CHAPTER XVII.

“Weave we the woof.

The thread is spun.

The web is wove.

The work is done.”—Gray

The hostile armies, which lay in the wilds of the Horican, passed the night of

the ninth of August, 1757, much in the manner they would, had they encountered

on the fairest field of Europe. While the conquered were still, sullen, and

dejected, the victors triumphed. But there are limits alike to grief and joy;

and long before the watches of the morning came the stillness of those

boundless woods was only broken by a gay call from some exulting young

Frenchman of the advanced pickets, or a menacing challenge from the fort, which

sternly forbade the approach of any hostile footsteps before the stipulated

moment. Even these occasional threatening sounds ceased to be heard in that

dull hour which precedes the day, at which period a listener might have sought

in vain any evidence of the presence of those armed powers that then slumbered

on the shores of the “holy lake.”

It was during these moments of deep silence that the canvas which concealed the

entrance to a spacious marquee in the French encampment was shoved aside, and a

man issued from beneath the drapery into the open air. He was enveloped in a

cloak that might have been intended as a protection from the chilling damps of

the woods, but which served equally well as a mantle to conceal his person. He

was permitted to pass the grenadier, who watched over the slumbers of the

French commander, without interruption, the man making the usual salute which

betokens military deference, as the other passed swiftly through the little

city of tents, in the direction of William Henry. Whenever this unknown

individual encountered one of the numberless sentinels who crossed his path,

his answer was prompt, and, as it appeared, satisfactory; for he was uniformly

allowed to proceed without further interrogation.

With the exception of such repeated but brief interruptions, he had moved

silently from the center of the camp to its most advanced outposts, when he

drew nigh the soldier who held his watch nearest to the works of the enemy. As

he approached he was received with the usual challenge:

“Qui vive?”

“France,” was the reply.

“Le mot d’ordre?”

“La victorie,” said the other, drawing so nigh as to be heard in a

loud whisper.

“C’est bien,” returned the sentinel, throwing his musket from

the charge to his shoulder; “vous promenez bien matin, monsieur!”

“Il est necessaire d’être vigilant, mon enfant,” the other

observed, dropping a fold of his cloak, and looking the soldier close in the

face as he passed him, still continuing his way toward the British

fortification. The man started; his arms rattled heavily as he threw them

forward in the lowest and most respectful salute; and when he had again

recovered his piece, he turned to walk his post, muttering between his teeth:

“Il faut être vigilant, en vérité! je crois que nous avons là, un caporal

qui ne dort jamais!”

The officer proceeded, without affecting to hear the words which escaped the

sentinel in his surprise; nor did he again pause until he had reached the low

strand, and in a somewhat dangerous vicinity to the western water bastion of

the fort. The light of an obscure moon was just sufficient to render objects,

though dim, perceptible in their outlines. He, therefore, took the precaution

to place himself against the trunk of a tree, where he leaned for many minutes,

and seemed to contemplate the dark and silent mounds of the English works in

profound attention. His gaze at the ramparts was not that of a curious or idle

spectator; but his looks wandered from point to point, denoting his knowledge

of military usages, and betraying that his search was not unaccompanied by

distrust. At length he appeared satisfied; and having cast his eyes impatiently

upward toward the summit of the eastern mountain, as if anticipating the

approach of the morning, he was in the act of turning on his footsteps, when a

light sound on the nearest angle of the bastion caught his ear, and induced him

to remain.

Just then a figure was seen to approach the edge of the rampart, where it

stood, apparently contemplating in its turn the distant tents of the French

encampment. Its head was then turned toward the east, as though equally anxious

for the appearance of light, when the form leaned against the mound, and seemed

to gaze upon the glassy expanse of the waters, which, like a submarine

firmament, glittered with its thousand mimic stars. The melancholy air, the

hour, together with the vast frame of the man who thus leaned, musing, against

the English ramparts, left no doubt as to his person in the mind of the

observant spectator. Delicacy, no less than prudence, now urged him to retire;

and he had moved cautiously round the body of the tree for that purpose, when

another sound drew his attention, and once more arrested his footsteps. It was

a low and almost inaudible movement of the water, and was succeeded by a

grating of pebbles one against the other. In a moment he saw a dark form rise,

as it were, out of the lake, and steal without further noise to the land,

within a few feet of the place where he himself stood. A rifle next slowly rose

between his eyes and the watery mirror; but before it could be discharged his

own hand was on the lock.

“Hugh!” exclaimed the savage, whose treacherous aim was so

singularly and so unexpectedly interrupted.

Without making any reply, the French officer laid his hand on the shoulder of

the Indian, and led him in profound silence to a distance from the spot, where

their subsequent dialogue might have proved dangerous, and where it seemed that

one of them, at least, sought a victim. Then throwing open his cloak, so as to

expose his uniform and the cross of St. Louis which was suspended at his

breast, Montcalm sternly demanded:

“What means this? Does not my son know that the hatchet is buried between

the English and his Canadian Father?”

“What can the Hurons do?” returned the savage, speaking also,

though imperfectly, in the French language.

“Not a warrior has a scalp, and the pale faces make friends!”

“Ha, Le Renard Subtil! Methinks this is an excess of zeal for a friend

who was so late an enemy! How many suns have set since Le Renard struck the

war-post of the English?”

“Where is that sun?” demanded the sullen savage. “Behind the

hill; and it is dark and cold. But when he comes again, it will be bright and

warm. Le Subtil is the sun of his tribe. There have been clouds, and many

mountains between him and his nation; but now he shines and it is a clear

sky!”

“That Le Renard has power with his people, I well know,” said

Montcalm; “for yesterday he hunted for their scalps, and to-day they hear

him at the council-fire.”

“Magua is a great chief.”

“Let him prove it, by teaching his nation how to conduct themselves

toward our new friends.”

“Why did the chief of the Canadas bring his young men into the woods, and

fire his cannon at the earthen house?” demanded the subtle Indian.

“To subdue it. My master owns the land, and your father was ordered to

drive off these English squatters. They have consented to go, and now he calls

them enemies no longer.”

“’Tis well. Magua took the hatchet to color it with blood. It is

now bright; when it is red, it shall be buried.”

“But Magua is pledged not to sully the lilies of France. The enemies of

the great king across the salt lake are his enemies; his friends, the friends

of the Hurons.”

“Friends!” repeated the Indian in scorn. “Let his father give

Magua a hand.”

Montcalm, who felt that his influence over the warlike tribes he had gathered

was to be maintained by concession rather than by power, complied reluctantly

with the other’s request. The savage placed the fingers of the French

commander on a deep scar in his bosom, and then exultingly demanded:

“Does my father know that?”

“What warrior does not? ’Tis where a leaden bullet has cut.”

“And this?” continued the Indian, who had turned his naked back to

the other, his body being without its usual calico mantle.

“This!—my son has been sadly injured here; who has done

this?”

“Magua slept hard in the English wigwams, and the sticks have left their

mark,” returned the savage, with a hollow laugh, which did not conceal

the fierce temper that nearly choked him. Then, recollecting himself, with

sudden and native dignity, he added: “Go; teach your young men it is

peace. Le Renard Subtil knows how to speak to a Huron warrior.”

Without deigning to bestow further words, or to wait for any answer, the savage

cast his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and moved silently through the

encampment toward the woods where his own tribe was known to lie. Every few

yards as he proceeded he was challenged by the sentinels; but he stalked

sullenly onward, utterly disregarding the summons of the soldiers, who only

spared his life because they knew the air and tread no less than the obstinate

daring of an Indian.

Montcalm lingered long and melancholy on the strand where he had been left by

his companion, brooding deeply on the temper which his ungovernable ally had

just discovered. Already had his fair fame been tarnished by one horrid scene,

and in circumstances fearfully resembling those under which he now found

himself. As he mused he became keenly sensible of the deep responsibility they

assume who disregard the means to attain the end, and of all the danger of

setting in motion an engine which it exceeds human power to control. Then

shaking off a train of reflections that he accounted a weakness in such a

moment of triumph, he retraced his steps toward his tent, giving the order as

he passed to make the signal that should arouse the army from its slumbers.

The first tap of the French drums was echoed from the bosom of the fort, and

presently the valley was filled with the strains of martial music, rising long,

thrilling and lively above the rattling accompaniment. The horns of the victors

sounded merry and cheerful flourishes, until the last laggard of the camp was

at his post; but the instant the British fifes had blown their shrill signal,

they became mute. In the meantime the day had dawned, and when the line of the

French army was ready to receive its general, the rays of a brilliant sun were

glancing along the glittering array. Then that success, which was already so

well known, was officially announced; the favored band who were selected to

guard the gates of the fort were detailed, and defiled before their chief; the

signal of their approach was given, and all the usual preparations for a change

of masters were ordered and executed directly under the guns of the contested

works.

A very different scene presented itself within the lines of the Anglo-American

army. As soon as the warning signal was given, it exhibited all the signs of a

hurried and forced departure. The sullen soldiers shouldered their empty tubes

and fell into their places, like men whose blood had been heated by the past

contest, and who only desired the opportunity to revenge an indignity which was

still wounding to their pride, concealed as it was under the observances of

military etiquette.

Women and children ran from place to place, some bearing the scanty remnants of

their baggage, and others searching in the ranks for those countenances they

looked up to for protection.

Munro appeared among his silent troops firm but dejected. It was evident that

the unexpected blow had struck deep into his heart, though he struggled to

sustain his misfortune with the port of a man.

Duncan was touched at the quiet and impressive exhibition of his grief. He had

discharged his own duty, and he now pressed to the side of the old man, to know

in what particular he might serve him.

“My daughters,” was the brief but expressive reply.

“Good heavens! are not arrangements already made for their

convenience?”

“To-day I am only a soldier, Major Heyward,” said the veteran.

“All that you see here, claim alike to be my children.”

Duncan had heard enough. Without losing one of those moments which had now

become so precious, he flew toward the quarters of Munro, in quest of the

sisters. He found them on the threshold of the low edifice, already prepared to

depart, and surrounded by a clamorous and weeping assemblage of their own sex,

that had gathered about the place, with a sort of instinctive consciousness

that it was the point most likely to be protected. Though the cheeks of Cora

were pale and her countenance anxious, she had lost none of her firmness; but

the eyes of Alice were inflamed, and betrayed how long and bitterly she had

wept. They both, however, received the young man with undisguised pleasure; the

former, for a novelty, being the first to speak.

“The fort is lost,” she said, with a melancholy smile;

“though our good name, I trust, remains.”

“’Tis brighter than ever. But, dearest Miss Munro, it is time to

think less of others, and to make some provision for yourself. Military

usage—pride—that pride on which you so much value yourself, demands

that your father and I should for a little while continue with the troops. Then

where to seek a proper protector for you against the confusion and chances of

such a scene?”

“None is necessary,” returned Cora; “who will dare to injure

or insult the daughter of such a father, at a time like this?”

“I would not leave you alone,” continued the youth, looking about

him in a hurried manner, “for the command of the best regiment in the pay

of the king. Remember, our Alice is not gifted with all your firmness, and God

only knows the terror she might endure.”

“You may be right,” Cora replied, smiling again, but far more sadly

than before. “Listen! chance has already sent us a friend when he is most

needed.”

Duncan did listen, and on the instant comprehended her meaning. The low and

serious sounds of the sacred music, so well known to the eastern provinces,

caught his ear, and instantly drew him to an apartment in an adjacent building,

which had already been deserted by its customary tenants. There he found David,

pouring out his pious feelings through the only medium in which he ever

indulged. Duncan waited, until, by the cessation of the movement of the hand,

he believed the strain was ended, when, by touching his shoulder, he drew the

attention of the other to himself, and in a few words explained his wishes.

“Even so,” replied the single-minded disciple of the King of

Israel, when the young man had ended; “I have found much that is comely

and melodious in the maidens, and it is fitting that we who have consorted in

so much peril, should abide together in peace. I will attend them, when I have

completed my morning praise, to which nothing is now wanting but the doxology.

Wilt thou bear a part, friend? The meter is common, and the tune

‘Southwell’.”

Then, extending the little volume, and giving the pitch of the air anew with

considerate attention, David recommenced and finished his strains, with a

fixedness of manner that it was not easy to interrupt. Heyward was fain to wait

until the verse was ended; when, seeing David relieving himself from the

spectacles, and replacing the book, he continued.

“It will be your duty to see that none dare to approach the ladies with

any rude intention, or to offer insult or taunt at the misfortune of their

brave father. In this task you will be seconded by the domestics of their

household.”

“Even so.”

“It is possible that the Indians and stragglers of the enemy may intrude,

in which case you will remind them of the terms of the capitulation, and

threaten to report their conduct to Montcalm. A word will suffice.”

“If not, I have that here which shall,” returned David, exhibiting

his book, with an air in which meekness and confidence were singularly blended.

Here are words which, uttered, or rather thundered, with proper emphasis, and

in measured time, shall quiet the most unruly temper:

“‘Why rage the heathen furiously’?”

“Enough,” said Heyward, interrupting the burst of his musical

invocation; “we understand each other; it is time that we should now

assume our respective duties.”

Gamut cheerfully assented, and together they sought the females. Cora received

her new and somewhat extraordinary protector courteously, at least; and even

the pallid features of Alice lighted again with some of their native archness

as she thanked Heyward for his care. Duncan took occasion to assure them he had

done the best that circumstances permitted, and, as he believed, quite enough

for the security of their feelings; of danger there was none. He then spoke

gladly of his intention to rejoin them the moment he had led the advance a few

miles toward the Hudson, and immediately took his leave.

By this time the signal for departure had been given, and the head of the

English column was in motion. The sisters started at the sound, and glancing

their eyes around, they saw the white uniforms of the French grenadiers, who

had already taken possession of the gates of the fort. At that moment an

enormous cloud seemed to pass suddenly above their heads, and, looking upward,

they discovered that they stood beneath the wide folds of the standard of

France.

“Let us go,” said Cora; “this is no longer a fit place for

the children of an English officer.”

Alice clung to the arm of her sister, and together they left the parade,

accompanied by the moving throng that surrounded them.

As they passed the gates, the French officers, who had learned their rank,

bowed often and low, forbearing, however, to intrude those attentions which

they saw, with peculiar tact, might not be agreeable. As every vehicle and each

beast of burden was occupied by the sick and wounded, Cora had decided to

endure the fatigues of a foot march, rather than interfere with their comforts.

Indeed, many a maimed and feeble soldier was compelled to drag his exhausted

limbs in the rear of the columns, for the want of the necessary means of

conveyance in that wilderness. The whole, however, was in motion; the weak and

wounded, groaning and in suffering; their comrades silent and sullen; and the

women and children in terror, they knew not of what.

As the confused and timid throng left the protecting mounds of the fort, and

issued on the open plain, the whole scene was at once presented to their eyes.

At a little distance on the right, and somewhat in the rear, the French army

stood to their arms, Montcalm having collected his parties, so soon as his

guards had possession of the works. They were attentive but silent observers of

the proceedings of the vanquished, failing in none of the stipulated military

honors, and offering no taunt or insult, in their success, to their less

fortunate foes. Living masses of the English, to the amount, in the whole, of

near three thousand, were moving slowly across the plain, toward the common

center, and gradually approached each other, as they converged to the point of

their march, a vista cut through the lofty trees, where the road to the Hudson

entered the forest. Along the sweeping borders of the woods hung a dark cloud

of savages, eyeing the passage of their enemies, and hovering at a distance,

like vultures who were only kept from swooping on their prey by the presence

and restraint of a superior army. A few had straggled among the conquered

columns, where they stalked in sullen discontent; attentive, though, as yet,

passive observers of the moving multitude.

The advance, with Heyward at its head, had already reached the defile, and was

slowly disappearing, when the attention of Cora was drawn to a collection of

stragglers by the sounds of contention. A truant provincial was paying the

forfeit of his disobedience, by being plundered of those very effects which had

caused him to desert his place in the ranks. The man was of powerful frame, and

too avaricious to part with his goods without a struggle. Individuals from

either party interfered; the one side to prevent and the other to aid in the

robbery. Voices grew loud and angry, and a hundred savages appeared, as it

were, by magic, where a dozen only had been seen a minute before. It was then

that Cora saw the form of Magua gliding among his countrymen, and speaking with

his fatal and artful eloquence. The mass of women and children stopped, and

hovered together like alarmed and fluttering birds. But the cupidity of the

Indian was soon gratified, and the different bodies again moved slowly onward.

The savages now fell back, and seemed content to let their enemies advance

without further molestation. But, as the female crowd approached them, the

gaudy colors of a shawl attracted the eyes of a wild and untutored Huron. He

advanced to seize it without the least hesitation. The woman, more in terror

than through love of the ornament, wrapped her child in the coveted article,

and folded both more closely to her bosom. Cora was in the act of speaking,

with an intent to advise the woman to abandon the trifle, when the savage

relinquished his hold of the shawl, and tore the screaming infant from her

arms. Abandoning everything to the greedy grasp of those around her, the mother

darted, with distraction in her mien, to reclaim her child. The Indian smiled

grimly, and extended one hand, in sign of a willingness to exchange, while,

with the other, he flourished the babe over his head, holding it by the feet as

if to enhance the value of the ransom.

“Here—here—there—all—any—everything!”

exclaimed the breathless woman, tearing the lighter articles of dress from her

person with ill-directed and trembling fingers; “take all, but give me my

babe!”

The savage spurned the worthless rags, and perceiving that the shawl had

already become a prize to another, his bantering but sullen smile changing to a

gleam of ferocity, he dashed the head of the infant against a rock, and cast

its quivering remains to her very feet. For an instant the mother stood, like a

statue of despair, looking wildly down at the unseemly object, which had so

lately nestled in her bosom and smiled in her face; and then she raised her

eyes and countenance toward heaven, as if calling on God to curse the

perpetrator of the foul deed. She was spared the sin of such a prayer for,

maddened at his disappointment, and excited at the sight of blood, the Huron

mercifully drove his tomahawk into her own brain. The mother sank under the

blow, and fell, grasping at her child, in death, with the same engrossing love

that had caused her to cherish it when living.

At that dangerous moment, Magua placed his hands to his mouth, and raised the

fatal and appalling whoop. The scattered Indians started at the well-known cry,

as coursers bound at the signal to quit the goal; and directly there arose such

a yell along the plain, and through the arches of the wood, as seldom burst

from human lips before. They who heard it listened with a curdling horror at

the heart, little inferior to that dread which may be expected to attend the

blasts of the final summons.

More than two thousand raving savages broke from the forest at the signal, and

threw themselves across the fatal plain with instinctive alacrity. We shall not

dwell on the revolting horrors that succeeded. Death was everywhere, and in his

most terrific and disgusting aspects. Resistance only served to inflame the

murderers, who inflicted their furious blows long after their victims were

beyond the power of their resentment. The flow of blood might be likened to the

outbreaking of a torrent; and as the natives became heated and maddened by the

sight, many among them even kneeled to the earth, and drank freely, exultingly,

hellishly, of the crimson tide.

The trained bodies of the troops threw themselves quickly into solid masses,

endeavoring to awe their assailants by the imposing appearance of a military

front. The experiment in some measure succeeded, though far too many suffered

their unloaded muskets to be torn from their hands, in the vain hope of

appeasing the savages.

In such a scene none had leisure to note the fleeting moments. It might have

been ten minutes (it seemed an age) that the sisters had stood riveted to one

spot, horror-stricken and nearly helpless. When the first blow was struck,

their screaming companions had pressed upon them in a body, rendering flight

impossible; and now that fear or death had scattered most, if not all, from

around them, they saw no avenue open, but such as conducted to the tomahawks of

their foes. On every side arose shrieks, groans, exhortations and curses. At

this moment, Alice caught a glimpse of the vast form of her father, moving

rapidly across the plain, in the direction of the French army. He was, in

truth, proceeding to Montcalm, fearless of every danger, to claim the tardy

escort for which he had before conditioned. Fifty glittering axes and barbed

spears were offered unheeded at his life, but the savages respected his rank

and calmness, even in their fury. The dangerous weapons were brushed aside by

the still nervous arm of the veteran, or fell of themselves, after menacing an

act that it would seem no one had courage to perform. Fortunately, the

vindictive Magua was searching for his victim in the very band the veteran had

just quitted.

“Father—father—we are here!” shrieked Alice, as he

passed, at no great distance, without appearing to heed them. “Come to

us, father, or we die!”

The cry was repeated, and in terms and tones that might have melted a heart of

stone, but it was unanswered. Once, indeed, the old man appeared to catch the

sound, for he paused and listened; but Alice had dropped senseless on the

earth, and Cora had sunk at her side, hovering in untiring tenderness over her

lifeless form. Munro shook his head in disappointment, and proceeded, bent on

the high duty of his station.

“Lady,” said Gamut, who, helpless and useless as he was, had not

yet dreamed of deserting his trust, “it is the jubilee of the devils, and

this is not a meet place for Christians to tarry in. Let us up and fly.”

“Go,” said Cora, still gazing at her unconscious sister;

“save thyself. To me thou canst not be of further use.”

David comprehended the unyielding character of her resolution, by the simple

but expressive gesture that accompanied her words. He gazed for a moment at the

dusky forms that were acting their hellish rites on every side of him, and his

tall person grew more erect while his chest heaved, and every feature swelled,

and seemed to speak with the power of the feelings by which he was governed.

“If the Jewish boy might tame the great spirit of Saul by the sound of

his harp, and the words of sacred song, it may not be amiss,” he said,

“to try the potency of music here.”

Then raising his voice to its highest tone, he poured out a strain so powerful

as to be heard even amid the din of that bloody field. More than one savage

rushed toward them, thinking to rifle the unprotected sisters of their attire,

and bear away their scalps; but when they found this strange and unmoved figure

riveted to his post, they paused to listen. Astonishment soon changed to

admiration, and they passed on to other and less courageous victims, openly

expressing their satisfaction at the firmness with which the white warrior sang

his death song. Encouraged and deluded by his success, David exerted all his

powers to extend what he believed so holy an influence. The unwonted sounds

caught the ears of a distant savage, who flew raging from group to group, like

one who, scorning to touch the vulgar herd, hunted for some victim more worthy

of his renown. It was Magua, who uttered a yell of pleasure when he beheld his

ancient prisoners again at his mercy.

“Come,” he said, laying his soiled hands on the dress of Cora,

“the wigwam of the Huron is still open. Is it not better than this

place?”

“Away!” cried Cora, veiling her eyes from his revolting aspect.

The Indian laughed tauntingly, as he held up his reeking hand, and answered:

“It is red, but it comes from white veins!”

“Monster! there is blood, oceans of blood, upon thy soul; thy spirit has

moved this scene.”

“Magua is a great chief!” returned the exulting savage, “will

the dark-hair go to his tribe?”

[Illustration]

“Never! strike if thou wilt, and complete thy revenge.” He

hesitated a moment, and then catching the light and senseless form of Alice in

his arms, the subtle Indian moved swiftly across the plain toward the woods.

“Hold!” shrieked Cora, following wildly on his footsteps;

“release the child! wretch! what is’t you do?”

But Magua was deaf to her voice; or, rather, he knew his power, and was

determined to maintain it.

“Stay—lady—stay,” called Gamut, after the unconscious

Cora. “The holy charm is beginning to be felt, and soon shalt thou see

this horrid tumult stilled.”

Perceiving that, in his turn, he was unheeded, the faithful David followed the

distracted sister, raising his voice again in sacred song, and sweeping the air

to the measure, with his long arm, in diligent accompaniment. In this manner

they traversed the plain, through the flying, the wounded and the dead. The

fierce Huron was, at any time, sufficient for himself and the victim that he

bore; though Cora would have fallen more than once under the blows of her

savage enemies, but for the extraordinary being who stalked in her rear, and

who now appeared to the astonished natives gifted with the protecting spirit of

madness.

Magua, who knew how to avoid the more pressing dangers, and also to elude

pursuit, entered the woods through a low ravine, where he quickly found the

Narragansetts, which the travelers had abandoned so shortly before, awaiting

his appearance, in custody of a savage as fierce and malign in his expression

as himself. Laying Alice on one of the horses, he made a sign to Cora to mount

the other.

Notwithstanding the horror excited by the presence of her captor, there was a

present relief in escaping from the bloody scene enacting on the plain, to

which Cora could not be altogether insensible. She took her seat, and held

forth her arms for her sister, with an air of entreaty and love that even the

Huron could not deny. Placing Alice, then, on the same animal with Cora, he

seized the bridle, and commenced his route by plunging deeper into the forest.

David, perceiving that he was left alone, utterly disregarded as a subject too

worthless even to destroy, threw his long limb across the saddle of the beast

they had deserted, and made such progress in the pursuit as the difficulties of

the path permitted.

They soon began to ascend; but as the motion had a tendency to revive the

dormant faculties of her sister, the attention of Cora was too much divided

between the tenderest solicitude in her behalf, and in listening to the cries

which were still too audible on the plain, to note the direction in which they

journeyed. When, however, they gained the flattened surface of the

mountain-top, and approached the eastern precipice, she recognized the spot to

which she had once before been led under the more friendly auspices of the

scout. Here Magua suffered them to dismount; and notwithstanding their own

captivity, the curiosity which seems inseparable from horror, induced them to

gaze at the sickening sight below.

The cruel work was still unchecked. On every side the captured were flying

before their relentless persecutors, while the armed columns of the Christian

king stood fast in an apathy which has never been explained, and which has left

an immovable blot on the otherwise fair escutcheon of their leader. Nor was the

sword of death stayed until cupidity got the mastery of revenge. Then, indeed,

the shrieks of the wounded, and the yells of their murderers grew less

frequent, until, finally, the cries of horror were lost to their ear, or were

drowned in the loud, long and piercing whoops of the triumphant savages.