CHAPTER I.

The glowing noonday's sun was resting over the rocks that lay and the waters that dashed in the region of St. Anthony's Falls. The long row of hills in the distance was tinged with gold, which mixed gaudily with their purple hues. The dark green of the trees that grew on the opposite shore interposed between the brightness of the hills beyond and the white glare of the foaming waters.

Above the Falls, large trees lay fixed in the river, notwithstanding the efforts the waves appeared to be making to remove every obstacle that lay in their way, which led to the edge of the precipice, where they threw themselves into the abyss below.

Large and small fragments of rocks dotted the water in every direction, and in the centre of the Falls lay a number of rocks reposing against each other, with rich, luxuriant shrubs and trees rising from among them.

Notwithstanding the noise of the falling waters, and the roaring of the boiling waves below, there was great beauty mingled with the grandeur of the scene. The width of the river at this point made the height of the Falls appear less than it really was. The association connected with the death of Wenona,[26] the injured, but loving wife, gave a romantic cast to the red man's thoughts, as he rested from the toils of the chase near this beautiful scene. He could identify the very spot where she raised her arms, while the notes of her death-song pealed above all other sounds, as her slight canoe bent towards her child's and her own grave. He marvelled that the boiling of the waters did not appal her, or that the voice of her husband did not rouse her from her fatal purpose.

But now there is no person near, to take from the solitary beauty of the scene. If the screaming of the loon were heard, it was immediately followed by the flapping of her wings, as she passed to the spirit lakes, over whose quiet surface she loved better to rest. The deer were all far distant;--the shade of the forest trees was more acceptable now than the rays of the summer's sun. Whatever might be the burden of the song of the waters, it was unheard, save by the spirits that are ever assembled in numbers around this hallowed spot.

When the intense heat had passed away, a fresh, invigorating wind was felt among the rocks and waves. Evening was unfolding her mantle, and her breath was playing over the bright flowers that even here enjoy their short season of life. The flitting clouds were gathering towards the horizon, constantly changing their hues, and resting in golden lines above the hills. Large fish, the bass, and the pike, moved at their ease in the restless waters, as if there were no fear of being bearded in this their stronghold. The beautiful red deer, too, has been tempted to come and be refreshed,--ever on their guard, though, as might be seen by the tossing of their heads when the winds rose and whispered over the earth.

Now they start and flee like lightning, for the light sound of woman's step is heard; and in the very spot where one of them rested, looking over the waves, stands a slight figure, bearing in her face and form the marks of youth, while her short and richly embroidered skirt, and the crimson okendokenda, that partly covered her arms and chest, showed her to belong to a family at least not unimportant among her people.

She stood still for some moments in a listening attitude, her face pale, and every feature fixed in intense thought. She carried a bundle of small size: this she seemed to think of value, for she grasped it as if her life depended on the preservation of what it contained.

Turning towards the course of the rocks by the river's edge, she surveyed their way; then, bending where she stood, she looked unappalled at the waters becoming dark by the shadows of evening.

There was but little current where she stood, for the position of the rocks prevented this, though quite near them the impetuous stream hurried on like one tired of existence, eager only to reach and be lost in the great ocean of forgetfulness.

There was evidently some great difficulty in her position, for her colour flushed and left her, and she pressed her hands across her bosom, without quelling its tumult: yet it was equally evident her object was self-preservation. Life was dear to the young and active blood that animated her veins. There was too much brightness in the depths of those dark eyes to be quenched by death. She looked all around her; and well might she have asked if the red man's heaven boasted a more beautiful picture than the one now before her.

The sound of voices has recalled her from her meditations. Loud, stern voices, speaking in tones of anger and disappointment. They were not yet very near, but she knew them well. The language was her own, but the lips that spoke it were threatening death to her. She recognised his voice--her husband's--he was the pursuer. And she smiled a bitter smile as she listened to the harsh sounds. Notwithstanding the perils that surrounded her, she was as calm as when she sat by her mother's door, in the far-off home of the Indians, who live by "Le Lac qui Parle." All her terror, all her restlessness was forgotten. She raised her arm to its greatest height, and elevating her lithe frame too, she threw her bundle as far as her strength enabled her; listening till the voices sounded nearer, and the steps could be distinguished in the dead leaves that lay in their path, she swayed her form to and fro, and sprung, laughing as she did so, from the rocks. Then swimming round them, disappeared, concealed by the overhanging precipices, as well as by the thick foliage that grew close to the water's edge.

Hardly was she out of sight when her place was again occupied. A large, fierce-looking Sioux stood where she had been standing. He looked round as if the object of his search might be hid among the rocks and bushes. The waters laughed just as she had, as he complained of fatigue and disappointment. He looked like a fiend who had forced himself where but a moment ago some gentle spirit had been resting. The passions in their prime worked in his haughty face. Stripes of different-coloured paint lay across his cheeks and around his eyes. His broad chest and brawny arms were uncovered--he raised his hand, and moving it in a half circle, as he turned towards his companions, "I have looked for her until I am tired," he said; "perhaps she has killed herself; if she is living, my vengeance shall yet reach her,--I will tear her heart from her breast."

Then turning, wearied and angered beyond endurance, he strode back towards his home. His giant figure rose far above his companions. His eye flashed like the lion's deprived of his prey. Well might they call him the Fiery Man.