CHAPTER XXIII.

“But though the beast of game

The privilege of chase may claim;

Though space and law the stag we lend

Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend;

Whoever recked, where, how, or when

The prowling fox was trapped or slain?”

—Lady of the Lake.

It is unusual to find an encampment of the natives, like those of the more

instructed whites, guarded by the presence of armed men. Well informed of the

approach of every danger, while it is yet at a distance, the Indian generally

rests secure under his knowledge of the signs of the forest, and the long and

difficult paths that separate him from those he has most reason to dread. But

the enemy who, by any lucky concurrence of accidents, has found means to elude

the vigilance of the scouts, will seldom meet with sentinels nearer home to

sound the alarm. In addition to this general usage, the tribes friendly to the

French knew too well the weight of the blow that had just been struck, to

apprehend any immediate danger from the hostile nations that were tributary to

the crown of Britain.

When Duncan and David, therefore, found themselves in the center of the

children, who played the antics already mentioned, it was without the least

previous intimation of their approach. But so soon as they were observed the

whole of the juvenile pack raised, by common consent, a shrill and warning

whoop; and then sank, as it were, by magic, from before the sight of their

visitors. The naked, tawny bodies of the crouching urchins blended so nicely at

that hour, with the withered herbage, that at first it seemed as if the earth

had, in truth, swallowed up their forms; though when surprise permitted Duncan

to bend his look more curiously about the spot, he found it everywhere met by

dark, quick, and rolling eyeballs.

Gathering no encouragement from this startling presage of the nature of the

scrutiny he was likely to undergo from the more mature judgments of the men,

there was an instant when the young soldier would have retreated. It was,

however, too late to appear to hesitate. The cry of the children had drawn a

dozen warriors to the door of the nearest lodge, where they stood clustered in

a dark and savage group, gravely awaiting the nearer approach of those who had

unexpectedly come among them.

David, in some measure familiarized to the scene, led the way with a steadiness

that no slight obstacle was likely to disconcert, into this very building. It

was the principal edifice of the village, though roughly constructed of the

bark and branches of trees; being the lodge in which the tribe held its

councils and public meetings during their temporary residence on the borders of

the English province. Duncan found it difficult to assume the necessary

appearance of unconcern, as he brushed the dark and powerful frames of the

savages who thronged its threshold; but, conscious that his existence depended

on his presence of mind, he trusted to the discretion of his companion, whose

footsteps he closely followed, endeavoring, as he proceeded, to rally his

thoughts for the occasion. His blood curdled when he found himself in absolute

contact with such fierce and implacable enemies; but he so far mastered his

feelings as to pursue his way into the center of the lodge, with an exterior

that did not betray the weakness. Imitating the example of the deliberate

Gamut, he drew a bundle of fragrant brush from beneath a pile that filled the

corner of the hut, and seated himself in silence.

So soon as their visitor had passed, the observant warriors fell back from the

entrance, and arranging themselves about him, they seemed patiently to await

the moment when it might comport with the dignity of the stranger to speak. By

far the greater number stood leaning, in lazy, lounging attitudes, against the

upright posts that supported the crazy building, while three or four of the

oldest and most distinguished of the chiefs placed themselves on the earth a

little more in advance.

[Illustration]

A flaring torch was burning in the place, and set its red glare from face to

face and figure to figure, as it waved in the currents of air. Duncan profited

by its light to read the probable character of his reception, in the

countenances of his hosts. But his ingenuity availed him little, against the

cold artifices of the people he had encountered. The chiefs in front scarce

cast a glance at his person, keeping their eyes on the ground, with an air that

might have been intended for respect, but which it was quite easy to construe

into distrust. The men in the shadow were less reserved. Duncan soon detected

their searching, but stolen, looks which, in truth, scanned his person and

attire inch by inch; leaving no emotion of the countenance, no gesture, no line

of the paint, nor even the fashion of a garment, unheeded, and without comment.

At length one whose hair was beginning to be sprinkled with gray, but whose

sinewy limbs and firm tread announced that he was still equal to the duties of

manhood, advanced out of the gloom of a corner, whither he had probably posted

himself to make his observations unseen, and spoke. He used the language of the

Wyandots, or Hurons; his words were, consequently, unintelligible to Heyward,

though they seemed, by the gestures that accompanied them, to be uttered more

in courtesy than anger. The latter shook his head, and made a gesture

indicative of his inability to reply.

“Do none of my brothers speak the French or the English?” he said,

in the former language, looking about him from countenance to countenance, in

hopes of finding a nod of assent.

Though more than one had turned, as if to catch the meaning of his words, they

remained unanswered.

“I should be grieved to think,” continued Duncan, speaking slowly,

and using the simplest French of which he was the master, “to believe

that none of this wise and brave nation understand the language that the

‘Grand Monarque’ uses when he talks to his children. His heart

would be heavy did he believe his red warriors paid him so little

respect!”

A long and grave pause succeeded, during which no movement of a limb, nor any

expression of an eye, betrayed the expression produced by his remark. Duncan,

who knew that silence was a virtue among his hosts, gladly had recourse to the

custom, in order to arrange his ideas. At length the same warrior who had

before addressed him replied, by dryly demanding, in the language of the

Canadas:

“When our Great Father speaks to his people, is it with the tongue of a

Huron?”

“He knows no difference in his children, whether the color of the skin be

red, or black, or white,” returned Duncan, evasively; “though

chiefly is he satisfied with the brave Hurons.”

“In what manner will he speak,” demanded the wary chief,

“when the runners count to him the scalps which five nights ago grew on

the heads of the Yengeese?”

“They were his enemies,” said Duncan, shuddering involuntarily;

“and doubtless, he will say, it is good; my Hurons are very

gallant.”

“Our Canada father does not think it. Instead of looking forward to

reward his Indians, his eyes are turned backward. He sees the dead Yengeese,

but no Huron. What can this mean?”

“A great chief, like him, has more thoughts than tongues. He looks to see

that no enemies are on his trail.”

“The canoe of a dead warrior will not float on the Horican,”

returned the savage, gloomily. “His ears are open to the Delawares, who

are not our friends, and they fill them with lies.”

“It cannot be. See; he has bid me, who am a man that knows the art of

healing, to go to his children, the red Hurons of the great lakes, and ask if

any are sick!”

Another silence succeeded this annunciation of the character Duncan had

assumed. Every eye was simultaneously bent on his person, as if to inquire into

the truth or falsehood of the declaration, with an intelligence and keenness

that caused the subject of their scrutiny to tremble for the result. He was,

however, relieved again by the former speaker.

“Do the cunning men of the Canadas paint their skins?” the Huron

coldly continued; “we have heard them boast that their faces were

pale.”

“When an Indian chief comes among his white fathers,” returned

Duncan, with great steadiness, “he lays aside his buffalo robe, to carry

the shirt that is offered him. My brothers have given me paint and I wear

it.”

A low murmur of applause announced that the compliment of the tribe was

favorably received. The elderly chief made a gesture of commendation, which was

answered by most of his companions, who each threw forth a hand and uttered a

brief exclamation of pleasure. Duncan began to breathe more freely, believing

that the weight of his examination was past; and, as he had already prepared a

simple and probable tale to support his pretended occupation, his hopes of

ultimate success grew brighter.

After a silence of a few moments, as if adjusting his thoughts, in order to

make a suitable answer to the declaration their guests had just given, another

warrior arose, and placed himself in an attitude to speak. While his lips were

yet in the act of parting, a low but fearful sound arose from the forest, and

was immediately succeeded by a high, shrill yell, that was drawn out, until it

equaled the longest and most plaintive howl of the wolf. The sudden and

terrible interruption caused Duncan to start from his seat, unconscious of

everything but the effect produced by so frightful a cry. At the same moment,

the warriors glided in a body from the lodge, and the outer air was filled with

loud shouts, that nearly drowned those awful sounds, which were still ringing

beneath the arches of the woods. Unable to command himself any longer, the

youth broke from the place, and presently stood in the center of a disorderly

throng, that included nearly everything having life, within the limits of the

encampment. Men, women, and children; the aged, the inform, the active, and the

strong, were alike abroad, some exclaiming aloud, others clapping their hands

with a joy that seemed frantic, and all expressing their savage pleasure in

some unexpected event. Though astounded, at first, by the uproar, Heyward was

soon enabled to find its solution by the scene that followed.

There yet lingered sufficient light in the heavens to exhibit those bright

openings among the tree-tops, where different paths left the clearing to enter

the depths of the wilderness. Beneath one of them, a line of warriors issued

from the woods, and advanced slowly toward the dwellings. One in front bore a

short pole, on which, as it afterwards appeared, were suspended several human

scalps. The startling sounds that Duncan had heard were what the whites have

not inappropriately called the “death-hallo”; and each repetition

of the cry was intended to announce to the tribe the fate of an enemy. Thus far

the knowledge of Heyward assisted him in the explanation; and as he now knew

that the interruption was caused by the unlooked-for return of a successful

war-party, every disagreeable sensation was quieted in inward congratulation,

for the opportune relief and insignificance it conferred on himself.

When at the distance of a few hundred feet from the lodges the newly arrived

warriors halted. Their plaintive and terrific cry, which was intended to

represent equally the wailings of the dead and the triumph to the victors, had

entirely ceased. One of their number now called aloud, in words that were far

from appalling, though not more intelligible to those for whose ears they were

intended, than their expressive yells. It would be difficult to convey a

suitable idea of the savage ecstasy with which the news thus imparted was

received. The whole encampment, in a moment, became a scene of the most violent

bustle and commotion. The warriors drew their knives, and flourishing them,

they arranged themselves in two lines, forming a lane that extended from the

war-party to the lodges. The squaws seized clubs, axes, or whatever weapon of

offense first offered itself to their hands, and rushed eagerly to act their