ETHELSTON PREPARES TO LEAVE MOOSHANNE.—MAHÉGA APPEARS AS AN ORATOR, IN WHICH CHARACTER HE SUCCEEDS BETTER THAN IN THAT OF A LOVER.—A STORM SUCCEEDED BY A CALM.

While the events described in the last chapter were in progress, the hours sped smoothly onward at Mooshanne. Lucy and Ethelston thought themselves justly entitled to a liberal compensation for the trials of their long separation; and, as the spring advanced, morning and evening generally found them strolling together, in the enjoyment of its opening beauties. Sometimes Aunt Mary encountered them during the busy round of her visits to the poultry, the piggery, or to the cottage of some neighbour, whither sorrow or sickness called her. The mate frequently came over from Marietta to see his captain, and to inquire whether there was no early prospect of another voyage, for he already began to find that time travelled slowly ashore; and although he consoled himself, now and then, with a pipe and social glass in David Muir’s back parlour, he longed to be afloat again, and told the worthy merchant that he would rather have made the fresh–water trip in the canoe, than be laid up in dock, while he felt his old hull still stout and seaworthy. His son Henry continued to advance in the good graces of Jessie Muir; but unfortunately for the youth his father had discovered his attachment, and lost no opportunity of bantering him in the presence of the young lady, accompanying his jokes with sundry grins, and severe pokes in the ribs, which caused sometimes a disagreeable alternation of vexation and confusion: nevertheless David Muir remained habitually blind to the state of his daughter’s affections, and Dame Christie was a great deal too much occupied with the cares of domestic government (including the occasional lectures and reproofs administered to David) to admit of her troubling her head with what she would have termed their childish fancies.

Such was the general state of affairs on the banks of the Muskingum, when Colonel Brandon received letters from St. Louis, informing him that, since the departure of his son, various disputes had arisen between the agents of the different companies, and that unless a speedy and amicable arrangement could be effected, a heavy loss must necessarily fall upon the fur–proprietors and others interested in the speculation. By the same post a letter bearing a foreign post–mark was placed in the hands of Ethelston, during the perusal of which, an expression of sadness spread itself over his countenance, and he fell abstractedly into a reverie, the subject of which was evidently of a painful nature. Such indications were not likely to escape the anxious and observant eye of love; and Lucy, laying her hand lightly on his arm, said in a tone half joking, half serious, “Am I not entitled to know all your secrets now, Edward?”

“I think not,” he replied in the same tone; “and I am rather disposed to refuse gratifying your curiosity, until you consent to acquiring such a title as shall be indisputable.” Lucy coloured; but as she still held out her hand and threatened him with her displeasure, if he continued disobedient, he gave her the letter, saying, “I suppose I must submit; the contents are sad, but there is no reason why I should withhold them from yourself, or from your father.” With these words he left the room: after a short pause, Lucy, at the Colonel’s request, read him the letter, which proved to be from young Lieutenant L’Estrange, and which, being translated, ran as follows:—

“My Honoured Friend,

“I need not tell you of the grief that I experienced on revisiting my changed and desolate home. My father has told me all that passed during your stay in the island. He looks upon those days not in anger, but in sorrow; he is sensible that for a time he did you injustice, and fears that, in the first bitterness of his grief, he may have omitted to make you full reparation. These feelings he entreats me to convey to you, and desires me to add, that from the first day of your arrival, to that of your final departure, your conduct was like yourself,—noble, upright, and generous. The misfortune that we still bewail, we bow to, as being the infliction of a Providence whose ways are inscrutable. Accept the renewed assurance of the highest regard and esteem of your friend,

“Eugene L’Estrange.”

As Lucy read this letter, her eyes filled with tears, though, perhaps, she could scarcely have explained, whether she wept over the afflictions that had befallen the L’Estrange family, or the generous testimony which it bore to her lover’s conduct. The Colonel, too, was much affected, and gladly acquiesced in his daughter’s proposal, that they should for the future abstain from renewing a subject which must cause such painful recollections to Ethelston.

Ere many hours had elapsed, the latter was summoned to attend the Colonel, who informed him that the intelligence lately received from St. Louis was of a nature so important to his affairs, that it required immediate attention. “There is no one,” he continued, “to whom I can well entrust this investigation, except yourself, for none has deserved or received so much of my confidence.” There was an unusual embarrassment and hesitation observable in Ethelston’s countenance, on hearing these words, which did not escape his guardian’s quick eye, and the latter added, “I see, my dear fellow, that you are not disposed to leave Mooshanne again so soon; you are thinking about certain promises, and a certain young lady,—is it not so, Edward?”

“It is so, indeed, my best and kindest of friends,” said Ethelston. “Can you think or wish that it should be otherwise?”

“Nay,” said Colonel Brandon, smiling, “I will not deny that you are entitled to entertain such thoughts, but believe me, when I assure you seriously that this expedition is essential to your own interests and to mine. A great portion of the property left to you under my care by your father, is invested in these Fur companies; and ere you enter on the responsibilities of a married life, it is necessary that you put your affairs in such a posture, as to ensure some future provision for the lady of whom you are thinking. These arrangements will not detain you at St. Louis for more than six weeks or two months, by that time Reginald will have returned from his Indian excursion; you will come home together, and I will then listen patiently to whatever you may think fit to say, regarding the young lady in question;—shall it be so, Edward?”

“How can I be grateful enough!” replied Ethelston, taking the Colonel’s hand; “give me only leave to explain to Lucy the cause and probable duration of my absence, then I am ready to receive your instructions, and to set about it immediately.” We will not inquire too minutely how Lucy received this explanation from her lover’s lip, nor what means he took to reconcile her to the proposed arrangement; it is sufficient to state, that she finally acquiesced with her habitual gentleness, and that, in a few days after the above conversation, Ethelston had completed his preparations for his journey to St. Louis.

We will again take leave of him and of Mooshanne for a season, and return to MahÉga, whom we left bleeding and senseless, at no great distance from the Osage and Delaware encampment. Indeed, we should, ere this, have accused ourselves of inhumanity towards that chief, for leaving him so long in such sorry plight, had he not merited severe punishment, for his rough and brutal behaviour to Prairie–bird.

When MahÉga recovered his senses, he was still so much confused from the stunning effects of the severe blow that he had received on the head, as well as from loss of blood, that he could not recall to mind the events immediately preceding his swoon; nor did they present themselves distinctly to his memory, until his eye rested upon his stained scalp–lock, and beside it the knife that Reginald Brandon had driven firmly into the turf. Then he remembered clearly enough the struggle, his fall, and the maiden’s escape; and the rage engendered by this remembrance was rendered yet more violent, when he reflected on the insult that his scalp had sustained from an enemy who had scorned to take his life.

Fierce as were the passions that boiled within the breast of the Osage, his self–command was such that he was able to control all outward demonstration of them; and, rising slowly, he first effaced in the stream all the sanguinary marks of the late contest, and then took his way toward the camp, revolving in his mind various projects for securing the two principal objects that he was determined to accomplish,—the possession of Prairie–bird, and the death of Reginald Brandon!

Although a wild uninstructed savage, MahÉga was gifted with talents of no common order. Bold, and inflexible in carrying out his purposes, he had cunning sufficient to make unimportant concessions to the opinions of other chiefs and braves in council: unlike the great majority of his tribe and race, he was well aware of the power and strength resulting from union, and although all his ambition ultimately centred in himself, he had the art of persuading his countrymen that he sought only their interests and welfare; thus, while many hated, and more feared MahÉga, he was the most influential chief in the tribe, on account of his daring courage, his success in war, and the reckless liberality with which he distributed among others his share of booty, or of spoil. When the Delaware band had migrated to the banks of the Osage river, MahÉga’s first impulse had been to attack and destroy them; but finding that the new comers were better supplied with arms and ammunition, the issue of a conflict seemed doubtful. Moreover, as they were visited by many traders, he calculated that, by keeping on friendly terms with them, he should acquire for his tribe, and for himself, many advantages greater than they had before enjoyed.

Acting upon these motives, he had not only encouraged peace with the Delawares, but had effected through his own influence the league that had for some time united the two bands in our encampment; nor had he been mistaken in his expectations, for, since their union with the band of Delawares, the Osages had been enabled to beat off the Pawnees and other roving tribes, from whose inroads upon their hunting–ground they had before been exposed to frequent and severe disasters; the objects which he had contemplated, had thus been for the most part accomplished. The tribe was plentifully supplied with arms and ammunition by the traders; his own influence amongst them was higher than ever; but he could not brook a rival to his fame as a warrior in War–Eagle, nor bear to be checked and thwarted in his ambitious schemes, by the mild authority of Tamenund.

The mind of MahÉga being thus prepared for seizing the earliest opportunity of coming to a rupture with the Delawares it may well be imagined how his most violent and rancorous passions were excited by the scornful rejection of his suit on the part of Prairie–bird, and the disgrace he had incurred in his rencounter with her white protector. He resolved no longer to delay the meditated blow; he had already made a secret league with the warlike and powerful Dahcotahs; and the occasion seemed most favourable for wreaking his vengeance on the relatives of Prairie–bird, and the white men now resident in the Delaware camp.

Having once formed his determination, he set about carrying it into effect with the sagacity and profound dissimulation which had already obtained for him such an ascendancy in the Osage council. No sooner had he reached his lodge, than he dressed himself in his Medicine robe[32], adorned his face with corresponding streaks of paint, and concealing the loss of his scalp–lock by a Spanish kerchief, which he folded round his head, somewhat after the fashion of a turban, he sallied forth to visit the chiefs and braves, on whose co–operation he felt that success must mainly depend.

Some of these were already prepared to adopt his views, by their previous participation in the league with the Dahcotahs; others he bent and moulded to his purpose by arguments and inducements suited to their character or circumstances; and ere he returned to his lodge, he felt confident that his proposed plans would be supported by the most influential warriors in the tribe, and that he should easily bear down the opposition of the more cautious and scrupulous, who might be disposed to keep faith with their Delaware allies.

In the meanwhile War–Eagle was not idle, he visited the principal braves and warriors of his tribe, and found them unanimous in their resolution to break off all communication with the Osages, as soon as the latter should commit any overt act that should justify them in dissolving the league into which they had entered. He also resolved to watch closely the movements of MahÉga, of whose malice and influence he was fully aware; with this view he selected an intelligent Delaware boy, who knew the Osage language, and desired him to hover about the tent of the chief, and to bring a report of all that he should see or hear.

Towards the close of day, MahÉga sent runners about his village, after the usual Indian fashion, to summon the warriors and braves, most of whom were already prepared for the harangue which he was about to address to them; as soon as a sufficient number were collected, the wily chief came forth from his lodge, in the dress before described, and began by thanking them for so readily obeying his call.

“Why did MahÉga call together the warriors?” he continued; “Was it to tell them that a broad bison–trail is near the camp? The Medicine–men have not yet smoked the hunting–pipe to the Wahcondah.—Was it to tell them of the scalps taken by their fathers? The young men have not been called to the war–dance, their ears have not heard the Drum.[33]—Was it to tickle their ears with words like dried grass? MahÉga’s tongue is not spread with honey; he has called the Washashe to open their ears and eyes, to tell them that snakes have crept under their lodges, that the dogs in the village have become wolves!”

As he paused, the auditors looked each at the other; those who were not yet instructed in the speaker’s project being at a loss to catch the meaning of his words. Seeing that he had arrested their attention, he proceeded: “When MahÉga was young, when our fathers were warriors, who was so strong as the Washashe? Our hunters killed the deer and the bison from the Neska to the Topeo–kÀ.[34] The Konzas were our brothers, and we were afraid of none. But the Mahe–hunguh[35] came near, their tongues were smooth, their hands were full, and the Washashe listened to their talk:—is it not so?”

A deep murmur testified the attention of his auditors; but MahÉga knew that he was venturing on dangerous ground, and his present object was rather to incite them to vengeance against the band of Delawares and their guests, than against the white men in general. He resumed his harangue in a milder tone.

“The Long–knives smoked the pipe of peace with us, we gave them meat and skins, and they gave us paint and blankets, and fire–weapons with Medicine–powder and lead,—all that was well; but who came with the Long–knives,—the LenapÉ!” He paused a moment, then looking fiercely round, he continued in a louder strain; “and who are these LenapÉ? They were beggars when they came to us! Their skin is red, but their hearts are pale. Do we not know the tale of their fathers? Were they not slaves to the warriors of other nations?[36] Were they not women? Did they not leave the war–path to plant maize, and drink the fire–water of the Long–knives? They gave up their hunting–ground; they left the bones of their fathers; they crossed the Ne–o–hunge[37], and asked for the friendship of the Washashe. We lighted the pipe for them; we received them like brothers, and opened to them our hunting–ground; but their hearts are bad to us, Washashes. MahÉga tells you that the LenapÉ are snakes!”

Another deep guttural sound, indicative of increased excitement, gratified the speaker’s ear, and he continued in a strain yet bolder: “Is MahÉga not a chief? Has he not struck the bodies of his enemies? Are there no scalps on his war–shirt? He was good to these LenapÉ, he treated their warriors like brothers, he offered to make Olitipa his wife, they gave him bitter words and threw dirt upon his lodge. Shall the Washashe Chief be called a dog?” he exclaimed in a voice of thunder; “Shall he sit on the ground while a LenapÉ spits in his face?”

A shout of anger and fury burst from the audience, as, waving his hand impatiently for silence, he went on: “The LenapÉ knew that their hearts were false, their arms weak, their tongues forked, and they have brought in a band of Long–knives to defend them and to drive the Washashe from their hunting–grounds. Shall it be so? Shall we hold our backs to be scourged like children? Shall we whine like starved wolves? See how the pale faces can insult your chief!” As he spoke, MahÉga tore the turban with one hand from his head, and holding up his severed scalp–lock with the other, while every muscle of his countenance worked with fury, “See what the hand of a white–face boy has done. MahÉga slept under a tree, and he whom they call Netis, the stranger who has eaten our meat and smoked with our chiefs, stole upon MahÉga, struck him on the head, and cut off his hair.” As he uttered this audacious falsehood, which was, of course, believed by all who heard him, a terrific shout burst from the assembled Osages, and the wily chief, striking while the iron was hot, went on:—

“It is enough—the Washashes are not women; they will dig up the hatchet, and throw it into the council lodge of these white–faced and pale–hearted dogs. The great chief of the Dahcotahs has spoken to MahÉga; he seeks the friendship of the Washashes; the Dahcotahs are men; the bisons on their hunting–grounds are like the leaves in the forest. They wish to call the Washashes brothers, they wait for MahÉga’s words.—What shall he say?”

A tremendous shout was raised in reply, a shout that could be heard throughout the whole encampment. MahÉga saw that his triumph was complete, and folding his Medicine robe over his shoulder, he once more waved his hand for silence, and dismissed the assembly, saying, “Before the sun sinks again the chiefs and braves will meet in council. The Washashes will hear their words and they will be ready.” As he spoke he cast his dark eye expressively downwards to the tomahawk suspended at his belt, and slowly re–entered his lodge.

Meanwhile the youth who had been sent by War–Eagle to observe what was passing in the Osage encampment, executed his commission with fidelity and address. Although not sufficiently familiar with the language to catch all that fell from MahÉga, he yet learnt enough to satisfy his young chief that a rupture was at hand. It only remained now to be proved whether it would take place as the result of an open council, or whether the Osages would withdraw secretly to their new Dahcotah allies.

On the morning succeeding the events above related, War–Eagle left the encampment before daybreak, partly to see whether he could discover any unusual stir among the Osages, and partly to revolve in his mind the course of conduct that he should suggest if called upon to give his opinion before the LenapÉ council. Many various emotions were struggling in his bosom, and in this respect the descendants of Adam, whether their skins be white or red, so far resemble each other, that on such occasions they seek to avoid the turmoil of their fellow–men, and to be for a season alone amid the works of inanimate nature.

It was with impressions and feelings far different that Reginald and Prairie–bird found themselves soon after sunrise together, as if by tacit appointment, by the great tree, under which he had first seen her. In order to guard against the treachery of which he believed MahÉga capable, he had communicated to Baptiste the events of the preceding morning, and had desired him to watch the movements of the latter, especially guarding Prairie–bird against any renewal of his violence.—The trusty forester, who had grown extremely taciturn since he had observed his young master’s attachment, shrugged his shoulders, and briefly promised to obey his instructions. He was too shrewd to oppose a torrent such as that by which Reginald was carried away; and, although it must be confessed, that he had many misgivings as to the reception that the tidings would meet with at the hands of Colonel Brandon, the beauty and gentleness of Prairie–bird had so far won upon his rough nature that he was well disposed to protect her from the machinations of the Osage. With these intentions he followed her when she left her lodge, and as soon as she entered the thicket before described, he ensconced himself in a shady corner whence he could observe the approach of any party from the encampment.

We will now follow the steps of War–Eagle, who, having satisfied himself by a careful observation of the out piquette that no immediate movement was on foot among the Osages, turned towards the undulating prairies to the westward of the village.

He was in an uneasy and excited mood, both from the treachery of the Osages towards his tribe, and various occurrences which had of late wounded his feelings in the quarter where they were most sensitive.

The victory over self is the greatest that can be achieved by man; it assumes, however, a different complexion in those who are guided by the light of nature, and in those who have been taught by revelation. In the heathen it is confined to the actions and to the outward man, whereas in the Christian it extends to the motives and feelings of the heart. The former may spare an enemy, the latter must learn to forgive and love him. But in both cases the struggle is severe in proportion to the strength of the passion which is to be combated. In War–Eagle were combined many of the noblest features of the Indian character; but his passions had all the fierce intensity common to his race; and although the instructions of Paul MÜller, falling like good seed on a wild but fertile soil, had humanised and improved him, his views of Christianity were incipient and indistinct, while the courage, pride, and feelings of his race were in the full zenith of their power. He had long known that Prairie–bird was not his sister in blood, she had grown up from childhood under his eye, and, unconsciously perhaps at first, he had loved her, and still loved her with all the impassioned fervour of his nature. It may be remembered in the earlier portion of this tale, when he first became acquainted with Reginald, that he had abstained from all mention of her name, and had avoided the subject whenever young Wingenund brought it forward. He had never yet asked Olitipa to become his wife, but the sweet gentleness of her manner, and her open contempt for the addresses of the handsome and distinguished Osage, had led him to form expectations favourable to his own suit. At the same time there was something in the maiden’s behaviour that had frequently caused him to doubt whether she loved him, and sharing in the awe with which she inspired all the Indians around her, he had hitherto hesitated and feared to make a distinct avowal. Of late he had been so much occupied in observing the suspicious movements of the Osages that his attention had been somewhat withdrawn from Olitipa: he was aware of her having become acquainted with Reginald, and the adventure of the preceding day, which had been communicated to him, filled him with an uneasiness that he could not conceal from himself, although he had succeeded in concealing it from others.

In this frame of mind, he was returning to the camp, along the course of the streamlet passing through the grove where the rencounter of the preceding day had occurred. When he reached the opening before described, his eyes rested on a sight that transfixed him to the spot. Seated on one of the projecting roots of the ancient tree was Prairie–bird, her eye and cheek glowing with happiness, and her ear drinking in the whispered vows of her newly–betrothed lover; her hand was clasped in his, and more than once he pressed it tenderly to his lips. For several minutes the Indian stood silent and motionless as a statue; despair seemed to have checked the current of his blood, but by slow degrees consciousness returned; he saw her, the maiden whom he had served and loved for weary months and years, now interchanging with another tokens of affection not to be mistaken, and that other a stranger whom he had himself lately brought by his own invitation from a distant region.

The demon of jealousy took instant possession of his soul; every other thought, feeling, and passion was for the time annihilated, the nobler impulses of his nature were forgotten, and he was in a moment transformed to a merciless savage, bent on swift and deadly vengeance. He only paused as in doubt, how he should kill his rival—perhaps, whether he should kill them both; his eye dwelt upon them with a stern ferocity, as he loosened the unerring tomahawk from his belt; another moment he paused, for his hand trembled convulsively, and a cold sweat stood like dew upon his brow. At this terrible crisis of his passion, a low voice whispered in his ear, in the Delaware tongue,

“Would the LenapÉ chief stain his Medicine with a brother’s blood?” War–Eagle, turning round, encountered the steady eye of Baptiste; he gave no answer, but directed his fiery glance towards the spot where the unconscious lovers were seated, and the half–raised weapon still vibrated under the impulse of the internal struggle that shook every muscle of the Indian’s frame. Profiting by the momentary pause, Baptiste continued, in the same tone, “Shall the tomahawk of the War–Eagle strike an adopted son of the UnÂmi?[38] The Bad Spirit has entered my brother’s heart; let him hold a talk with himself, and remember that he is the son of Tamenund.”

By an effort of self–control, such as none but an Indian can exercise, War–Eagle subdued, instantaneously, all outward indication of the tempest that had been aroused in his breast. Replacing the tomahawk in his belt, he drew himself proudly to his full height, and, fixing on the woodsman an eye calm and steady as his own, he replied,

“Grande–HÂche speaks truth; War–Eagle is a chief; the angry spirit is strong; but he tramples it under his feet.” He then added, in a lower tone, “War–Eagle will speak to Netis; not now; if his white brother’s tongue has been forked, the medicine of the UnÂmi shall not protect him. The sky is very black, and War–Eagle has no friend left.” So saying, the Indian threw his light blanket over his shoulder and stalked gloomily from the spot.

Baptiste followed with his eye the retreating figure of the Delaware, until it was lost in the dense foliage of the wood.

“He is a noble fellow,” said the rough hunter, half aloud, leaning on his long rifle, and pursuing the thread of his own reflections. “He is one of the old sort of Ingians, and there’s but few of ‘em left. I’ve been with him in several skrimages, and I’ve seen him strike and scalp more than one Dahcotah; but I never saw the glare of his eye so wild and bloodthirsty before; if he had kept his purpose, my old sinews would have had some trouble to save Master Reginald from that tomahawk. It’s well for him that I’ve lived long enough among the Delawares to know the ins and outs of their natur’, as well as John Skellup at the ferry knows the sand–bars and channels in Bearcreek Shallows. I thought the UnÂmi Medicine whispered in his ear might do something; but I scarcely hoped it could smother such a fire in a minute. I remember, when I was young, I was in a hot passion, now and then, myself. Capote! I’m sometimes in a passion still, when I think of those cut–throat Sioux, and if my bristles are up, it takes some time to smooth ‘em down.” Here the woodsman’s hand unconsciously rested for a moment on the huge axe suspended at his belt; but his musings took another course, as he continued his muttered soliloquy:—

“Well, I sometimes think the bears and the deer have more reason than human critturs, ay, and I believe that shot isn’t overwide o’ the mark. Look at them two youngsters, Master Reginald and War–Eagle, two brave honest hearts as ever lived; one saves the other’s life; they become brothers and swear friendship; of a sudden, I am obliged to step in between ‘em, to prevent one from braining the other with a tomahawk. And what’s the cause of all this hate and fury? Why, love,—a pair of black eyes and red lips;—a strange kind of love, indeed, that makes a man hate and kill his best friend. Thank Heaven, I have nothing to do with such love; and I say, as I said before, that the dumb animals have more reason than human critturs. Well, I must do all I can to make ‘em friends again, for a blind man might see they’ll need each other’s help, ere many days are past!”

So saying, the woodsman threw his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and moved towards Reginald Brandon, who, unconscious of the danger that he had so narrowly escaped, was still engaged with Prairie–bird in that loving dialogue which finds no satiety in endless reiteration.

Baptiste drew near, and after the usual greetings, took an opportunity, as he thought unobserved by Prairie–bird, of making a sign to Reginald that he wished to speak with him in private; but the maiden, watchful of every movement directly or indirectly affecting her lover, and already aware of the intrigues and treachery of the Osages, said to him with her usual simplicity of manner, “Baptiste, if you have aught to say requiring my absence, I will go; but as there are dangers approaching that threaten us all alike, do not fear to speak before me. I know something of these people, and though only an unskilled maiden, my thoughts might be of some avail.”

The sturdy hunter, although possessed of a shrewd judgment, was somewhat confused by this direct appeal; but after smoothing down the hair of his fur cap for a few moments, as was his custom when engaged in reflection, he resolved to speak before her without concealment; and he proceeded accordingly, with the blunt honesty of his nature, to narrate to them all the particulars of his late interview with War–Eagle. During his recital, both the auditors changed colour more than once, with different yet sympathetic emotions; and when he concluded, Reginald suddenly arose, and, fixing his eye upon the maiden’s countenance, as if he would read her soul, he said,

“Prairie–bird, I conjure you by all you love on earth, and by all your hopes of Heaven! tell me truly, if you have known and encouraged these feelings in War–Eagle?”

The dark eyes that had been cast to the ground with various painful emotions were raised at this appeal, and met her lover’s searching look with the modest courage of conscious truth as she replied,—

“Reginald, is it possible that you can ask me such a question? Olitipa, the foundling of the Delawares, loved War–Eagle as she loved Wingenund; she was brought up in the same lodge with both; she called both, brother; she thought of them only as such. Had War–Eagle ever asked for other love, she would have told him she had none other to give. She knew of none other, until—until——” The presence of a third person checked the words that struggled for utterance; her deep eyes filled with tears, and she hid them on Reginald’s bosom.

“I were worse than an infidel, could I doubt thy purity and truth,” he exclaimed with fervour; “Baptiste, I will speak with my Indian brother—I pity him from my heart—I will strive all in my power to soothe his sorrow; for I, and I alone, can know what he must suffer, who has, in secret and in vain, loved such a being as this! Let us return.”

Slowly and sadly they wended their way to the encampment, the guide bringing up the rear. He was thoroughly convinced that Prairie–bird had spoken the truth: every look, every accent carried conviction with it; but he feared for the meeting between the young men, being fully aware of the impetuosity of Reginald’s character, and of the intense excitement that now affected the Indian’s mind. He determined, however, to leave them to themselves, for he had lived enough among men of stormy and ungoverned passions to know, that in a tÊte–À–tÊte between two high and generous spirits a concession will often be made, to which pride might, in the presence of others, never have submitted.

On reaching their quarters in the encampment, they found Paul MÜller standing thoughtfully before Prairie–bird’s tent, into which, after exchanging a brief but cordial greeting, he and the maiden withdrew, leaving Reginald and the guide to retire into the adjoining lodge of Tamenund.

War–Eagle, who had posted himself in a spot whence, without being seen himself, he could observe their movements, now walked slowly forward to the entrance of the tent, into which he was immediately invited by the missionary; his manner was grave and composed, nor could the most observant eye have traced in the lines of his countenance the slightest shade of excitement or agitation.

After the usual salutation, he said, “War–Eagle will speak to the Black Father presently; he has now low words for the ear of Olitipa.”

Paul MÜller, looking on him with a smile, benevolent though somewhat melancholy, said, “I shut my ears, my son, and go, for I know that War–Eagle will speak nothing that his sister should not hear;” and so saying, he retired into his adjacent compartment of the tent. Prairie–bird, conscious of the painful scene that awaited her, sat in embarrassed silence, and for upwards of a minute War–Eagle contemplated without speaking the sad but lovely expression of the maiden’s countenance; that long and piercing look told him all that he dreaded to know; he saw that Baptiste had spoken to her; he saw that his hopes were blasted; and still his riveted gaze was fixed upon her, as the eyes of one banished for life dwell upon the last receding tints of the home that he is leaving for ever. Collecting, at length, all the stoic firmness of his nature, he spoke to her in the Delaware tongue; the words that he used were few and simple, but in them, and in the tone of his voice, there was so much delicacy mingled with such depth of feeling, that Prairie–bird could not refrain from tears.

Answering him in the same language, she blended her accustomed sincerity of expression with gentle words of soothing kindness; and, in concluding her reply, she took his hand in hers, saying, “Olitipa has long loved her brothers, War–Eagle and Wingenund; let not a cloud come between them now; her heart is not changed to the great warrior of LenapÉ; his sister trusts to his protection; she is proud of his fame; she has no other love to give him; her race, her religion, her heart forbid it! but he is her dear brother; he will not be angry, nor leave her.

“MahÉga and the Osages are become enemies; the Dahcotah trail is near; Tamenund is old and weak; where shall Olitipa find a brother’s love, and a brother’s aid, if War–Eagle turns away his face from her now?”

The noble heart to which she appealed had gone through its fiery ordeal of torture, and triumphed over it. After the manner of his tribe, the Delaware, before relinquishing her hand, pressed it for a moment to his chest, in token of affection, and said, “It is enough; my sister’s words are good, they are not spilt upon the ground; let MahÉga or the Dahcotahs come near the lodge of Olitipa, and they shall learn that War–Eagle is her brother!” The chieftain’s hand rested lightly on his tomahawk, and his countenance, as he withdrew from the tent, wore an expression of high and stern resolve.

How often in life is the observation forced upon us, that artlessness is the highest perfection of art! It is an axiom, the truth of which remains unchallenged under whatever aspect we view it, and is indisputable even in its converse; thus, as in writing, the apparent ease and simplicity of style is the result of frequent correction and laborious study; so in corporeal exercises, the most assiduous practice must be combined with the highest physical qualifications, ere the dancer or the posture–master can emulate the unconscious grace displayed in the movements of a sportive kitten, or a playful child.

Had Prairie–bird been familiar with all the learned treatises on rhetoric that have appeared from the time of Aristotle to the present day, she could not have selected topics better calculated to move and soften the heart of her Indian brother. And yet she had no other instructor in the heart than the natural delicacy of her sex and character. While the tribute to his warlike fame gratified his pride, the unstudied sisterly affection of her tone and manner soothed his wounded feelings; and while the brief picture of her unprotected state aroused all his nobler and more generous sentiments, no breath of allusion to his successful rival’s name kindled the embers of jealousy that slumbered beneath them.

As he walked from her tent, the young Indian’s heart dilated within him; he trod the earth with a proud and lordly step; he had grappled with his passion; and though it had been riveted “to his soul with hooks of steel,” he had plucked it forth with an unflinching hand, and he now met his deep–rooted grief with the same lofty brow and unconquerable will with which he would have braved the tortures of the Dahcotah stake.