CHAPTER VII.

ALASKA IN HER FRENZY.

The shrill whoop was answered by the glare of a multitude of torches, and the rushing sound of many feet.

All the prisoners, save Oonalooska, were unbound, but closely guarded. The swarthy Shawnee stood proudly erect, with his hands tied upon his back, and his nether limbs bound by tried deer-thongs. He looked defiance at his captors, in whose faces he read the terrible doom. Tecumseh would speak for him when he arrived.

Suddenly the great chief halted before the circle, and a shout of triumph parted his red lips as his eyes fell upon Oonalooska. The captive calmly returned that vengeful look, and something like a sarcastic smile, played with his lips.

A step behind Tecumseh towered Alaska, the Wolf-Queen, and a wild cry rose from her throat, as she discovered Eudora, standing beside the hermit, who seemed her mighty protector.

The next moment she flung her torch to the earth, and caught up one of her mad black wolves. Her eyes flashed their fire upon the maiden, as she executed a forward step, with the snarling animal poised above her head. Her mad intention could not be mistaken. She had long been in the habit of hurling her animals upon the objects of her vengeance, and the white, glistening teeth were instantly buried in that with which they came in contact.

Now for Eudora’s delicate flesh were these dread fangs intended, and before the maid could shrink, the wolf went hissing through the air. A shriek parted the girl’s pale lips, as the giant hermit threw himself before her, and his great hand shot forward, to close on the animal’s throat.

The Indians shrunk back, amazed at the dexterity and fearlessness displayed by the hermit, whose teeth were gritted, and whose eyes glared at the Wolf-Queen, as he throttled her pet at arm’s length.

Not a sound disturbed the scene, save the frantic gasps for fleeting breath made by the dying wolf. Even Alaska stared aghast, unable to move, and the remainder of her wolfish guard crouched at her feet, and quietly watched the death of their companion.

At length a shudder passed over the animal’s frame, and the hermit tossed him at Alaska’s feet.

That action aroused the queen.

Quick as thought she stooped and seized a second wolf, when Tecumseh threw himself between her and the hermit.

“The Lone Man will kill all Alaska’s children,” he said, gazing straight into her eyes. “If she would save the rest, let her give him over to Tecumseh, and he shall die in the great lodge.”

A change suddenly became visible in the mad-woman’s eyes, and she dropped the wolf she had raised.

“Ha! ha! ha!” she laughed, “the Lone Man shall be torn to pieces by Alaska’s children in the great lodge, and the Pale Flower and her lover shall die there, too. But, ho! ho! who have we here? The White Wolf, ha! ha! ha!” and her eyes fell upon the renegade, who had just emerged, dripping, from the river.

Tecumseh turned upon him.

“The White Wolf is faithful,” he said. “He has captured the white ones, and the red traitor,” and he added in a tone unheard by Alaska, “Tecumseh will keep his promise.”

A moment later the whites were bound, and Tecumseh ordered the return to the village. As the band started forward the hermit called the chief to his side.

“The young white hunter is weak,” he said, nodding to Mayne Fairfax, who tottered along like a drunken man. “He fell beneath Alaska’s wolf and arrow. The Lone Man would support the young hunter.”

Tecumseh owned a heart susceptible of pity, and he commanded the hands of the hermit to be made free.

“Now let the Lone Man support the young hunter,” he said, returning to the head of his band, and Mayne Fairfax acknowledged the Indian’s kindness in audible tones, as he stepped to Hewitt’s side, and leaned upon his strong arm.

During that midnight march the Shawnees taunted Oonalooska with the fate in store for him. He maintained a taciturnity for a long time, when a remark from Tecumseh drew forth the words that bubbled to his lips.

The chief called his red prisoner the son of a sorcerer, for against the father of Oonalooska, Tecumseh had long borne a silent hatred.

The words stung Oonalooska to the quick.

“If Oonalooska’s father does talk with Watchemenetocs, he never gave a poor Pale Flower a head as empty as the hollow of his hand--he never made a prisoner a devil!”

A flash of rage overspread Tecumseh’s face, and he wheeled with uplifted tomahawk.

“Strike!” hissed Oonalooska, shooting him a glance of resignation. “Oonalooska is ready to enter the great lodge among the stars. Yes, yes, Tecumseh’s father struck a squaw, and made her a--”

He suddenly paused, for the eyes of Alaska fell upon him.

“Tecumseh will not strike the traitor!” said the great Indian, suddenly lowering the hatchet, and becoming wonderfully calm. “He will see him die in the village--not by fire, no, not by fire, for Tecumseh never burns an enemy.”

Again the march was resumed, with Tecumseh thoughtful, at the head of the band.

By degrees Oonalooska approached the hermit, and at length walked at his side.

“Oona,” said Hewitt, in the lowest of whispers, “when struck Tecumseh’s father a white-face?”

“Many, oh, so many moons ago, when the ground was white with feathers that fell from great birds in the clouds,” was the figurative answer, as softly uttered as the question had been.

“Where is the pale-face now?”

“She walks with her wolves,” was the reply, and the speaker bestowed a look upon Alaska, whose tranquil, almost thoughtful countenance breathed not of insanity.

Hewitt raised his eyes to a contemplation of her face, vividly revealed by the glare of the torch borne by the brave in advance of her.

The workings of his countenance told that memory was busy, and, as he turned his eyes from the lunatic, his lips parted.

“So like, yet so unlike,” he murmured. “Oh, my God, can it be?--no, no, I will not think thus, and yet those lips--those lips--God, why did I fly my home that fearful night?” he suddenly interrupted himself, and a moment later he groaned. “But my boy--my Edgar. Oh Heaven, does he live? Oonalooska!”

The Indian touched the hermit’s arm significantly.

“Oona, whence came poor mad Alaska?”

Oonalooska started at the hermit’s tone.

“From the great land beyond the northern Kiskepila Sepe,[1]” he answered.

“From Virginia,” murmured Hewitt, “the land where I was happy once. Oona?”

“Hush!” whispered the captive brave as a shout burst from the vanguard. “The Shawnees are near their lodges.”

A moment later, the prisoners gained the summit of a high knoll, and, in the center of the valley that turned away from its foot, nestled the Indian village, upon which the day was breaking.

Suddenly Alaska turned upon the hermit.

“Ha! ha! ha!” she laughed, pointing toward the village. “Yonder the Lone Man and his friends will feel the fangs of Alaska’s children.”

Never before, in the broad light of noon, had Hewitt been so near the mad-woman, and as her eyes fell upon him he started back, exclaiming:

“My God! dispel my dreadful doubts. More like one, once beloved by me, she grows!”

And the queen laughed more discordantly at his words, whose import she did not comprehend.