“C’est le caractère des gens de guerre,” said Cora, with admirable self-possession; “Adieu, mon ami; je vous souhaiterais un devoir plus agrèable, àremplir.”
The soldier made a low and humble acknowledgment for her civility; and Heyward adding, “a bonne nuit, mon camarade,” they moved deliberately forward; leaving the sentinel pacing along the banks of the silent pond, little suspecting an enemy of so much effrontery, and humming to himself those words which were recalled to his mind by the sight of women, and, perhaps, by recollections of his own distant and beautiful France–
“Vive le vin, vive l’amour,” &c. &c.
“’Tis well you understood the knave!” whispered the scout, when they had gained a little distance from the place, and letting his rifle fall into the hollow of his arm again; “I soon saw that he was one of them uneasy Frenchers, and well for him it was, that his speech was friendly, and his wishes kind; or a place might have been found for his bones amongst those of his countrymen.”
He was interrupted by a long and heavy groan, which arose from the little basin, as though, in truth, the spirits of the departed lingered about their watery sepulchre.
“Surely, it was of flesh!” continued the scout; “no spirit could handle its arms so steadily!”
“It was of flesh, but whether the poor fellow still belongs to this world, may well be doubted,” said Heyward, glancing his eyes quickly around him, and missing Chingachgook from their little band. Another groan, more faint than the former, was succeeded by a heavy and sullen plunge into the water, and all was as still again, as if the borders of the dreary pool had never been awakened from the silence of creation. While they yet hesitated in an uncertainty, that each moment served to render more painful, the form of the Indian was seen gliding out of the thicket, and rejoined them, while with one hand he attached the reeking scalp of the unfortunate young Frenchman to his girdle, and with the other he replaced the knife and tomahawk that had drank his blood. He then took his wonted station, a little on one flank, with the satisfied air of a man who believed he had done a deed of merit.
The scout dropped one end of his rifle to the earth, and leaning his hands on the other, he stood musing a moment in profound silence. Then shaking his head in a mournful manner, he muttered–
“’Twould have been a cruel and an unhuman act for a white-skin; but ’tis the gift and natur of an Indian, and I suppose it should not be denied! I could wish, though, it had befallen an accursed Mingo, rather than that gay, young boy, from the old countries!”
“Enough!” said Heyward, apprehensive the unconscious sisters might comprehend the nature of the detention, and conquering his disgust by a train of reflections very much like that of the hunter; “’tis done, and though better it were left undone, cannot be amended. You see we are, too obviously, within the sentinels of the enemy; what course do you propose to follow?”
“Yes,” said Hawk-eye, rousing himself again, “’tis, as you say, too late to harbour further thoughts about it! Ay, the French have gathered around the fort in good earnest, and we have a delicate needle to thread in passing them.”
“And but little time to do it in,” added Heyward; glancing his eyes upward, towards the bank of vapour that concealed the setting moon.
“And little time to do it in!” repeated the scout. “The thing may be done in two fashions, by the help of Providence, without which it may not be done at all!”
“Name them quickly, for time presses.”
“One would be, to dismount the gentle ones, and let their beasts range the plain; by sending the Mohicans in front, we might then cut a lane through their sentries, and enter the fort over the dead bodies.”
“It will not do–it will not do!” interrupted the generous Heyward; “a soldier might force his way in this manner, but never with such a convoy.”
“’Twould be, indeed, a bloody path for such tender feet to wade in!” returned the equally reluctant scout, “but I thought it befitting my manhood to name the thing. We must then turn on our trail, and get without the line of their look-outs, when we will bend short to the west, and enter the mountains; where I can hide you, so that all the devil’s hounds in Montcalm’s pay would be thrown off the scent, for months to come.”
“Let it be done,” returned the impatient young man, “and that instantly.”
Further words were unnecessary; for Hawk-eye, merely uttering the mandate to “follow,” moved along the route, by which they had just entered their present, critical, and even dangerous situation. Their progress, like their late dialogue, was guarded, and without noise; for none knew at what moment a passing patrol, or a crouching picquet, of the enemy, might rise upon their path. As they held their silent way along the margin of the pond, again, Heyward and the scout stole furtive glances at its appalling dreariness. They looked in vain for the form they had so recently seen stalking along its silent shores, while a low and regular wash of the little waves, by announcing that the waters were not yet subsided, furnished a frightful memorial of the deed of blood they had just witnessed. Like all that passing and gloomy scene, the low basin, however, quickly melted in the darkness, and became blended with the mass of black objects in the rear of the active travellers.
Hawk-eye soon deviated from the line of their retreat, and striking off towards the mountains which form the western boundary of the narrow plain, he led his followers, with swift steps, deep within the dense shadows, that were cast from their high and broken summits. Their route was now painful; lying over ground ragged with rocks, and intersected with ravines, and their progress proportionately slow. Bleak and black hills lay on every side of them, compensating, in some degree, for the additional toil of the march, by the sense of security they imparted. At length the party began slowly to rise a steep and rugged ascent, by a path that curiously wound among rocks and trees, avoiding the one, and supported by the other, in a manner that showed it had been devised by men long practised in the arts of the wilderness. As they gradually rose from the level of the valleys, the thick darkness which usually precedes the approach of day, began to disperse, and objects were seen in the plain and palpable colours with which they had been gifted by nature. When they issued from the stinted woods which clung to the barren sides of the mountain, upon a flat and mossy rock, that formed its summit, they met the morning, as it came blushing above the green pines of a hill, that lay on the opposite side of the valley of the Horican.
The scout now told the sisters to dismount, and taking the bridles from the mouths and the saddles off the backs of the jaded beasts, he turned them loose, to glean a scanty subsistence, among the shrubs and meager herbage of that elevated region.
“Go,” he said, “and seek your food where natur gives it you; and beware that you become not food to ravenous wolves yourselves, among these hills.”
“Have we no further need of them?” demanded Heyward.
“See, and judge with your own eyes,” said the scout, advancing towards the eastern brow of the mountain, whither he beckoned for the whole party to follow; “if it was as easy to look into the heart of man, as it is to spy out the nakedness of Montcalm’s camp from this spot, hypocrites would grow scarce, and the cunning of a Mingo might prove a losing game, compared to the honesty of a Delaware.”
When the travellers had reached the verge of the precipice, they saw, at a glance, the truth of the scout’s declaration, and the admirable foresight with which he had led them to their commanding station.
The mountain on which they stood, elevated perhaps a thousand feet in the air, was a high cone, that rose a little in advance of that range which reached for miles along the western shores of the lake, until meeting its sister piles, beyond the water, it ran off far towards the Canadas, in confused and broken masses of rock, which were thinly sprinkled with evergreens. Immediately at the feet of the parts the southern shore of the Horican swept in a broad semi-circle, from mountain to mountain, marking a wide strand, that soon rose into an uneven and somewhat elevated plain. To the north, stretched the limpid, and, as it appeared from that dizzy height, the narrow sheet of the “holy lake,” indented with numberless bays, embellished by fantastic head-lands, and dotted with countless islands. At the distance of a few leagues, the bed of the waters became lost among mountains, or was wrapped in the masses of vapour, that came slowly rolling along their bosom, before a light morning air. But a narrow opening between the crests of the hills, pointed out the passage by which they found their way still farther north, to spread their pure and ample sheets again, before pouring out their tribute into the distant Champlain. To the south stretched the defile, or, rather, broken plain, so often mentioned. For several miles, in this direction, the mountains appeared reluctant to yield their dominion, but within reach of the eye they diverged, and finally melted into the level and sandy lands, across which we have accompanied our adventurers in their double journey. Along both ranges of hills, which bounded the opposite sides of the lake and valley, clouds of light vapour were rising in spiral wreaths from the uninhabited woods, looking like the smokes of hidden cottages, or rolled lazily down the declivities, to mingle with the fogs of the lower land. A single, solitary, snow-white cloud, floated above the valley, and marked the spot, beneath which lay the silent pool of the ‘bloody pond.’