when some little event, some marking point in the journey of existence, causes the mind to pause and review the past--to compare the present state with a state gone by. It is rarely that the contemplation has not something painful in it, both on account of the heart's self-deceit and waywardness, which teaches us always to estimate gains less than losses; and, also, because in our warfare with the world (except in very early youth) the gains, however highly we may estimate them, are, as in all other warfares, really less than the losses. We may have attained that which we desire; but, nine times out of ten, we find that we have over-appreciated the object; and, when we come to sum up the cost in health, happiness, purity of mind, exertion, care, anxiety, and all the pieces of coin with which man purchases success, we frequently find that we have bought the victory too dear--that that which we have obtained was not worth all we have exchanged for it.

The moment of departure from her father's door was one of those pausing-places of the mind for Edith Prevost. She did not cast her thoughts far back: she took in but a little range; six months was the limit. But she remembered how calmly happy she had been in that dwelling six months before. Her father, her brother, were both there with her; sweet natural affections had garlanded the doorposts, and tranquil hours of unagitated enjoyment had been the sunshine of her path. All that was necessary, much that was superfluous, she had possessed; and if she, as all other mortal beings, had not been absolutely content--if she, like every other girl, had felt a want, a vacancy of the heart, a capability of love unexercised, which neither filial nor fraternal affection could supply,--still it had been but a vague, indefinite feeling that there was something more in life than she had yet known--one crowning blessing not yet possessed. She had been very happy, though there had been the one thing wanting.

Now, that one thing had been attained--Heaven knows without her seeking it. She loved, and was beloved. But, oh! how sadly changed was all the rest! Her brother afar, with a dark fate hanging over him--her father gone upon a path of peril. And love, what had love left her? Anxiety, keen, terrible anxiety, which might well counterbalance for some portion, at least, of all the sweetness of the bright blessing.

She mused sadly, gazing down upon the horse's neck, and hardly seeing or thinking of the way she took. In the mean time, Woodchuck trudged on by her side, with his head erect, his face lifted towards the sky, his pace steady and assured. Edith suddenly and almost unconsciously turned her eyes towards him. There was a tranquil elevation in his countenance, a lofty resolution in his look, which gave her thoughts, in a moment, another direction. She was parting from a well-loved home and cherished associations, with some clouds hanging over her, with some anxieties dogging her path, but with a probability of soon returning, and with many a sweet promise of future happiness. Yet she was sad and downcast. Woodchuck was marching onward, wittingly and voluntarily, to a certain and terrible death; and yet his march was tranquil, firm, and resolute. She felt ashamed of her tears. Nay more, as thought ran on, she said to herself,--

"There is something more in life, something higher, nobler, grander than any human passion, than any mortal enjoyment, than any mere earthly peace, can give--something that comes from Heaven to aid and support us in our struggles here below. My poor companion knows and feels that he is doing his duty, that he is acting according to the commandment of his God; and he is calm and firm in the presence of death, and in the separation from all earthly things. And I--what have I to suffer, what have I to fear, in comparison with him?"

She made a great effort; she shook off her sadness; she wiped the tears from her eyes, and said a few words to Woodchuck in a quiet tone. He answered briefly to her actual words, but then turned at once to the feelings which he believed to be in her heart.

"Ah, Miss Prevost," he said, "it's a sad thing for a young lady like you to part, for the first time, with those she loves when they are going to battle; and I don't know that a woman's heart ever gets rightly accustomed to it. But it don't do to love anything too well in this world--no, not even one's own life. It's a sad stumbling-block, both in the way of our duty and our happiness. Not that I'd have people keep from loving anything. That would never do. They wouldn't be worth having if they couldn't love their friends, and love them very well; but, I guess, the best way is to recollect always, when we've got a thing, that it is but a loan--life itself, all the same as everything else. It's all lent, and all will be recalled; only, you see, my dear young lady, we've got a promise that, if we use what we've had lent to us well, it shall be given to us for ever hereafter, and that should always be a comfort to us. It is to me."

A slight sigh followed his words, and he walked on in silence for a minute or two, probably pursuing the course which he had laid down for himself in his very excellent philosophy, of marching on straight to a high object, and casting from him all thought of the unavoidable sufferings of the way. Soon after, he looked up to the sky, and said,--

"It's getting wonderfully black out there. I should not wonder if we had a flaw of wind and a good soaking rain. I say, Master Chando, put that bear-skin over the young lady's baggage, and hold the horse better in hand, or you'll have him down amongst these stumps. You ride better than you lead, my friend."

The negro grinned at him, but did as he was directed; and, a few minutes after, they issued out of the wood upon a small open space of ground extending over the side of a slight eminence. The view thence was prolonged far to the westward in a clear day, showing some beautiful blue hills at the distance of eight or nine miles. Those hills, however, had now disappeared; and in their place was seen what can only be called a dense black cloud, although those words give a very inadequate idea of the sight which presented itself to Edith's eye. It was like a gigantic wall of black marble, with a faint, white, irregular line at the top. But this wall evidently moved, coming forward with vast rapidity, although, where the travellers were, not a breath of air was felt. On it rushed towards them, swallowing up everything in its own obscurity. Each instant some tree, some undulation of the ground, some marking object in the prospect, disappeared in its deep gloomy shadow; and for a few moments Edith sat still upon her horse, gazing in awe and even in terror. Woodchuck himself seemed for an instant overpowered; but then he caught Edith's rein, and turned her horse, exclaiming,--

"Back, Miss Prevost, back, as fast as possible! That's the blackest cloud I ever see in all my days. There, there, to the east'ard! Get under them big old hemlocks. Keep away from the pines and the small trees. A tree had need to have been fastening to the ground for a hundred years to stand what's coming."

As he spoke, he ran fast on by the side of Edith's horse till they reached the edge of the wood, and there he checked her progress.

"Not too far in; not too far in! You must be ready to jump out if you find that these old fellows begin crashing."

He then left her bridle, and walked carefully round several of the trees, examining their trunks and roots with a very critical eye, to ascertain that they were firmly fixed and not decayed; and then, approaching Edith again, he held out his hand, saying,--

"Jump down! Here's one will do. He must ha' stood many a hard storm and bitter blast, and p'r'aps will bear this one too; for he's as sound as when he started up a little twig out of the ground, before the eye of any mortal man now living winked in the sunshine--ay, or his father's either. Here, Chando, take the horses and grip them all tight, for depend upon it they'll caper when the wind and rain come. Now, my dear, put yourself on this side of the tree, keep close to him, and listen well. You may find him shiver and sway a bit, but don't mind that, for he's not so tall as the rest, and twice as stout; and what makes me trust him is, that in some storm his head has been broken off, and yet his feet have stood stout. He won't catch so much wind as the others, and I think he'd stand it if he did. But if you hear him begin to cranch, jump clear out here to the left into the open ground. He'll fall t'other way. If you keep close, the branches won't strike you when they fall, and the rain won't get at you; for it's taking a long sweep."

The next moment, it came. The wind, blowing with the force of a hurricane, rushed over the valley below; the leaves were torn off, the small twigs, with their umbrageous covering, were carried aloft into the air and scattered; a few large drops of rain fell; and then the whole force of the tempest struck the hill-side and the more open forest where Edith stood. In an instant, the scene of confusion and destruction was indescribable. The gusts seemed to hiss as they passed through the boughs of the trees and between the tall stems. Large branches were torn off and scattered far; the young pines and birches bent before the force of the storm. As in the case of war and pestilence, the weak and the sickly and the young and the decayed suffered first and most. Wherever the roots had not got a firm hold of the ground--wherever the thawing of the spring, or the heavy rains, had washed away the earth or loosened it--the trees came thundering and crashing down, and the din was awful; the howling wind, the breaking branches, the falling tree, all joining in the roar; and the pattering rain, rustling and rushing amongst the withered leaves left by the winter, became at length thicker and more dense, till it seemed as if a river was falling down from the sky, hardly separated into drops, rather than a fertilizing shower passing over the landscape.

Edith gazed round her in affright, for she could, as Woodchuck had predicted, feel the enormous but low-stemmed hemlock against which he had placed her tremble and quiver with the blast; and a number of large trees hard by were rooted up, and cast prostrate, bearing the turf and earth in which they had stood, up into the air; while, here and there, some more firmly fixed in the ground, but defective higher up, snapped in the midst, and the whole upper part was carried many yards away. But, though she gazed, little was the distance she could see, so thick and black was the covering of the sky; while all around, what between the close-falling deluge and a sudden mist rising up from the earth, the sort of twilight that the storm-cloud left, was rendered hazy and still more obscure.

The two negroes, as usual with that race, were clamorous and excited, adding the noise of their tongues to the roar of the tempest; but the horses, contrary to the expectation of Woodchuck, seemed cowed and paralyzed by fear. Instead of attempting to break loose and rush away, they merely turned from the wind and rain; and with hoofs set firm, and drooping heads, abode the storm, with now and then a shivering thrill, showing the terror that they felt. Woodchuck himself stood silent close by Edith, leaning his strong shoulder against the tree, and, with his eyes bent down upon the ground, seemed to lose himself in heavy thought. A man who has parted with the world and the world's hopes, is tempest-proof.

After the first rush of the storm, there came a lull: and then another fierce roar, and more falling trees and crashing branches. The whole forest swayed and bent like a feather in a breeze, and down came the torrents from the sky more furiously than ever. But, in the midst of all, Woodchuck started, leaned his head a little on one side, and seemed to listen, with his eyes fixed upon vacancy.

"What is the matter?" asked Edith, alarmed by his look.

"I thought I heard a footfall," he answered.

"In the roar of such a storm!" exclaimed Edith. "It must have been some falling branch."

He only smiled for an answer; but still he listened, and she could see him lift his arm a little from the lock of his rifle on which it had been tightly pressed, and look down upon it to see that it was dry.

The next moment, however, he resumed his ordinary attitude, and said, in a quiet tone,--

"It's all nonsense, however. The Indians are all quiet and friendly on this side of the lake. But you see, Miss Prevost, I have been for so many months on the watch every minute, not knowing whether I should not feel the scalping-knife or the tomahawk the next, that I have got over-wary. The Mohawks are all on the move about here, and no Hurons or any other of our enemies would venture across, except in a large body, to fight a regular battle. It must have been the tread of some friendly Ingian I heard, though they don't usually leave the trail, except when they've some object in view."

"But is it possible you could hear anything distinctly amidst this awful noise?" asked Edith. "Are you sure you were not mistaken?"

"Oh no, I'm not like to be mistaken," answered Woodchuck. "One's ears get sharp with continual listening. I'm pretty sure it was a foot I heard, and a man's foot too. It seemed to me as if it had slipped off a loose stone, hidden under the leaves, and come down harder, perhaps, than he expected. But that's no proof that he meant mischief, for they've all got those cat-like sort of ways, creeping about silently, whether there's 'casion for it or not; and, as I said just now, they're all friendly here on this side of Horicon."

A few moments' silence succeeded; the wind once more swelled up, raged for a minute or two, and then fell again a little; and Woodchuck, putting out his head from beyond the shelter of the great trunk, observed, "It seems to me to be getting a little clearer there to the west'ard. I guess it won't last more nor half an hour longer."

Almost as he spoke, from every side but that which opened upon the hill, came a yell, so loud, so fierce, so fiend-like, that, ere she knew what she was doing, Edith, under the sudden impulse of terror, darted at once away from the tree into the open space, and ran a few steps, till her long riding-dress caught round her feet, and she fell upon the grass. At the same instant, she felt a strong arm seize her by the shoulder, and heard the rattle of a rifle; and, turning her head in mute terror, she beheld the gleaming eyes and dark countenance of an Indian, rendered more hideous by the half-washed-off war-paint, bending over her. His tomahawk was in his right hand; her last hour seemed come; but so sudden, so confounding, had been the attack, that she could not collect her ideas. She could not speak, she could not think, she could not pray. The weapon did not fall, however; and the savage dragged her up from the ground, and gazed upon her, uttering some of the uncouth exclamations of his people, in tones of satisfaction, and even merriment.

One hurried glance around for help, showed Edith that all hope for help was vain; and no words can describe her horror at the scene she saw. At the moment when she looked round, a tomahawk, in the hands of a gigantic Indian, was falling on the head of the poor negro Chando, and the next instant a wild shrieking yell told that his agony was come and gone. Woodchuck, hatchet in hand, was battling for life against another savage, and seemed nearly, if not quite, his match; but eight or ten more Indians were rushing up, yelling like wolves as they came; and, in the midst of the struggle, while the hatchets were playing and flashing round the heads of the combatants, a young and active Indian sprang upon the poor hunter from behind, and threw him backwards on the earth.

Woodchuck lay perfectly still and motionless, gazing up at the tomahawk lifted over his head; but, at that instant, the young Indian put his arm upon his companion's naked breast, and pushed him violently back, with a loud exclamation in the Iroquois tongue. Then, seizing the hand of Woodchuck, he pulled up the sleeve of his hunting-shirt, and pointed to a blue stripe tattooed upon his arm.

The lifted hand and tomahawk of the other sunk slowly by his side; and Woodchuck sat up, and gazed around him, but without attempting to rise altogether from the ground.

Five or six of the Indians came quietly up; and, some kneeling, some bending down, gazed upon the blue line, while the savage who had seized upon Edith, dragged her forward to the spot, and, still holding her fast, gazed likewise. Several quick and muttered words succeeded amongst their captors, a few only of which Edith heard and understood.

"It's the sign! it's the sign!" cried one. Then came a sentence or two that escaped her ear; and then another vociferated, "Ask him! ask him!"

One of the Indians next seated himself on the ground before Woodchuck, spread out his hands like a fan, and addressed some words to him, which Edith, notwithstanding her perfect knowledge of the Iroquois language in most of its dialects, did not in the least comprehend. The answer of Woodchuck was equally unintelligible to her; and the only word which she caught was "Honontkoh."

The moment he had spoken, two of the Indians placed their hands under his arms, and raised him from the ground. They took the precaution of disarming him entirely; and then, gathering round, they talked quickly and eagerly in low tones. But now they spoke a language which Edith understood; and, though she did not catch all that was said, she heard enough to show her that they were discussing what was to be done with herself and Woodchuck, whom, it seemed to her, that from some cause they recognized as a brother.

Suddenly, the savage who held her pressed his fingers tighter upon her arm, exclaiming aloud, in a fierce, angry voice,--"She is mine! I will dispose of her as I please!"

"No one will oppose the brother of the Snake," said another and older man. "Scalp her when thou wilt; where canst thou carry her if thou dost not slay her?"

"Let us all go to the other side of Corlear, Apukwa," said the man who held her. "I will take her with me; she shall cook my venison for me; 'twas for this I brought you hither."

"What! shall we become women amongst the Hurons?" demanded Apukwa.

"No," replied the brother of the Snake; "there are many of our tribe and order there, men of our own nation, outcasts like ourselves. We will become, like them, warriors of the great French king, and fight against the accursed Yengees."

"But how shall we cross?" asked Apukwa.

"There are canoes in plenty," replied the other. "Besides, our Canada brethren are here close at hand, at Che-on-de-ro-ga. They will give us help."

A silent pause succeeded; and then Woodchuck, having recovered from the confusion which perhaps the suddenness of the attack, perhaps the violence of his fall, had produced, stretched forth his arm, and addressed them after their own fashion.

"Are we not brothers?" he said; "are we not all Honontkoh? are we not all bound by the dreadful name to aid each other even unto blood and death? I demand, therefore, ye who have lifted the hatchet against us unjustly, to set me and this maiden free; to make our feet as the feet of the panther, to go whither we will. I have spoken the terrible words; I have uttered the dreadful name; the sign of the order is in my flesh, and ye dare not refuse."

A look of doubt and hesitation came over the faces of the Indians; and Apukwa inquired,--

"Whither wouldst thou go, my brother? We have all sworn the oath, in the presence of the dark Spirit, that we will aid one another, and that each of the Honontkoh will defend another of the order, though he should have eaten fire or shed his brother's blood. Thou hast shed our brother's blood, for we know thee, though we knew not that thou wert of our order. But we are Honontkoh, and we will keep the oath. We will defend thee, we will assist thee. But whither wouldst thou go?"

"I go," answered Woodchuck, with unfortunate frankness and truth, "I go to lay down my life for your brother's life. I go to the castle of the Oneidas, to say, 'Woodchuck is here! Let the hatchet fall upon the old tree, and let the young sapling grow up till its time be come. I killed the Snake; take the blood of him who slew him, and set the boy Walter free.' As for this maiden, she is mine; I have adopted her. I claim her as brother claims from brother. Ye cannot be Honontkoh and take her from me. If ye be true to our order, give her into my hand and let us go."

While he thus spoke, the countenances of the Indians round betrayed no mark of any emotion whatever, though many and varying feelings were undoubtedly busy in their breasts.

As he ended, however, a slight and somewhat scornful smile came upon the cunning face of Apukwa, and he replied,--

"We cannot let our brother go on such an errand. It would be contrary to our laws. We are bound to defend and protect him, and must not let him make wind of his life. The yellow leaf falls of itself from the bough; the green leaf is torn off by the tempest. We must preserve our brother's life, though the young man perish."

Edith's eyes wept fast with the bitterest drops of despair; but Apukwa went on.

"As for the maiden, we will hear and judge more another day. Thou sayest thou hast adopted her. We will hear how, for we know her to be the daughter of the pale-face Prevost. If she be the prize of the brother of the Snake, the brother of the Snake must have her. But if she be thy daughter, she is thine. Let her be with thee till we have heard all, and judged. We have not room now; for time goes fast, and we are near danger. The pale-faces are to the rising and the setting sun, towards the cold and towards the soft wind. The Honontkoh is the enemy of the pale-face, the abandoned of the Mohawk, and the outcast of the Oneida. Take the maiden in thy hand, and go on towards the rising sun. We come with thee as thy brethren, and will preserve thy life."

Woodchuck gave an anxious glance at Edith's face, and said, in a low voice, and in English,--

"We can't resist, but we may outwit them. Come on for the present, for I guess it may be no better. I will shed my blood for _you_, my dear, if I cannot for your brother."

Taking her hand, he led her on towards the north-east, preceded by one and followed by five or six Indians, who, according to their usual cautious plan, walked singly one after the other, well knowing that their prisoners could not escape them. Several remained upon the spot for a few minutes longer, engaged in stripping the pack-horse of all that he carried, and taking the saddles and bridles of the other horses, which they knew would be valuable in the eyes of the French.

All this was done with extraordinary rapidity, and then the last party followed the first into the depth of the wood.

By this time, the wind had considerably abated, though it still rained hard. The moment after the Indians had departed, however, the leaves and branches of a large flower-covered bush of the calmia, growing under a low, spreading hemlock, moved gently, and the next instant a black face protruded. After one hasty glance around, the whole form of the negress, Sister Bab, was drawn slowly out from the bush; and, running from tree to tree with silent speed, she stopped not till she caught sight again of the retiring Indians, and then followed them quietly and cautiously on their way towards Champlain.