REGINALD AND HIS PARTY AT THE INDIAN ENCAMPMENT.

While Reginald and his two companions were feasting with Tamenund, a similar repast was laid before the rest of the party, in the lodge of a brave named Maque–o–nah, or the “Bear–asleep,” at which Mike Smith occupied the centre or principal seat, and next to him sat Monsieur Perrot,—the latter personage being very curious to see the culinary arrangements made for this, his first Indian banquet. He was horrified at observing the carelessness with which they thrust half the side of a buffalo to the edge of a huge fire of undried wood, leaving a portion of the meat to be singed and burnt, while other parts were scarcely exposed to the heat: he could not refrain from expressing to one of the Canadian coureurs des bois, in his own language, his contempt and pity for the ignorant savages who thus presumed to desecrate a noble science, which ranked higher, in his estimation, than poetry, painting, or sculpture: but he was warned that he must be very careful neither to reject nor show any distaste for the food set before him, as by so doing he would give mortal offence to his entertainers. It was ludicrous in the extreme to watch the poor Frenchman’s attempts at imparting to his features a smile of satisfaction, when a wooden bowl was placed before him, filled with half–boiled maize, and beside it one of the buffalo–ribs, evidently less favoured by the fire, as it was scarcely warmed through, and was tough and stringy as shoe–leather. After bestowing upon sundry portions of it many fruitless attempts at mastication, he contrived, unperceived, to slip what remained of the meat into the pocket of his jacket, and then laughed with great self–satisfaction at the trick he had played his uncivilised hosts.

When the feast was concluded in Tamenund’s lodge, Reginald desired his men to unpack one of the bales, which he pointed out, and to spread its contents before him; the savages gathered round the coveted and glittering objects with eager but silent astonishment, while he separated the presents which, by the advice of Baptiste, were now distributed among their chiefs; to Tamenund he apportioned a large blanket of scarlet cloth, a silver–mounted pistol, and a basket containing mirrors, beads, and trinkets, for his wives and daughters; to MahÉga, a bridle ornamented with beads, several pounds of tobacco, powder, and lead, a fowling–piece, and a blanket of blue woollen–stuff. The features of the Osage chief relaxed into a grim smile of satisfaction as he received these valuable gifts; and he so far overcame the repulsive sternness of his usual character as to seize Reginald’s hand, and to tell him that he was a great chief, and good to his Indian brothers. The other presents having been distributed among the chiefs and braves, according to their rank, the feast was broken up, and they retired to their respective lodges; Reginald, Baptiste, and M. Perrot being accommodated in that of Tamenund’s himself, and Bearskin, with the rest of the white men’s party, in those lodges which have before been mentioned as being contiguous to that of the old chief.

During the first night that he spent in his new quarters, the excitement and novelty of the scene banished sleep from the eyes of Reginald; and, finding himself restless, he arose half an hour before daybreak, to enjoy the early freshness of the morning. Throwing his rifle over his arm, he was about to leave the lodge, when Baptiste touched him, and inquired, in a low voice, if he were prepared with a reply in case of being challenged by any of the scouts around the encampment; with some shame he confessed he had forgotten it; and the guide then instructed him, if he were challenged, to say “LenapÉ n’a ki Netis,” or “I am Netis, the friend of the Delawares.” Being thus prepared, and carrying with him the few articles requisite for a Prairie toilet, he stepped out into the open air. Close by the opening of the lodge, he saw a tall figure stretched on the grass, enveloped in a buffalo robe, the hairy fell of which was silvered with the heavy night–dew: it was War–Eagle, who rarely slept in lodge or tent, and whose quick eye, though he neither moved nor spoke, discerned his white brother in a moment, although the latter could not recognise his friend.

Reginald pursued his way through the encampment to its extremity, where the streamlet before mentioned wound its course among the dells and hillocks of the Prairie, until it reached the larger river that flowed through the distant forest. After following the banks of the stream for one or two miles, the red streaks in the eastern horizon gave notice of day’s approach, and observing near him a hill, somewhat more elevated than those by which it was surrounded, Reginald climbed to its top, in order to witness the effect of sunrise on that wild and picturesque scene.

To the westward, the undulations of the Prairie, wrapped in heavy folds of mist, rose in confused heaps, like the waves of a boundless ocean: to the south he could just distinguish the lodges and the smouldering fires of the encampment, whence, at intervals, there fell upon his ear mingled and indistinct sounds, disagreeable perhaps in themselves, but rendered harmonious by distance, and by their unison with the wildness of the surrounding objects; while to the eastward lay a dense and gloomy range of woods, over the summits of whose foliage the dawning sun was shedding a stream of golden light.

Reginald gazed upon the scene with wonder and delight; and every moment while he gazed called into existence richer and more varied beauties. The mists and exhalations rising from the plain curled themselves into a thousand fantastic shapes around the points and projections of the hills, where they seemed to hang like mantles which the earth had cast from her bosom, as being rendered unnecessary by the appearance of the day; swarms of children and of dusky figures began to emerge from the encampment, and troops of horses to crop the pasture on the distant hills; while the splendour of the sun, now risen in its full glory, lit up with a thousand varying hues the eastern expanse of boundless forest. Reginald’s heart was not insensible to the impressions naturally excited by such a scene; and while he admired its variegated beauties, his thoughts were raised in adoration to that almighty and beneficent Being, whose temple is the earth, and whose are the “cattle upon a thousand hills.”

Having made his way again to the banks of the stream, and found a spot sheltered by alder and poplar trees, he bathed and made his morning toilet; after which he returned towards the encampment, his body refreshed by his bathe, and his mind attuned to high and inspiring thoughts by the meditation in which he had been engaged. As he strolled leisurely along, he observed a spot where the trees were larger, and the shade apparently more dense than the other portions of the valley; and, being anxious to make himself acquainted with all the localities in the neighbourhood of his new home, he followed a small beaten path, which, after sundry windings among the alders, brought him to an open space screened on three sides by the bushes, and bounded on the fourth by the stream. Reginald cast his eyes around this pleasant and secluded spot, until they rested upon an object that riveted them irresistibly. It was a female figure seated at the root of an ancient poplar, over a low branch of which one arm was carelessly thrown, while with the other she held a book, which she was reading with such fixed attention as to be altogether unconscious of Reginald’s approach. Her complexion was dark, but clear and delicate, and the rich brown hair which fell over her neck and shoulders, still damp and glossy from her morning ablutions, was parted on her forehead by a wreath of wild flowers twined from amongst those which grew around the spot: the contour of her figure, and her unstudied attitude of repose, realised the classic dreams of Nymph and Nereid, while her countenance wore an expression of angelic loveliness, such as Reginald had never seen or imagined.

He gazed—and gazing on those sweet features, he saw the red full lips move unconsciously, while they followed the subject that absorbed her attention; and forgetful that he was intruding on retirement, he waited, entranced, until those downcast eyes should be raised. At length she looked up, and seeing the figure of a man within a few paces of her, she sprang to her feet with the lightness of a startled antelope; and darting on him a look of mingled surprise and reproof, suppressed the exclamation of alarm that rose to her lips. Reginald would fain have addressed the lovely being before him—he would fain have excused his unintended intrusion; but the words died upon his lips, and it was almost mechanically that he doffed his hunting–cap, and stood silent and uncovered before her! Recovering from the momentary confusion, she advanced a step towards him, and with an ingenuous blush held out her hand, saying in a gentle tone of inquiry, and with the purest accent, “Netis, my brother’s friend?”

“The same, fair creature,” replied Reginald, whose wonder and admiration were still more excited by the untaught grace and dignity of her manner, as well as by hearing his own tongue so sweetly pronounced; “but, in the name of Heaven, who—what—whence can you be?” Blushing more deeply at the animation and eagerness of his manner, she was for a moment silent; when he continued, striking his hand on his forehead:—“Oh, I have it, fool, tortoise, that I was. You are ‘Prairie–bird,’ the sister of whom Wingenund has told me so much.” Then, gently pressing the little hand which he had taken, he added, “Dear Wingenund! he saved my life; his sister will not consider me a stranger?”

Again a warmer blush mantled on the cheek of Prairie–bird, as she replied, “You are no stranger: you speak of Wingenund’s good deed: you are silent about your own! You drew War–Eagle from the deep and swift waters. I have heard it all, and have often wished to see you and thank you myself.” There was a modest simplicity in her manner, as she uttered these few words that confirmed the impression made on Reginald by the first glimpse of her lovely form and features; but beyond this there was something in the tone of her voice that found its way direct to his heart; it fell upon his ear like an old familiar strain of music, and he felt unwilling to break the silence that followed its closing accents.

It is not our province, in a simple narrative of this kind, to discuss the oft–disputed question, whether love at first sight deserves the name of love; whether it is merely a passing emotion, which, though apparently strong, a brief lapse of time may efface; or, whether there be really secret irresistible natural impulses, by which two human beings, who meet together for the first time, feel as if they had known and loved each other for years, and as if the early cherished visions of fancy, the aspirations of hope, the creations of imagination, the secret, undefined longings of the heart, were all at once embodied and realised.[28] We are inclined to believe that, although not frequent, instances sometimes occur of this instinctive sympathy and attraction, and that, when they do so, the tree of affection (like the fabled palm at the touch of the genius’ wand) starts into immediate luxuriance of flower and foliage, striking its tenacious roots far into the kindly soil, destined thenceforward to become the nurture of its verdant youth, the support of its mature strength, and at length the resting–place of its leafless and time–stricken decay.

Such seemed to be the case with Reginald and Prairie–bird; for, as they looked one at the other, each was unconsciously occupied with teeming thoughts that neither could define nor express, and both felt relieved at hearing approaching footsteps and the voice of the Black Father, who called out in English,

“Come, my child, I have allowed you full time this morning; we will return to the camp.” As he spoke his eye fell upon Reginald, and he added, courteously, “You have been early abroad, young sir.”

“I have,” replied Reginald. “I went to the top of yonder heights to see the sun rise, and was amply repaid by the beauty of the scene: on my return, I wandered accidentally into this secluded spot, and trust that my intrusion has been forgiven.”

“I believe that my dear child and pupil would forgive a greater offence than that, in one who has shown so much kindness to her brothers,” replied the missionary, smiling: and he added, in a low voice, addressing the Prairie–bird in his own language, “Indeed, my child, I think he deserves our friendly welcome; for, unless his countenance strongly belies his character, it expresses all those good qualities which Wingenund taught us to expect.”

“Stay, sir,” and Reginald, colouring highly; “let me not participate, without your knowledge, in your communications to Prairie–bird. I have travelled much in Germany, and the language is familiar to me.”

“Then, my young friend,” said Paul MÜller, taking his hand kindly, “you have only learnt, from what I said, how hard a task you will have to fulfil the expectations that Wingenund has led us to entertain.”

“I can promise nothing,” replied Reginald, glancing towards the maiden, “but a true tongue, a ready hand, and an honest heart; if these can serve my friend’s sister, methinks she may expect them without being disappointed.”

The words in themselves were nothing remarkable, but there was an earnest feeling in the tone in which they were spoken that made Prairie–bird’s heart beat quicker: she answered him by a look, but said nothing. Wonderful is the expression, the magic eloquence of the human eye; and yet how is its power tenfold increased when the rays of its glance pass through the atmosphere even of dawning love. Reginald longed to know whence and who she could be, this child of the wilderness, who had so suddenly, so irresistibly, engaged his feelings; above all, he longed to learn whether her heart and affections were free; and that single look, translated by the sanguine self–partiality of love, made him internally exclaim, “Her heart is not another’s!” Whether his conjecture proved correct the after–course of this tale will show: meanwhile we cannot forbear our admiration at the marvellous rapidity with which our hero, at his first interview with Prairie–bird, settled this point to his own satisfaction. The little party now strolled towards the camp; and as they went, Reginald, seeing that Prairie–bird still held in her hand the book that he had seen her peruse with so much attention, said,

“May I inquire the subject of your studies this morning?”

“Certainly,” she replied, with grave and sweet simplicity; “it is the subject of my study every morning: the book was given me by my dear father and instructor now by my side. I have much to thank him for; all I know, all I enjoy, almost all I feel, but most of all for this book, which he has taught me to love, and in some degree to understand.”

As she spoke she placed in Reginald’s hand a small copy of Luther’s translation of the Bible. In the fly–leaf before the title–page was written, “Given to Prairie–bird by her loving father and instructor, Paul MÜller.” Reginald read this inscription half aloud, repeating to himself the words “MÜller,” “father;” and coupling them with the strange enigmas formerly uttered by Wingenund respecting the origin of Prairie–bird, he was lost in conjecture as to their meaning.

“I see your difficulty,” said the missionary, “you do not understand how she can call Wingenund and War–Eagle brothers, and me father. In truth, she has from her earliest childhood been brought up by Tamenund as his daughter, and as I reside chiefly with this Delaware band, I have made it my constant occupation and pleasure to give her such instruction as my humble means admit; she has been entrusted to us by the mysterious decrees of Providence; and though the blood of neither flows in her veins, Tamenund and I have, according to our respective offices, used our best endeavours to supply the place of natural parents.”

“Dear, dear father,” said Prairie–bird, pressing his hand to her lips, and looking up in his face with tearful eyes, “you are and have been every thing to me,—instructor, comforter, guide, and father! My Indian father, too, and my brothers, are all kind and loving to me. I have read in the books that you have lent me many tales and histories of unkindness and hatred between parents and children, among nations enlightened and civilised. I have had every wish gratified before expressed, and every comfort provided. What could a father do for a child that you have not done for me?”

As she spoke she looked up in the missionary’s face with a countenance so beaming with full affection, that the old man pressed her in his arms, and kissing her forehead, muttered over her a blessing that he was too much moved to pronounce aloud; after a pause of a few minutes, he said to Reginald, with his usual benevolent smile, “We only know you yet by your Indian name of ‘Netis’—how are you called in the States? We inquired of War–Eagle and Wingenund, but they either did not remember, or could not pronounce your name?”

“Reginald Brandon,” replied our hero.

Prairie–bird started, and abruptly said, “Again, again; say it once more?”

Reginald repeated it, and she pronounced the first name slowly after him, pressing her hand upon her forehead, and with her eye fixed on vacancy, while broken exclamations came from his lips.

“What are you thinking of, dear child?” said the missionary, somewhat surprised and alarmed by her manner.

“Nothing, dear father,” she replied, with a faint smile; “it was a dream, a strange dream, which that name recalled, and confused my head: we are now close to the camp, I will go in and rest awhile; perhaps you may like to talk more with Ne—I mean,” she added, hesitating, “with Reginald.” So saying, and saluting them with that natural grace which belonged to all her movements, she withdrew towards the camp, and Reginald’s eyes followed her retreating figure until it was lost behind the canvasss folds that protected the opening to her tent.