Taking the perplexity produced by the bee-hunter's necromancy, and adding it to his concern for Margery, Peter found ample subject for all his reflections. While the young men were dressing their bears, and making the preparations for a feast, he walked apart, like a man whose thoughts had little in common with the surrounding scene. Even the further proceedings of le Bourdon, who had discovered his bee- tree, had felled it, and was then distributing the honey among the Indians, could not draw him from his meditations. The great council of all was to be held that very day—there, on Prairie Round—and it was imperative on Peter to settle the policy he intended to pursue, previously to the hour when the fire was to be lighted, and the chiefs met in final consultation.

In the mean time, le Bourdon, by his distribution of the honey, no less than by the manner in which he had found it, was winning golden opinions of those who shared in his bounty. One would think that the idea of property is implanted in us by nature, since men in all conditions appear to entertain strong and distinct notions of this right. Natural it may not be, in the true signification of the term; but it is a right so interwoven with those that are derived from nature, and more particularly with our wants, as almost to identify it with the individual being. It is certain that all we have of civilization is dependent on a just protection of this right; for, without the assurance of enjoying his earnings, who would produce beyond the supply necessary for his own immediate wants? Among the American savages the rights of property are distinctly recognized, so far as their habits and resources extend. The hunting-ground belongs to the tribe, and occasionally the field; but the wigwam, and the arms, and the skins, both for use and for market, and often the horses, and all other movables, belong to the individual. So sacred is this right held to be, that not one of those who stood by, and saw le Bourdon fell his tree, and who witnessed the operation of bringing to light its stores of honey, appeared to dream of meddling with the delicious store, until invited so to do by its lawful owner. It was this reserve, and this respect for a recognized principle, that enabled the bee-hunter to purchase a great deal of popularity, by giving away liberally an article so much prized. None, indeed, was reserved; Boden seeing the impossibility of carrying it away. Happy would he have been, most happy, could he have felt the assurance of being able to get Margery off, without giving a second thought to any of his effects, whether present or absent.

As has been intimated, the bee-hunter was fast rising in the favor of the warriors; particularly of those who had a weakness on the score of the stomach. This is the first great avenue to the favor of man—the belly ruling all the other members, the brains included. All this Peter noted, and was now glad to perceive; for, in addition to the favor that Margery had found in his eyes, that wary chief had certain very serious misgivings on the subject of the prudence of attempting to deal harshly with a medicine man of Boden's calibre. Touching the whiskey-spring he had been doubtful, from the first; even Crowsfeather's account of the wonderful glass through which that chief had looked, and seen men reduced to children and then converted into giants, had failed to conquer his scepticism; but he was not altogether proof against what he had that day beheld with his own eyes. These marvels shook his previous opinion touching the other matters; and, altogether, the effect was to elevate the bee- hunter to a height, that it really appeared dangerous to assail.

While Peter was thus shaken with doubts—and that, too, on a point on which he had hitherto stood as firm as a rock—there was another in the crowd, who noted the growing favor of le Bourdon with deep disgust. This man could hardly be termed a chief, though he possessed a malignant power that was often wielded to the discomfiture of those who were. He went by the significant appellation of "The Weasel," a sobriquet that had been bestowed on him for some supposed resemblance to the little pilfering, prowling quadruped after which he was thus named. In person, and in physical qualities generally, this individual was mean and ill-favored; and squalid habits contributed to render him even less attractive than he might otherwise have been. He was, moreover, particularly addicted to intemperance; lying, wallowing like a hog, for days at a time, whenever his tribe received any of the ample contribution of fire-water, which it was then more the custom than it is to-day, to send among the aborigines. A warrior of no renown, a hunter so indifferent as to compel his squaw and pappooses often to beg for food in strange lodges, of mean presence, and a drunkard, it may seem extraordinary that the Weasel should possess any influence amid so many chiefs renowned for courage, wisdom, deeds in arms, on the hunt, and for services around the council-fire. It was all due to his tongue. Ungque, or the Weasel, was eloquent in a high degree— possessing that variety of his art which most addresses itself to the passions; and, strange as it may seem, men are oftener and more easily led by those who do little else than promise, than by those who actually perform. A lying and fluent tongue becomes a power of itself, with the masses; subverting reason, looking down justice, brow-beating truth, and otherwise placing the wrong before the right. This quality the Weasel possessed in a high degree, and was ever willing to use, on occasions that seemed most likely to defeat the wishes of those he hated. Among the last was Peter, whose known ascendancy in his own particular tribe had been a source of great envy and uneasiness to this Indian. He had struggled hard to resist it, and had even dared to speak in favor of the pale-faces, and in opposition to the plan of cutting them all off, purely with a disposition to oppose this mysterious stranger. It had been in vain, however; the current running the other way, and the fiery eloquence of Peter proving too strong even for him. Now, to his surprise, from a few words dropped casually, this man ascertained that their greatest leader was disposed so far to relent, as not to destroy ALL the pale-faces in his power. Whom, and how many he meant to spare, Ungque could not tell; but his quick, practised discernment detected the general disposition, and his ruthless tendency to oppose, caused him to cast about for the means of resisting this sudden inclination to show mercy. With the Weasel, the moving principle was ever that of the demagogue; it was to flatter the mass that he might lead it; and he had an innate hostility to whatever was frank, manly, and noble.

The time had now come when the Indians wished to be alone. At this council it was their intention to come to an important decision; and even the "young men," unless chiefs, were to be merely distant spectators. Peter sent for le Bourdon, accordingly, and communicated his wish that all the whites would return to the castle, whither he promised to join them about the setting of the sun, or early the succeeding day.

"One of you, you know—dat my wigwam," said the grim chief, smiling on Margery with a friendly eye, and shaking hands with the bee- hunter, who thought his manner less constrained than on former similar occasions. "Get good supper for ole Injin, young squaw; dat juss what squaw good for."

Margery laughingly promised to remember his injunction, and went her way, closely attended by her lover. The corporal followed, armed to the teeth, and keeping at just such a distance from the young people, as might enable them to converse without being overheard. As for the missionary, he was detained a moment by Peter, the others moving slowly, in order to permit him to come up, ere they had gone their first mile. Of course, the mysterious chief had not detained Parson Amen without a motive.

"My brother has told me many curious things," said Peter, when alone with the missionary, and speaking now in the language of the Ojebways—"many very curious things. I like to listen to them. Once he told me how the pale-face young men take their squaws."

"I remember to have told you this. We ask the Great Spirit to bless our marriages, and the ceremony is commonly performed by a priest. This is our practice, Peter; though not necessary, I think it good."

"Yes; good alway for pale-face to do pale-face fashion, and for Injin to do Injin fashion. Don't want medicine-man to get red-skin squaw. Open wigwam door, and she come in. Dat 'nough. If she don't wish to come in, can't make her. Squaw go to warrior she likes; warrior ask squaw he likes. But it is best for pale-face to take his wife in pale-face fashion. Does not my brother see a young man of his people, and a young maiden, that he had better bring together and bless?"

"You must mean Bourdon and Margery," answered the missionary, in English, after a moment's reflection. "The idea is a new one to me; for my mind has been much occuoccupied of late, with other and more important matters; though I now plainly see what you mean!"

"That flower of the Openings would soon fade, if the young bee- hunter should leave it alone on the prairies. This is the will of the Great Spirit. He puts it into the minds of the young squaws to see all things well that the hunters of their fancy do. Why he has made the young with this kindness for each other, perhaps my brother knows. He is wise, and has books. The poor Injins have none. They can see only with the eyes they got from Injins, like themselves. But one thing they know. What the Great Spirit has commanded, is good. Injins can't make it any better. They can do it harm, but they can do it no good. Let my brother bless the couple that the Manitou has brought together."

"I believe I understand you. Peter, and will think of this. And now that I must leave you for a little while, let me beg you to think of this matter of the origin of your tribes, candidly, and with care. Everything depends on your people's not mistaking the truth, in this great matter. It is as necessary for a nation to know its duties, as for a single man. Promise me to think of this, Peter."

"My brother's words have come into my ears—they are good," returned the Indian, courteously. "We will think of them at the council, if my brother will bless his young man and young maiden, according to the law of his people."

"I will promise to do this, Peter; or to urge Bourdon and Margery to do it, if you will promise to speak to-day, in council, of the history of your forefathers, and to take into consideration, once more, the great question of your being Hebrews."

"I will speak as my brother wishes—let him do as I wish. Let him tell me that I can say to the chiefs before the sun has fallen the length of my arm, that the young pale-face bee-hunter has taken the young pale-face squaw into his wigwam."

"I do not understand your motive, Peter; but that which you ask is wise, and according to God's laws, and it shall be done. Fare you well, then, for a season. When we again meet, Bourdon and Margery shall be one, if my persuasions can prevail, and you will have pressed this matter of the lost tribes, again, home to your people. Fare you well, Peter; fare you well."

They separated; the Indian with a cold smile of courtesy, but with his ruthless intentions as respected the missionary in no degree changed. Boden and Margery alone were exempt from vengeance, according to his present designs. An unaccountable gentleness of feeling governed him, as connected with the girl; while superstition, and the dread of an unknown power, had its full influence on his determination to spare her lover. There might be some faint ray of human feeling glimmering among the fierce fires that so steadily burned in the breast of this savage; but they were so much eclipsed by the brighter light that gleamed around them, as to be barely perceptible, even to himself. The result of all these passions was, a determination in Peter to spare those whom he had advised the missionary to unite—making that union a mysterious argument in favor of Margery—and to sacrifice all the rest. The red American is so much accustomed to this species of ruthless proceeding, that the anguish he might occasion the very beings to whom he now wished to be merciful, gave the stern chief very little concern. Leaving the Indians in the exclusive possession of Prairie Round, we will return to the rest of the party.

The missionary hastened after his friends as fast as he could go. Boden and Margery had much to say to each other in that walk, which had a great deal about it to bring their thoughts within the circle of their own existence. As has been said, the fire had run through that region late, and the grasses were still young, offering but little impediment to their movements. As the day was now near its heat, le Bourdon led his spirited, but gentle companion, through the groves, where they had the benefit of a most delicious shade, a relief that was now getting to be very grateful. Twice had they stopped to drink at cool, clear springs, in which the water seemed to vie with the air in transparency. As this is not the general character of the water of that region, though marked exceptions exist, Margery insisted that the water was eastern and not western water.

"Why do we always think the things we had in childhood better than those we enjoy afterward?" asked Margery, after making one of these comparisons, somewhat to the disadvantage of the part of the country in which she then was. "I can scarce ever think of home—what I call home, and which was so long a home to me—without shedding tears. Nothing here seems as good of its kind as what I have left behind me. Do you have the same longings for Pennsylvania that I feel for the sea-coast and for the rocks about Quincy?"

"Sometimes. When I have been quite alone for two or three months, I have fancied that an apple, or a potato, or even a glass of cider that came from the spot where I was born, would be sweeter than all the honey bees ever gathered in Michigan."

"To me it has always seemed strange, Bourdon, that one of your kind feelings should ever wish to live alone, at all; yet I have heard you say that a love of solitude first drew you to your trade."

"It is these strong cases which get a man under, as it might be, and almost alter his nature. One man will pass his days in hunting deer; another in catching fish; my taste has been for the bees, and for such chances with other creatures as may offer. What between hunting, and hiving, and getting the honey to market, I have very little time to long for company. But my taste is altering, Margery; HAS altered."

The girl blushed, but she also smiled, and, moreover, she looked pleased.

"I am afraid that you are not as much altered as you think," she answered, laughingly, however. "It may seem so now; but when you come to LIVE in the settlements again, you will get tired of crowds."

"Then I will come with you, Margery, into these Openings, and we can live TOGETHER here, surely, as well, or far better than I can live here ALONE. You and Gershom's wife have spoiled my housekeeping. I really did not know, until you came up here, how much a woman can do in a chiente.

"Why, Bourdon, you have lived long enough in the settlements to know THAT!"

"That is true; but I look upon the settlements as one thing, and on the Openings as another. What will do there isn't needed here; and what will do here won't answer there. But these last few days have so changed Castle Meal, that I hardly know it myself."

"Perhaps the change is for the worse, and you wish it undone, Bourdon," observed the girl, in the longing she had to hear an assurance to the contrary, at the very moment she felt certain that assurance would be given.

"No, no, Margery. Woman has taken possession of my cabin, and woman shall now always command there, unless you alter your mind, and refuse to have me. I shall speak to the missionary to marry us, as soon as I can get him alone. His mind is running so much on the Jews, that he has hardly a moment left for us Christians."

The color on Margery's cheek was not lessened by this declaration; though, to admit the truth, she looked none the less pleased. She was a warm-hearted and generous girl, and sometimes hesitated about separating herself and her fortunes from those of Gershom and Dorothy; but the bee-hunter had persuaded her this would be unnecessary, though she did accept him for a husband. The point had been settled between them on previous occasions, and much conversation had already passed, in that very walk, which was confined to that interesting subject. But Margery was not now disposed to say more, and she adroitly improved the hint thrown out by Boden, to change the discourse.

"It is the strangest notion I ever heard of," she cried, laughing, "to believe Injins to be Jews!"

"He tells me he is by no means the first who has fancied it. Many writers have said as much before him, and all he claims is, to have been among them, and to have seen these Hebrews with his own eyes. But here he comes, and can answer for himself."

Just as this was said, Parson Amen joined the party, Corporal Flint closing to the front, as delicacy no longer required him to act as a rear-guard. The good missionary came up a little heated; and, in order that he might have time to cool himself, the rate of movement was slightly reduced. In the mean time the conversation did not the less proceed.

"We were talking of the lost tribes," said Margery, half smiling as she spoke, "and of your idea, Mr. Amen, that these Injins are Jews. It seems strange to me that they should have lost so much of their ancient ways, and notions, and appearances, if they are really the people you think."

"Lost! It is rather wonderful that, after the lapse of two thousand years and more, so much should remain. Whichever way I look, signs of these people's origin beset me. You have read your Bible, Margery—which I am sorry to say all on this frontier have not—but you have read your Bible, and one can make an allusion to you with some satisfaction. Now, let me ask you if you remember such a thing as the scape-goat of the ancient Jews. It is to be found in Leviticus, and is one of those mysterious customs with which that extraordinary book is full."

"Leviticus is a book I never read but once, for we do not read it in our New England schools. But I do remember that the Jews were commanded to let one of two goats go, from which practice it has, I believe, been called a scape-goat."

"Well," said le Bourdon, simply, "what a thing is 'l'arnin'!' Now, this is all news to me, though I have heard of 'scape-goats,' and TALKED of 'scape-goats' a thousand times! There's a meanin' to everything, I find; and I do not look upon this idea of the lost tribes as half as strange as I did before I l'arnt this!"

Margery had not fallen in love with the bee-hunter for his biblical knowledge, else might her greater information have received a rude shock by this mark of simplicity; but instead of dwelling on this proof of le Bourdon's want of "schooling," her active mind was more disposed to push the allusion to scape-goats to some useful conclusion.

"And what of the goat, Mr. Amen?" she asked; "and how can it belong to anything here?"

"Why were all those goats turned into the woods and deserts, in the olden time, Margery? Doubtless to provide food for the ten tribes, when these should be driven forth by conquerors and hard task- masters. Time, and climate, and a difference of food, has altered them, as they have changed the Jews themselves, though they still retain the cleft hoof, the horns, the habits, and the general characteristics of the goats of Arabia. Yes; naturalists will find in the end, that the varieties of the deer of this continent, particularly the antelope, are nothing but the scape-goats of the ancient world, altered and perhaps improved by circumstances."

As this was much the highest flight the good missionary had ever yet taken, not trifling was the astonishment of his young friends thereat. Touching the Jews, le Bourdon did not pretend to, or in fact did not possess much knowledge; but when the question was reduced down to one of venison, or bears' meat, or bisons' humps, with the exception of the professed hunters and trappers, few knew more about them all than he did himself. That the deer, or even the antelopes of America ever had been goats, he did not believe; nor was he at all backward in letting his dissent to such a theory be known.

"I'm sorry, Parson Amen, you've brought in the deer," he cried. "Had you stuck to the Jews, I might have believed all that you fancy, in this business; but the deer have spoiled all. As for scape-goats, since Margery seems to agree with you, I suppose you are right about THEM though my notion of such creatures has been to keep clear of them, instead of following them up, as you seem to think these Hebrews have done. But if you are no nearer right in your doctrine about the Injins than you are about their game, you'll have to change your religion."

"Do not think that my religion depends on any thread so slight, Bourdon. A man may be mistaken in interpreting prophecy, and still be a devout Christian. There are more reasons than you may at first suppose, for believing in this theory of the gradual change of the goat into the deer, and especially into the antelope. We do not any of us believe that Noah had with him, in the ark, all the animals that are now to be found, but merely the parent-stems, in each particular case, which would be reducing the number many fold. If all men came from Adam, Bourdon, why could not all deer come from goats?"

"Why this matter about men has a good deal puzzled me, Parson, and I hardly know what answer to give. Still, men are men, wherever you find them. They may be lighter or darker, taller or shorter, with hair or wool, and yet you can see they are MEN. Perhaps food, and climate, and manner of living, may have made all the changes we see in them; but Lord, Parson, a goat has a beard!"

"What has become of the thousands of scape-goats that the ancient Hebrews must have turned loose in the wilderness? Answer me that, Bourdon?"

"You might as well ask me, sir, what has become of the thousands of Hebrews who turned them loose. I suppose all must be dead a thousand years ago. Scape-goats are creatures that even Injins would not like."

"All this is a great mystery, Bourdon—a much greater mystery than our friend Peter, whom you have so often said was a man so unaccountable. By the way, he has given me a charge to perform an office between you and Margery, that I had almost forgotten. From what he said to me, I rather think it may have some connection with our safety. We have enemies among these savages, I feel very certain; though I believe we have also warm friends."

"But what have you in charge that has anything to do with Bourdon and me?" asked the wondering Margery, who was quick to observe the connection, though utterly at a loss to comprehend it.

The missionary now called a halt, and finding convenient seats, he gradually opened the subject with which he had been charged by Peter to his companions. The reader is probably prepared to learn that there was no longer any reserve between le Bourdon and Margery on the subject of their future marriage. The young man had already pressed an immediate union, as the wisest and safest course to be pursued. Although the savage American is little addicted to abusing his power over female captives, and seldom takes into his lodge an unwilling squaw, the bee-hunter had experienced a good deal of uneasiness on the score of what might befall his betrothed. Margery was sufficiently beautiful to attract attention, even in a town; and more than one fierce-looking warrior had betrayed his admiration that very day, though it was in a very Indian-like fashion. Rhapsody, and gallant speeches, and sonnets, form no part of Indian courtship; but the language of admiration is so very universal, through the eyes, that it is sufficiently easy of comprehension. It was possible that some chief, whose band was too formidable to be opposed, might take it into his head to wish to see a pale-face squaw in his wigwam; and, while it was not usual to do much violence to a female's inclinations on such occasions, it was not common to offer much opposition to those of a powerful warrior. The married tie, if it could be said to exist at all, however, was much respected; and it was far less likely that Margery, a wife, would thus be appropriated, than Margery, unmarried. It is true, cases of unscrupulous exercise of power are to be found among Indians, as well as among civilized men, but they are rare, and usually are much condemned.

The bee-hunter, consequently, was well disposed to second Peter's project. As for Margery herself, she had half yielded all her objections to her lover's unaided arguments, and was partly conquered before this reinforcement was brought into the field against her. Peter's motive was much canvassed, no one of them all being able to penetrate it. Boden, however, had his private opinion on the subject, nor was it so very much out of the way. He fancied that the mysterious chief was well disposed to Margery, and wished to put her as far as possible beyond the chances of an Indian wigwam; marriage being the step of all others most likely to afford her this protection. Now this was not exactly true, but it was right enough in the main. Peter's aim was to save the life of the girl; her gentle attractions, and kind attentions to himself having wrought this much in her favor; and he believed no means of doing so as certain as forming a close connection for her with the great medicine-bee-hunter. Judging of them by himself, he did not think the Indians would dare to include so great a conjurer in their schemes of vengeance, and was willing himself that le Bourdon should escape, provided Margery could go free and unharmed with him. As for the bee-hunter's powers, he had many misgivings; they might be dangerous to the red men, and they might not. On this subject, he was in the painful doubts of ignorance, and had the wide area of conjecture open before his mind. He saw; but it was "as in a glass, darkly."

Margery was disposed to delay the ceremony, at least until her brother and sister might be present. But to this le Bourdon himself was not much inclined. It had struck him that Gershom was opposed to an early marriage, most probably because he fancied himself more secure of the bee-hunter's ingenious and important aid in getting back to the settlements, so long as this strong inducement existed to cling to himself, than if he should release his own hold of Margery, by giving her at once to her lover. Right or wrong, such was the impression taken up by le Bourdon, and he was glad when the missionary urged his request to be permitted to pronounce the nuptial benediction on the spot.

Little ceremony is generally used in an American marriage. In a vast many cases no clergyman is employed at all; and where there is, most of the sects have no ring, no giving away, nor any of those observances which were practised in the churches of old. There existed no impediment, therefore; and after a decent interval spent in persuasions, Margery consented to plight her vows to the man of her heart before they left the spot. She would fain have had Dorothy present, for woman loves to lean on her own sex on such occasions, but submitted to the necessity of proceeding at once, as the bee- hunter and the missionary chose to term it.

A better altar could not have been selected in all that vast region. It was one of nature's own erecting; and le Bourdon and his pretty bride placed themselves before it, with feelings suited to the solemnity of the occasion. The good missionary stood within the shade of a burr oak in the centre of those park-like Openings, every object looking fresh, and smiling, and beautiful. The sward was gieen, and short as that of a well-tended lawn; the flowers were, like the bride herself, soft, modest, and sweet; while charming rural vistas stretched through the trees, much as if art had been summoned in aid of the great mistress who had designed the landscape. When the parties knelt in prayer—which all present did, not excepting the worthy corporal—it was on the verdant ground, with first the branches of the trees, and then the deep, fathomless vault of heaven for a canopy. In this manner was the marriage benediction pronounced on the bee-hunter and Margery Waring, in the venerable Oak Openings. No gothic structure, with its fretted aisles and clustered columns, could have been onehalf as appropriate for the union of such a couple.



CHAPTER XXII.

No shrift the gloomy savage brooks, As scowling on the priest he looks; Cowesass—cowesass—tawkich wessasseen! Let my father look on Bornazeen- My father's heart is the heart of a squaw, But mine is so hard that it does not thaw, —WHITTIER.

Leaving the newly-married couple to pursue their way homeward, it is now our province to return to Prairie Round. One accustomed to such scenes would easily have detected the signs of divided opinions and of agitating doubts among the chiefs, though nothing like contention or dispute had yet manifested itself. Peter's control was still in the ascendant, and he had neglected none of his usual means of securing influence. Perhaps he labored so much the harder, from the circumstance that he now found himself so situated, as to be compelled to undo much that he had previously done.

On the other hand, Ungque appeared to have no particular cause of concern. His manner was as much unoccupied as usual; and to his habit of referring all his influence to sudden and powerful bursts of eloquence, if design of any sort was entertained, he left his success.

We pass over the details of assembling the council. The spot was not exactly on the prairie, but in a bit of lovely "Opening" on its margin, where the eye could roam over a wide extent of that peculiar natural meadow, while the body enjoyed the shades of the wood. The chiefs alone were in the circle, while the "braves" and the "young men" generally formed a group on the outside; near enough to hear what passed, and to profit by it, if so disposed. The pipe was smoked, and all the ordinary customs observed, when Bear's Meat arose, the first speaker on that momentous occasion.

"Brothers," he said, "this is the great council on Prairie Round to which we have been called. We have met before, but not here. This is our first meeting here. We have travelled a long path to get here. Some of our brethren have travelled farther. They are at Detroit. They went there to meet our great Canada father, and to take Yankee scalps. How many scalps they have taken I do not know, or I would tell you. It is pleasant to me to count Yankee scalps. I would rather count them, than count the scalps of red men. There are still a great many left. The Yankees are many, and each Yankee has a scalp. There should not be so many. When the buffaloes came in the largest droves, our fathers used to go out to hunt them in the strongest parties. Their sons should do the same. We are the sons of those fathers. They say we look like them, talk like them, live like them—we should ACT like them. Let another speak, for I have done."

After this brief address, which bore some resemblance to a chairman's calling a meeting of civilized men to order, there was more smoking. It was fully expected that Peter would next arise, but he did not. Perceiving this, and willing to allow time to that great chief to arrange his thoughts, Crowsfeather assumed the office of filling the gap. He was far more of a warrior than of an orator, and was listened to respectfully, but less for what he said, than for what he had done. A good deal of Indian boasting, quite naturally, was blended with HIS discourse.

"My brother has told you of the Yankee scalps," he commenced. "He says they are many. He says there ought to be fewer. He did not remember who sat so near him. Perhaps he does not know that there are three less now than there were a moon since. Crowsfeather took three at Chicago. Many scalps were taken there. The Yankees must be plentier than the buffaloes on the great prairies, if they can lose so many scalps often, and send forth their warriors. I am a Pottawattamie. My brothers know that tribe. It is not a tribe of Jews, but a tribe of Injins. It is a great tribe. It never was LOST. It CANNOT be lost. No tribe better knows all the paths, and all the best routes to every point where it wishes to go. It is foolish to say you can lose a Pottawattamie. A duck would be as likely to lose itself as a Pottawattamie. I do not speak for the Ottawas: I speak for the Pottawattamies. We are not Jews. We do not wish to be Jews; and what we do not wish to be, we will not be. Our father who has come so far to tell us that we are not Injins, but Jews, is mistaken. I never heard of these Jews before. I do not wish to hear of them again. When a man has heard enough, he does not keep his ears open willingly. It is then best for the speaker to sit down. The Pottawattamies have shut their ears to the great medicine-priest of the pale-faces. What he says may be true of other tribes, but it is not true of the Pottawatttamies. We are not lost; we are not Jews. I have done."

This speech was received with general favor. The notion that the Indians were not Indians, but Jews, was far from being agreeable to those who had heard what had been said on the subject; and the opinions of Crowsfeather possessed the great advantage of reflecting the common sentiment on this interesting subject. When this is the case, a very little eloquence or logic goes a great way; and, on the whole, the address of the last speaker was somewhat better received than that of the first.

It was now confidently believed that Peter would rise. But he did not. That mysterious chief was not yet prepared to speak, or he was judiciously exciting expectation by keeping back. There were at least ten minutes of silent smoking, ere a chief, whose name rendered into English was Bough of the Oak, arose, evidently with a desire to help the time along. Taking his cue from the success of Crows-feather, he followed up the advantage obtained by that chief, assailing the theory of the missionary from another quarter.

"I am an Injin," said Bough of the Oak; "my father was an Injin, and my mother was the daughter of an Injin. All my fathers were red men, and all their sons. Why should I wish to be anything else? I asked my brother, the medicine-priest, and he owned that Jews are pale- faces. This he should not have owned if he wished the Injins to be Jews. My skin is red. The Manitou of my fathers so painted it, and their child will not try to wash out the color. Were the color washed out of my face, I should be a pale-face! There would not be paint enough to hide my shame. No; I was born red, and will die a red man. It is not good to have two faces. An Injin is not a snake, to cast his skin. The skin in which he was born he keeps. He plays in it when a child; he goes in it to his first hunt; the bears and the deer know him by it; he carries it with him on the warpath, and his enemies tremble at the sight of it; his squaw knows him by that skin when he comes back to his wigwam; and when he dies, he is put aside in the same skin in—which he was born. There is but one skin, and it has but one color. At first, it is little. The pappoose that wears it is little. There is not need of a large skin. But it grows with the pappoose, and the biggest warrior finds his skin around him. This is because the Great Spirit fitted it to him. Whatever the Manitou does is good.

"My brothers have squaws—they have pappooses. When the pappoose is put into their arms, do they get the paint-stones, and paint it red? They do not. It is not necessary. The Manitou painted it red before it was born. How this was done I do not know. I am nothing but a poor Injin, and only know what I see. I have seen that the pappooses are red when they are born, and that the warriors are red when they die. They are also red while living. It is enough. Their fathers could never have been pale-faces, or we should find some white spots on their children. There are none.

"Crowsfeather has spoken of the Jews as lost. I am not surprised to hear it. It seems to me that all pale-faces get lost. They wander from their own hunting-grounds into those of other people. It is not so with Injins. The Pottawattamie does not kill the deer of the Iowa, nor the Ottawa the deer of the Menomenees. Each tribe knows its own game. This is because they are not lost. My pale-face father appears to wish us well. He has come on a long and weary path to tell us about his Manitou. For this I thank him. I thank all who wish to do me good. Them that wish to do me harm I strike from behind. It is our Injin custom. I do not wish to hurt the medicine- priest, because I think he wishes to do me good, and not to do me harm. He has a strange law. It is to do good to them that do harm to you. It is not the law of the red men. It is not good law. I do not wonder that the tribes which follow such a law get lost. They cannot tell their friends from their enemies. They can have no people to scalp. What is a warrior if he cannot find someone to scalp? No; such a law would make women of the bravest braves in the Openings, or on the prairie. It may be a good law for Jews, who get lost; but it is a bad law for Injins, who know the paths they travel. Let another speak."

This brief profession of faith, on the subject that had been so recently broached in the council, seemed to give infinite satisfaction. All present evidently preferred being red men, who knew where they were, than to be pale-faces who had lost their road. Ignorance of his path is a species of disgrace to an American savage, and not a man there would have confessed that his particular division of the great human family was in that dilemma. The idea that the Yankees were "lost," and had got materially astray, was very grateful to most who heard it; and Bough of the Oak gained a considerable reputation as an orator, in consequence of the lucky hits made on this occasion.

Another long, ruminating pause, and much passing of the pipe of peace succeeded. It was near half an hour after the last speaker had resumed his seat, ere Peter stood erect. In that long interval expectation had time to increase, and curiosity to augment itself. Nothing but a very great event could cause this pondering, this deliberation, and this unwillingness to begin. When, however, the time did come for the mysterious chief to speak, the man of many scalps to open his mouth, profound was the attention that prevailed among all present. Even after he had arisen, the orator stood silently looking around him, as if the throes of his thoughts had to be a little suppressed before he could trust his tongue to give them utterance.

"What is the earth?" commenced Peter, in a deep, guttural tone of voice, which the death-like stillness rendered audible even to the outermost boundaries of the circle of admiring and curious countenances. "It is one plain adjoining another; river after river; lake after lake; prairie touching prairie; and pleasant woods, that seem to have no limits, all given to men to dwell in. It would seem that the Great Spirit parcelled out this rich possession into hunting-grounds for all. He colored men differently. His dearest children he painted red, which is his own color. Them that he loved less he colored less, and they had red only in spots. Them he loved least he dipped in a dark dye, and left them black. These are the colors of men. If there are more, I have not seen them. Some say there are. I shall think so, too, when I see them.

"Brothers, this talk about lost tribes is a foolish talk. We are not lost. We know where we are, and we know where the Yankees have come to seek us. My brother has well spoken. If any are lost, it is the Yankees. The Yankees are Jews; they are lost. The time is near when they will be found, and when they will again turn their eyes toward the rising sun. They have looked so long toward the setting sun, that they cannot see clearly. It is not good to look too long at the same object. The Yankees have looked at our hunting-grounds, until their eyes are dim. They see the hunting-grounds, but they do not see all the warriors that are in them. In time, they will learn to count them.

"Brothers, when the Great Spirit made man, he put him to live on the earth. Our traditions do not agree in saying of what he was made. Some say it was of clay, and that when his spirit starts for the happy hunting-grounds, his body becomes clay again. I do not say that this is so, for I do not know. It is not good to say that which we do not know to be true. I wish to speak only the truth. This we do know. If a warrior die, and we put him in the earth, and come to look for him many years afterward, nothing but bones are found. All else is gone. I have heard old men say that, in time, even these bones are not to be found. It is so with trees; it may be so with men. But it is not so with hunting-grounds. They were made to last forever.

"Brothers, you know why we have come together on this prairie. It was to count the pale-faces, and to think of the way of making their number less. Now is a good time for such a thing. They have dug up the hatchet against each other, and when we hear of scalps taken among them, it is good for the red men. I do not think our Canada father is more our friend than the great Yankee, Uncle Sam. It is true, he gives us more powder, and blankets, and tomahawks, and rifles than the Yankee, but it is to get us to fight his battles. We will fight his battles. They are our battles, too. For this reason we will fight his enemies.

"Brothers, it is time to think of our children. A wise chief once told me how many winters it is since a pale-face was first seen among red men. It was not a great while ago. Injins are living who have seen Injins, whose own fathers saw the first pale-faces. They were few. They were like little children, then; but now they are grown to be men. Medicine-men are plenty among them, and tell them how to raise children. The Injins do not understand this. Small-pox, fire-water, bad hunting, and frosts, keep us poor, and keep our children from growing as fast as the children of the pale-faces. "Brothers, all this has happened within the lives of three aged chiefs. One told to another, and he told it to a third. Three chiefs have kept that tradition. They have given it to me. I have cut notches on this stick (holding up a piece of ash, neatly trimmed, as a record) for the winters they told me, and every winter since I have cut one more. See; there are not many notches. Some of our people say that the pale-faces are already plentier than leaves on the trees. I do not believe this. These notches tell us differently. It is true the pale-faces grow fast, and have many children, and small-pox does not kill many of them, and their wars are few; but look at this stick. Could a canoe-full of men become as many as they say, in so few winters? No; it is not so. The stories we have heard are not true. A crooked tongue first told them. We are strong enough still to drive these strangers into the great salt lake, and get back all our hunting-grounds. This is what I wish to have done.

"Brothers, I have taken many scalps. This stick will tell the number." Here one of those terrible gleams of ferocity to which we have before alluded, passed athwart the dark countenance of the speaker, causing all present to feel a deeper sympathy in the thoughts he would express. "There are many. Every one has come from the head of a pale-face. It is now twenty winters since I took the scalp of a red man. I shall never take another. We want all of our own warriors, to drive back the strangers.

"Brothers, some Injins tell us of different tribes. They talk about distant tribes as strangers. I tell you we are all children of the same father. All our skins are red. I see no difference between an Ojebway, and a Sac, or a Sioux. I love even a Cherokee." Here very decided signs of dissatisfaction were manifested by several of the listeners; parties of the tribes of the great lakes having actually marched as far as the Gulf of Mexico to make war on the Indians of that region, who were generally hated by them with the most intense hatred. "He has the blood of our fathers in him. We are brothers, and should live together as brothers. If we want scalps, the pale- faces have plenty. It is sweet to take the scalp of a pale-face. I know it. My hand has done it often, and will do it again. If every Injin had taken as many scalps as I have taken, few of these strangers would now remain.

"Brothers, one thing more I have to say. I wish to hear others, and will not tell all I know this time. One thing more I have to say, and I now say it. I have told you that we must take the scalps of all the pale-faces who are now near us. I thought there would have been more, but the rest do not come. Perhaps they are frightened. There are only six. Six scalps are not many. I am sorry they are so few. But we can go where there will be more. One of these six is a medicine-man. I do not know what to think. It may be good to take his scalp. It may be bad. Medicine-men have great power. You have seen what this bee-hunter can do. He knows how to talk with bees. Them little insects can fly into small places, and see things that Injins cannot see. The Great Spirit made them so. When we get back all the land, we shall get the bees with it, and may then hold a council to say what it is best to do with them. Until we know more, I do not wish to touch the scalp of that bee-hunter. It may do us great harm. I knew a medicine-man of the pale-faces to lose his scalp, and small-pox took off half the band that made him prisoner and killed him. It is not good to meddle with medicine-men. A few days ago, and I wanted this young man's scalp, very much. Now, I do not want it. It may do us harm to touch it. I wish to let him go, and to take his squaw with him. The rest we can scalp."

Peter cunningly made no allusion to Margery, until just before he resumed his seat, though now deeply interested in her safety. As for le Bourdon, so profound was the impression he had made that morning, that few of the chiefs were surprised at the exemption proposed in his favor. The superstitious dread of witchcraft is very general among the American savages; and it certainly did seem to be hazardous to plot the death of a man, who had even the bees that were humming on all sides of them under his control. He might at that very moment be acquainted with all that was passing; and several of the grim-looking and veteran warriors who sat in the circle, and who appeared to be men able and willing to encounter aught human, did not fail to remember the probability of a medicine- man's knowing who were his friends, and who his enemies.

When Peter sat down, there was but one man in the circle of chiefs who was resolved to oppose his design of placing Boden and Margery without the pale of the condemned. Several were undecided, scarce knowing what to think of so sudden and strange a proposition, but could not be said to have absolutely adhered to the original scheme of cutting off all. The exception was Ungque. This man—a chief by a sort of sufferance, rather than as a right—was deadly hostile to Peter's influence, as has been said, and was inclined to oppose all his plans, though compelled by policy to be exceedingly cautious how he did it. Here, however, was an excellent opportunity to strike a blow, and he was determined not to neglect it. Still, so wily was this Indian, so much accustomed to put a restraint on his passions and wishes, that he did not immediately arise, with the impetuous ardor of frank impulses, to make his reply, but awaited his time.

An Indian is but a man, after all, and is liable to his weaknesses, notwithstanding the self-command he obtains by severe drilling. Bough of the Oak was to supply a proof of this truth. He had been so unexpectedly successful in his late attempt at eloquence, that it was not easy to keep him off his feet, now that another good occasion to exhibit his powers offered. He was accordingly the next to speak.

"My brothers," said Bough of the Oak, "I am named after a tree. You all know that tree. It is not good for bows or arrows; it is not good for canoes; it does not make the best fire, though it will burn, and is hot when well lighted. There are many things for which the tree after which I am named is not good. It is not good to eat. It has no sap that Injins can drink, like the maple. It does not make good brooms. But it has branches like other trees, and they are tough. Tough branches are good. The boughs of the oak will not bend, like the boughs of the willow, or the boughs of the ash, or the boughs of the hickory.

"Brothers, I am a bough of the oak. I do not like to bend. When my mind is made up, I wish to keep it where it was first put. My mind has been made up to take the scalps of ALL the pale-faces who are now in the Openings. I do not want to change it. My mind can break, but it can not bend. It is tough."

Having uttered this brief but sententious account of his view of the matter at issue, the chief resumed his seat, reasonably well satisfied with this, his second attempt to be eloquent that day. His success this time was not as unequivocal as on the former occasion, but it was respectable. Several of the chiefs saw a reasonable, if not a very logical analogy, between a man's name and his mind; and to them it appeared a tolerably fair inference that a man should act up to his name. If his name was tough, he ought to be tough, too. In this it does not strike us that they argued very differently from civilized beings, who are only too apt to do that which their better judgments really condemn, because they think they are acting "in character," as it is termed.

Ungque was both surprised and delighted with this unexpected support from Bough of the Oak. He knew enough of human nature to understand that a new-born ambition, that of talking against the great, mysterious chief, Peter, was at the bottom of this unexpected opposition; but with this he was pleased, rather than otherwise. An opposition that is founded in reason, may always be reasoned down, if reasons exist therefor; but an opposition that has its rise in any of the passions, is usually somewhat stubborn. All this the mean-looking chief, or the Weasel, understood perfectly, and appreciated highly. He thought the moment favorable, and was disposed to "strike while the iron was hot." Rising after a decent interval had elapsed, this wily Indian looked about him, as if awed by the presence in which he stood, and doubtful whether he could venture to utter his thoughts before so many wise chiefs. Having made an impression by this air of diffidence, he commenced his harangue.

"I am called the Weasel," he said, modestly. "My name is not taken from the mightiest tree of the forest, like that of my brother; it is taken from a sort of rat—an animal that lives by its wits. I am well named. When my tribe gave me that name, it was just. All Injins have not names. My great brother, who told us once that we ought to take the scalp of every white man, but WHO now tells us that we ought not to take the scalp of every white man, has no name. He is called Peter, by the pale-faces. It is a good name. But it is a pale-face name. I wish we knew the real name of my brother. We do not know his nation or his tribe. Some say he is an Ottawa, some an Iowa, some even think him a Sioux. I have heard he was a Delaware, from toward the rising sun. Some, but they must be Injins with forked tongues, think and say he is a Cherokee! I do not believe this. It is a lie. It is said to do my brother harm. Wicked Injins will say such things. But we do not mind what THEY say. It is not necessary.

"My brothers, I wish we knew the tribe of this great chief, who tells us to take scalps, and then tells us not to take scalps. Then we might understand why he has told us two stories. I believe all he says, but I should like to know WHY I believe it. It is good to know why we believe things. I have heard what my brother has said about letting this bee-hunter go to his own people, but I do not know why he believes this is best. It is because I am a poor Injin, perhaps; and because I am called the Weasel. I am an animal that creeps through small holes. That is my nature. The bison jumps through open prairies, and a horse is wanted to catch him. It is not so with the weasel; he creeps through small holes. But he always looks where he goes.

"The unknown chief, who belongs to no tribe, talks of this bee- hunter's squaw. He is afraid of so great a medicine-man, and wishes him to go, and take all in his wigwam with him. He has no squaw. There is a young squaw in his lodge, but she is not HIS squaw. There is no need of letting her go, on his account. If we take her scalp, he cannot hurt us. In that, my brother is wrong. The bees have buzzed too near his ears. Weasels can hear, as well as other animals; and I have heard that this young squaw is not this bee- hunter's squaw.

"If Injins are to take the scalps of all the pale-faces, why should we not begin with these who are in our hands? When the knife is ready, and the head is ready, nothing but the hand is wanting. Plenty of hands are ready, too; and it does not seem good to the eyes of a poor, miserable weasel, who has to creep through very small holes to catch his game, to let that game go when it is taken. If my great brother, who has told us not to scalp this bee-hunter and her he calls his squaw, will tell us the name of his tribe, I shall be glad. I am an ignorant Injin, and like to learn all I can; I wish to learn that. Perhaps it will help us to understand why he gave one counsel yesterday, and another to-day. There is a reason for it. I wish to know what it is."

Ungque now slowly seated himself. He had spoken with great moderation, as to manner; and with such an air of humility as one of our own demagogues is apt to assume, when he tells the people of their virtues, and seems to lament the whole time that he, himself, was one of the meanest of the great human family. Peter saw, at once, that he had a cunning competitor, and had a little difficulty in suppressing all exhibition of the fiery indignation he actually felt, at meeting opposition in such a quarter. Peter was artful, and practised in all the wiles of managing men, but he submitted to use his means to attain a great end. The virtual extinction of the white race was his object, and in order to effect it, there was little he would have hesitated to do. Now, however, when for the first time in many years a glimmering of human feeling was shining on the darkness of his mind, he found himself unexpectedly opposed by one of those whom he had formerly found so difficult to persuade into his own dire plans! Had that one been a chief of any renown, the circumstances would have been more tolerable; but here was a man presuming to raise his voice against him, who, so far as he knew anything of his past career, had not a single claim to open his mouth in such a council. With a volcano raging within, that such a state of things would be likely to kindle in the breast of a savage who had been for years a successful and nearly unopposed leader, the mysterious chief rose to reply.

"My brother says he is a weasel," observed Peter, looking round at the circle of interested and grave countenances by which he was surrounded. "That is a very small animal. It creeps through very small holes, but not to do good. It is good for nothing. When it goes through a small hole, it is not to do the Injins a service, but for its own purposes. I do not like weasels.

"My brother is not afraid of a bee-hunter. Can HE tell us what a bee whispers? If he can, I wish he would tell us. Let him show our young men where there is more honey—where they can find bear's meat for another feast—where they can find warriors hid in the woods.

"My brother says the bee-hunter has no squaw. How does he know this? Has he lived in the lodge with them—paddled in the same canoe—eat of the same venison? A weasel is very small. It might steal into the bee-hunter's lodge, and see what is there, what is doing, what is eaten, who is his squaw, and who is not—has this weasel ever done so? I never saw him there.

"Brothers, the Great Spirit has his own way of doing things. He does not stop to listen to weasels. He knows there are such animals— there are snakes, and toads, and skunks. The Great Spirit knows them all, but he does not mind them. He is wise, and hearkens only to his own mind. So should it be with a council of great chiefs. It should listen to its own mind. That is wisdom. To listen to the mind of a weasel is folly.

"Brothers, you have been told that this weasel does not know the tribe of which I am born. Why should you know it? Injins once were foolish. While the pale-faces were getting one hunting-ground after another from them, they dug up the hatchet against their own friends. They took each other's scalps. Injin hated Injin—tribe hated tribe. I am of no tribe, and no one can hate me for my people. You see my skin. It is red. That is enough. I scalp, and smoke, and talk, and go on weary paths for all Injins, and not for any tribe. I am without a tribe. Some call me the Tribeless. It is better to bear that name, than to be called a weasel. I have done."

Peter had so much success by this argumentum ad hominem, that most present fancied that the weasel would creep through some hole, and disappear. Not so, however, with Ungque. He was a demagogue, after an Indian fashion; and this is a class of men that ever "make capital" of abuses, as we Americans say, in our money-getting habits. Instead of being frightened off the ground, he arose to answer as promptly as if a practised debater, though with an air of humility so profound, that no one could take offence at his presumption.

"The unknown chief has answered," he said, "I am glad. I love to hear his words. My ears are always open when he speaks, and my mind is stronger. I now see that it is good he should not have a tribe. He may be a Cherokee, and then our warriors would wish him ill." This was a home-thrust, most artfully concealed; a Cherokee being the Indian of all others the most hated by the chiefs present;—the Carthaginians of those western Romans. "It is better he should not have a tribe, than be a Cherokee. He might better be a weasel.

"Brothers, we have been told to kill ALL the pale-faces. I like that advice. The land cannot have two owners. If a pale-face owns it, an Injin cannot. If an Injin owns it, a pale-face cannot. But the chief without a tribe tells us not to kill all. He tells us to kill all but the bee-hunter and his squaw. He thinks this bee-hunter is a medicine bee-hunter, and may do us Injins great harm. He wishes to let him go.

"Brothers, this is not my way of thinking. It is better to kill the bee-hunter and his squaw while we can, that there may be no more such medicine bee-hunters to frighten us Injins. If one bee-hunter can do so much harm, what would a tribe of bee-hunters do? I do not want to see any more. It is a dangerous thing to know how to talk with bees. It is best that no one should have that power. I would rather never taste honey again, than live among pale-faces that can talk with bees.

"Brothers, it is not enough that the pale-faces know so much more than the red men, but they must get the bees to tell them where to find honey, to find bears, to find warriors. No; let us take the scalp of the bee-talker, and of his squaw, that there may never be such a medicine again. I have spoken."

Peter did not rise again. He felt that his dignity was involved in maintaining silence. Various chiefs now uttered their opinions, in brief, sententious language. For the first time since he began to preach his crusade, the current was setting against the mysterious chief. The Weasel said no more, but the hints he had thrown out were improved on by others. It is with savages as with civilized men; a torrent must find vent. Peter had the sagacity to see that by attempting further to save le Bourdon and Margery, he should only endanger his own ascendancy, without effecting his purpose. Here he completely overlaid the art of Ungque, turning his own defeat into an advantage. After the matter had been discussed for fully an hour, and this mysterious chief perceived that it was useless to adhere to his new resolution, he gave it up with as much tact as the sagacious Wellington himself could manifest in yielding Catholic emancipation, or parliamentary reform; or, just in season to preserve an appearance of floating in the current, and with a grace that disarmed his opponents.

"Brothers," said Peter, by way of closing the debate, "I have not seen straight. Fog sometimes gets before the eyes, and we cannot see. I have been in a fog. The breath of my brother has blown it away. I now see clearly. I see that bee-hunters ought not to live. Let this one die—let his squaw die, too!"

This terminated the discussion, as a matter of course. It was solemnly decided that all the pale-faces then in the Openings should be cut off. In acquiescing in this decision, Peter had no mental reservations. He was quite sincere. When, after sitting two hours longer, in order to arrange still more important points, the council arose, it was with his entire assent to the decision. The only power he retained over the subject was that of directing the details of the contemplated massacre.



CHAPTER XXIII.

Why is that graceful female here With yon red hunter of the deer? Of gentle mien and shape, she seems For civil halls design'd; Yet with the stately savage walks, As she were of his kind. —Pinkney.

The family at Castle Meal saw nothing of any Indian until the day that succeeded the council. Gershom and Dorothy received the tidings of their sister's marriage with very little emotion. It was an event they expected; and as for bride-cake and ceremonies, of one there was none at all, and of the other no more than has been mentioned. The relatives of Margery did not break their hearts on account of the neglect with which they had been treated, but received the young couple as if one had given her away, and the other "had pulled off her glove," as young ladies now express it, in deference to the act that generally gives the coup de grace to youthful female friendships. On the Openings, neither time nor breath is wasted in useless compliments; and all was held to be well done on this occasion, because it was done legally. A question might have been raised, indeed, whether that marriage had taken place under the American, or under the English flag; for General Hull, in surrendering Detroit, had included the entire territory of Michigan, as well as troops present, troops absent, and troops on the march to join him. Had he been in possession of Peter's ruthless secret, which we happen to know he was not, he could not have been more anxious to throw the mantle of British authority around all of his race on that remote frontier, than he proved himself to be. Still, it is to be presumed that the marriage would have been regarded as legal; conquered territories usually preserving their laws and usages for a time, at least. A little joking passed, as a matter of course; for this is de rigueur in all marriages, except in the cases of the most cultivated; and certainly neither the corporal nor Gershom belonged to the elite of human society.

About the hour of breakfast Pigeonswing came in, as if returning from one of his ordinary hunts. He brought with him venison, as well as several wild ducks that he had killed in the Kalamazoo, and three or four prairie hens. The Chippewa never betrayed exultation at the success of his exertions, but on this occasion he actually appeared sad. Dorothy received his game, and as she took the ducks and other fowls, she spoke to him.

"Thank you, Pigeonswing," said the young matron. "No pale-face could be a better provider, and many are not one-half as good."

"What provider mean, eh?" demanded the literal-minded savage. "Mean good; mean bad, eh?"

"Oh! it means good, of course. I could say nothing against a hunter who takes so good care of us all."

"What he mean, den?"

"It means a man who keeps his wife and children well supplied with food."

"You get 'nough, eh?"

"I get enough, Pigeonswing, thanks to your industry, such as it is. Injin diet, however, is not always the best for Christian folk, though a body may live on it. I miss many things, out here in the Openings, to which I have been used all the early part of my life."

"What squaw miss, eh? P'raps Injin find him sometime."

"I thank you, Pigeonswing, with all my heart, and am just as grateful for your good intentions, as I should be was you to do all you wish. It is the mind that makes the marcy, and not always the deed. But you can never find the food of a pale-face kitchen out here in the Openings of Michigan. When a body comes to reckon up all the good things of Ameriky, she don't know where to begin, or where to stop. I miss tea as much as anything. And milk comes next. Then there's buckwheat and coffee—though things may be found in the woods to make coffee of, but tea has no substitute. Then, I like wheaten bread, and butter, and potatoes, and many other such articles, that I was used to all my life, until I came out here, close to sunset. As for pies and custards, I can't bear to think of 'em now!"

Pigeonswing looked intently at the woman, as she carefully enumerated her favorites among the dishes of her home-kitchen. When she had ended, he raised a finger, looked still more significantly at her, and said:

"Why don't go back, get all dem good t'ings? Better for pale-face to eat pale-face food, and leave Injin Injin food."

"For my part, Pigeonswing, I wish such had ever been the law. Venison, and prairie-fowls, and wild ducks, and trout, arid bear's meat, and wild pigeons, and the fish that are to be found in these western rivers, are all good for them that was brought up on 'em, but they tire an eastern palate dreadfully. Give me roast beef any day before buffalo's hump, and a good barn-yard fowl before all the game-birds that ever flew."

"Yes; dat de way pale-face squaw feel. Bess go back, and get what she like. Bess go quick as she can—go today."

"I'm in no such hurry, Pigeonswing, and I like these Openings well enough to stay a while longer, and see what all these Injins, that they tell me are about 'em, mean to do. Now we are fairly among your people, and on good terms with them, it is wisest to stay where we are. These are war-times, and travelling is dangerous, they tell me. When Gershom and Bourdon are ready to start, I shall be ready."

"Bess get ready, now," rejoined Pigeonswing; who, having given this advice with point, as to manner, proceeded to the spring, where he knelt and slaked his thirst. The manner of the Chippewa was such as to attract the attention of the missionary, who, full of his theory, imagined that this desire to get rid of the whites was, in some way or other, connected with a reluctance in the Indians to confess themselves Jews. He had been quite as much surprised as he was disappointed, with the backwardness of the chiefs in accepting this tradition, and was now in a state of mind that predisposed him to impute everything to this one cause.

"I hope, Pigeonswing," he said to the Chippewa, whom he had followed to the spring—"I hope, Pigeonswing, that no offence has been taken by the chiefs on account of what I told them yesterday, concerning their being Jews. It is what I think, and it is an honor to belong to God's chosen people, and in no sense a disgrace. I hope no offence has been taken on account of my telling the chief they are Jews."

"Don't care any t'ing 'bout it," answered the literal Indian, rising from his kneeling position, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't care wedder Jew, or wedder Indian."

"For my own part, gladly would I have it to say that I am descended from Israel."

"Why don't say him, if he make you grad? Good to be grad. All Injin love to be grad."

"Because I cannot say it with truth. No; I come of the Gentiles, and not of the Hebrews, else would I glory in saying I am a Jew, in the sense of extraction, though not now in the sense of faith. I trust the chiefs will not take offence at my telling them just what I think."

"Tell you he don't care," returned Pigeonswing, a little crustily. "Don't care if Jew—don't care if Injin. Know dat make no difference. Hunting-ground just same—game just same—scalps just same. Make no difference, and don't care."

"I am glad of this—but why did you advise Dorothy to quit the Openings in the hasty manner you did, if all is right with the chiefs? It is not good to start on a journey without preparation and prayer. Why, then, did you give this advice to Dorothy to quit the Openings so soon?"

"Bess for squaw to go home, when Injin dig up hatchet. Openin' full of warrior—prairie full of warrior—wood full of warrior. When dat so, bess for squaw to go home."

"This would be true, were the Indians our enemies. Heaven be praised, they are our friends, and will not harm us. Peter is a great chief, and can make his young men do what he tells them; and Peter is our friend. With Peter to stand by us, and a merciful Providence to direct us where, when, and how to go, we can have nothing to fear. I trust in Divine Providence."

"Who he be?" asked Pigeonswing, innocently, for his knowledge of English did not extend far enough to comprehend a phrase so complicated, though so familiar to ourselves. "He know all paths, eh?"

"Yes; and directs us on all paths—more especially such as are for our good."

"Bess get him to tell you path into Detroit. Dat good path, now, for all pale-faces."

On uttering this advice, which he did also somewhat pointedly, the Chippewa left the spring, and walked toward the kennel of Hive, where the bee-hunter was busy feeding his old companion.

"You're welcome back, Pigeonswing," the last cordially remarked, without pausing in his occupation, however. "I saw that you came in loaded, as usual. Have you left any dead game in the Openings, for me to go and back in with you?"

"You open ear, Bourdon—you know what Injin say," returned the Chippewa, earnestly. "When dog get 'nough come wid me. Got somet'ing to tell. Bess hear it, when he CAN hear it"

"You'll find me ready enough in a minute. There, Hive, my good fellow, that ought to satisfy any reasonable dog, and I've never found you unreasonable yet. Well, Chippewa, here I am, with my ears wide open—stop, I've a bit of news, first, for your ears. Do you know, Pigeonswing, my good fellow, that I am married?"

"Marry, eh? Got squaw, eh? Where you get him?"

"Here, to be sure—where else should I get her? There is but one girl in these Openings that I would ask to be my wife, and she has been asked, and answered, yes. Parson Amen married us, yesterday, on our way in from Prairie Round; so that puts me on a footing with yourself. When you boast of your squaw that you've left in your wigwam, I can boast of mine that I have here. Margery is a girl to boast of, too!"

"Yes; good squaw, dat. Like dat squaw pretty well. Nebber see better. Bess keep squaw alway in his own wigwam."

"Well, mine is in my own wigwam. Castle Meal is my property, and she does it honor."

"Dat an't what Injin mean. Mean dis. Bess have wigwam at home, dere, where pale-face lives, and bess keep squaw in DAT wigwam. Where my squaw, eh? She home, in my wigwam—take care of pappoose, hoe corn, and keep ground good. So bess wid white squaw—bess home, at work."

"I believe I understand what you mean, Pigeon. Well, home we mean to go, before the winter sets in, and when matters have a little settled down between the English and Yankees. It isn't safe travelling, just now, in Michigan—you must own that, yourself, my good fellow."

The Indian appeared at a loss, now, how to express himself further. On one side was his faith to his color, and his dread of Peter and the great chiefs; on the other, his strong regard for the bee- hunter. He pondered a moment, and then took his own manner of communicating that which he wished to say. The fact that his friend was married made no great difference in his advice, for the Indian was much too shrewd an observer not to have detected the bee- hunter's attachment. He had not supposed it possible to separate his friend from the family of Gershom, though he did suppose there would be less difficulty in getting him to go on a path different from that which the missionary and corporal might take. His own great purpose was to serve le Bourdon, and how many or how few might incidentally profit by it he did not care. The truth compels us to own, that even Margery's charms, and nature, and warm-hearted interest in all around her, had failed to make any impression on his marble-like feelings; while the bee-hunter's habits, skill in his craft, and close connection with himself at the mouth of the river, and more especially in liberating him from his enemies, had united him in a comrade's friendship with her husband. It was a little singular that this Chippewa did not fall into Peter's superstitious dread of the bee-hunter's necromancy, though he was aware of all that had passed the previous day on the prairie. Either on account of his greater familiarity with le Bourdon's habits, or because he was in the secret of the trick of the whiskey-spring, or from a closer knowledge of white men and their ways, this young Indian was freer from apprehensions of this nature, perhaps, than any one of the same color and origin within many miles of the spot. In a word, Pigeons-wing regarded the bee-hunter as his friend, while he looked upon the other pale-faces as so many persons thrown by accident in his company. Now that Margery had actually become his friend's squaw, his interest in her was somewhat increased; though she had never obtained that interest in his feelings that she had awakened in the breast of Peter, by her attentions to him, her gentleness, light-hearted gayety, and womanly care, and all without the least design on her own part.

"No," answered the Chippewa, after a moment's reflection, "no very safe for Yankee, or Yankee Injin. Don't t'ink my scalp very safe, if chief know'd I'm Yankee runner. Bess alway to keep scalp safe. Dem Pottawattamie I take care not to see. Know all about 'em, too. Know what he SAY—know what he DO—b'lieve I know what he T'INK."

"I did not see you, Pigeon, among the red young men, yesterday, out on Prairie Round."

"Know too much to go dere. Crowsfeather and Pottawattamie out dere. Bess not go near dem when dey have eye open. Take 'em asleep. Dat bess way wid sich Injin. Catch 'em some time! But your ear open, Bourdon?"

"Wide open, my good friend—what have you to whisper in it?"

"You look hard at Peter when he come in. If he t'ink good deal, and don't say much, when he DO speak, mind what he say. If he smile, and very much friend, must hab his scalp."

"Chippewa, Peter is my friend, lives in my cabin, and eats of my bread! The hand that touches him, touches me."

"Which bess, eh—HIS scalp, or your'n? If he VERY much friend when he comes in, his scalp muss come off, or your'n. Yes, juss so. Dat de way. Know Injin better dan you know him, Bourdon. You good bee- hunter, but poor Injin. Ebbery body hab his way—Injin got his. Peter laugh and very much friend, when he come home, den he mean to hab YOUR scalp. If don't smile, and don't seem very much friend, but look down, and t'ink, t'ink, t'ink, den he no mean to hurt you, but try to get you out of hand of chiefs. Dat all."

As Pigeonswing concluded, he walked coolly away, leaving his friend to ruminate on the alternative of scalp or no scalp! The bee-hunter now understood the Chippewa perfectly. He was aware that this man had means of his own to ascertain what was passing around him in the Openings, and he had the utmost confidence in his integrity and good wishes. If a red man is slow to forget an injury, he never forgets a favor. In this he was as unlike as possible to most of the pale- faces who were supplanting his race, for these last had, and have, as extraordinary a tenacity in losing sight of benefits, as they have in remembering wrongs.

By some means or other, it was now clear that Pigeonswing foresaw that a crisis was at hand. Had le Bourdon been as disconnected and solitary as he was when he first met the Chippewa, it is not probable that either the words or the manner of his friend would have produced much impression on him, so little accustomed was he to dwell on the hazards of his frontier position. But the case was now altogether changed. Margery and her claims stood foremost in his mind; and through Margery came Dolly and her husband. There was no mistaking Pigeonswing's intention. It was to give warning of some immediate danger, and a danger that, in some way, was connected with the deportment of Peter. It was easy enough to comprehend the allusions to the mysterious chief's smiles and melancholy; and the bee-hunter understood that he was to watch that Indian's manner, and take the alarm or bestow his confidence accordingly.

Le Bourdon was not left long in doubt. Peter arrived about half-an- hour after Pigeonswing had gone to seek his rest; and from the instant he came in sight, our hero discerned the thoughtful eye and melancholy manner. These signs were still more obvious when the tribeless Indian came nearer; so obvious, indeed, as to strike more than one of those who were interested observers of all that this extraordinary being said and did. Among others, Margery was the first to see this change, and the first to let it influence her own manner. This she did, notwithstanding le Bourdon had said nothing to her on the subject, and in defiance of the bashful feelings of a bride; which, under circumstances less marked, might have induced her to keep more in the background. As Peter stopped at the spring to quench his thirst, Margery was, in truth, the first to approach and to speak to him.

"You seem weary, Peter," said the young wife, somewhat timidly as to voice and air, but with a decided and honest manifestation of interest in what she was about. Nor had Margery gone empty-handed. She took with her a savory dish, one of those that the men of the woods love—meat cooked in its own juices, and garnished with several little additions, that her skill in the arts of civilized life enabled her to supply.

"You seem tired, Peter, and if I did not fear to say it, I should tell you that you also seem sad," said Margery, as she placed her dish on a rude table that was kept at the spot, for the convenience of those who seldom respected hours, or regularity of any sort in their meals. "Here is food that you like, which I have cooked with my own hands."

The Indian looked intently at the timid and charming young creature, who came forward thus to contribute to his comforts, and the saddened expression of his countenance deepened. He was fatigued and hungry, and he ate for some time without speaking, beyond uttering a brief expression of his thanks. When his appetite was appeased, however, and she who had so sedulously attended to his wants was about to remove the remains of the dish, he signed with his finger for her to draw nearer, intimating that he had something to say. Margery obeyed without hesitation, though the color flitted in her face like the changes in an evening sky. But so much good will and confidence had been awakened between these two, that a daughter would not have drawn near to a father with more confidence than Margery stood before Peter.

"Medicine-man do what I tell him, young squaw, eh?" demanded Peter, smiling slightly, and for the first time since they had met.

"By medicine-man do you mean Mr. Amen, or Bourdon?" the bride asked in her turn, her whole face reflecting the confusion she felt, scarcely knowing why.

"Bot'. One medicine-man say his prayer; t'odder medicine-man take young squaw's hand, and lead her into his wigwam. Dat what I mean."

"I am married to Bourdon," returned Margery, dropping her eyes to the ground, "if that be what you wish to know. I hope you think I shall have a good husband, Peter."

"Hope so, too—nebber know till time come. All good for little while—Injin good, squaw good. Juss like weadder. Sometime rain— sometime storm—sometime sunshine. Juss so wid Injin, juss so wid pale-face. No difference. All same. You see dat cloud?—he little now; but let wind blow, he grow big, and you see nuttin' but cloud. Let him have plenty of sunshine, and he go away; den all clear over head. Dat bess way to live wid husband."

"And that is the way which Bourdon and I WILL always live together. When we get back among our own people, Peter, and are living comfortably in a pale-face wigwam, with pale-face food, and pale- face drinks, and all the other good things of pale-face housekeeping about us, then I hope you will come and see how happy we are, and pass some time with us. Every year I wish you to come and see us, and to bring us venison, and Bourdon will give you powder, and lead, and blankets, and all you may want, unless it be fire-water. Fire- water he has promised never again to give to an Injin."

"No find any more whiskey-spring, eh?" demanded Peter, greatly interested in the young woman's natural and warm-hearted manner of proposing her hospitalities. "So bess—so bess. Great curse for Injin. Plenty honey, no fire-water. All dat good. And I come, if—"

Here Peter stopped, nor could all Margery's questions induce him to complete the sentence. His gaze at the earnest countenance of the bride was such as to give her an indefinite sort of uneasiness, not to say a feeling of alarm.

Still no explanation passed between them. Margery remained near Peter for some time, administering to his wants, and otherwise demeaning herself much as a daughter might have done. At length le Bourdon joined them. The salutations were friendly, and the manner in which the mysterious chief regarded the equally mysterious bee- hunter, was not altogether without a certain degree of awe. Boden perceived this, and was not slow to comprehend that he owed this accession of influence to the scene which had occurred on the prairie.

"Is the great council ended, Peter?" asked the bee-hunter, when the little interval of silence had been observed.

"Yes, it over. No more council, now, on Prairie Round."

"And the chiefs—have they all gone on their proper paths? What has become of my old acquaintance, Crowsfeather? and all the rest of them—Bear's Meat, in particular?"

"All gone. No more council now. Agree what to do and so go away."

"But are red men always as good as their words? do they PERFORM always what they PROMISE?"

"Sartain. Ebbery man ought do what he say. Dat Injin law—no pale- face law, eh?"

"It may be the LAW, Peter, and a very good law it is; but we white men do not always MIND our own laws."

"Dat bad—Great Spirit don't like dat," returned Peter, looking grave, and slowly shaking his head. "Dat very bad. When Injin say he do it, den he do it, if he can. If can't, no help for it. Send squaw away now, Bourdon—bess not to let squaw hear what men say, or will always want to hear."

Le Bourdon laughed, as he turned to Margery and repeated these words. The young wife colored, but she took it in good part, and ran up toward the palisaded lodge, like one who was glad to be rid of her companions. Peter waited a few moments, then turning his head slowly in all directions, to make sure of not being overheard, he began to lay open his mind.

"You been on Prairie Round, Bourdon—you see Injin dere—chief, warrior, young men, hunter, all dere."

"I saw them all, Peter, and a goodly sight it was—what between paint, and medals, and bows and arrows and tomahawks, and all your bravery!"

"You like to see him, eh? Yes; he fine t'ing to look at. Well, dat council call togedder by ME—you know dat, too, Bourdon?"

"I have heard you say that such was your intention, and I suppose you did it, chief. They tell me you have great power among your own people, and that they do very much as you tell them to do."

Peter looked graver than ever at this remark; and one of his startling gleams of ferocity passed over his dark countenance. Then he answered with his customary self-command.

"Sometime so," he said; "sometime not so. Yesterday, not so. Dere is chief dat want to put Peter under his foot! He try, but he no do it! I know Peter well, and know dat chief, too."

"This is news to me, Peter, and I am surprised to hear it. I did think that even the great Tecumthe was scarcely as big a chief as you are yourself."

"Yes, pretty big chief; dat true. But, among Injin, ebbery man can speak, and nebber know which way council go. Sometime he go one way; sometime he go tudder. You hear Bough of Oak speak, eh? Tell me dat?"

"You will remember that I heard none of your speakers on Prairie Round, Peter. I do not remember any such orator as this Bough of Oak."

"He great rascal," said Peter, who had picked up some of the garrison expressions among those from whom he acquired the knowledge of English he possessed, such as it was. "Listen, Bourdon. Nebber bess stand too much in Peter's way."

The bee-hunter laughed freely at this remark; for his own success the previous day, and the impression he had evidently made on that occasion, emboldened him to take greater liberties with the mysterious chief than had been his wont.

"I should think that, Peter," cried the young man, gayly—"I should think all that. For one, I should choose to get out of it. The path you travel is your own, and all wise men will leave you to journey along it in your own fashion."

"Yes; dat bess way," answered the great chief, with admirable simplicity. "Don't like, when he says yes, to hear anudder chief say no. Dat an't good way to do business."

These were expressions caught from the trading whites, and were often used by those who got their English from them. "I tell you one t'ing, Bourdon—dat Bough of Oak very foolish Injin if he put foot on my path."

"This is plain enough, Peter," rejoined le Bourdon, who was unconcernedly repairing some of the tools of his ordinary craft. "By the way, I am greatly in your debt, I learn, for one thing. They tell me I've got my squaw in my wigwam a good deal sooner, by your advice, than I might have otherwise done. Margery is now my wife, I suppose you know; and I thank you heartily, for helping me to get married so much sooner than I expected to be."

Here Peter grasped Bourdon by the hand, and poured out his whole soul, secret hopes, fears, and wishes. On this occasion he spoke in the Indian dialect—one of those that he knew the bee-hunter understood. And we translate what he said freely into English, preserving as much of the original idiom as the change of language will permit.

"Listen, hunter of the bee, the great medicine of the pale-faces, and hear what a chief that knows the red men is about to tell you. Let my words go into your ears; let them stay in your mind. They are words that will do you good. It is not wise to let such words come out again by the hole through which they have just entered.

"My young friend knows our traditions. They do not tell us that the Injins were Jews; they tell us that the Manitou created them red men. They tell us that our fathers used these hunting-grounds ever since the earth was placed on the back of the big tortoise which upholds it. The pale-faces say the earth moves. If this be true, it moves as slowly as the tortoise walks. It cannot have gone far since the Great Spirit lifted his hand off it. If it move, the hunting- grounds move with it, and the tribes move with their own hunting- grounds. It may be that some of the pale-faces are lost, but no Injin is lost—the medicine-priest is mistaken. He has looked so often in his book, that he sees nothing but what is there. He does not see what is before his eyes, at his side, behind his back, ail around him. I have known such Injins. They see but one thing; even the deer jump across their paths, and are not seen.

"Such are our traditions. They tell us that this land was given to the red men, and not to pale-faces. That none but red men have any right to hunt here. The Great Spirit has laws. He has told us these laws. They teach us to love our friends, and to hate our enemies. You don't believe this, Bourdon?" observing the bee-hunter to wince a little, as if he found the doctrine bad.

"This is not what our priests tell US," answered le Bourdon. "They tell us that the white man's God commands us to love all alike—to do GOOD to our enemies, to LOVE them that wish us HARM, and to treat all men as we would wish men to treat us." Peter was a good deal surprised at this doctrine, and it was nearly a minute before he resumed the discourse. He had recently heard it several times, and it was slowly working its way into his mind.

"Such are our traditions, and such are our laws. Look at me. Fifty winters have tried to turn my hair white. Time can do that. The hair is the only part of an Injin that ever turns white; all the rest of him is red. That is his color. The game knows an Injin by his color. The tribes know him. Everything knows him by his color. He knows the things which the Great Spirit has given him, in the same way. He gets used to them, and they are his acquaintances. He does not like strange things. He does not like strangers. White men are strangers, and he does not like to see them on his hunting-ground. If they come singly, to kill a few buffaloes, or to look for honey, or to catch beaver, the Injins would not complain. They love to give of their abundance. The pale-faces do not come in this fashion. They do not come as guests; they come as masters. They come and they stay. Each year of my fifty have I heard of new tribes that have been driven by them toward the setting sun.

"Bourdon, for many seasons I have thought of this. I have tried to find a way to stop them. There is but one. That way must the Injins try, or give up their hunting-grounds to the strangers. No nation likes to give up its hunting-grounds. They come from the Manitou, and one day he may ask to have them back again. What could the red men say, if they let the pale-faces take them away? No; this we cannot do. We will first try the one thing that is to be done."

"I believe I understand you, Peter," observed le Bourdon, finding that his companion paused. "You mean war. War, in the Injin mode of redressing all wrongs; war against man, woman, and child!"

Peter nodded in acquiescence, fixing his glowing eyes on the bee- hunter's face, as if to read his soul.

"Am I to understand, then, that you and your friends, the chiefs and their followers, that I saw on Prairie Round, mean to begin with US, half-a-dozen whites, of whom two are women, who happen to be here in your power—that OUR scalps are to be the first taken?"

"First!—no, Bourdon. Peter's hand has taken a great many, years since. He has got a name for his deeds, and no longer dare go to the white men's forts. He does not look for Yankees, he looks for pale- faces. When he meets a pale-face on the prairies, or in the woods, he tries to get his scalp. This has he done for years, and many has he taken."

"This is a bloody account you are giving of yourself, Peter, and I would rather you should not have told it. Some such account I have heard before; but living with you, and eating, and drinking, and sleeping, and travelling in your company, I had not only hoped, but begun to think, it was not true."

"It is true. My wish is to cut off the pale-faces. This must be done, or the pale-faces will cut off the Injins. There is no choice. One nation or the other must be destroyed. I am a red man; my heart tells me that the pale-faces should die. They are on strange hunting-grounds, not the red men. They are wrong, we are right. But, Bourdon, I have friends among the pale-faces, and it is not natural to scalp our friends. I do not understand a religion that tells us to love our enemies, and to do good to them that do harm to us—it is a strange religion. I am a poor Injin, and do not know what to think! I shall not believe that any do this, till I see it. I understand that we ought to love our friends. Your squaw is my daughter. I have called her daughter—she knows it, and my tongue is not forked, like a snake's. What it says, I mean. Once I meant to scalp your young squaw, because she was a pale-face squaw, and might be the mother of more. Now I do not mean to scalp her; my hand shall never harm her. My wisdom shall tell her to escape from the hands of red men who seek her scalp. You, too; now you are her husband, and are a great medicine-man of the bees, my hand shall not hurt you, either. Open your ears wide, for big truths must go into them."

Peter then related in full his attempt to procure a safe passage for le Bourdon and Margery into the settlements, and its total failure. He owned that by his previous combinations he had awakened a spirit among the Indians that his present efforts could not quell. In a word, he told the whole story as it must have been made apparent to the reader, and he now came with his plans to defeat the very schemes that he had himself previously projected. One thing, however, that he did not conceal, filled the mind of his listener with horror, and created so strong an aversion to acting in concert with one who could even allude to it so coolly, that there was danger of breaking off all communications between the parties, and placing the result purely on force; a course that must have proved totally destructive to all the whites. The difficulty arose from a naive confession of Peter's, that he did not even wish to save any but le Bourdon and Margery, and that he still desired the deaths of all the others, himself!



CHAPTER XXIV.

For thou wert born of woman! Thou didst come, O Holiest! to this world of sin and gloom, Not in thy dread omnipotent array; And not by thunders strewed Was thy tempestuous road, Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way. But thee, a soft and naked child, Thy mother undefiled, In the rude manger laid to rest From off her virgin breast.

The blood of the bee-hunter curdled in his veins as he listened to Peter's business-like and direct manner of treating this terrible subject. Putting the most favorable view on his situation, it was frightful to look on. Admitting that this fanatical savage were sincere in all his professions of a wish to save him and Margery, and le Bourdon did not, nay, COULD not doubt this, after his calm but ferocious revelations; but, admitting all this to be true, how was he to escape with his charming bride, environed as they were by so large a band of hostile Indians? Then the thought of abandoning his other companions, and attempting, in cold selfishness, to escape with Margery alone, was more than he could bear. Never before, in his adventurous and bold life, had le Bourdon been so profoundly impressed with a sense of his danger, or so much overcome.

Still, our hero was not unmanned. He saw all the hazards, as it were, at a glance, and felt how terrible might be the result should they really fall into the hands of the warriors, excited to exercise their ingenuity in devising the means of torture; and he gazed into the frightful perspective with a manly steadiness that did him credit, even while he sickened at the prospect.

Peter had told his story in a way to add to its horrible character. There was a manner of truth, of directness, of WORK, if one may use such an expression on such a subject, that gave a graphic reality to all he said. As if his task was done, the mysterious chief now coolly arose, and moved away to a little grove, in which the missionary and the corporal had thrown themselves on the grass, where they lay speculating on the probable course that the bands in their neighborhood would next pursue. So thoroughly possessed was the clergyman with his one idea, however, that he was expressing regret at his failure in the attempt to convince the savages that they were Jews, when Peter joined them.

"You tired—you lie down in daytime, like sick squaw, eh?" asked the Indian, in a slightly satirical manner. "Bess be up, sich fine day, and go wid me to see some more chief."

"Most gladly, Peter," returned the missionary, springing to his feet with alacrity—"and I shall have one more opportunity to show your friends the truth of what I have told them."

"Yes, Injin love to hear trut'—hate to hear lie. Can tell 'em all you want to say. He go too, eh?" pointing to the corporal, who rather hung back, as if he saw that in the invitation which was not agreeable to him.

"I will answer for my friend," returned the confiding missionary, cheerfully. "Lead on, Peter, and we will follow."

Thus pledged, the corporal no longer hesitated; but he accompanied Parson Amen, as the latter fell into the tracks of the chief, and proceeded rapidly in the direction of the spring in the piece of bottom-land, where the council first described had been held. This spot was about two miles from the palisaded house, and quite out of view, as well as out of reach of sound. As they walked side by side, taking the footsteps of the great chief for their guides, the corporal, however, expressed to his companion his dislike of the whole movement.

"We ought to stand by our garrison in times like these, Mr. Amen," said the well-meaning soldier. "A garrison is a garrison; and Injins seldom do much on a well-built and boldly-defended spot of that natur'. They want artillery, without which their assaults are never very formidable."