What changes a few years make in places! That spot over which the Indians roved, free of all control, is now a large and wide-spreading town. Those glorious old trees are fast fading away, the memory only of them remains to some of the first settlers, who saw them twenty-five years ago, shadowing the now open market-place; the fine old oaks have disappeared, but the green emerald turf that they once shaded still remains. The wild rushing river still pours down its resistless spring floods, but its banks have been levelled, and a noble bridge now spans its rapid waters. It has seen the destruction of two log-bridges, but this new, substantial, imposing structure bids fair to stand from generation to generation. The Indian regards it with stupid wonder: he is no mechanic; his simple canoe of birch bark is his only notion of communication from one shore to another. The towns-people and country settlers view it with pride and satisfaction, as a means of commerce and agricultural advantage. That lonely hill, from which Catharine viewed the rapid-flowing river by moonlight, and marvelled at its beauty and its power, is now the Court-house Hill, the seat of justice for the district,—a fine, substantial edifice; its shining roof and pillared portico may be seen from every approach to the town. That grey village spire, with its groves of oak and pine, how invitingly it stands! those trees that embower it, once formed a covert for the deer. Yonder scattered groups of neat white cottages, each with its garden of flowers and fruit, are spread over what was once an open plain, thinly planted with poplar, oaks, and pine. See, there is another church; and nearer, towards the west end of the town, on that fine slope, stands another, and another. That sound that falls upon the ear is not the rapids of the river, but the dash of mill wheels and mill dams, worked by the waters of that lovely winding brook which has travelled far through woods and deep forest dingles to yield its tribute to the Otonabee. There is the busy post-office, on the velvet carpet of turf; a few years, yes, even a few years ago, that spot was a grove of trees. The neat log building that stood then alone there, was inhabited by the Government Agent, now Colonel Macdonald, and groups of Indians might be seen congregated on the green, or reposing under the trees, forming meet subjects for the painter’s pencil, for he knew them well, and was kind to them.

The Indian only visits the town, once the favourite site for his hunting lodge, to receive his annual government presents, to trade his simple wares of basket and birch-bark work, to bring in his furs, or maybe to sell his fish or venison, and take back such store goods as his intercourse with his white brethren has made him consider necessary to his comforts, to supply wants which have now become indispensable, before undreamed of. He traverses those populous, busy streets, he looks round upon dwellings, and gay clothes, and equipages, and luxuries which he can neither obtain nor imitate; and feels his spirit lowered—he is no more a people—the tide of intellect has borne him down, and swept his humble wigwam from the earth. He, too, is changing: he now dwells, for the most part, in villages, in houses that cannot be moved away at his will or necessity; he has become a tiller of the ground, his hunting expeditions are prescribed within narrow bounds, the forest is disappearing, the white man is everywhere. The Indian must also yield to circumstances; he submits patiently. Perhaps he murmurs in secret; but his voice is low, it is not heard; he has no representative in the senate to take interest in his welfare, to plead in his behalf. He is anxious, too, for the improvement of his race: he gladly listens to the words of life, and sees with joy his children being brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord; he sees with pride some of his own blood going forth on the mission of love to other distant tribes; he is proud of being a Christian; and if there be some that still look back to the freedom of former years, and talk of “the good old times,” when they wandered free as the winds and waters through those giant woods, they are fast fading away. A new race is rising up, and the old hunter will soon become a being unknown in Canada.

There is an old gnarled oak that stands, or lately stood, on the turfy bank, just behind the old Government-house (as the settlers called it), looking down the precipitous cliff on the river and the islands. The Indians called it “the white girl’s rest,” for it was there that Catharine delighted to sit, above the noise and bustle of the camp, to sing her snatches of old Scottish songs, or pray the captive exile’s prayer, unheard and unseen.

The setting sun was casting long shadows of oak and weeping elm athwart the waters of the river; the light dip of the paddle had ceased on the water, the baying of hounds and life-like stirring sounds from the lodges came softened to the listening ear. The hunters had come in with the spoils of a successful chase; the wigwam fires are flickering and crackling, sending up their light columns of thin blue smoke among the trees; and now a goodly portion of venison is roasting on the forked sticks before the fires. Each lodge has its own cooking utensils. That jar embedded in the hot embers contains sassafras tea, an aromatic beverage, in which the squaws delight when they are so fortunate as to procure a supply. This has been brought from the Credit, far up in the west, by a family who have come down on a special mission from some great chief to his brethren on the Otonabee, and the squaws have cooked some in honour of the guests. That pot that sends up such a savoury steam is venison pottage, or soup, or stew, or any name you choose to give the Indian mess that is concocted of venison, wild rice, and herbs. Those tired hounds that lay stretched before the fire have been out, and now they enjoy the privilege of the fire, some praise from the hunters, and receive withal an occasional reproof from the squaws, if they approach their wishful noses too close to the tempting viands.

The elder boys are shooting at a mark on yonder birch-tree; the girls are playing or rolling on the grass; “The Snow-bird” is seated on the floor of the wigwam braiding a necklace of sweet grass, which she confines in links by means of little bands of coloured quills; Catharine is working mocassins beside her;—a dark shadow falls across her work from the open tent door—an exclamation of surprise and displeasure from one of the women makes Catharine raise her eyes to the doorway; there, silent, pale, and motionless, the mere shadow of her former self, stands Indiana—a gleam of joy lights for an instant her large lustrous eyes. Amazement and delight at the sight of her beloved friend for a moment deprives Catharine of the power of speech; then terror for the safety of her friend takes place of her joy at seeing her. She rises regardless of the angry tones of the Indian woman’s voice, and throws her arms about Indiana as if to shield her from threatened anger, and sobs her welcome in her arms.

“Indiana, dear sister! how came you hither, and for what purpose?”

“To free you, and then die,” was the soft low tremulous answer. “Follow me.” Catharine, wondering at the calm and fearless manner with which the young Mohawk waved back the dusky matron who approached as if with the design of laying hands upon her unwelcome guest, followed with beating heart till they stood in the entrance of the lodge of the Bald Eagle; it was filled with the hunters, who were stretched on skins on the floor reposing in quiet after the excitement of the chase.

The young Mohawk bent her head down and crossed her arms, an attitude of submission, over her breast as she stood in the opening of the lodge; but she spoke no word till the old chief waving back the men, who starting to their feet were gathering round him as if to shield him from danger, and sternly regarding her, demanded from whence she came and for what purpose.

“To submit myself to the will of my Ojebwa father,” was the meek reply. “May the daughter of the Bald Eagle’s enemy speak to her great father?”

“Say on,” was the brief reply, “the Bald Eagle’s ears are open.”

“The Bald Eagle is a mighty chief, the conqueror of his enemies and the father of his people,” replied the Mohawk girl, and again was silent. “The Mohawk squaw speaks well; let her say on.”

“The heart of the Mohawk is an open flower, it can be looked upon by the eye of the Great Spirit. She speaks the words of truth. The Ojebwa chief slew his enemies, they had done his good heart wrong; he punished them for the wrong they wrought; he left none living in the lodges of his enemies save one young squaw, the daughter of a brave, the grand-daughter of the Black Snake. The Bald Eagle loves even an enemy that is not afraid to raise the war-whoop or fling the tomahawk in battle. The young girl’s mother was a brave.” She paused, while her proud eye was fixed on the face of her aged auditor. He nodded assent, and she resumed, while a flush of emotion kindled her pale cheek and reddened her lips,—

“The Bald Eagle brought the lonely one to his lodge, he buried the hatchet and the scalping knife, he bade his squaws comfort her; but her heart was lonely, she pined for the homes of her fathers. She said, I will revenge my father, my mother, and my brothers and sisters; and her heart burned within her: but her hand was not strong to shed blood, the Great Spirit was about my Ojebwa father; she failed, and would have fled, for an arrow was in her flesh. The people of the Bald Eagle took her, they brought her down the great river to the council hill, they bound her with thongs and left her to die. She prayed, and the Great Spirit heard her prayer and sent her help. The white man came; his heart was soft; he unbound her, he gave water to cool her hot lips, he led her to his lodge. The white squaw (and she pointed to Catharine) was there, she bound up her wounds, she laid her on her own bed, she gave her meat and drink, and tended her with love. She taught her to pray to the Good Spirit, and told her to return good for evil, to be true and just, kind and merciful. The hard heart of the young girl became soft as clay when moulded for the pots and she loved her white sister and brothers, and was happy. The Bald Eagle’s people came when my white brothers were at peace, they found a trembling fawn within the lodge, they led her away, they left tears and loneliness where joy and peace had been. The Mohawk squaw could not see the hearth of her white brothers desolate; she took the canoe, she to the lodge of the great father of his tribe, and she says to him, ‘Give back the white squaw to her home on the Rice Lake, and take in her instead the rebellious daughter of the Ojebwa’s enemy, to die or be his servant; she fears nothing now the knife or the tomahawk, the arrow or the spear: her life is in the hand of the great chief.’” She sank on her knees as she spoke these last words and bowing down her head on her breast remained motionless as a statue.

There was silence for some minutes, and then the old man rose and said:—

“Daughter of a brave woman, thou hast spoken long, and thou hast spoken well; the ears of the Bald Eagle have been open. The white squaw shall be restored to her brother’s lodge—but thou remainest. I have spoken.”

Catharine in tears cast her arms around her disinterested friend and remained weeping—how could she accept this great sacrifice? She in her turn pleaded for the life and liberty of the Mohawk, but the chief turned a cold ear to her passionate and incoherent pleading. He was weary—he was impatient of further excitement—he coldly motioned to them to withdraw; and the friends in sadness retired to talk over all that had taken place since that sad day when Catharine was taken from her home. While her heart was joyful at the prospect of her own release, it was clouded with fears for the uncertain fate of her beloved friend.

“They will condemn me to a cruel death,” said Indiana, “but I can suffer and die for my white sister.”

That night the Indian girl slept sweetly and tranquilly beside Catharine; but Catharine could not sleep; she communed with her own heart in the still watches of the night—it seemed as if a new life had been infused within her. She no longer thought and felt as a child; the energies of her mind had been awakened, ripened into maturity as it were, and suddenly expanded. When all the inmates of the lodges were profoundly sleeping, Catharine arose,—a sudden thought had entered into her mind, and she hesitated not to put her design into execution. There was no moon, but a bright arch of light spanned the forest to the north; it was mild and soft as moonlight, but less bright, and cast no shadow across her path; it showed her the sacred tent of the widow of the murdered Mohawk. With noiseless step she lifted aside the curtain of skins that guarded it, and stood at the entrance. Light as was her step, it awakened the sleeper; she raised herself on her arm and looked up with a dreamy and abstracted air as Catharine, stretching forth her hand in tones low and tremulous, thus addressed her in the Ojebwa tongue:—

“The Great Spirit sends me to thee, O woman of much sorrow; he asks of thee a great deed of mercy and goodness. Thou hast shed blood, and he is angry. He bids thee to save the life of an enemy—the blood of thy murdered husband flows in her veins. See that thou disobey not the words that he commands.”

She dropped the curtain and retired as she had come, with noiseless step, and lay down again in the tent beside Indiana. Her heart beat as though it would burst its way through her bosom. What had she done?—what dared? She had entered the presence of that terrible woman alone, at the dead hour of night! she had spoken bold and presumptuous words to that strange being whom even her own people hardly dared to approach uncalled-for! Sick with terror at the consequences of her temerity, Catharine cast her trembling arms about the sleeping Indian girl, and hiding her head in her bosom, wept and prayed till sleep came over her wearied spirit. It was late when she awoke. She was alone: the lodge was empty. A vague fear seized her: she hastily arose to seek her friend. It was evident that some great event was in preparation. The Indian men had put on the war-paint, and strange and ferocious eyes were glancing from beneath their shaggy locks. A stake was driven in the centre of the cleared space in front of the chief’s lodge: there, bound, she beheld her devoted friend; pale as ashes, but with a calm unshaken countenance, she stood. There was no sign of woman’s fear in her fixed dark eye, which quailed not before the sight of the death-dooming men who stood round her, armed with their terrible weapons of destruction. Her thoughts seemed far away: perhaps they were with her dead kindred, wandering in that happy land to which the Indian hopes to go after life; or, inspired with the new hope which had been opened to her, she was looking to Him who has promised a crown of life to such as believe in His name. She saw not the look of agony with which Catharine regarded her; and the poor girl, full of grief, sunk down at the foot of a neighbouring tree, and burying her face between her knees, wept and prayed—oh! how fervently! A hope crept to her heart—even while the doom of Indiana seemed darkest—that some good might yet accrue from her visit to the wigwam of the Great Medicine squaw. She knew that the Indians have great belief in omens, and warnings, and spirits, both good and evil; she knew that her mysterious appearance in the tent of the Mohawk’s widow would be construed by her into spiritual agency; and her heart was strengthened by this hope. Yet just now there seems little reason to encourage hope: the war-whoop is given, the war-dance is begun—first slow, and grave, and measured; now louder, and quicker, and more wild become both sound and movement. But why is it hushed again? See, a strange canoe appears on the river; anon an old weather-beaten man, with firm step, appears on the greensward and approaches the area of the lodge.

The Bald Eagle greets him with friendly courtesy; the dance and death-song are hushed; a treaty is begun. It is for the deliverance of the captives. The chief points to Catharine—she is free: his white brother may take her—she is his. But the Indian law of justice must take its course; the condemned, who raised her hand against an Ojebwa chief, must die. In vain were the tempting stores of scarlet cloth and beads for the women, with powder and shot, laid before the chief: the arrows of six warriors were fitted to the string, and again the dance and song commenced, as if, like the roll of the drum and clangour of the trumpet, it were necessary to the excitement of strong and powerful feelings, and the suppression of all tenderer emotions.

And now a wild and solemn voice was heard, unearthly in its tones, rising above the yells of those savage men. At that sound every cheek became pale: it struck upon the ear as some funeral wail. Was it the death-song of the captive girl bound to that fearful stake? No; for she stands unmoved, with eyes raised heavenward, and lips apart—

Shrouded in a mantle of dark cloth, her long black hair unbound and streaming over her shoulders, appears the Mohawk widow, the daughter of the Ojebwa chief. The gathering throng fall back as she approaches, awed by her sudden appearance among them. She stretches out a hand on which dark stains are visible—it is the blood of her husband, sacrificed by her on that day of fearful deeds: it has never been effaced. In the name of the Great Spirit she claims the captive girl—the last of that devoted tribe—to be delivered over to her will. Her right to this remnant of her murdered husband’s family is acknowledged. A knife is placed in her hand, while a deafening yell of triumph bursts from the excited squaws, as this their great high-priestess, as they deemed her, advanced to the criminal. But it was not to shed the heart’s blood of the Mohawk girl, but to severe the thongs that bound her to the deadly stake, for which that glittering blade was drawn, and to bid her depart in peace whithersoever she would go.

Then, turning to the Bald Eagle, she thus addressed him: “At the dead of night, when the path of light spanned the sky, a vision stood before mine eyes. It came from the Great and Good Spirit, and bade me to set free the last of a murdered race whose sun had gone down in blood shed by my hand and by the hands of my people. The vision told me that if I did this my path should henceforth be peace, and that I should go to the better land and be at rest if I did this good deed.” She then laid her hands on the head of the young Mohawk, blessed her, and enveloping herself in the dark mantle, slowly retired back to her solitary tent once more.