"Do ye see now, my hearties," cried the gratified Captain, "the ignorant beggar understands me after all. I mistrusted, from the beginning, that he was only playing 'possum, as they say down in Virginny. For look ye, ye lubbers, it would be strange if a man who has been buen' camarada with the Spaniard, and guter Gesell with the Dutchman, and parleywood with Mounseer, and made the weight of his ship in gold for his owners, out of these here salvages, shouldn't be able to speak their gibberish. It's not so hard after all, do ye see, when one gets the weather guage of it. But here, some o' ye, gallivant the red skins up to the Governor, (a good enough fellow in his way, I dare say, if he were not so d——d hard on drinking healths,) with my compliments, with the compliments of Capt. Sparhawk, (do ye hear?) and let him know how they drifted ashore. And hark ye, if he should be inclined to a little agreeable conversation with the tanned hides, just let him send me an invitation, and I shall be happy to officiate as interpreter. Heave ahead, Bill Pantry, and take command of the squad. You've been long enough under my command to know how to do the honors in a gentlemanly way."

Accordingly Bill Pantry, in obedience to the Orders of his Captain, which seemed to the bystanders the most sensible suggestion, took possession of the Indians, and escorted them to the Governor's house.

It so happened, by an accident, that the invaluable services of Capt. Sparhawk, as a linguist, were not needed on the occasion, for upon the strangers being announced by one of the soldiers on guard at the door, the Knight of the Golden Melice was found to be with Winthrop.

As the Indians entered the room, Winthrop rose, and with great urbanity, offered his hand to him who appeared to be the principal. To his astonishment, however, the Taranteen extended not his own.

"How is this?" exclaimed Winthrop. "Is this intentional discourtesy, or are ye ignorant of the customs of the English?"

Hereupon the principal Indian uttered a sentence or two, unintelligible to Winthrop.

"Thou dost understand the language of the Taranteens, Sir Christopher," he said. "May it please you, who are so happily here, to explain his meaning?"

"He says," replied the Knight, "that he has been sent as a messenger by his nation, and that he hopes you will respect his character."

"Surely," said Winthrop. "How could he imagine the contrary? Who can impeach our faith?"

"You forget," said the Knight, "what suspicions must have been engendered by the unhappy termination of the late embassy."

"It will be difficult to persuade me," said Winthrop, "that it was other than a broil, wherein our people had no part. I cannot be deceived," continued he, waving his hand, observing that Sir Christopher was about to reply, "by the cunning stratagem resorted to, for the purpose of averting suspicion. But a truce with this. Say to him he is as safe as his child, if he has one, in his wigwam. What says he now?" he inquired, after the Knight had interpreted his words, and the Indian replied.

"He asks where are the four companions of Pieskaret."

"Tell him I know not, but suppose they have either returned to their homes, or been destroyed by hostile Indians."

When this was explained, the stately savage sadly smiled, and shook his head. He then spoke again.

"He says," answered the Knight, to the look of Winthrop, "that it is not the custom of Taranteen ambassadors to run away, and that they know how to protect themselves from the Aberginians."

"I protest," said Winthrop, "that, however different my own opinion, I do half believe that these blinded savages in fact imagine their tribes-men were murdered by the whites. To be deplored is it that such an opinion should get footing among them, staining as it doth our good name and pregnant with many possible evils. Assure him, Sir Christopher, of my grief at what has happened; of my sincere desire to discover how Pieskaret lost his life; of what has become of his missing people; and of my readiness, if it can be shown that an Englishman has in anywise connection therewith, to render to the Taranteens perfect satisfaction."

The Indian listened to all this with the deepest attention as it was explained to him, and then replied:

"Pieskaret is gone, and his kindred will see him no more The eyes of his wife are swollen with weeping, and his children, like little birds in the nest, open their mouths for food; but Pieskaret comes not to fill them. His feet were like those of a deer, and his voice like the shouting of the great salt lake on the rocks. Woe is me, for I shall see my brother no more. But he is glad on the happy hunting grounds of brave warriors. It is well with him: we know where he is, but we know not where are our brothers who were with Pieskaret. We know that the English love slaves, and we fear that they have made slaves of our brothers. We will turn away our eyes from the widow of Pieskaret and his little children, and will stop our ears so that we cannot hear their crying, and forget the fate of Pieskaret, if the white chief will return our brothers."

"Alas! unhappy that I am," said Winthrop, "that this new suspicion should fill the minds of the savages. Assure him, upon my faith as a Christian—upon my honor as a gentleman—make the asseveration as solemn as thou canst—that he suspects us falsely."

But the grave chief abandoned not the idea. With eyes searching the countenance of the Governor, he said:

"The Taranteens will give many belts of wampompeag and will heap up their canoes with skins for Owanux, as a ransom for their tribes-men."

"Tell him," said Winthrop, "that, overlooking the insult of doubting my word, if they were to give me belts of wampompeag extending from here to the sun, and skins to cover the ground from Shawmut to his country, I could not restore his tribes-men, for I know nought of them."

"When my brothers came to visit the white chief, they placed themselves in his keeping and feared not the darkness, for they knew that he was very powerful. They slept like a pappoose on its mother's bosom."

"I understand," replied Winthrop, "thou wouldst make me responsible in particular for the misfortune of thy friends; but my conscience reproaches me not If they are dead, it is probably in consequence of their own default; and, I repeat, I believe not that an Englishman had a hand in their destruction."

Here the Taranteen, who acted as spokesman, turning to his companion, uttered a sentence; whereupon the other, feeling in the folds of his deer skin robe, produced a pipe, the bowl of which was made of a reddish clay, into which was inserted, for a stem, a reed beautifully ornamented with black and white shells, and bright colored feathers of various birds. This the orator received from the hands of his follower, and again addressed the Governor:

"The Taranteens are a great nation, and they love peace. It pleases them to see the smoke as it ascends from the calumet. It is more beautiful to their eyes than the white summer clouds which protect them from the heat of the sun. They would be glad to smoke with Owanux, but they cannot do it now, because should they attempt it, the blood of Pieskaret would put out the fire and the groans of his four brothers would agitate us so that the pipe would fall from our hands. I want the white chief to strengthen our hands, so that we can hold the calumet firmly, and perhaps that will satisfy Pieskaret too."

"I understand him," said Winthrop, after the Knight had interpreted, "but let him proceed."

"If the white chief will deliver to us the murderers of Pieskaret, and release our brothers from slavery," said the Taranteen, slowly and impressively, "it is well, and we will smoke with Owanux and forget what has happened; but if he will not,"—and here his voice sounded like the growl of a bear, as, putting his hand into his bosom, he took out a small package and handed it to Winthrop,—"we speak to the white chief thus:"

The Governor received the package, and saw that it consisted of a tomahawk in the centre, around which were placed several small arrows tipped with a red dye, and tied together with the stuffed skin of a rattle-snake, the rattles of which sounded as he took the ominous present into his hand. He waited composedly until the Knight had explained the words, though he comprehended at once the meaning of the savage, and then answered:

"If the Taranteens are a great nation, they are a nation of fools, else why do they not listen to my words? I tell thee a white English chief cannot lie; the Great Spirit will not permit a Christian chief to lie. In vain have I asserted our innocence in this matter; in vain have I expressed sorrow, and humiliated myself to thy reproaches. But the English know how to treat those who, faithless themselves, believe not in the faith of others. Behold!"

Winthrop drew his rapier, and cut the snake skin so that the tomahawk and arrows fell apart. Placing the skin upon a table, he next took up the arrows, and, breaking several at a time, let the pieces drop at his feet. Then seizing the tomahawk, he dashed it with such violence on the hearth of the fire-place, that the handle flew off and the stone head was broken. Lastly, taking down from a nail in the wall whereon they hung, a powder-horn and pouch of bullets, he filled the skin with powder and ball, and held it out to the Taranteen.

"Return now to thy people," he said, looking at the Indian with a stern aspect, "and tell them what thou hast seen and heard. Tell them that, though the English love peace, they fear not war. Tell them that we have never wronged the Taranteens by word or deed, nor is it our intention now to punish them for their injurious suspicions. But tell them, also that, as I have broken their arrows and dashed their war-axe, in pieces, so will I serve them, if the north-wind brings to my ears a whisper of evil designs from them. And as I have stuffed the snake skin with powder and ball, so will I fill their bodies with the same. Return."

As Winthrop uttered these words with a firm voice and imposing manner—words so explained by his actions that they needed no interpretation—he was confronted by the Taranteen with a dignity equal to his own. The demeanor of the savage was as calm as if he were smoking a pipe in his wigwam. He quietly followed every motion with his eyes, listened with all attention, as if he understood what was said, and, when Winthrop had concluded, took the loaded skin and handed it to his follower. The inferior Indian shrunk as he received the portentous powder and shot in their strange envelope, but whatever apprehensions he felt, he succeeded in conquering them, taking care however to hold the missive at a little distance from his person.

"Tender now our hospitality," said Winthrop to the Knight, "so long as they remain among us."

"But the Taranteens showed no disposition to accept the offer. Something was growled by the principal one, which Sir Christopher interpreted to intimate a desire to depart.

"Be it so," replied Winthrop. "Moulton," he added, calling a soldier, "take with you Gamlyn, and escort these savages with all civility to their canoes. And should they desire anything to promote the comfort of their return, let it be furnished and placed to my account."

The orders of the Governor were explained to the Indians by the Knight, and they left the room in the care of the soldiers.

"Sir Christopher," said Winthrop, on their departure, "this is a miserable coil. Now will these misguided savages, instigated I doubt not by the emissaries of Rome, soon be yelling upon our borders, and seeking to imbrue their hands in our blood. Were we dealing only with the natives, there might be some hope of soothing their ferocity and averting an outbreak of their insane rage; but nothing can be done with the Jesuit—more subtle than the serpent, more fell than the Hyrcanian tiger."

"Have the disciples of Loyola penetrated to this fierce tribe?" inquired Sir Christopher.

"Art thou ignorant that the cunning father Le Jeune, the daring Brebeuf, and I know not what instigators of mischief besides, are said to be among them? Pity is it truly that so much learning and so great zeal should be expended in so bad a cause."

"It was known before I left England that these men had made some little progress among the natives in Southern America, where gold and silver abound; but who would have looked for them in these colder and comparatively inhospitable regions? May there not be some error in this matter, and our fears of the dreaded Order have converted interested and malignant traders into members of the so-styled Company of Jesus?"

"It may be so, for our information is not so accurate as I wish; but this we do know, that a strange activity hath of late manifested itself in the movements of these foul conspirators, against uncorrupted Christianity the world over; and only a short time since was it that godly Mr. Eliot discovered, on the neck of a squaw, one of their brass idols made into the image of the Crucified, which, in righteous indignation, he took away from the woman. Deluded and deluding, alas, if they have found their way into this land!"

"It is not necessary to suppose the presence of any member of the Company of Jesus, in order to account for the image on the neck of the Indian woman. The French traders are Catholics, and one of them might have given it to her."

"True; yet doth my jealous mind connect these men with every perversion and corruption of Gospel truth. They are at this moment as well the plotting mind as the executing arm of the rotten Church of Rome. The spirit of Loyola would seem lately to have left Hades, to animate his followers upon earth. Be sure, Sir Christopher, that where error and mischief are, there is the Jesuit."

"It is ever a consolation," said the Knight, devoutly, "and in especial in these troublous times, that the Founder of the Church hath promised to be with her to the end of the world, and that the gates of hell shall not prevail against her."

"If they have stolen among the innocent natives to intercept that knowledge of divine truth which it is our purpose to impart, we will, by God's grace, defeat their designs and bring to naught their inventions. In this Christian work it may be my desire to engage your services, Sir Christopher."

"It needs not that I should make protestations of zeal, or offers of my poor self; yet do my feelings prompt me to say that my badge 'the honey-bee,' is not more diligent in collecting his precious store than I will be in such a cause."

"Then expect to have thy zeal and courage put to the test. Should I request thee to visit the Taranteens in their own country, what would be thy reply?"

The Knight paused, as if the question was of importance sufficient to require consideration, so long, indeed, that Winthrop thought it proper to resume.

"I know," he said, "that it is a service not unattended with danger; yet did danger never frighten a noble soul, but doth ever act as an incentive. There is no one save thyself well acquainted with the tongue of these savages, (Mr. Eliot's knowledge thereof, I observe, is imperfect, and he is in other respects but poorly qualified for the enterprise), and who would be able to make the impression upon them and obtain the information which I desire."

"Disclose more perfectly your wishes, right worshipful sir," said Sir Christopher.

"I call thee to a danger which, possessed I thy marvellous skill in languages, I myself would meet. I will unbosom myself. The thought of a conflict with the Taranteens distresses me. It can result only in ruin to them and injury to the budding prospects of our colony. Our interest is peace. We want trade with the natives. We want their confidence. Without the latter there can be no trade, neither can we counteract the plots of our enemies, nor find opportunity to introduce the Gospel among them. The mysterious calamity which befel the embassy hath sadly shaken my expectations; but I am unwilling to abandon the field. What means are in my power I will apply to restore a good understanding. Moreover, I would be more fully assured of the truth or falsehood of the reports that there are Jesuits among the Taranteens. Where is the man more competent to take upon himself this important trust—one which hath for its object to prevent effusion of blood—to detect the traitorous plots of a wily and deadly foe, and to advance the cause of unadulterated religion, than thyself?"

The Knight bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, but said nothing.

"I seem to see the finger of God displayed," continued Winthrop. "For this very purpose wert thou sent among us; yet, noble sir, notwithstanding the importance of the object to be attained and the honor to accrue to him who shall secure them for us, let me not urge thee unreasonably. Seest thou imminent danger in the enterprise, undertake it not. I pray thee, without regarding aught that I have said, to act according to thy better judgment."

"It was through no apprehension of peril that I was silent," said the Knight. "Danger and I have been too long acquainted to distrust one another. I did but turn over in my mind the proper means to accomplish your designs. I place myself at your disposal, and am only rejoiced that (lamenting the occasion) I can be employed in any manner to advance a good work."

"Heartily I thank thee, Sir Christopher, for the cheerful tender of thy service, though it was only what was to be expected from a man of thy chivalric temper. I will take this thing into further consideration, and will shortly acquaint thee with my conclusion."

"And, meanwhile, I will prepare myself to fulfil the wishes of your worship," answered the Knight, preparing to take leave.

"Commend me," said Winthrop, "to the friendly thoughts of Lady Geraldine, with sincerest hopes that the peace which surpasseth understanding may nestle into her heart to chase away her melancholy, and may her steps be guided unto the true fold, where only safety is to be found."

"With many thanks," returned the Knight, "I seek my hermitage in the woods."



CHAPTER XVII.

"A something light as air—a look— A word unkind, or wrongly taken— Oh, love! that tempest never shook, A breath, a touch like this, hath shaken."

MOORE.

Sir Christopher, on leaving the Governor, proceeded in the direction of the hostelry, where he had left his horse; and on his way was greeted with one of those sights to be seen only in this strange commonwealth. It was a woman in the stocks, being no other than an old acquaintance, Dame Bars, the wife of the jailer. The good woman possessed a kind heart, but she was not perfection. She had a weakness for a pot of ale; and, if justice had in anywise been done to the proportion of malt therein, it was very apt to make her eloquent to an extraordinary degree. On these occasions, feeling herself to be clearly in the right, she found it difficult to endure contradiction, considering it excessively unreasonable and rude, and expressing her sentiments thereupon with great freedom. In one of these moods, she had been overheard by Master Prout, in a colloquy with one of her gossips, contrasting the "wearyful and forlorn" condition of women in the colony with the merry times she used to have in England; and upon her friend suggesting a few words in favor of the change, bursting out with sundry epithets more sounding than musical, and more energetic than complimentary.

We will not pretend to say whether Master Prout was more scandalized by the sentiment of dissatisfaction at the colony, or by there proaches lavished on the other goody, who, indeed, to do her justice, was not slow in the use of that formidable weapon wherewith Nature, as if to make amends for physical weakness, has armed the lovelier sex. It may be that both combined roused his righteous indignation, in consequence whereof Dame Bars had to expiate the sins of her tongue by silencing its eloquence in a cleft stick, and cooling her heels in the stocks.

But the appearance of the poor woman was now anything but belligerent. So far from manifesting a refractory disposition, her face was covered with her hands, and tears of shame and mortification were stealing through the fingers. Her husband was standing by her side, and endeavoring to comfort her, while Master Prout, with his long staff, was threatening some idle school-boys, who, with the mischief natural to their age, were showing an inclination to proceed to extremities against the captive, which was not approved by the grave custode of order.

As the Knight drew nigh, a feeling of pity was excited in him, and he stopped, and addressed some words to the officer of the law.

"I am unwilling," said Master Prout, in reply, "to refuse any thing to a gentleman so highly esteemed by the Governor, as yourself, Sir Christopher, and therefore will I release the woman; but truly was it my intention to detain her an hour or two longer, in order that she might have time for serious and profitable reflection. Verily, as saith James, in his epistle, the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison."

"Methinks then," said the Knight, smiling, "thou hast performed an achievement which holy St. James himself might deem a miracle, for the good dame's tongue is tame enough at present."

Master Prout's demure features ventured as near to a smile at the jest, as his principles would permit, and then approaching the woman, he unfastened the stocks, and allowed her to withdraw the imprisoned members.

"Good woman," he said, "thank this noble Knight for thy deliverance, and may this be the last time that these wooden bars shall contract a friendship for thee."

So spoke Master Prout, with a twinkle of the eye at the Knight, on account of the good thing which he fancied he had said, and the woman lost no time in extricating herself from durance. Her face was crimsoned with blushes; she dropped a curtsey to the Knight, and hurried off with her husband.

"Master Prout," said the Knight, as he turned away, "accept my thanks for the courtesy, and believe me that thou hast made me so much thy friend, thou hast only to express a wish, and if it is in my power it shall be granted."

On arriving at the inn, Sir Christopher ordered immediately his horse, and mounting, rode homeward. At a slow pace he proceeded through the streets, and allowed the animal, with the rein lying loose upon his neck, to follow the winding path in the forest. No adventure befel him on his solitary ride, and in due time he reached his home. He was met by Philip Joy, to whom he delivered the horse.

"Is the Indian whom I left in thy charge safe?" he inquired.

"He is, Sir Christopher," answered the soldier.

"Sassacus has not seen him, I trust."

"No one has seen him but myself. I have faithfully followed your orders, and kept him like a rat in a trap. He takes to eating and sleeping prodigious kindly, and has shown no disposition to do any thing else."

"It is natural he should do so, and you have acted with discretion."

With these words Sir Christopher entered the house, and straightway proceeded to find the Indian. He was lying on the floor, apparently asleep, but at the noise of the opening door, roused himself and sat upright.

"How have my people treated Mesandowit in my absence?" inquired the Knight.

"Well," answered the savage. "Mesandowit has eaten, and drank, and slept, and is refreshed."

"Is he ready to return to his own country?"

"Mesandowit is ready."

"When the trees cast long shadows he shall return, and I will go a little distance with him, lest he should meet the Aberginians."

"Good—and now Mesandowit will sleep." He stretched himself again upon the skin, which served for a couch, probably not entirely rested after the long and rapid journey he had made, and disposed himself to slumber. The Knight, on leaving him, went to the door of the lady's apartment, and gently rapped.

It was opened by the Indian girl, and he was immediately admitted.

"Celestina," said the Knight, looking first at her and then at her little attendant, "I have something to say to thee."

"Neebin," said the lady, addressing the child, "may run about in the woods a little while."

When the girl had departed, the Knight, seating himself at some distance from the lady, opened the conversation.

"Celestina," he said, "there has been of late a want of that frankness which characterized our intercourse at our arrival in this country, and for some time thereafter. Will you not tell me the cause?"

"Sir Christopher," replied the lady, "a suspicious mind is ofttimes deceived by its imaginations. Wherein, pray, has been a change in my conduct?"

"Nay. I know not that I can say, in this and in that thou hast not trusted me, but I feel that it is so."

"Look into thyself, Sir Christopher, and there wilt thou find the cause. The outer world is but a reflection of the inner."

"I protest, Celestina, I am not altered. Thou art to me as ever, my trusty and valued associate, bound to me by ties of peculiar significancy, and as sacred as those which commonly unite man and woman.

"It is my dearest wish that thou shouldst feel the full force of the obligation they impose on thee."

"Do I not?" Have I not labored with untiring diligence to promote the end we both have in view? Wherein have I failed? Point out the error, and I will correct it."

"I do not presume to be so bold. The masculine energy of Sir Christopher Gardiner is not to be guided by a woman."

"Alas! Celestina," said the Knight, with some feeling, "were we not joined in this holy enterprise because it was supposed the fulness of the one might supply the deficiency of the other? O, turn not away so coldly."

"My warm devotion, my active zeal, shall never be wanting to the work whereunto we are pledged; and if any feeling hath arisen inconsistent with the harmony that should unite us, I am not sensible that it springs from any fault of mine. But you exaggerate," she added, smiling, "my momentary sadness into unnecessary importance—a sadness wherewith thou mayst have no connection."

"Thou canst not deceive me, Celestina. I have profited little by the lessons of this world, and feeling was given me in vain, were I incapable of noticing the change in thee. There was a time when thy spirit, like a musical string in accord with another, vibrated in harmony with mine—but it is no longer so."

"Thou art importunate, Sir Christopher. Wilt thou not believe what I say?"

"Pardon me if I am over urgent, and ascribe it to the value I attach to my lost treasure. It sweetened the solitude of exile, and made me almost forget the attractions of stirring Europe. But thou dost not, and canst not deny my complaint."

"Is there not enough in the circumstances wherein I am placed, to agitate the timid heart of a woman, and account for her unreasonable caprices? Why persist in connecting them with thyself as the cause?"

"This is not the first time that I have vainly endeavored to discover wherein I have offended, that by the humiliation of myself, or by any other means, I might restore the unison that before existed between us. I conjure thee, Celestina," he said, approaching and taking her hand into one of his, while with the other he drew back a curtain on the wall, which, on being withdrawn, exposed to view the carved figure of Christ extended on the cross, "by the Captain of our faith, whose soldiers we are, to put away this estrangement, which if it does not defeat, may hazard and retard our mutual plans."

The lady withdrew not her hand, but allowing it to remain in his, stood up. She bowed her head before the crucifix, and murmured—Domino Jesu speravi in te. Turning then to the Knight she said—

"Sir Christopher, look upon that sorrowful face, and that drooping head, bleeding under the points of the accursed thorns. Thy sins and mine gave them their sharpness. Gaze upon the hideous nails that pierce those blessed hands and feet, and upon the blood trickling from that divine side, and say, canst thou be untrue to him?"

"Woman! Celestina! what meanest thou? Why this solemn adjuration?"

"Thou wert dedicated to a service," she continued, her pale face flushing with enthusiasm, "to which nobles and kings, the proudest and noblest of earth, might aspire. Do thy devoir, and incalculable will be thy reward; fail therein, and the doom of Judas were heaven to thy fate."

"Thou art mad, Celestina. Some dreadful delusion hath blinded thy understanding. Hear me now"—and he bent down and kissed the feet of the image of the Saviour, and then raising his head fixed his eyes upon it—"per adventum tuum, per nativitatem tuam, per baptismum et sanctum jejunium tuum, per crucem et passionem tuam, per mortem et sepulturam tuam, per sanctam resurrectionem tuam, et per admirabilem ascensionem tuam—I am guilty, truly, of weakness and ignorance, and unintentional sin, but not of want of faithfulness to that whereunto thou hast called me."

"Sir Christopher! Oh! Sir Christopher," cried the lady, falling at his feet, "Wherefore, when I besought thee before to explain thy conduct, did you treat me so slightingly? Wherefore ever refuse to satisfy my questions?"

"Because I considered them unworthy of thee and me; because I regarded them as the petulance of a passing feminine curiosity; because I knew not how serious was thy desire?

"Deus adjuva me!" sobbed the lady.

"Rise, my sister," said the Knight, assisting her to a seat. "Henceforth let no distrust exist between us, and, that it may be so, inquire, and I will answer as at the confessional."

Of the conversation which ensued we shall give no account, save that, at its conclusion, tears were flowing plentifully from the eyes of the lady, while the Knight seemed puzzled at her extraordinary emotion.

"Celestina," he said, "thou art moved beyond what thy venial fault requires. Forgive thyself as freely as I forgive thee."

"Thou knowest not all my sin," she answered, "nor dare I trust it to the air, lest my own words should strike me dead. Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis!"

When the Knight left the room, she fell upon her knees before the crucifix and buried her face in her hands. She remained in this position for perhaps a quarter of an hour, during which time only an occasional sob escaped her, and then rising, passed into an inner chamber.

As for Sir Christopher, neither did he make his appearance until late in the afternoon, when he emerged from the house in the company of the soldier Joy and the Indian, whom he called Mesandowit. The course they took was in a northerly direction, and as they proceeded, the Knight was engaged in earnest conversation with the Indian. In this manner they went on long after the sun had set, even until the position of the stars announced that the hour of midnight was at hand. There must have been some danger to the savage feared by the Knight to induce him to lend his escort thus far. But they met nothing to excite apprehension. Silence reigned throughout the unviolated forest, unbroken save by the cry of a night bird, or the stealthy step of some wild beast stealing through the thickets, or the cracking of dry branches under their own feet, or their murmured conversation. It was at least six hours since they left the house of the Knight, and the distance passed over could not be less than eighteen or twenty miles. The three stopped, and, before parting, it seemed that the Knight was desirous of impressing more strongly on the mind of his red companion something which he had already been urging.

"Has what I have said sunk into the ears of Mesandowit?" he asked.

"It has sunk very deep, even as a stone when it falls into the great salt lake."

"Will he remember the place?"

"He will remember it. Mesandowit once took two scalps there."

Self-possessed as in general was Sir Christopher, the reply startled him; but the association in the mind of the savage was too obvious to excite alarm long, and it was without feeling any he replied. He thought proper, however, to remind the Indian of the friendly relation he stood in to his tribe and of the favor he had done them.

"The Sagamore and his Paniese," he said, "who brought the defiance of the Taranteens to the English, have returned safe to their people. Let not the Taranteens forget when I come to visit them that they spoke through my mouth, and that I stood between them and the anger of sachem Winthrop."

The Taranteens never forget. Mesandowit will tell them how Soog-u-gest flew to Shawmut, when Mesandowit, of the swift foot, brought a message from the sachems of the Taranteens, that they desired him to take care of the two warriors who brought the red arrows tied up with a snake skin as a present to Owanux. The Taranteens are a great people and forget not a benefit."

"I am unable to fix the exact time;" said the Knight; "but the young moon that looks now like the eye brow of Mesandowit, will probably not be round before we shall meet again."

They parted at these words, and while Sir Christopher and Philip turned their faces homeward, the Taranteen pursued the same direction in which they had been traveling. Fatigued with the distance they had come, it was now with a more leisurely pace the two proceeded, and, walking for the most part in silence, the sun had risen before they reached home.



CHAPTER XVIII.

When shaws beene sheene and shrads full fayre, And leaves both large and longe, Itt is merrye walking in the faire forrest, To hear the small birdes songe.

BALLAD OF ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE.

The project of Governor Winthrop of sending an embassy to the Taranteens met with general favor among his councillors. All agreed that war with the ferocious savages was, if possible, to be avoided under any circumstances, but especially now when the English must appear to the natives to be stained with the crime of a dastardly breach of faith and murder unparalleled in atrocity. The conduct of Winthrop in returning a bold defiance to their threats, was also approved, (for in treating with them, an exhibition of a want of confidence would be considered a confession of weakness, and only serve to precipitate the calamity to be avoided,) but it complicated the difficulty, if that were possible, and embarrassed any attempt at reconciliation. The Taranteens were felt to occupy a position of great advantage, and likely to attract the sympathy of the Indians generally, and even to unite tribes before hostile to one another against the perfidious Owanux. To the Taranteens no blame could be attached. They had been guilty of no breach of faith; they had acted like brave and honorable men. Even after the outrage upon them they had respected their wild code of honor, nor would commence hostilities, until like the snake, whose warning rattles they sent, they had apprised the enemy of their intention. But the challenge had been given and accepted, and a state of war initiated. Soon might their war-parties be expected to fill the forests, cutting off stragglers and attacking any bodies of men which they should deem inferior in strength to their own. Hence the danger of traveling in the woods, and especially of attempting to penetrate into that remote region, the habitation of the hostile tribe, was greatly increased. Where was the man daring enough to encounter the peril unless supported by a military force, which would give the embassy more the appearance of a foray than of a tender of peace? Such an armed band would only invite attack. Besides it was inconvenient, and indeed of the highest detriment to the colony, to take off so many able-bodied men as would be necessary for the purpose, from the cultivation of the fields, and those other industrial pursuits upon which the existence of the colonists depended, even though they should all return safe to their homes—a result by no means to be expected.

When, therefore, Winthrop suggested Sir Christopher Gardiner as a proper person, from his familiarity with the habits of the natives, and his knowledge of their language, to undertake the enterprise, it is no wonder that the proposition was favorably received. All felt it to be a service of danger; it was highly desirable that it should be attempted; no one was so well fitted for it as the Knight; and were the effort at reconciliation to terminate fatally, the loss of no one would be less regretted by several of the Assistants. For there were among them some who were no friends of the Knight, and would gladly have had him out of the colony; either not liking his intimacy with the natives, or suspicious of the circumstance, that, although he had offered to unite himself with the congregation, he had, somehow or other, never done so, either in consequence of doubts entertained respecting the soundness of his faith, or some unknown cause. This feeling was heightened by a jealousy of the favor enjoyed by the Knight with Winthrop—a favor which, some declared, warped the better judgment of the Governor. In proof of this, they pointed to the remission (at the intercession of Sir Christopher) of a part of the punishment of one Ratcliffe, who had incurred the vengeance of the law, and also of the indulgence shown to Philip Joy. At the head of these malcontents was the Assistant Spikeman—one who, by his evil propensities and incapacity to appreciate the noble sentiments of Winthrop, stood to him in a certain relation of hostility. For there is no law more prevailing than that evil hates good, compelled thereto by the very constitution of its nature. Indeed, it is evil by reason of that hatred; when that ceases, evil ceases also.

By no one was the proposal to entrust the business to Sir Christopher, if he would accept it—for the cautious Winthrop did not allude to the understanding betwixt himself and the Knight—received with more favor than by Spikeman. He was eloquent in praise of the qualifications of the proposed envoy, and derided the danger, expressing a conviction that it would be easy for him, if he chose, to restore peaceable relations. The qualification in the speech of the Assistant was noticed by Winthrop, and he intimated astonishment at the suspicion, and wonder at the willingness of one who felt it, to entrust the commission in such hands. But the artful Spikeman easily extricated himself from so slight a difficulty, alleging, as the cause of the doubt, the want of that Christian bond on the part of the Knight, without which no one could be entitled to the entire confidence due to one in full communion.

When the Assistant left the Council, he debated with himself how, if Sir Christopher accepted the service, he might join Arundel, and the soldier Joy with him. Could he succeed, he considered that he would be in a fair way to rid himself at once of three persons who interfered with his designs. The heat of his animosity was directed indeed principally against Arundel and Joy, the Knight coming in for a portion as their favorer and abettor. But in the pursuit of an object, no scruples of conscience ever interfered with the plans of Spikeman, willing to involve alike friend and foe in one common destruction, if so only his purposes could be accomplished. He calculated somewhat upon the bold temper of Arundel, and also upon his regard for the Knight, by whose side he doubted not the young man would be willing to defy any danger to which the other would expose himself.

With this view he took care, by means of his spy, Ephraim Pike, to acquaint Arundel with the honor intended for Sir Christopher. The expedition was represented by Pike as a mere party of pleasure, and as affording fine opportunities for observing the tribes in their native haunts. The good sense of the young man, and the experience he already had, taught him better than to regard it exactly in the light wherein the spy exhibited it; but, though conscious that there must be danger, in the excited condition of the Taranteens, he could not believe it to be great, else neither would Winthrop ask such exposure of life, nor would the Knight accept of the enterprise. As for what danger was to be encountered, it rather stimulated than deterred in the desire to partake of it, as the lion hunt has greater attractions for the hunter than the chase of the deer. Some words dropped from Pike about the woodcraft of Joy, and his bravery; but he dared not speak plainer for fear of betraying himself.

The information of Pike, it seems, was not without effect, for early on the morning of the following day, Arundel started for the habitation of his friend, taking with him what he considered necessary for a distant journey in the woods. The distance was passed over in a couple of hours; but, early as it was, he found that a messenger had anticipated him. This he discovered, as well from the language of the Knight, who stood in the porch of his house with a letter in his hand, as from the appearance of the man with whom he was conversing, whom Arundel perceived was one of the soldiers who ordinarily mounted guard before the door of the Governor.

"This," said the Knight, handing the letter to the messenger, "to Governor Winthrop, and a fair return to thyself."

The man took the letter, and, after making the military salute of the period, turned on his way to Boston.

"Here has come," said Sir Christopher, after the usual greetings, "a request from the Governor that I would undertake an embassy to the Taranteens, to soothe their excited minds and prevent an outbreak."

"May I inquire what is your reply?" asked Arundel.

"How canst thou doubt? Surely, where honor and good deeds invite, no true knight can turn back."

"I am to understand, then, that you have accepted the office of mediator?"

"I have accepted the trust, hoping that good may grow out thereof."

"And when is it you purpose to depart?"

"Incontinently. The matter brooks no delay."

"Then have I a petition to prefer, which, I hope, will meet with the same favor as the Governor's. Let me attend thee on this journey."

The suddenness of the request appeared to embarrass the Knight for an instant; but it was only for an instant.

"Hast thou fully considered," he asked, "the perils whereunto thou dost expose thy young life? What would be the condition of Eveline Dunning shouldst thou never return?"

"My life is not more valuable than thine, and the situation of Eveline would be no worse than that of thine own relative."

"Aye, but consider the difference in our positions. Glory, duty, summon me irresistibly; whereas, thou hast no calling other than curiosity."

"Say not so," exclaimed the young man, with feeling. "I will not deny the motive assigned; but believe me there are others, whereof you would not disapprove."

"May I know them?"

"Needs it that I should say how greatly I admire thee; how gladly I would follow in thy knightly footsteps; how any peril would be welcome, if partaken with thee?"

Sir Christopher turned away. "I did not think," he said to himself, "his affection was so great."

"Master Arundel," he replied, walking back, "I do prize thy friendship more than precious jewels; but I were untrue to that love, should I expose thee to danger. For myself, I were a recreant, and no knight, could I, because of danger, refuse to obey a call to benefit my fellow-men; but, for thee, it is a reckless and unneeded temptation of peril. Deem me not unkind, but think it is my love and anxiety that speak in your behalf."

"It is the first request I have made to thee," said Arundel, "and, if refused, it shall be the last. I shall be compelled to believe you consider me unworthy of your friendship, too effeminate to bear a walk of a few days in the forest, and unreliable in the hour of trial."

The voice of the young man trembled, and his whole manner betrayed his wounded feelings.

"Hear me, my young friend," urged the Knight; "hast thou well weighed the terrors thou wouldst seek? It is not merely death thou dost defy; but, holy Mary, holy angels, what a death! Canst thou endure to have thy tender flesh pierced with splintered sticks; thine eyes torn from the sockets; the flames greedily dashing over thy head, and licking up, as with the forked tongues of serpents, thy blood, hissing as it drops upon the glowing brands? And this for the poor satisfaction of being with me; for thou canst not afford protection, should the Indians attempt outrage. Alas! how bitterly would the sorrow of my own fate be enhanced by the consciousness of thine!"

"I have considered all these things, and they move me not. I admit the possibilities of the painting, but no more. The conduct of the Taranteens proves how high stands with them the point of honor and the sacred estimate wherein they hold an embassy; else never would they have ventured upon one like the second, after the unhappy termination of the first. I partake not of thy fears."

"Then, if not with the unthinking heat of youth, but with thoughtful deliberation, thou hast well weighed the matter, I will not deny thee, and thou shalt visit with me these savages, if Providence spares our lives to reach them. But I start this day, within a few hours; the time is short; thou canst not be ready."

"I am ready. I came prepared, anticipating all things save thine objections."

"Enter, then, my poor house, my dear young friend, and refresh thyself," said Sir Christopher, leading the way.

The persistency of Arundel having thus wrung a consent from the Knight, the subject was not again referred to by either of them; but both considering the matter settled, addressed themselves to the preparations remaining to be made. A small quantity of dried deer's flesh, and corn parched and pounded, was packed up, sufficient, as was supposed, to supply the wants of the travellers, should they be at any time unfortunate in procuring game, upon which their chief reliance rested. The guns were carefully cleaned, the locks seen to be in order, and store of bullets and powder was provided. These preparations being completed, refreshed with the noonday meal, Sir Christopher called on Arundel to follow him. An Indian was to go with them as far as it was judged safe for him to proceed into an enemy's country. The journey it was calculated would require a week to accomplish to the principal village of the Taranteens; so that, allowing an equal length of time for coming back, and the necessary delay among the Indians, a period of at least three weeks might be expected to elapse before their return. The two white men, then, habited in closely-fitting hunting garments, made of dressed deer-skin, as pliable when dry as silk, their guns slung over their shoulders, followed the Indian, dressed in native costume, with bow and quiver, and carrying the provisions, and commenced their journey.

The first two days were unmarked by any incident. Their course lay over the hills and through the valleys of the pleasant State of Massachusetts, now blooming under the hand of culture, ornamented with cities and villages, and supplying the world with the products of her joyful and free industry; then, an interminable forest, roved by fierce animals, and by red men scarcely less savage, divided into tribes sparsely scattered, living in mutual distrust, incapable of labor, supporting themselves by the uncertain issues of the chase, already daunted by the whites, and perhaps dimly descrying the fate that awaited them.

Crevecoeur, in the description of his journey in Upper Pennsylvania, tells us how accurately the native sagacity of the wiser Indians could discriminate between their own characteristics and those of the white strangers, and foresee the consequences that must follow.

"Seest thou," said one of them, "that the whites subsist on grain, while we depend on flesh; that the flesh requires more than thirty moons to mature, and is often scarce; that each of those wonderful grains which they deposit in the ground gives back more than a hundredfold in return; that the meat whereon we subsist has four legs to run away, while we have only two to catch it; and that the seeds planted by the strangers remain and increase, and never run away? That is the reason why they have so many children, and live longer than we do. I say unto each one of you who will listen, that, before the cedars of our village shall die of age, and the maple-trees of the valley cease to yield sugar, that the race of the sowers of little seeds will have exterminated the race of the flesh-eaters, provided our hunters do not also resolve to sow."

Through the vast solitude, impressive by its silence and its loneliness, guiding their course by day by the position of the sun and the mosses on the trunks of the trees, and at night by the stars, the three men pursued their way. On the afternoon of the third day, the Knight, after a conversation with their guide, came to the conclusion that it was better the Aberginian should return, as they had now approached too nearly to the haunts of the Taranteens to suppose that they should long remain undiscovered. Accordingly, the Indian took his departure, leaving to the white men all the dangers of a further advance, and to find their way as best they might.



CHAPTER XIX.

"Mery it was in the grene forest, Amonge the leves grene; Whereas men hunt east and west, Wyth bowes and arrowes kene."

BALLAD OF ADAM BELL, "Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesly".

As the Knight, with confident steps, led the way, Arundel expressed surprise at the skill which he displayed.

"You forget that I may be said to be half an Indian myself," said Sir Christopher, "and am therefore entitled to a knowledge of the woods. I know not how many times I have accompanied the natives in their distant hunting expeditions, and it would be strange if the experience were thrown away."

"But surely you could never have penetrated so far in the direction of this fierce tribe?"

"Farther, my young friend. I have wandered more than a week's journey to every quarter of the compass from my lodge; and it is the knowledge of the country thus derived, and intimacy with Indian character, that inspire me with resolution in our enterprise. It might be considered a perilous accomplishment," he added, with a smile, "since it recommended me to the consideration of the Council, to whom, moreover, the life of one not of the congregation is of less value."

The Knight had never before shown a disposition to be so communicative. Perhaps the isolation of the two from the world, and the devotion which Arundel had manifested, heightened his feeling of regard, and drew out his confidence. The young man's interest in the conversation increased, and he said:

"Surely, you would not impute to the Governor, or to a majority of his counsellors, a design to expose you to probable destruction. Unutterable baseness were therein."

"I said not so. I pray thee, Master Arundel, to attach no such construction to my words; you would thereby do foul wrong to my thoughts. Nay, I thank the Governor for honoring me with the commission, and doubt not that he acted only in obedience to a higher prompting than his own. I did but point to a feeling which thine enlightenment must lament as much as mine, and which contracts Christian love into very narrow and erroneous boundaries. Dost thou understand me?"

"I think I do. You refer to the jealous retainer of power in the hands of their Church."

"Of their Church, so called. Here are we, for example: we may desire, with that natural longing whereby men are sometimes animated, to enter into closer relations, and to bind ourselves by more intimate ties with those around us, (oftentimes, I fear me, for purposes of worldly advancement, as well as encouragement in holy living); and, lo! a very slight difference of opinion—a sublety whereon a casuist shall batter his brains for days in vain—shall build up a wall of exclusion, especially if there be some within the enchanted circle who are jealous of our influence and distrust their own."

"I doubt not you are right. My own observation partly confirms these views, though I have been too short a time in the colony to form an undistrusted opinion. My youth and inexperience admonish me to express myself doubtfully; but I think myself safe in agreeing with you, that this is scarcely the best way to establish that universal Church to which the ambition of the Puritans aspires."

"Have a care, Master Arundel," said the Knight, laughing, and his laugh rang out joyously through the forest, as if he were glad to escape from restraint, and in strong contrast with the caution which he recommended, "lest thy treason be carried by some bird to the enthusiastic Endicott, or the stern Dudley, and thou be made to atone for thy lese majeste."

"I bear them no ill will, and they know it. I am but a stranger among them, seeking at their hands a jewel most unjustly detained, and which, if given up, will hardly endanger the common weal. But, Sir Christopher, explain your sentiments more perfectly on the point whither our conversation converged."

"Master Arundel, I am a soldier, and no casuist, and, therefore, hardly so well prepared to answer as good Mr. Eliot, or grave Mr. Wilson; yet do thoughts on such subjects sometimes puzzle the brains of a soldier in a steel helmet, as well as those of a teacher in a Geneva cap; and, sworn brothers as we are, proving our affection by a voluntary community of danger, I will not hesitate to avow my secret reflections, knowing that they are safe in thy keeping. All Christians must acknowledge Holy Scripture, when properly understood, as the imperative rule of faith, without a belief of which there can be no salvation. Now, in Scripture I do find the Church likened unto a net let down into the sea, and when drawn up containing within itself a diversity of fishes. This similitude teaches me that the Blessed Founder of our religion did contemplate variety, and not that strict and tame uniformity which would compel every curve into a straight line, and make the Church more like a platoon of point device Spanish soldiers than reasoning men variously organized."

"I have heard the text differently explained, to wit: that the Church is thereby intended to be represented as a receptacle of all men, without distinction of Jew or Gentile—of color, or of whatever separates man from man."

"They who interpret it thus, do limit the Word of God, and make vain the text itself. For, was it not designed that all should be brought within one fold, that there might be one shepherd? Now, how may this be done, if respect be not had to the prepossessions and prejudices of mankind? See the infinite differences that prevail all through the world. These it is the sacred prerogative of the Church to guide and control—not violently tearing them up by the roots, but making them subservient to her advancement."

"That, it seems to me, were little better than encouraging heathenism under the forms of Christianity."

"Nay, it is more like the manoeuvre of a skilful helmsman, who, when a flaw that may not be resisted strikes the sails of his ship, doth not luff, and thereby increase the power of his enemy, and risk destruction, but, by a gentle turn of the rudder, glides by the danger, making its very violence facilitate his advance; or it may be compared to the progress of a wise traveller, who, when he encounters a steep hill, doth not always press straight forward, but, influenced by its shape, sometimes turns aside and encircles its base, thereby diminishing the labor and not increasing the distance."

"It doth look to me," said Arundel, "more like the crooked track of the serpent, which cannot advance to its object without twisting its body into contortions."

"And can anything be more graceful than its lovely curves? Doth not Scripture in some manner commend the sagacious reptile, holding him up to us as an example, and bidding us be wise even as serpents? The children of Israel, moreover, when in the wilderness, were cured of their wounds by merely looking at the brazen serpent, thereby typifying the value of wisdom, whereof the snake is an emblem."

"You are more skilled in dialectic than I," said Arundel, laughing, "and were I to hear you with shut eyes, I should think a monk's cowl would fit your head better than a morion."

Sir Christopher stole a sharp, quick glance at his companion at these words, but he could notice nothing in the youth's handsome features save the light-heartedness of a happy spirit. He seemed to think it necessary, however, to explain more perfectly the meaning of what he had been saying.

"Harbor not the thought," he continued, "that I, in any wise, approve the damnable doctrines which, by many zealous Protestants, are ascribed to the Catholic Church, viz: that religion consists in the mumbling of unmeaning forms and performance of unnecessary ceremonies; in the gaudy decoration of temples with pictures and statues, which some consider an incitement to devotion; in an entire abandonment of the soul of the layman to the care of the priest, as if the laic himself had no part in working out his salvation. As a good Protestant, I am bound to condemn and anathematize these errors; but, more distinctly, I hold that our Puritan brethren (to come back to the point of departure) are over-strict and unwise in applying a Procrustean measure in their discipline, and, for that reason, if for no other, they cannot be a Church universal. Too stiff, unbending and unforgiving are they to the weaknesses of human nature, and, therefore, (without more,) I predict utter failure to every attempt of theirs to make the natives like themselves. They do forget that milk, not flesh meat, is the food for babes."

"Hold you these Puritans to be, in any true sense, a Church at all?" inquired Arundel.

Again the Knight looked sharply at the other, and this time he burst into a laugh, wherein, it seemed to the young man, a sneer was mingled with the gaiety.

"That were a dangerous question," he answered, "anywhere else than three days' journey from Winthrop, and to ears less forgiving than mine. But here we are, debating, as thou didst intimate a moment ago, more like two pattering monks than journeying like merry cavaliers. For my part, the dissensions of Christendom weary me, and I prefer to leave to the holy men vowed to the service of the altar, the labor of unloosing the knots of controversy, rather than perplex my brains with them. Come, Master Arundel, hast never a song wherewith to waken the echoes of the virgin forest and shorten the toils of our way?"

"I esteem not myself a singer, though I can troll a stave or two," replied the young man. "But I fear that my minstrelsy would be rude and uncouth to the cultivated ears of one who, like you, Sir Christopher, hath listened to the lays of many lands, and so, refined and perfected his taste."

"It is true," said the Knight, "that I have heard the songs of many countries, warbled by beauty to the accompanying sounds of divers instruments, from Spain to Persia, from the Andalusian guitar to the Turkish lute. But fear me not. I am no supercilious critic. Thy modesty hides merit. I will be bound now that thy performance will exceed thy promise."

"But is there no danger of attracting wandering savages, and so being taken prisoners, or shot with their arrows?"

"The danger of being treated as enemies is less, for what Indian would suspect such of going singing through the woods?"

"Then here is my song," said Arundel, "but I shall look for a like complaisance on thy part."

"Who loves the greenwood cool and sweet, O! let him come with me! No harsher sound his ears shall greet, Than songs of birds so free; No sight less fair his eyes shall view, Than trees, and ferns, and flowers, Sun, stars, the branches shimmering through, To light the flying hours.

"Ambition hither cannot come, Here Pomp is out of place, And fawning Flattery finds no home With Simper and Grimace, But Nature, in her artless dress, (A greenwood nymph is she,) With eyes so wild and flowing tress, And bare ungartered knee.

"Then come, O, come! O, come with me! Forgot be toil and care; O! come beneath the greenwood tree, For happiness is there. The sun shall shine with tempered ray, The moonbeam soft, yet bright; O, come! Joy beckons us away, To revel in delight!"

"Good!" exclaimed the Knight. "Thy voice is as sweet as a sky-lark's, and runs with marvellous cunning through the harmonious changes of the tune. Why, never preface thy song again with an apology, or I shall begin to doubt thy sincerity."

"Wild woods and savage life have not tarnished the courtly polish of Sir Christopher Gardiner," said Arundel. "And now for my guerdon, though in truth I feel shame for the little I have been able to do, in comparison with what I expect."

"By my troth, thou art a master in the science of delicate compliments. There was, I confess, a time when, with youthful vanity, I did esteem myself possessed of some skill, and could step along the gamut with any Don or Signor of them all; but that is long since, and I fear me that the gutturals of Northern Germany have quite driven out of my throat the liquids and vowels of Italy. However, to pleasure me, thou hast sung with infinite discretion and wonderful sweetness, a most delectable song; and now it were boorish not to attempt at least to repay thy musical favor."

So saying, the Knight sung in a manner and with an expression that proved him to be an accomplished musician, and in some contrast with the less artful style of Arundel, the following song:

"On golden Guadalquiver's banks Are tinkling gay guitars, To hail with song and smiling thanks, The soldier from the wars.

"When glowing youth and beauty met, Blush at each other's glance, And, bounding to the castanet, Entwine th' impassioned dance.

"And purple Xeres sends her wine, To laugh in those dark eyes, Whose flashing orbs the stars outshine, Of Andalusia's skies.

"Red lips repeat the hero's name, White hands are scattering flowers; Honor be his and deathless fame, And gratitude be ours!

"Delightful land of orange blooms, Of chivalry and song, Whose memory the past perfumes— O! how for thee I long!

"Where'er may stray my wandering feet, I never will forget, Or Guadalquiver's maidens sweet, Or merry castanet.

"When sun, and moon, and stars turn pale, On Nature's funeral pyre, O'er all Spain's glory shall prevail, An eagle soaring higher."

"You have well profited by your opportunities, Sir Christopher," said Arundel, at its conclusion. "By mine honor, such sweet and artful notes never waked the echoes of a mighty forest. I seemed to mingle in the graceful fandango, and to taste the exhilarating Xeres in your song."

"Ah!" replied the Knight, with a half sigh. "It is only a reminiscence of youthful follies. But now it is thy turn again. I warrant me there is store of ravishing melodies in the treasury whence thou didst take thine."

"I dare not," said the young man modestly, "sing after thee. My poor notes would sound like those of the croaking raven, in comparison with the warblings of the yellow minstrel of the Canaries."

"Out with thee, hyperbolical flatterer! Believe me—I set a higher value on thy nature than on my art. Come, pipe up once more, and I will, meanwhile, try to recall another ditty."

"If such is to be my reward, I will not refuse, although I do thereby only expose my own incapacity. Here is a serenade:

"I stand beneath thy window, love, To tell my pleasing pain: O, flowers below, and stars above, Bear to her heart my strain! Say that the charms of earth and sky Are waiting for her company, And all sweet things my fair invite, To rise and perfect make the night.

"Yet, no! I would no earthly sound Might mar that tranquil sleep, O'er which the angels, standing round, Admiring vigil keep. With these bright guards I choose to share The watching of my jewel rare; For though their love may be divine, I know it cannot equal mine.

"I see her as she chastely lies Upon the linen white; Was ne'er to man's or angel's eyes So beautiful a sight! O, mark her bosom's fall and swell, (Profane it were of more to tell.) While hover round her rose-leaf mouth, Sweets that excel the Arabian South.

"Listen! she murmurs in her dreams, And music puts to shame: O, can it be I she breathes, meseems, My too—too happy name! O cease, bliss-crowded heart, to beat So fast, lest like some India fleet Surcharged with spices, thou outright Founder, o'erfreighted with delight!"

"Excellent," exclaimed the Knight. Never talk to me of the wonderful little birds of the Canaries, unless to call thyself one. I fancy thy verses a tribute to the celestial attractions of Mistress Eveline Dunning."

"And now let me hear thee," said Arundel.

"I did match my first lay," said Sir Christopher, "to thy youthful blood. Now will I give thee one more befitting my years and gravity," and adapting the words to a wild foreign air, the Knight sent his rich full voice ringing through the wood.

"Who, on Glory's pinion, Shall mount the upper air, And write his name with sunbeams Sublimely there?

"Blare of trumpets shivering Above the reeling fight, Proves the inhuman challenge— The warrior's right?

"Son of thoughtful Science, Unthinking of renown, Is thine the name to thunder The ages down?"

"Hist!" he said, interrupting the song. "What is it I see gliding in yonder thicket? Stand fast, Master Arundel, while I go forward to reconnoitre."

The young man would have accompanied him, but this Sir Christopher imperatively forbade. "Thou art under my lead and protection," he said, "and foul shame were it, should I expose thee to a danger which I should face myself alone;" and in spite of his urgency, Arundel was obliged to remain behind.

The Knight was gone, perhaps, a quarter of an hour, and Arundel began to be anxious at the length of his absence, and had stepped forward a few rods to seek him, when he made his appearance.

"If it were a wild beast, or anything that could harm us," he cried, as he approached, "it has glided off into the bushes."

"Then shall I entreat the continuance of thy song. I would like to hear resolved the question which it pleases the poet to ask."

"I care not to sing more now," returned the Knight. "My voice, I perceive, begins to roughen, and brawls along more like a shallow brook, over pebbles, than the flow of a deep, equable stream, It were to shame the brave words."

This determination Arundel was unable to alter, and he could not avoid ascribing it quite as much to a change of opinion in his companion, respecting the prudence of singing in that wild region, as to any assumed roughness of voice. Thinking thus, he unslung his gun, and examined carefully the priming, holding himself in readiness for any emergency. He noticed, however, to his surprise that no such precautions were adopted by Sir Christopher, who, though in silence, walked with as fearless a step as ever, and allowed his piece to remain upon his back.

The shades of evening were now beginning to wrap objects in obscurity, and it became necessary to look out for a place of rest. In finding one fitted for the purpose, the Knight betrayed no embarrassment.

"There should be," he said, "a small cave in the neighborhood, wherein we may be sheltered. I will lead thee thither in a short time."

Accordingly, they descended the side of a pretty steep declivity, and, at the bottom, forming a sort of miniature valley, found the object of their search. It was certainlyf a very small cave, if, indeed, the recess, which was not twelve feet deep, made by the jutting out of some huge rocks from the side of the hill, deserved the name. A brook came dashing round before the cave, separating it as it were from its surroundings, and deepening its privacy; and over the entrance hung immense hemlock branches, sweeping with their evergreen plumes the rocky roof, and almost hiding the aperture. It seemed impossible to have selected a place better adapted for concealment.

"We need not fear," said the Knight, "to make a fire in this secluded spot. It will serve to keep off wild animals, and as for Indians, they can hardly be expected to stumble on us."

Arundel, as being only a follower, and inferior in experience of wood-craft to his elder friend, made no objection, but addressed himself to prepare for passing the night. The two, with their hunting hatchets, cut from the moist land, watered by the brook, a quantity of hemlock boughs, wherewith to compose their beds, making couches more comfortable, and even luxurious to a tired wanderer, than one would suppose who had never tried them. Next, they kindled a fire, whereupon supper was prepared—some small game, consisting of partridges and rabbits which they had shot in the course of the day. These, together with the parched corn they brought from home, not without a draught or two of aqua vitae tempered by the pure stream, satisfied the cravings of appetite.

"And now, Master Arundel," said the Knight, after the repast was finished, during which he had looked with admiring eyes on the achievements of his companion, "tell me, didst ever, at princely banquet in courtly hall, enjoy with keener zest the artificial dishes of cunning cooks, designed to tickle the delicate and difficultly pleased palate?"

"Never," answered Arundel. "Knew the epicures of Europe the efficacy of a forest tramp, we should meet them oftener than Indians in the woods."

"Thus deals boon nature with her children," said Sir Christopher. "Out of the richness of her abundance doth she prodigally supply what man, with all his devices, cannot obtain. The scent of the woodland, the winged minstrelsy, the murmur of the brook, and tripping of the deer, say I, before the inventions and appliances of dissatisfied man, whereby he vainly tries to procure to himself pleasures which he might have for the asking. But how fares it otherwise with thee? Art not tired? With me, who am an old campaigner, our tramp should be a trifle, and yet I confess my limbs are not as supple as in the morning. Thou wert excusable shouldest thou feel it more."

"I feel no fatigue now," said Arundel, "though an hour ago I might have confessed it. But what is that?" he exclaimed, grasping his gun. "Methought I saw two eyes peering from the thicket. Shall I fire?" he added, bringing the piece to his shoulder.

"For thy life, no!" interposed the Knight quickly, striking up the muzzle of the gun. "That were to inform any wandering savages of our retreat."

"I will then explore the bush to find out what it is, whom curiosity has attracted—whether beast or Indian."

"It were well not to do so," said the Knight. "It would only be unnecessary exposure; and an enemy, if it be one, would have every possible advantage in waiting for thee—he knowing thy position, and thou not his."

"Nevertheless, it were a great satisfaction could I discern the creature. Perhaps I may bring back a buck for breakfast. Thou art acquainted with the stupid habit of deer to gaze on fire. It may be one of them."

"For all that, I counsel thee to remain. A prudent soldier exposes not himself to danger without cause."

"By Heaven!" exclaimed Arundel, "I see the eyes of the animal again, in the light of the fire. I will shoot, come what will of it;" and before the Knight could interfere, he had discharged his piece in the direction of the object. The dark woods echoed to the report, and some birds disturbed from their perches began to flutter blindly round, but no other sounds were heard, and presently silence, as profound as before, brooded over the forest.

"Thou hast been guilty of a sad imprudence, Master Arundel," said the Knight, "and I hope no evil consequences may result therefrom. What art thou about now?"

But the young man, who, from the instant he had discharged his piece, had been busy reloading it, and whose preparations were now completed, paid no attention to the question; but, excited by what he had seen, rushed out of the cave into the open air.

"Santa Madre de Dios!" exclaimed the Knight. "I hope nothing evil will befall him. Were it better now to follow or to remain?"

While Sir Christopher was deliberating, Arundel, holding his piece in readiness, cautiously took his way toward the thicket, whence he fancied the eyes had looked. As he was groping along, not yet recovered from the blinding effect of the fire-glare, he suddenly felt his gun seized, and several strong arms thrown round his person. He cried out for assistance, and struggled, but in vain. The gun was torn away, a hand placed over his mouth, and a tomahawk brandished at him, as if to intimate his doom, should he continue his outcries. In this state of things nothing was left but to yield himself to his captors, and, resigning himself to his fate, he waited for what should follow; nor was he kept long in suspense, for presently an Indian came gliding up to the group in whose midst he stood, and spoke a few words, whereupon he was led to the cave, and directed by signs to enter it. Here he found Sir Christopher lying quietly on the ground, without apparently having received any injury, and his piece in the possession of some Indians by whom he was surrounded. Arundel was permitted to sit down by his side, admiring, as he did so, the wonderful composure of the Knight.



CHAPTER XX.

"There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness."

BRYANT.

Arundel had now an opportunity to look round and observe the state of things. Besides the Knight and himself, there were seven or eight Indians in the little cavern, armed with bows and arrows; and he remarked with pleasure that these persons were not stained with war-paint, indicating that they were on no hostile expedition, but engaged in hunting. So far from offering violence, or even rudeness, the savages treated them with marked deference, keeping at a respectful distance, and yielding to them the piles of hemlock branches which they had arranged for couches. Arundel listened to the conversation between the Knight and the Indians with that strained attention with which one unacquainted with a language will sometimes hang upon its sounds, as if by a concentration of the faculties to wring a sense out of it; and if he was unable to make out the meaning of the words, he at least satisfied himself, both from the intonation of the voices and expression of the faces, that no immediate injury was designed. To the appealing looks which Arundel from time to time directed to him, the Knight at length replied:

"I know not, Master Arundel, whether we should consider ourselves more fortunate or the contrary, in falling into the hands of these copper-colored cavaliers. We are their prisoners, and, as such, bound to obey their motions; but their presence will guard us from attack, and in that way be a shield; and their treatment in other respects will shame, I doubt not, the conduct of more civilized men in like circumstances."

"Know you," inquired Arundel, "the name of their tribe, and their intentions towards us?"

"They are Taranteens, and, as far as I can learn, mean to take us to one of their villages. It was fortunate your shot took not effect; for, otherwise, I know not what would have been the consequence."

"I confess now its rashness; but it is manifest that we were tracked, and, in any event, would have been prisoners."

"Perhaps not prisoners. Perhaps, after making our acquaintance, they would have offered us their company as an escort. As it is, we must submit to close watchfulness on our journey, and, afterwards, take what fate may come. I counsel thee (and speak as one knowing the habits of these people) to betray no distrust or apprehension. We must show that we rely with perfect assurance on our character as ambassadors, not only for immunity from danger, but for courteous treatment. And now," he added, disposing himself to rest, "we had better court that sleep which will be so necessary to prepare us for the fatigues of to-morow."

Arundel followed his example, and, as if it had been a signal for the Indians, they all left the cave, with the exception of two, who stretched themselves out by the fire at the mouth.

It was long after it had fallen upon the lids of Sir Christopher, that sleep visited the eyes of Arundel; but tired nature at last yielded to the solicitations of the drowsy influence, and he forgot both his joys and his sorrows.

When he awoke, the daylight was streaming into his retreat, and, sitting up on the hemlock boughs, he looked around. The couch of Sir Christopher was deserted, and no Indian visible. Wondering what had become of them, he rose and walked to the entrance, and beheld standing on the margin of the brook, the Knight in conversation with the savage, who, the night before, appeared to be the leader of the party. They were so interested with their subject as not to notice his presence, and he had an opportunity to observe their bearing to one another. To judge from that, the Knight looked to Arundel more like a conqueror than a captive, and rather giving than receiving orders. The attitude of Sir Christopher was commanding, and he engrossed the principal part of the conversation. From the frequency with which it was repeated, Arundel, as he fancied, could make out one word, which sounded like "Mesandowit," but its meaning he was unable to divine. He stood looking at them until the Indian discovered him, who, ejaculating the word "ahque," (beware) the Knight turned and also saw him.

"Thy appearance dispenses with the necessity of asking how thou hast passed the night, Master Arundel," cried Sir Christopher. "Well, there is nothing like a trust in Providence, whereto I commend thee, to inspire with courage. Courage may, in a certain sense, be said to be piety."

"Truly, Sir Christopher," said Arundel, catching confidence from the cheerful tone of the Knight, "I begin to regard thee as a sort of Providence, for wherever you move, you seem to exercise a command. Now would I give something to know the secret whereby you have tamed yon savage."

"It is no astonishing mystery. I did but elucidate to him clearly our sacred character and thy mistake in firing."

"Is he content with the explanation?"

"He seems to be. The natives are not so unreasonable as is sometimes represented. Difficulties between men do often arise from an ignorance of each others intentions; and one grand cause of contention is, doubtless, an inability to comprehend their diverse languages. Now, I suffer under no such disability. I can impart my ideas, and receive their own in return, and thus is language a bridge of reconciliation betwixt us. Believe me—a common cord vibrates through the hearts and minds of all men, and skilful words are the fingers wherewith to touch it."

"Thou art a skilful musician in more than one sense," said Arundel, as he turned to the brook to wash his hands and face.

No very strict, certainly not obtrusive surveillance, was exercised by the Taranteens over their captives. They were allowed to move about where they pleased, and their escort began to assume the appearance of a guard of honor, rather than a band of suspicious enemies; nor did the savages seem at all disposed to hurry, or take any measures to prevent a surprise, feeling, probably, a consciousness of security in being on their own hunting grounds. Their breakfast, of which the two white men partook with them, was leisurely prepared, and eaten with equal deliberation, and the sun was high when they resumed their journey. All these circumstances were noticed by Arundel, and tended to increase his confidence. However, he made no remark respecting them.

But when, soon after the commencement of their march, their guns were returned, he could not forbear from uttering his surprise.

"They know not how to use the weapon," replied Sir Christopher, "and it suits them not to carry loads not their own. Besides, I have pledged our honors that the pieces shall not be used against them. Methinks, moreover, were we inclined to play false, it were fruitless, in view of their superior number."

Nothing of importance occurred during the couple of days longer their journey lasted, and before it was completed, both the prisoners lost all apprehension of violence. They were even permitted to shoot the game which was started, and the Indians manifested no little pleasure when the shots proved successful. They watched closely the loading of the pieces and priming, and the manner in which the lock trigger was raised, and sometimes took the guns into their own hands, and brought them up to the shoulder, as they had seen the white men do, as if desirous to be taught their use. Something also, in reference to the subject, they said to the Knight, but he shook his head, and showed no disposition to instruct them. An unlucky experiment made with the piece of Sir Christopher, by one of the Taranteens, at length put an end to their importunities.

The Indian took the gun, after he had seen it loaded by Sir Christopher, and imitating his actions, discharged it at a bird sitting on a bough, at no great distance.

He had failed to remark that the Knight placed the piece firmly against his shoulder when it was fired, and ignorant of the propriety of doing so, held it with a natural feeling of timidity at a little distance from his body. The consequence was, that the recoil prostrated the savage on his back, and the gun dropped from his hands, while the fortunate bird seemed to deride the unskilful marksman, and to challenge him to another trial, by paying no other heed than hopping on another bough. His companions gathered round the fallen savage, and two or three took hold of the white men, as if to prevent escape; but when they saw no wound upon his person, nor expression of pain in his face, (for the pride of the unfortunate warrior forbade the betrayal of what he felt,) their words of sympathy and intentions of revenge were converted into jeers and laughter. As for the unlucky fellow himself, on rising from the ground, he retreated a little way from the gun, and regarding it with a look, wherein awe and aversion were combined, took care not to approach nigh to it again.

On the evening of the seventh day after their departure, they approached the village of the Taranteens. The whole company halted at a little distance from it, and the returning Indians shouted a peculiar cry, after which they proceeded more leisurely on their way. The yell had been heard and understood, for soon were seen advancing, groups of men, women, and children. These, upon joining their friends, manifested none of that stolid indifference, which it has been the pleasure of certain writers to ascribe to the natives, forgetting that by nature the same feelings animate the hearts of all men, whatever may be the degree of their civilization, or the color of their skin. On the contrary, there were smiling faces and tones of welcome, and other demonstrations, that proved the existence of affection. The squaws and children looked askance at the strangers, but their glances were rather timid than obtrusive, and augured no unfavorable prepossessions. Accompanied by a constantly increasing number, our friends were conducted to a lodge in the centre of the village, which they were told they would occupy during their stay. It was carefully covered with bark, and, as usual, skins were hanging on the sides, and lying on the ground for couches, and there were some cooking utensils, made of clay, on one side. Such were all the articles constituting the simple menage of the child of nature, and completed his idea of necessary furniture. Here the strangers were left by their guides, though several of the tribe remained lingering around the wigwam.

"Thus far," said the Knight, stretching himself out on a skin, for in whatever circumstances he might be placed, he was always at his ease, "hath heaven breathed favoring airs into our sails. We will accept the omen and be hopeful for the future."

"No more skilful ambassador, it seems to me," said Arundel, "ever mediated betwixt mighty governments than thyself, Sir Christopher. Why, Ephraim Pike was right, and I did injustice to his hang-dog look when I distrusted him."

"What said he?" inquired the Knight.

"That our journey would be a mere pleasure flight, unattended with danger."

"He would have found it different had he undertaken it," muttered Sir Christopher. "And was it Ephraim who advised thee to associate thyself with me?"

"He did not presume to advise. I scarcely know how it happened, but as I accidentally met the man, the conversation turned upon thy enterprise, of the dangers whereof he made light."

"There is some mystery," said the Knight, "connected with this. Be sure the obscure varlet would not have sought thee out for such a purpose of his own motion, but was instigated thereto by another."

"Who could that be, and with what motive?"

"Nay, I judge no man; but, perhaps, it so happened that they who intended harm conferred a favor."

At this moment they saw approaching through the opening in the lodge a couple of squaws, bearing in their hands earthen pots, from which a warm steam was issuing. These they brought straight into the wigwam, and, placing them before the white men, invited them to eat. After a few words from the Knight, which the smiling faces of the women showed were well received, they retired, and the two friends addressed themselves to a business seldom disagreeable, and specially pleasant to them. In the one vessel they found pieces of broiled venison, and in the other a composition at that time peculiar to the Indians, but which has since become a favorite in New England, and still retains its Indian name of "succotash." It is a dish consisting of sweet corn and beans boiled together, and savored with some kind of meat, according to the taste. The meat preferred by the vitiated taste of the whites is pork; but inasmuch as swine were unknown at the time in the country, except in the civilized settlements—the unclean animal having been introduced by the Europeans—its place in the present instance was supplied by the more wholesome bear's meat, for such the experienced palate of the Knight pronounced it to be. At the completion of the meal, although it was early according to our habits, the unbroken silence that reigned around indicated that the Indians had retired to rest, and the two weary travelers, imitating their example, threw themselves on their couches.

Some hours had passed since they laid themselves down to sleep, when the Knight arose, and, after glancing at his companion, started, with a light and noiseless step, to leave the wigwam. At the opening he found a Taranteen, whom his stirring had wakened. With him the Knight exchanged some whispered words, and then took his way in the moonlight toward a lodge situated near the centre of the village, and conspicuous for its size. He met no interruption, and having arrived at the entrance, drew aside the skin which served for a door. The first object which caught his eye was a flame proceeding from some pieces of a resinous wood, which were supported by a sort of iron trestle standing on a rude table in the centre, and sending up spirals of smoke to escape by an aperture above. By means of the light which this cast, he was enabled to take a view of the apartment.

It was of an oblong shape, some forty feet long by twenty wide, and coming to a line at the top, and at first seemed destitute of furniture and of occupants. As the Knight stood hesitating, a voice from the remotest part of the wigwam addressed him.

"Welcome!" it said, in French, "true son of the Church! valiant soldier of the Cross! servant of Heaven! My soul hath been in travail to see thee; and now, laus Deo, its desire is gratified."

The Knight advanced in the direction whence the voice proceeded, and when he had passed on so far that his back was to the light, could see the speaker. He was one who, whatever were the mistakes of his creed, seems to have been animated by a purpose lofty to himself, and an ardent faith in its truth, and, therefore, honor be to his memory, as well as to all other brave spirits, who, like him, (though erring,) forget themselves for others. But he is worthy of description.

He was a man of about sixty years of age, somewhat under the middle size, but strongly made, and evidently capable of enduring great fatigue. His eyes were black and piercing, his complexion so dark as to be almost olive, and his features regular, the mouth being small and sharply chiseled and compressed. Thick, long, white hair covered his whole head, with the exception of a small round spot on the crown which was bare, revealing the mark of the priest, and fell upon his shoulders. He was habited in a long, closely-fitting robe of some coarse material, which had once been black, but was now faded and tarnished by time and exposure, and a hempen rope to keep it in place was girded about his loins. Such, as we have described him, was the famous Father Le Vieux, one of the most active and devoted among the French Jesuits in America.

Father Le Vieux had risen from his seat, and was advancing toward his visiter, when the latter first beheld him. As the two men drew nigh, the Knight sunk on his knees at the feet of the priest.

"Salve fili mi!" said the father, laying his hands on the head of the kneeling Sir Christopher. "Beatus qui venit in nomine Domini. Arise, my son!" he continued, in French, taking the Knight by the hand, and assisting him. "Thy companion, I trust, sleeps soundly."

"He is asleep, reverend father," answered the Knight, in the same language, "like one who has made a covenant with his eyes not to open them before morning."

"May the blessed angels press their palms thereupon, that he awaken not. Now, then, disclose to me what, for our mutual purpose, it is meet that I should know."

With these words, he led the way into that part of the lodge whence he came, and was followed by Sir Christopher, who sat down by his side on a sort of bench.

"First, reverend father," said Sir Christopher, "would I confess my sins and obtain absolution. It is long since my bosom's stains were wiped out by authority of Holy Church, and my soul languishes for forgiveness."

"Kneel, then, and on peril of thy salvation keep nothing back."

Sir Christopher, with bowed head, knelt by his side, and, in low-murmured tones, while the priest bowed down to him his ear, made his confession. It lasted some considerable time, for which reason the good father betrayed a little impatience, either because he thought that the sins were too trivial to be dwelt upon so long, or because he was anxious to hear the communication of his penitent on other matters. At its conclusion, he placed his hand on the Knight's head, and said:

"The sins which, with a penitent heart and lively faith, thou hast confessed, not having wilfully concealed anything, and determined by God's grace to commit them no more, do I, a servant of Holy Church, commissioned for that purpose by the successor of blessed St. Peter, whose are the sacred keys, and unto whom and his fellow-servants it was promised by the Head of the Church, 'whatsoever ye bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven, and whatsoever ye loose on earth shall be loosed in Heaven,' absolve thee from, and unbind and remit unto thee, both in time and in eternity, in nomine Patris, Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Rise and sin no more. And now, make thy report."