"What does he see?" asked Paul, in a low voice.

"Footprints," said Hendrick.

"What of—deer?" asked the captain, in a hoarse whisper.

"No—natives. Perhaps his friends."

While they were whispering, the Indian was on his knees examining the footprints in question. Rising after a few minutes' survey, with a grave look he said—

"Strongbow is not sure. The prints look like those of his tribe, but— he is not sure!"

"At all events we can follow them," said Hendrick. "The land is open; we cannot easily be surprised, and we have our weapons handy."

As he spoke he drew an arrow from his quiver, and, affixing the notch to the bow-string, carried the weapon in his left hand. The others followed his example. Oliver felt his belt behind, to make sure that the axe was there, and glanced at the mighty club that hung from his shoulder.

Oscar, regarding with a slight degree of wonder the warlike arrangements of his friend, also fitted an arrow to his little bow, and then, with cautious steps and inquiring glances, the party continued to advance.

But Hendrick was wrong in supposing that a surprise was not probable, for suddenly from behind a frowning rock or cliff there appeared a band of armed men who confronted them, and instantly raised their bows to shoot. Quick as lightning the white men did the same. Evidently both parties were taken by surprise, for if the Indians had been a party in ambush they would have shot at the others without showing themselves. This or some such idea seemed to flash into the minds of both parties, for there was a slight hesitation on the part of each. Just at that moment a large black dog which accompanied the Indians, and had displayed all its formidable teeth and gums on seeing the strangers, was observed to cover its teeth and wag its tail interrogatively.

Hendrick gave a low whistle.

Instantly the dog bounded towards him, and began to fawn and leap upon and around him with every demonstration of excessive joy, at sight of which both parties lowered their weapons.

"The dog is an old friend," explained Hendrick to Paul. "Good dog," he added, addressing the animal in the Indian tongue, "you are a faithful friend—faithful in time of need."

Then, dropping his bow and advancing unarmed to the Indians, he said—

"This dog belongs to the Bethucks of Grand Lake. Did you obtain him from them?"

"No, we did not," replied one of the Indians, who seemed from his bearing to be a chief, "but we are kinsmen of the men of Grand Lake. One of their braves, Little Beaver, took one of our girls, Rising Sun, for his wife. We come from yonder (pointing northward). Some moons have passed since Little Beaver, who came to revisit us with his wife, left us to return to his wigwam on Grand Lake."

"I know Little Beaver well," said Hendrick, as the chief paused at this point; "the dog belongs to him."

Without noticing the remark the chief continued—

"When Little Beaver and Rising Sun left us they went on alone by the shores of the great salt lake. We never saw our brave in life again. Some time after, a party of our warriors came upon a grave. They examined it, and found the dead body of Little Beaver. It was bruised, and many bones were broken. A party of white men had built lodges near to the place. It was they who had murdered Little Beaver, we knew, for there was no sign of others near, and his dog was with them. So our braves went to the kinsmen of Rising Sun, and we returned and attacked the palefaces."

"Did you slay all the palefaces?" asked Hendrick anxiously.

"No, some we slew, others we took prisoners."

Hendrick thought it best to reserve in the meantime his communication of all this to Paul and his friends.

"I am your kinsman also," he said to the chief, "for Trueheart is my wife. I have much to say to you, but our business is pressing. Will you walk with me while we talk?"

The chief bowed his head, and ordered his party to fall to the rear and follow, while he walked in advance with the pale-faced hunter.

Hendrick then explained to the Indian as much about the wreck of the Water Wagtail and the dismissal of Captain Trench and his comrades as he thought necessary, and then said that although his three friends were indignant at the treatment they had received from their comrades, they would be grieved to hear that any of them were to be killed, and he greatly wished to prevent that. "Would the chief guide him to the place where the prisoners were?"

"I will guide you," said the chief, "but you will find it hard to save them. Palefaces have slain Little Beaver and stolen Rising Sun, and palefaces must die."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

OLD FRIENDS IN A SAD PLIGHT.

Anxious though Paul Burns naturally was for the fate of the crew of the Water Wagtail, he could not help being interested in, and impressed by, the fine country which he was thus unexpectedly obliged to traverse. His mind being of a practical and utilitarian cast, as well as religious, he not only admired the grand and richly diversified land as being part of the works of God, but as being eminently suitable for the use and enjoyment of man.

"Look there," he said to Captain Trench, as they plodded steadily along, at the same time pointing to a break in a neighbouring cliff which revealed the geological features of the land. "Do you see yonder beds of rock of almost every colour in the rainbow? These are marble-beds, and from the look of the parts that crop out I should say they are extensive."

"But not of much use," returned the captain, "so long as men are content to house themselves in huts of bark and skins."

"So might some short-sighted mortal among our own savage forefathers have said long ago if the mineral wealth of Britain had been pointed out to him," returned Paul. "Yet we have lived to see the Abbey of Westminster and many other notable edifices arise in our land."

"Then you look forward to such-like rising in this land?" said the captain, with something of a cynical smile.

"Well, not exactly, Master Trench; but our grandchildren may see them, if men will only colonise the land and strive to develop its resources on Christian principles."

"Such as—?" asked Trench.

"Such as the doing to others as one would have others do to one's-self, and the enacting of equal laws for rich and poor."

"Then will Newfoundland never be developed," said the captain emphatically; "for history tells us that the bulk of men have never been guided by such principles since the days of Adam."

"Since when were you enrolled among the prophets, Master Trench?"

"Since you uttered the previous sentence, Master Paul. I appeal to your own knowledge of history."

"Nay, I question not your historical views, but your prophetical statements, as to the fate of this island. Have you not heard of this writing—that 'the knowledge of the Lord shall cover the earth as the waters cover the sea?' Does not that signify completeness in the spread of knowledge? And when that comes to pass, will it bear no good fruit? If not, why is it recorded as a blessed state of things to which we may look forward, and towards which we may strive? I admit that the wickedness of man may delay the desired end. Unjust laws, interference with freedom of action, hatred of truth, may check progress here as it has done elsewhere; but who can tell how soon the truth, as it is in Jesus, may begin to operate, or how rapidly it may culminate?"

"You may be right, Master Paul; I know not. Anyhow I withdraw my claim to be numbered with the prophets—all the more that I see Strongbow making signals which I don't rightly understand."

The Indian guide, who had been walking somewhat in advance of the party, was seen standing on the summit of a knoll making signals, not to his friends behind him, but apparently to some one in front. Hastening forward they soon found that he had discovered friends,—a body of Indians, who were hurrying to meet him; while down in the valley beyond, which suddenly burst upon their view, stood an extensive Indian village. It was of that evanescent and movable kind, which consists of cone-like tents made of skins and bark spread upon poles.

"They are friends," said Strongbow, when Hendrick and the others reached him; "kinsmen of the murdered Little Beaver."

"Friends of Hendrick also, I see," said the captain to Paul, as the hunter hastened forward to meet the Indians and salute them.

He was right, and a few minutes' conversation with his friends sufficed to put the guide in possession of all he wished to know. Returning to his companions, he at once relieved their minds, to some extent at least, by telling them that it was indeed the tribe into whose hands their old shipmates had fallen, and that the sailors were still alive and well, though prisoners, and lying under sentence of death.

"Come, that at all events is good news," said Paul. "I thank God we are not too late, and I make no doubt that we will persuade the Indians to delay execution of the sentence till we find out whether or not they have been guilty of this murder. Some of our old shipmates I know are capable of it, but others are certainly innocent."

Hendrick did not at once reply. It was evident from his looks that he had not much hope in the merciful disposition of the Indians.

"I know some men of this tribe," he said, "but not all of them—though they all know me by report. You may at least depend on my influence being used to the utmost in behalf of your friends. Come, we will descend."

A few minutes' walk brought them to the foot of the hill where the Indian tents were pitched. Here they found a multitude of men, women, and children watching them as they descended the hill, and, from the looks of many of the former, it seemed not at all improbable that a rough reception awaited them.

"You see," said Paul, in a low voice to the captain, "they probably class us with the murderers, because of our white skins. Our only hope, under God, rests in Hendrick."

That Paul's hope was not ill-founded became apparent the moment the hunter made himself known. For the scowling brows cleared at once, and one or two men, who had formerly met with the white hunter, came forward and saluted him in the European manner which he had already taught to many of the red men, namely, with a shake of the hand.

A great palaver followed in the wigwam of the chief, Bearpaw, in the course of which many things were talked about; but we confine our record to that part of the talk which bears specially on our tale.

"The men must die," said Bearpaw sternly. "What you tell me about their harsh treatment of their chief and his son and friend only proves them to be the more deserving of death. My two young braves who visited them on the island were treated like dogs by some of them, and Little Beaver they have slain. It is just that they should die."

"But my three friends here," returned Hendrick, "treated your braves well, and they had no knowledge or part in the killing of Little Beaver. Perhaps the palefaces did not kill him. Do they admit that they did?"

"How can we tell what they admit? We know not their language, nor they ours. But there is no need to palaver. Did not Strongbow and his braves find the dead body of Little Beaver bruised and broken? Did they not see his black dog in the paleface camp, and has not Rising Sun disappeared like the early frost before the sun? Doubtless she is now in the camp with those palefaces who have escaped us, but whom we will yet hunt down and kill."

"Bearpaw is right," said Hendrick, "murderers deserve to die. But Bearpaw is also just; he will let the men of the sea speak in their own defence now that I am here to interpret?"

"Bearpaw is just," returned the chief. "He will hear what the palefaces have got to say. One of the young men will take you to their prison."

He signed as he spoke to a young Indian, who instantly left the tent, followed by Hendrick and his friends.

Passing right through the village the party reached a precipice, on the face of which was what appeared to be the entrance to a cavern. Two Indians stood in front of it on guard. A voice was heard within, which struck familiarly, yet strangely, on Paul and the captain's ears. And little wonder, for it was the voice of Grummidge engaged in the unaccustomed act of prayer! The young Indian paused, and, with a solemn look, pointed upwards, as if to intimate that he understood the situation, and would not interrupt. Those whom he led also paused and listened—as did the sentinels, though they understood no word of what was said.

Poor Grummidge had evidently been brought very low, for his once manly voice was weak and his tones were desponding. Never before, perhaps, was prayer offered in a more familiar or less perfunctory manner.

"O Lord," he said, "do get us out o' this here scrape somehow! We don't deserve it, though we are awful sinners, for we've done nothin' as I knows on to hurt them savages. We can't speak to them an' they can't speak to us, an' there's nobody to help us. Won't you do it, Lord?"

"Sure it's no manner o' use goin' on like that, Grummidge," said another voice. "You've done it more than wance a'ready, an' there's no answer. Very likely we've bin too wicked intirely to deserve an answer at all."

"Speak for yourself Squill," growled a voice that was evidently that of Little Stubbs. "I don't think I've been as wicked as you would make out, nor half as wicked as yourself! Anyhow, I'm goin' to die game, if it comes to that. We can only die once, an' it'll soon be over."

"Ochone!" groaned Squill, "av it wasn't for the short allowance they've putt us on, an' the bad walkin' every day, an' all day, I wouldn't mind so much, but I've scarce got strength enough left to sneeze, an' as to my legs, och! quills they are instid of Squill's."

"For shame, man," remonstrated Grummidge, "to be makin' your bad jokes at a time like this."

The tone of the conversation now led the young Indian to infer that interruption might not be inappropriate, so he turned round the corner of rock that hid the interior from view, and led his party in front of the captives. They were seated on the ground with their backs against the wall, and their arms tied behind them.

The aspect of the unfortunate prisoners was indeed forlorn. It would have been ludicrous had it not been intensely pitiful. So woe-begone and worn were their faces that their friends might have been excused had they failed to recognise them, but, even in the depths of his misery and state of semi-starvation, it was impossible to mistake the expressive visage of poor Squill, whose legs were indeed reduced to something not unsuggestive of "quills," to say nothing of the rest of his body.

But all the other prisoners, Grummidge, Stubbs, Blazer, Taylor, and Garnet, were equally reduced and miserable, for the harsh treatment and prolonged journeying through forest and swamp, over hill and dale, on insufficient food, had not only brought them to the verge of the grave, but had killed outright one or two others of the crew who had started with them.

The visitors, owing to their position with their backs to the light of the cave's mouth, could not be recognised by the prisoners, who regarded them with listless apathy, until Captain Trench spoke, swallowing with difficulty a lump of some sort that nearly choked him.

"Hallo! shipmates! how goes it? Glad to have found ye, lads."

"Och!" exclaimed Squill, starting up, as did all his companions; but no other sound was uttered for a few seconds. Then a deep "thank God" escaped from Grummidge, and Little Stubbs tried to cheer, but with small success; while one or two, sitting down again, laid their thin faces in their hands and wept.

Reader, it were vain to attempt a description of the scene that followed, for the prisoners were not only overwhelmed with joy at a meeting so unexpected, but were raised suddenly from the depths of despair to the heights of confident hope, for they did not doubt that the appearance of their mates as friends of the Indians was equivalent to their deliverance. Even when told that their deliverance was by no means a certainty, their joy was only moderated, and their hope but slightly reduced.

"But tell me," said Paul, as they all sat down together in the cave, while the Indians stood by and looked silently on, "what is the truth about this Indian who was murdered, and the dog and the woman?"

"The Indian was never murdered," said Grummidge stoutly. "He had evidently fallen over the precipice. We found him dead and we buried him. His dog came to us at last and made friends with us, though it ran away the day the settlement was attacked. As to the woman, we never saw or heard of any woman at all till this hour!"

When Bearpaw was told how the matter actually stood, he frowned and said sternly—

"The palefaces lie. If they never saw Rising Sun, why did she not come back to us and tell what had happened? She was not a little child. She was strong and active, like the young deer. She could spear fish and snare rabbits as well as our young men. Why did she not return? Where is she? Either she is dead and the palefaces have killed her, or they have her still among them. Not only shall the palefaces answer for her with their lives, but the Bethucks will go on the war-path to the coast and sweep the paleface settlement into the sea!"

It was of no avail that Hendrick pleaded the cause of the prisoners earnestly, and set forth eloquently all that could be said in their favour, especially urging that some of them had been kind to the two Indians who first visited the white men. Rising Sun had been a favourite with the chief; she was dead—and so the palefaces must die!



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

TELLS OF TERRIBLE SUSPENSE—VIOLENT INTENTIONS AND RELIGIOUS DISCUSSION.

"Now I tell you what it is, Master Hendrick," said Captain Trench, the day after their arrival at the Indian camp. "I see this is goin' to be an ugly business, an' I give you fair warning that I'm goin' to git surly. I won't stand by quietly and see Grummidge and my men slaughtered before my eyes without movin' a finger. I'll keep quiet as long as there's any chance of all your palaverin' resulting in anything, but if the worst comes to the worst I'll show fight, even if I should have to stand alone with all the red devils in Newfoundland arrayed against me."

"I honour your feelings, Captain Trench, but doubt your judgment. How do you propose to proceed?"

"Will you join me? Answer me that question first."

"I will join you in any scheme that is reasonable," returned Hendrick, after a pause, "but not in a useless attempt to fight against a whole colony of Indians."

"Then I'll keep my plans of procedure in my own noddle," said the captain, turning away with an indignant fling, and taking the path that led to the cave or prison-house of his shipmates, for as yet they were allowed free intercourse with their friends.

"Grummidge," said he, in a stern voice, as he squatted down on the floor beside the unfortunate seaman, "things look bad, there's no doubt about that, an' it would be unkind deception to say otherwise, for that villain Bearpaw seems to git harder and harder the more they try to soften him. Now what I want to know is, are you an' the others prepared to join me, if I manage to cut your cords an' give you weapons, an'—"

"Shush! clap a stopper on your mouth, cappen," said Grummidge in an undertone, "the redskins are listening."

"An' what then? They know no more about English than I know about Timbuctoosh," returned the captain irascibly. "Let 'em listen! What I was a-goin' to say is, are you an' the other lads ready to follow me into the woods an' bolt if we can, or fight to the death if we can't?"

"Sure an' I'm ready to fight," interposed Squill, "or to follow ye to the end o' the world, an' further; but if I do I'll have to leave my legs behind me, for they're fit for nothin'. True it is, I feel a little stronger since your friend Hendrick got the bastes to increase our allowance o' grub, but I'm not up to much yet. Howsiver, I'm strong enough p'r'aps to die fightin'. Anyhow, I'll try."

"So will I," said Little Stubbs. "I feel twice the man I was since you found us."

"Putt me down on the list too, cap'n," said Fred Taylor, who was perhaps the least reduced in strength of any of the prisoners. "I'm game for anything short o' murder."

Similar sentiments having been expressed by his other friends, the captain's spirit was somewhat calmed.

Leaving them he went into the woods to ponder and work out his plans. There he met Paul and Hendrick.

"We are going to visit the prisoners," said the former.

"You'll find 'em in a more hopeful frame of mind," observed the captain.

"I wish they had better ground for their hopes," returned his friend, "but Bearpaw is inexorable. We are to have a final meeting with him to-morrow. I go now to have a talk with our poor friends. It may be that something in their favour shall be suggested."

Nothing, however, was suggested during the interview that followed, which gave the remotest hope that anything they could say or do would influence the savage chief in favour of his prisoners. Indeed, even if he had been mercifully disposed, the anger of his people against the seamen—especially the relatives of Little Beaver and those who had been wounded during the attack on Wagtail settlement—would have constrained him to follow out what he believed to be the course of justice.

When the final meeting between the visitors and the chief took place, the latter was surrounded by his principal warriors.

"Hendrick," he said, in reply to a proposal that execution should be at least delayed, "the name of the white hunter who has mated with the Bethuck girl is respected everywhere, and his wishes alone would move Bearpaw to pardon his paleface foes, but blood has been shed, and the price of blood must be paid. Hendrick knows our laws—they cannot be changed. The relations of Little Beaver cry aloud for it. Tell your paleface friends that Bearpaw has spoken."

When this was interpreted to Paul Burns a sudden thought flashed into his mind, and standing forth with flushed countenance and raised arm, he said—

"Hendrick, tell the chief of the Bethucks that when the Great Spirit formed man He made him without sin and gave him a just and holy law to obey; but man broke the law, and the Great Spirit had said that the price of the broken law is death. So there seemed no hope for man, because he could not undo the past, and the Great Spirit would not change His law. But he found a way of deliverance. The Great Spirit himself came down to earth, and, as the man Jesus Christ, paid the price of the broken law with His own blood, so that guilty, but forgiven, man might go free. Now, if the Great Spirit could pardon the guilty and set them free, would it be wrong in Bearpaw to follow His example?"

This was such a new idea to the Indian that he did not at first reply. He stood, with folded arms and knitted brow, pondering the question. At last he spoke slowly—

"Bearpaw knows not the thing about which his paleface brother speaks. It may be true. It seems very strange. He will inquire into the matter hereafter. But the laws that guide the Great Spirit are not the laws that guide men. What may be fit in Him, may not be fit in them."

"My dark-skinned brother is wrong," said Hendrick. "The law that guides the Great Spirit, and that should guide all His creatures, is one and the same. It is the law of love."

"Was it love that induced the palefaces to kill Little Beaver and steal Rising Sun?" demanded the chief fiercely.

"It was not," replied Hendrick; "it was sin; and Bearpaw has now an opportunity to act like the Great Spirit by forgiving those who, he thinks, have sinned against him."

"Never!" returned the chief vehemently. "The palefaces shall die; but they shall live one day longer while this matter is considered in council, for it is only children who act in haste. Go! Bearpaw has spoken."

To have secured even the delay of a single day was almost more than the prisoners' friends had hoped for, and they resolved to make the most of it.

"Now, Hendrick," said Paul, when they were in the tent that had been set aside for their use, "we must be prepared, you and I, to give the chief a full account of our religion; for, depend on it, his mind has been awakened, and he won't rest satisfied with merely discussing the subject with his men of war."

"True, Paul; what do you propose to do?"

"The first thing I shall do is to pray for guidance. After that I will talk with you."

"For my part," said Captain Trench, as Paul rose and left the tent, "I see no chance of moving that savage by religion or anything else, so I'll go an' make arrangements for the carryin' out o' my plans. Come along to the woods with me, Olly, I shall want your help."

"Father," said the boy, in a serious tone, as they entered the forest, "surely you don't mean to carry out in earnest the plan you spoke of to Grummidge and the others yesterday?"

"Why not, my son?"

"Because we are sure to be all killed if you do. As well might we try to stop the rising tide as to subdue a whole tribe of savages."

"And would you, Olly," said the seaman, stopping and looking sternly at the boy, "would you advise me to be so mean as to look on at the slaughter of my shipmates without making one effort to save them?"

"I would never advise you to do anything mean, father; an' if I did so advise you, you wouldn't do it; but the effort you think of makin' would not save the men. It would only end in all of us bein' killed."

"Well, and what o' that? Would it be the first time that men have been killed in a good cause?"

"But a cause can't be a good one unless some good comes of it! If there was a chance at all, I would say go at 'em, daddy, an' bowl 'em down like skittles, but you know there's no chance in your plan. Boltin' into the woods an' gittin' lost would be little use in the face o' savages that can track a deer by invisible footprints. An' fighting them would be like fighting moskitoes—one thousand down, another thousand come on! Besides, when you an' I are killed—which we're sure to be—what would come o' mother, sittin' there all alone, day after day, wonderin' why we never come back, though we promised to do so? Think how anxious it'll make her for years to come, an' how broken-hearted at last; an' think how careful she always was of you. Don't you remember in that blessed letter she sent me, just before we sailed, how she tells me to look well after you, an' sew the frogs on your sea-coat when they git loose, for she knows you'll never do it yourself, but will be fixin' it up with a wooden skewer or a bit o' rope-yarn. An' how I was to see an' make you keep your feet dry by changin' your hose for you when you were asleep, for you'd never change them yourself till all your toes an' heels came through 'em. Ah! daddy, it will be a bad job for mother if they kill you and me!"

"But what can I do, Olly?" said the mariner, in a somewhat husky voice, when this pathetic picture was presented to his view. "Your mother would be the last to advise me to stand by and look on without moving a finger to save 'em. What can I do, Olly? What can I do?"

This question was more easily put than answered. Poor Oliver looked as perplexed as his sire.

"Pr'aps," he said, "we might do as Paul said he'd do, an' pray about it."

"Well, we might do worse, my son. If I only could believe that the Almighty listens to us an' troubles Himself about our small affairs, I—"

"Don't you think it likely, father," interrupted the boy, "that if the Almighty took the trouble to make us, He will take the trouble to think about and look after us?"

"There's somethin' in that, Olly. Common sense points out that there's somethin' in that."

Whether or not the captain acted on his son's suggestion, there is no record to tell. All we can say is that he spent the remainder of that day in a very disturbed, almost distracted, state of mind, now paying short visits to the prisoners, anon making sudden rushes towards the chief's tent with a view to plead their cause, and checking himself on remembering that he knew no word of the Indian tongue; now and then arguing hotly with Paul and Hendrick, that all had not been done which might or ought to have been done, and sometimes hurrying into the woods alone.

Meanwhile, as had been anticipated, the chief sent for Hendrick and Paul to demand an explanation of the strange words which they had used about forgiveness and the broken law of the Great Spirit and Jesus Christ.

It would be out of place here to enter into the details of all that was said on both sides, but it may not be uninteresting to state that, during the discussion, both the palefaces and the red men became so intensely absorbed in contemplation of the vast region of comparatively new thought into which they were insensibly led, that they forgot for the time being the main object of the meeting, namely, the ultimate fate of the captives.

That the chief and his warriors were deeply impressed with the Gospel message was evident, but it was equally evident that the former was not to be moved from his decision, and in this the warriors sympathised with him. His strong convictions in regard to retributive justice were not to be shaken.

"No," he said, at the end of the palaver, "the blood of a Bethuck has been shed; the blood of the palefaces must flow."

"But tell him that that is not just even according to his own views," said Paul. "The blood of one paleface ought to suffice for the blood of one Bethuck."

This was received in silence. Evidently it had some weight with the chief.

"The paleface is right," he said, after a minute's thought. "Only one shall die. Let the prisoners decide among themselves who shall be killed. Go, Bearpaw has spoken—waugh!"

A few minutes later, and the prisoners, with their friends, were assembled in the cave discussing this new phase of their case.

"It's horrible!" said Grummidge. "D'ye think the chief is really in earnest?"

"There can be no doubt of it," said Hendrick.

"Then, my lads, I'll soon bid ye all farewell, for as I was your leader when the so-called murder was done, I'm bound in honour to take the consequences."

"Not at all," cried Squill, whose susceptible heart was touched with this readiness to self-sacrifice. "You can't be spared yet, Grummidge; if any man shud die it's the Irishman. Shure it's used we are to bein' kilt, anyhow!"

"There'll be none o' you killed at all," cried Captain Trench, starting up with looks of indignation. "I'll go and carry out my plans—ah! you needn't look like that, Olly, wi' your poor mother's reproachful eyes, for I'm determined to do it, right or wrong!"



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

DELIVERANCE.

Fortunately for Captain Trench, and indeed for the whole party, the execution of his plan was rendered unnecessary by an incident the full significance of which requires that we should transport the reader to another, but not far distant, part of the beautiful wilderness of Newfoundland.

Under the boughs of a spreading larch, on the summit of a mound which commanded a wide prospect of plain and morass, sat an Indian woman. She might have been taken for an old woman, so worn and thin was she, and so hollow were her cheeks; but the glossy blackness of her hair, the smoothness of her brow, and the glitter of her dark eyes told that she was yet in her youthful years.

She sat perfectly listless, with a vacant yet steadfast expression on her thin features, as if she were dreaming with her eyes open. The view before her was such as might indeed arouse the admiration of the most stolid; but it was evident that she took no notice of it, for her eyes were fixed on the clouds above the horizon.

Long she sat, almost motionless, thus gazing into space. Then she began to sing in a low sweet voice a plaintive air, which rose and fell for some time more like a tuneful wail than a song. Suddenly, and in the very midst of her song, she burst into a wild laugh, which increased in vehemence until it rang through the forest in a scream so terrible that it could be accounted for by nothing but insanity. That the poor creature's reason was indeed dethroned became evident from her subsequent movements, for after falling backwards from the exhaustion produced by her effort, or, it might be, from the sheer weakness resulting from partial starvation, she got up and began quietly to cut up and devour raw a small bird which she had killed with a stone. Strengthened a little by this food, she rose and made a futile effort to draw more closely around her a little shawl, or rather kerchief of deerskin, which covered her shoulders, shuddering with cold as she did so.

Her short leathern gown and leggings were so soiled and torn that the ornamental work with which they had been originally decorated was almost invisible, and the moccasins she had worn hung in mere shreds upon her little feet.

Rising slowly, and with a weary sigh, the poor creature descended the side of the hill and entered the forest at the foot of it.

Lying concealed in a neighbouring thicket an Indian youth had watched the motions of the girl. It was evident, from his gaze of surprise, that he had just discovered her. It was equally evident, from his expression of perplexity, that he hesitated to intrude upon one who, he could not help seeing, was mad; but when she moved forward he followed her with the soft wary tread of a panther.

At first the girl's step was slow and listless. Then it became rapid. A fit of excitement seemed to come on, and she began to run. Presently the excitement seemed to have passed, for she fell again into the listless walk. After a time she sat down, and recommenced her low wailing song.

At this point, taking advantage of a neighbouring thicket, the young Indian drew as near to the girl as possible, and, in a low voice, uttered the Indian word for—"Rising Sun!"

Starting violently, the girl turned round, stretched out both arms, and, with intense hope expressed in every feature, took a step forward. In an instant the expression vanished. Another terrible scream resounded in the air, and, turning quickly away, she fled like a hunted deer.

The young man pursued, but he evidently did not try to overtake her— only to keep her in sight. The maniac did not choose her course, but ran straight before her, leaping over fallen trees and obstructions with a degree of agility and power that seemed marvellous. Sometimes she shrieked as she ran, sometimes she laughed fiercely, but she never looked back. At last she came to a small lake—about a quarter of a mile wide. She did not attempt to skirt it, but went straight in with a wild rush, and, being well able to swim, struck out for the opposite shore. The young man followed without hesitation, but could not overtake her, and when he landed she had disappeared in the woods beyond.

Skilled to follow a trail, however, the youth soon recovered sight of her, but still did not try to overtake her—only to keep her in view.

At length the fire which had sustained the poor creature seemed to have burned itself out. In attempting to leap over a low bush Rising Sun stumbled, fell, and lay as if dead.

The Indian youth came up and, raising her in his arms, looked very sadly into her face. She still breathed, but gave no other sign of life. The youth, therefore, lifted her from the ground. He was tall and strong. She was small in person, and reduced almost to skin and bone. He carried her in his arms as though she had been but a little child, and, an hour later, bore her into the Indian camp, for which for many days past she had been making—straight as the arrow flies from the bow.

He carried her at once to the chief's tent and laid his burden softly down, at the same time explaining how and where he had found her.

Bearpaw sprang up with an air of excitement which an Indian seldom displays. Evidently his feelings were deeply touched, as he knelt and raised the girl's head. Then he ordered his chief squaw to supply Rising Sun with some warm food.

It was evening when this occurred. Most of the people were supping in their tents. No one was with the chief save his own family and two of his braves.

When the poor maniac revived under the influence of the warm food, she started up with wild looks and sought again to fly, but was forcibly detained by one of the braves.

"Oh, let me go—let me go!—to his mother!" she wailed piteously, for she felt herself to be helpless in the youth's strong grasp.

"Has Rising Sun forgotten Bearpaw?" said the chief tenderly, as he stood before her.

"Yes—yes—no. I have not forgotten," she said, passing her hand over her brow; "but, oh! let me go to her before I die!"

"Rising Sun shall not die. She is among friends now. The pale-faced enemies who killed Little Beaver can do her no harm."

"Killed him—enemies!" murmured the poor girl, as if perplexed; then, quickly, "Yes—yes—he is dead. Does not Rising Sun know it? Did she not see it with her own eyes? He was killed—killed!"

The poor girl's voice rose as she spoke until it was almost a shriek.

"Rising Sun," said the chief, in a tone which the girl could not choose but obey, "tell us who killed him?"

"Killed him? No one killed him!" she answered, with a return of the perplexed look. "He missed his footing and fell over the cliff, and the Great Spirit took him."

"Then the palefaces had nothing to do with it?" asked the chief eagerly.

"Oh! yes; the palefaces had to do with it. They were there, and Rising Sun saw all that they did; but they did not see her, for when she saw them coming she hid herself, being in great fear. And she knew that Little Beaver was dead. No man could fall from such a cliff and live. Dead—dead! Yes, he is dead. Oh! let me go."

"Not yet, Rising Sun. What did the palefaces do? Did they take his scalp?"

"No; oh! no. The palefaces were kind. They lifted him tenderly. They dug his grave. They seemed as if they loved him like myself. Then they went away, and then—Rising Sun forgets! She remembers running and bounding like the deer. She cannot—she forgets!"

The poor girl stopped speaking, and put her hand to her brow as if to restrain the tumult of her thoughts. Then, suddenly, she looked up with a wild yet intelligent smile.

"Yes, she remembers now. Her heart was broken, and she longed to lay it on the breast of Little Beaver's mother—who loved him so well. She knew where the wigwams of Bearpaw stood, and she ran for them as the bee flies when laden with honey to its home. She forgets much. Her mind is confused. She slept, she fell, she swam, she was cold—cold and hungry—but—but now she has come home. Oh, let me go!"

"Let her go," said the chief, in a low voice.

The young brave loosed his hold, and Rising Sun bounded from the tent.

It was dark by that time, but several camp-fires threw a lurid glare over the village, so that she had no difficulty in finding the hut of her dead husband's mother, for, during the interchange of several visits between members of the two tribes, she had become very familiar with the camp. All ignorant of the poor maniac's arrival, for the news had not yet spread, the mother of Little Beaver sat embroidering a moccasin with dyed quill-work. The traces of profound grief were on her worn face, and her meek eyes were dim as she raised them to see who lifted the curtain of the tent so violently.

Only one word was uttered by Rising Sun as she sprang in and fell on her knees before the old woman:—"Mother!"

No cry was uttered, not even an expression of surprise moved the old woman's face; but her ready arms were extended, and the girl laid her head, with a long-drawn sigh, upon the old bosom.

Long did she lie there that night, while a tender hand smoothed her coal-black hair, and pressed the thin cheek to a warm throbbing heart, which feared to move lest the girl's rest should be disturbed; but there was no need to fear that. Even the loving old heart could no longer warm the cheek that was slowly but surely growing cold. When the face was at last turned anxiously towards the firelight it was seen that a rest which could not be disturbed had been found at last—for Rising Sun was dead.

While this solemn scene was enacting in the old mother's tent, a very different one was taking place in the cave prison, where the captives still sat, bound hand and foot leaning against the wall.

Captain Trench and his son sat in front of them. A small fire burned in the cave, the smoke of which found an exit among the crevices of the high roof. It cast a lurid light on the faces of the men and on projections of the wall, but left the roof in profound darkness.

The captain was still much excited, for the moment for his desperate venture was rapidly approaching.

"Now, Grummidge," he said, in a low but earnest voice, "it's of no use your objectin' any more, for I've made up my mind to do it."

"Which means," returned the seaman, "that for the sake of savin' my life, you're a-goin' to risk your own and the lives of all consarned. Now it's my opinion that as the sayin' goes, of two evils a man should choose the least. It's better that I should die quietly than that the whole of us should die fightin', and, maybe, killin' savages as well, which would be of no manner of use, d'ye see. I can only die once, you know, so I advise ye to give it up, an' leave the whole matter in the hands of Providence."

"Not at all," said Squill stoutly. "It's my opinion that when they've kilt you, Grummidge, they'll be like tigers when they've tasted blood: they'll want to kill the rest of us. No; I've made up me mind to bolt, and, if need be, fight, an' so has all the rest on us—so heave ahead, cappen, an' tell us what we've got to do."

"Well, boys, here it is," said the captain. "You see this weapon." He took up the heavy bludgeon that Oliver had made for himself on commencing his travels in Newfoundland. "Well, I've brought this here every time I've come just to get the two sentries accustomed to see me with it. This is your last night on earth, Grummidge, so I'm goin' to pay you an extra visit about midnight, by way of sayin' farewell. As I pass the sentries—who are quite used to me now—I'll fetch the first one I come to such a crack with this here that he will give no alarm. Before the other has time to wink I'll treat him to the same. It's a mean sort o' thing to do, but necessity has no law, so I've made up my mind to go through with it."

"It'll be a bad look-out if you do," said Grummidge.

"It'll be a worse look-out if I don't," replied the captain. "Then, when that's done," he continued, "I'll cut your lashin's, an' we'll crowd all sail for the woods, where I have already concealed some arms an' dried deer's-meat, an' if we can't get fair off and make for the east coast, we'll get on the top o' some mound or rock an' show these Redskins what English seamen can do when they're hard pressed."

"Not to mintion Irish wans!" said Squill.

"An' have Master Paul an' Hendrick agreed to fall in wi' this mad plan?" asked Grummidge.

"No, I can't say they have. To say truth, considerin' that Hendrick's a relation o' the Redskins an' that Master Paul is his friend, I thought it best to say nothing to them about it. So I'll—"

He was interrupted here by the sudden entrance of Hendrick and Paul themselves, accompanied by Bearpaw and the sentries. To one of the latter the chief gave an order, and the man, drawing his knife, advanced to Grummidge. The seaman instinctively shrank from him, but was agreeably surprised on having his bonds cut. The others having also been liberated, the chief said:—

"My pale-faced brothers are free."

"Yes, lads," said Paul, heartily grasping Grummidge by the hand. "God has sent deliverance at the eleventh hour—you are all free."



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE LAST.

The joy with which the news was received by our seamen and their friends was somewhat marred by the death of the poor girl who had unconsciously been the means of their deliverance. During several days there was profound grief in the Indian village, for Rising Sun had been a favourite with every one.

About this time one or two scattered bands of the party, which had gone to attack the paleface settlement, returned to the village, and when they found what had occurred in their absence, their enmity was turned into friendship, and general goodwill prevailed among all.

From the men just arrived Paul and his friends heard of the fate of poor Swinton and Jim Heron, but at the same time were relieved to find that none of the other seamen had been slain.

A grand council and palaver was held in front of Bearpaw's tent not long afterwards. It was a very grave and orderly council—one which would contrast favourably with many of our nineteenth century councils, for those savages had not at that time acquired the civilised capacity for open offhand misrepresentation, calumny, and personal abuse which is so conspicuous in these days, and which must be so gratifying to those who maintain that civilisation is the grand panacea for all the moral ills that flesh is heir to. Whether the Bethucks ever improved in this matter is not known, for history is silent on the point; but it is, perhaps, of little consequence, the Bethuck race having become extinct.

"It is now a matter for our consideration, my friends and warriors," said Bearpaw, in opening the palaver, "whether the palefaces are to spend the winter here and hunt with us, or to return to the Crooked Lake to stay with our kinsman, the white hunter, and his wife, the sweet singer. Of course, my warriors know well that we could keep the palefaces by force just as easily as we could take their scalps, if we were so disposed; but Bearpaw is not a tyrant. He will not inflict kindness on his friends. His heart is great. It swells within him. Something inside of him whispers, 'Let them do as they please.' That must be right, for if circumstances were reversed, it would be right to let Bearpaw do as he pleases."

The chief paused and looked sternly round, as if to say, "Contradict that if you dare!" Possibly he felt that the "something inside of him" might have stated the golden rule more simply. Returning to the point, he continued—

"Bearpaw is glad that Rising Sun came home before he killed the palefaces, for her words have saved their lives. He is also glad that the friends of the palefaces came, for they have taught him wisdom. They have shown him that he was going to act in haste; they have told him that the Great Spirit orders all events here, and the Great Spirit himself has proved the truth of what they said; for, when Bearpaw refused to believe the palefaces, He sent Rising Sun to confirm their words, and to convince Bearpaw that he was wrong."

Again the chief paused, and looked round upon his men, some of whom appeared to dissent from what he said in condemnation of himself by slightly shaking their heads.

"Bethuck warriors," continued the chief, "have often told Bearpaw that he is wise. Bearpaw now tells his warriors that they are fools—fools for telling their chief that he is wise! If he had been wise he would not have come so near to shedding the blood of innocent men; but the Great Spirit prevented him. If the Great Spirit had not prevented him, still that would have been right, for the Great Spirit cannot do wrong, and He is not bound to give explanations to his creatures; though, doubtless, we will do it in the end. The heart of Bearpaw is grateful to his paleface brothers, and he would be glad if they will stay to hunt over his lands and palaver in his wigwam during the winter; but if they prefer to go, they may do as they please. Waugh! Bearpaw has spoken."

The chief sat down with emphasis, as if he felt that he had done his duty, and his men uttered a decided "Ho!" of approval.

Then Hendrick rose, and, looking round the circle with that grave dignity of countenance and manner which was not less natural to himself than characteristic of his Indian friends, delivered himself as follows:—

"I and my friends are glad that Bearpaw recognises the hand of the Great Spirit in all that has occurred, for we rejoice to believe that He is the great First Cause of all things, and that men are only second causes, gifted, however, with the mysterious power to do evil.

"In thanking my Bethuck brother and his warriors for their kind invitation—I speak for all my party—we are all grateful, and we would greatly like to spend the winter here, and enjoy the hospitality of our red brothers. Especially would my friend Paul Burns rejoice to read more to you from his wonderful writing, and explain it; but we cannot stay. My paleface brothers wish to return with me to Crooked Lake, where the sweet singer and her little ones await the return of the hands that feed and protect them."

Hendrick, pausing, looked round and received some nods of approval at this point.

"The winter is long, however," he continued, "and when the snow is deep over all the land we can put on our snow-shoes and revisit Bearpaw; or, better still, Bearpaw and his warriors may come to Crooked Lake, when the sweet singer and her daughter will give them hearty welcome, supply them with more food than they can consume, and cause their ears and hearts to thrill with music."

Hendrick paused again, and decided marks of approval greeted his last words.

"But, my friends and kinsmen," he resumed, "when winter draws to a close, the palefaces will go to the coast to see how it fares with their comrades, and to try whether it is not possible for them to make a big canoe in which to cross the great Salt Lake, for some of them have wives and mothers, sisters, fathers, and other relations whom they love, in the mighty land that lies far away where the sun rises—the land of my own fathers, about which I have often talked to you. If they cannot make a big enough canoe, they will wait and hope till another great canoe, like the one they lost, comes to this island—as come it surely will, bringing many palefaces to settle in the land."

"When they come they shall be welcome," said Bearpaw, as Hendrick sat down, "and we will hunt for them till they learn to hunt for themselves; we will teach them how to capture the big fish with the red flesh, and show them how to track the deer through the wilderness—waugh! But will our guests not stay with us till the hard frosts set in?"

"No; we must leave before the deep snow falls," said Hendrick. "Much of that which fell lately has melted away; so we will start for Crooked Lake without further delay."

The Indian chief bowed his head in acquiescence with this decision, and the very next day Paul and the captain and Oliver, with their rescued comrades and Strongbow, set out for Hendrick's home, which they reached not long after, to find that all was well, that the old Indian servant had kept the family fully supplied with fish, flesh, and fowl; that no one had visited the islet since they left, that the sweet singers were in good voice; and that the family baby was as bright as ever, as great an anxiety to its mother, and as terrible a torment to its idolising nurse!

Among others who took up their abode at that time on the hunter's islet was the large dog Blackboy. That faithful creature, having always had a liking for Hendrick, and finding that the old master and mistress never came back, had attached itself to the party of palefaces, and quietly accepted the English name of Blackboy.

Now, it is impossible, with the space at our command, to recount all the sayings and doings of this section of the Water Wagtail's crew during that winter: how they built a hut for themselves close to that of their host; how they learned to walk on snowshoes when the deep snow came; how, when the lake set fast and the thick ice formed a highway to the shore, little Oscar taught Oliver Trench how to cut holes through to the water and fish under the ice; how hunting, sledging, football, and firewood-cutting became the order of the day; supping, story-telling, singing, and reading the manuscript Gospel according to John, the order of the evening, and sleeping like tops, with occasional snoring, the order of the night, when the waters were thus arrested by the power of frost, and the land was smothered in snow. All this and a great deal more must be left untold, for, as we have said, or hinted, or implied before, matters of greater moment claim our attention.

One night, towards the close of that winter, Paul Burns suggested that it was about time to go down to the coast and visit their comrades there.

"So say I," remarked Grummidge, who at the time was feeding the baby, to the grave satisfaction of Blackboy.

"Sure, an' I'm agreeable," said Squills, who was too busy feeding himself to say more.

As Little Stubbs, George Blazer, Fred Taylor, and David Garnet were of the same opinion, and Hendrick had no objection, except that Trueheart, Goodred, and Oscar would be very sorry to part with them, and the family baby would be inconsolable, it was decided that a start should be made without delay.

They set out accordingly, Hendrick and Strongbow alternately leading, and, as it is styled, beating the track, while the rest followed in single file. It was a long, hard journey, but our travellers were by that time inured to roughing it in the cold. Every night they made their camp by digging a hole in the snow under the canopy of a tree, and kindling a huge fire at one end thereof. Every morning at dawn they resumed the march over the snow-clad wilderness, and continued till sun-down. Thus, day by day they advanced, living on the dried meat they carried on their backs, and the fresh meat and ptarmigan they procured with bolt and arrow. At last they reached the coast.

It was a clear, sharp, starry night when they arrived at Wagtail Bay, with an unusually splendid aurora lighting them on their way. Anxious forebodings filled the breasts of most of the party, lest they should find that their comrades had perished; but on coming in sight of the principal hut, Oliver exclaimed, "There's a light in the window, and smoke coming from—hurr—!"

He would have cheered, but Grummidge checked him.

"Shut up your hatchway, lad! Let us see what they are about before goin' in."

They all advanced noiselessly, Grummidge leading, Strongbow bringing up the rear. The hut had two windows of parchment, which glowed with the light inside, but through which they could not see, except by means of one or two very small holes, to which eager eyes were instantly applied. A most comfortable scene was presented, and jovial sounds smote the ears of those who listened. As far as they could make out every man of the crew was there, except, of course, Big Swinton and Jim Heron. Some were playing draughts, some were mending nets or fashioning bows, and others were telling stories or discussing the events of the past day.

But a great change for the better was perceptible both in words and manners, for some of the seed which Paul Burns had let fall by the wayside, had, all unexpectedly, found good ground in several hearts, and was already bearing fruit. Dick Swan and Spitfire no longer quarrelled as they played together, and Bob Crow no longer swore.

"Heigho!" exclaimed the latter at the end of a game, as he stretched his arms above his head, "I wonder if we'll ever play draughts in Old England or see our friends again!"

"You'll see some of 'em to-night, anyhow, God bless ye, Bob Crow," cried Grummidge, as he flung open the door and sprang in, while his snow-sprinkled comrades came tramp, tramp, in a line behind him!

Who can describe that meeting as they shook hands, gasped, exclaimed, laughed—almost cried; while Blackboy leaped around wildly joyful at the sight of so many old friends? We will not attempt it; but, leaving them there, we will conduct the reader down to a small creek hard by, where a curious sight may be seen—a small ship on the stocks nearly finished, which will clearly be ready to launch on the first open water.

From the wreck of the old ship, tools, and timber, and cordage had been recovered. The forests of Newfoundland had supplied what was lacking. Ingenuity and perseverance did the rest. Need we add that the work went on merrily now that the wanderers had returned?

Hendrick stayed with them till the little ship was launched. With a pleased yet sorrowful expression he watched as the eager men tested her stability and her sailing powers, and rejoiced with them on finding that she worked well and answered to her helm smartly.

"Good-bye, friends, and God watch over you and me till that day after which there shall be no more partings," he said, as they all shook hands for the last time.

He was left standing beside his Indian friend on the rocks when the Morning Star finally set sail. The tall forms of the two men were still visible when the little vessel rounded the neighbouring headland and turned its prow towards England. They stood there sadly watching the lessening sails till the ship became a mere speck on the horizon and finally disappeared.

Then Hendrick slowly re-entered the forest, and, followed by Strongbow, returned to his own home in the beautiful wilderness of Newfoundland.

THE END.