CHAPTER VIII. THE LOVERS.

Hammond felt that he had done his duty. He had awakened the trapper to a sense of his personal danger, and that was enough. Without waiting for his reply, he moved rapidly away, taking a direction that led toward the Meagan village.

When he had gone a few hundred yards, a close scrutiny would have revealed that he was following a path--a very slight one, it is true, but still sufficiently defined to show that it was familiar to him.

On he walked, until he had traversed fully a mile, when he paused and began carefully to examine the bushes that overhung the path. Suddenly, he found a leaf that was twisted in a peculiar manner, and instantly his face brightened.

“She is coming! she is coming!” he exclaimed, to himself, after he had carefully examined it a moment.

The words were yet in his mouth, when a light footstep was heard, and the next instant a rare vision burst upon him.

She did not appear to be over twenty years of age at the most, and she was as beautiful as an Oriental dream. Her cheeks had the tint of the pearl, her hair was abundant, of glossy blackness, confined by a red band at the neck; her features were faultlessly regular, her eyes dark and lustrous, her form rounded and perfect, while the half-Indian dress, with its brilliant and varied colors, set her figure off to the best advantage.

Over all there was that indescribable charm of perfect physical health--that charm which makes the homely handsome, without which the most perfect features lack fascination, and which, when added to the handsome woman, places her upon the very pinnacle of female loveliness.

She came forward somewhat timidly, while Hammond, his face aglow with happiness, hurried forward to meet her. Seizing one of her hands in both of his, he pressed it warmly, and exclaimed, in the low, sweet voice of fervent love:

“Lamora, you have granted my prayer; you have come again; you have allowed me to see you.”

“Yes,” she replied, in a low, sweet voice, “you know that Lamora is your friend.”

“I hope she is more than that.”

“No, no.”

Her eyes were upon the ground and she shook her head with an indescribable sadness in her manner.

She was a white woman; she spoke the English language fluently, and she seemed to understand her own race. She was modest and reserved, and although one might reasonably suspect that she felt no little interest in Hammond, yet it was no blind, reckless passion, such as an ignorant person sometimes shows, but a pure, maidenly emotion.

“Lamora,” said the lover, still holding her hand and looking tenderly down in her face, “you are a white person of the same blood as myself; you live among the Indians; do you not wish to return to your own kindred?”

“Why should I?” she returned, in the same sorrowful voice. “I do not know that I have any relations living; I have almost forgotten their names. I have no one but a father, and he has long since forgotten that he had a child stolen by the Indians.”

“How old were you when you were taken away?”

“I could not have been more than five years.”

“How is it that you speak English so well?”

Lamora looked up in surprise.

“My tribe use the language, more than their own tongue.”

“Was it the Meagans that stole you?”

“No; _they_ would not do such a thing. I was stolen by the Sioux, shortly after my father had emigrated to the West. They killed my mother and sisters and brothers, but father escaped, and I was carried away captive.”

“How did you learn all this.”

“Kipwan, who is the chief of our tribe, and who is my adopted father, ransomed me of the Sioux who claimed me as his booty, and from him he got the particulars of my misfortune.”

Hammond was silent a moment, as if in doubt to ask the question trembling upon his tongue, but he uttered it.

“Have you yourself no recollection of that terrible time?”

“Yes, I remember it well. It was a fearful experience indeed, but it was so long since that I can think upon it, without the shuddering you would suppose I ought to feel. I remember the long ride in the emigrant wagon--the halt in the woods--the cutting down of the trees--the building of the cabin--the howling of the wolves at night--my sports with my brothers and sisters by the brook that ran near the house--the dark night when we were all awakened from sleep by the whoops of Indians--the burning of the cabin--the tomahawking of my mother as she threw herself between her children who were huddling together in terror--the slaying of them--the brave but useless fight my father made--how I was then caught up in the arms of a savage and borne away in the dark woods. Oh, it was a dreadful sight!”

And in spite of what Lamora had said, her feelings overcame her, and she sobbed as if her heart was breaking.

Her lover was silent out of respect and sympathy for her, until she had regained her self-command in a degree, when he said in the kindest of tones:

“It was cruel in me to call up the remembrance; will you forgive me?”

“It is past now,” she replied. “Then follows a summer in an Indian village on the shore of some great lake, where I was treated harshly, and then, one day, Kipwan, an old man, and a Christian Indian, came to the village, and when he went away he took me with him on his horse. We rode a long distance until we reached his tribe, where I staid until I was quite a girl, when they moved a great way westward to this place, where we have been ever since.”

“And during all this time, did you feel no longing to return to your father?”

“Yes; and I shed many tears, but I was treated with great kindness, and the longing gradually wore away until it entirely disappeared.”

“Entirely so?”

“Yes, entirely.”

“And do you think you can be content to spend the remainder of your life among those Indians, and finally to die there?”

“Why not? I have no enemies; they are all my friends.”

“I do not doubt that; but they are savage and you are civilized; they are of one race and you of another.”

“It is a difference to you but none to me,” she said, sorrowfully. “Nowhere else could I find such friends as there.”

“Do you doubt me, dearest Lamora? Do you not believe that I love you? that I am yours, heart and soul? Tell me, do you think I am deceiving you?”

Her head drooped still lower, but she replied distinctly:

“No; I do not think you would do that.”

“Then do not doubt me; I will take you to my own home; you shall be mine and I shall be yours; there is nothing that love can do for you that shall not be done. Can you not be happy in my love?”

She was silent a few moments, as if too much affected to speak. Hammond truly and deeply loved this girl, and had all the eagerness of a young lover to carry away the prize with him. He had spent several months here, held solely by the magnetism of her presence.

We have described in the first chapter his singular meeting with her, and the deep impression her appearance and her act of kindness had made upon him. True to his declaration, he had left his companions, and had devoted all to searching her out. He knew that she dwelt somewhere in this neighborhood, but it was a long time before he could discover her.

Seemingly by pure accident he had encountered her a few days before. As may be supposed, she was greatly surprised to see him, and their first interview was quite embarrassing upon both sides.

But their acquaintance rapidly progressed, until we have shown how he learned much regarding her early history, and finally declared his love to her.

It was plain, and Hammond saw that he had awakened a tender interest in her, but she had not yet reached the point of giving her love unreservedly to him. She was strongly attached to Kipwan and her Meagan friends, and it was a painful struggle for her to decide to leave them forever.

“You have grown up among the people who have treated you kindly, and to whom you feel devotedly attached. It is natural that you should; _I_ love them because of their kindness to you; but you are fitted for another life than this; go with me, and you shall never regret the step.”

Hitherto the two had been standing, but now Hammond conducted her some distance from the path to a flat rock, where the two seated themselves.

It was a bright sunshiny day; they were enveloped in shrubbery and undergrowth, which were so dense about them, that they were invisible to any one a short distance away.

They sat in silence for a few moments; their hearts too full for speech. _She_ was thinking how much she loved the noble figure beside her: how happy she could be to yield her heart to him, and to go where she could be wholly his. But--

“Can I? Is it best? Heaven direct me!”

She prayed earnestly for guidance, for, like the simple-minded people among whom she dwelt, she was a devout believer in the protecting care of heaven.

It was hard for her to decide, and still the struggle went on.

Hammond was partly sitting and reclining, and now and then gazing up in the face of the maid beside him. It seemed to him that with each look the wonderful loveliness of her face increased.

“She is beautiful--surpassingly beautiful,” he thought, as he looked, returning again and again to feast upon the vision. “No one can help admiring her; no one can deny that she is faultless in form and feature, and yet it is not _that_ alone which has drawn me toward her. She is devoutly religious, good, and with a heart of the tenderest sympathy. I _must_ have her; I can not live without her.”

“Yes, Lamora,” said he, sitting upright, and drawing her to him, “you must go home with me; you must be my wife; you will find nothing but kindness awaiting you; you will have the heart of your lover forever. You must; you shall go.”

The beautiful head, with its wealth of black hair, was now resting unresistingly upon his shoulder. He gently raised it, and imprinted a kiss upon the warm cheek.

“Answer me, Lamora,” he said, in the gentlest of voices, “do you love me, or do you feel indifferent toward me?”

“_I love you; I can not help it!_”

“Heaven bless you! who wants you to help it?” exclaimed the delighted Hammond, as he rained his kisses, and she smiled through her tears, and showed how perfect her happiness was, in confessing her love.

“Lamora, _will_ you be mine? Will you go home with me?”

She looked at him unflinchingly in the face, and a seraphic light seemed to suffuse her eyes and countenance as she answered:

“Yes, I will go to your home with you and be yours.”

“Ah! who on earth does not envy me!” exclaimed the overjoyed lover. “You are mine; your promise is given. You feel no regrets?”

“No; none at all,” she answered, with the same bewitching sweetness.

“I thank Providence for this,” said Hammond, fervently. “You have intrusted your happiness into my hands, and never, no, _never_ shall you regret it.”

Ah! they were happy moments to both. It was “love’s young dream,” in all its measureless hight and depth; their cup was pressed down and running over.

They talked and chatted, and billed and cooed, and replighted and revowed, as only young lovers can in the fulness of their hearts, and when an hour or two had slipped by in this delightful manner, then they began to discuss the matter practically.

“Will you leave your friends, without acquainting them of your determination?” he inquired.

“No; that would be cruel; they would never cease hunting and searching for me, and it would break Kipwan’s heart.”

“Will you tell him all?”

“Yes.”

“Do you suppose he will object or attempt to dissuade you?”

“He is too good a man to attempt either. He will feel sorrowful, and so shall I, at the separation from those who have been such friends to me all my life--but he will wish me good-speed upon my journey.”

“He must be a good man indeed, and I should like to go into the village and take him by the hand,” said Hammond, who felt just then that he could take any one in the world by the hand.

“No,” she replied; “do not show yourself in the village. You know why?”

“No,” he answered, looking inquiringly at her.

“In the first place, they are always uneasy at the approach of strangers, and then, when it became known that you are the cause of my leaving them, some of the younger members might not feel so particularly Christian toward you.”

“I see; it shall be as you say. I will wait your own good time and pleasure, praying you to remember that the days will drag wearily until we turn our faces eastward.”

“I shall not be long.”

“Two or three days, I suppose, will be all-sufficient?”

“Perhaps so, but I can not say with certainty.”

“And there is no danger of your desiring to withdraw your consent; you can never be sorry for your promise.”

“Not so long as you do not forget yours.”

“Then it can never be,” was the ardent reply of Hammond, as he again pressed her to him, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek.

She gently freed herself, and rising to her feet, stood calmly before him, looking lovingly and trustingly in his face.

“No,” she said, after a moment’s pause, “I do not think one of us ever will be sorry for this. You profess to love me, and I believe you, and I know, too, that you have the whole, undivided affection of Cecilia Alamant--that she is yours, now and forever!”

But there must be an end to all things, and the lovers became sensible that several hours had passed since they met, and it was now past noon. Lamora moved toward the path, Hammond still holding her hand and walking beside her.

“I do not know which is the prettiest, your Indian or your Christian name,” he remarked, as they walked slowly along.

“I am the most accustomed to the first, but I suppose I shall lose that when I leave them.”

“It was that by which I first knew you, and I never wish to forget it. There will be a charm clinging to it which can never lose its fascination for me.”

“Well, you can call me by both,” she laughed; “one will suit me as well as the other.”

“Lamora,” suddenly spoke up Hammond, “there are three white men near us; they are searching for gold. If they are successful we may all return to the States together.”

“That will be safer, I suppose.”

“They have been greatly alarmed by this strange--what shall I call it?--creature that makes his home near your village.”

“It has not harmed them?” she asked, with a peculiar expression.

“No; but they are much terrified. Why not tell _them_ the secret?”

“You know Kipwan’s wish,” she answered, earnestly. “I could not do so without his permission.”

“I suppose not; but doubtless you can obtain it. This is an exceptional instance, and will be to our interest to have them acquainted with the facts.”

She promised to ask the old chief’s advice, and then moved along the path more rapidly. A hundred yards or so away her horse was found quietly cropping the grass and herbage. Without any assistance from her lover, Lamora vaulted lightly upon his back, bade Hammond a gay good-by, and the next moment had vanished in the direction of the Indians’ home.