“The Hurons are dogs! The sight of a coward’s blood can never make a warrior tremble. The ‘gray head’ and the Sagamore are safe, and the rifle of Hawk-eye is not asleep. Go–Uncas and the ‘open hand’ are now strangers. It is enough.”
Heyward would gladly have heard more, but a timely effort from his friend, urged him toward the door, and admonished him of the danger that might attend the discovery of their intercourse. Slowly and reluctantly yielding to the necessity, he quitted the place, and mingled with the throng that hovered nigh. The dying fires in the clearing, cast a dim and uncertain light on the dusky figures, that were silently stalking to and fro; and, occasionally, a brighter gleam than common glanced into the darkness of the lodge, and exhibited the figure of Uncas, still maintaining its upright attitude above the dead body of the Huron.
A knot of warriors soon entered the place again, and re-issuing, they bore the senseless remains into the adjacent woods. After this solemn termination of the scene, Duncan wandered among the lodges, unquestioned and unnoticed, endeavouring to find some trace of her, in whose behalf he incurred the risk he ran. In the present temper of the tribe, it would have been easy to have fled and rejoined his companions, had such a wish crossed his mind. But, in addition to the never-ceasing anxiety on account of Alice, a fresher, though feebler, interest in the fate of Uncas, assisted to chain him to the spot. He continued, therefore, to stray from hut to hut, looking into each only to encounter additional disappointments, until he had made the entire circuit of the village. Abandoning a species of inquiry that proved so fruitless, he retraced his steps to the council lodge, resolved to seek and question David, in order to put an end to doubts that were becoming painful.
On reaching the building, which had proved alike the seat of judgment and the place of execution, the young man found that the excitement had already subsided. The warriors had re-assembled, and were now calmly smoking, while they conversed gravely on the chief incidents of their recent expedition to the head of the Horican. Though the return of Duncan was likely to remind them of his character, and the suspicious circumstances of his visit, it produced no visible sensation. So far, the terrible scene that had just occurred, proved favourable to his views, and he required no other prompter than his own feelings to convince, him of the expediency of profiting by so unexpected an advantage.
Without seeming to hesitate, he walked into the lodge, and took his seat with a gravity that accorded, admirably, with the deportment of his hosts. A hasty, but searching glance, sufficed to tell him, that though Uncas still remained where he had left him, David had not re-appeared. No other restraint was imposed on the former, than the watchful looks of a young Huron, who had placed himself at hand; though an armed warrior leaned against the post that formed one side of the narrow door-way. In every other respect, the captive seemed at liberty; still, he was excluded from all participation in the discourse, and possessed much more of the air of some finely moulded statue, than of a man having life and volition.
Heyward had, too recently, witnessed a frightful instance of the prompt punishments of the people, into whose hands he had fallen, to hazard an exposure by any officious boldness. He would greatly have preferred silence and meditation to speech, when a discovery of his real condition might prove so instantly fatal. Unfortunately for this prudent resolution, his entertainers appeared otherwise disposed. He had not long occupied the seat he had wisely taken, a little in the shade, when another of the elder warriors, who spoke the French language, addressed him–
“My Canada father does not forget his children!” said the chief; “I thank him. An evil spirit lives in the wife of one of my young men. Can the cunning stranger frighten him away?”
Heyward possessed some knowledge of the mummery practised among the Indians, in the cases of such supposed visitations. He saw, at a glance, that the circumstance might possibly be improved to further his own ends. It would, therefore, have been difficult, just then, to have uttered a proposal, that would have given him more satisfaction. Aware of the necessity of preserving the dignity of his imaginary character, however, he repressed his feelings, and answered with suitable mystery–
“Spirits differ; some yield to the power of wisdom, while others are too strong.”
“My brother is a great medicine!” said the cunning savage; “he will try?”
A gesture of assent was the answer. The Huron was content with the assurance, and resuming his pipe, he awaited the proper moment to move. The impatient Heyward, inwardly execrating the cold customs of the savages, which required such a sacrifice to appearances, was fain to assume an air of indifference, equal to that maintained by the chief, who was, in truth, a near relative of the afflicted woman. The minutes lingered, and the delay had seemed an hour to the adventurer in empiricism, when the Huron laid aside his pipe, and drew his robe across his breast, as if about to lead the way to the lodge of the invalid. Just then, a warrior of powerful frame darkened the door, and stalking silently among the attentive groupe, he seated himself on one end of that low pile of brush, which sustained Duncan on its other. The latter cast an impatient look at his neighbour, and felt his flesh creep with uncontrollable horror, when he found himself in actual contact with Magua.
The sudden return of this artful and dreaded chief, caused a delay in the intended departure of the Huron. Several pipes, that had been extinguished, were lighted again; while the new comer, without speaking a word, drew his tomahawk from his girdle, and filling the bowl on its head, began to inhale the vapours of the weed through the hollow handle, with as much indifference, as if he had not been absent two weary days, on a long and toilsome hunt. Ten minutes, which appeared so many ages to Duncan, might have passed in this manner; and the warriors were fairly enveloped in a could of white smoke, before one of them uttered the significant word–
“Welcome! Has my friend found the moose?”
“The young men stagger under their burthens,” returned Magua. “Let ‘Reed-that-bends’ go on the hunting path; he will meet them.”
A deep and awful silence succeeded the utterance of the forbidden name. Each pipe dropped from the lips of its owner, as though all had inhaled an impurity at the same instant. The smoke wreathed above their heads in little eddies, and curling in a spiral form, it ascended swiftly through the opening in the roof of the lodge, leaving the place beneath clear of its fumes, and each dark visage distinctly visible. The eyes of most of the warriors were riveted on the earth; though a few of the younger and less gifted of the party, suffered their wild and glaring balls to roll in the direction of a white headed savage, who sate between two of the most venerated chiefs of the tribe. There was nothing in the air or attire of this Indian, that would seem to entitle him to such a distinction. The former was rather depressed, than remarkable for the proud bearing of the natives; and the latter was such as was commonly worn by the ordinary men of the nation. Like most around him, for more than a minute, his look, too, was on the ground; but trusting his eyes, at length, to steal a glance aside, he perceived that he was becoming an object of general attention. Then he arose, and lifted his voice amid the general silence.
“It was a lie,” he said; “I had no son! He who was called by that name is forgotten; his blood was pale, and came not from the veins of a Huron; the wicked Chippewas cheated my squaw! The Great Spirit has said, that the family of Wiss-en-tush should end–he is happy who knows that the evil of his race dies with himself! I have done.”
The father then looked round and about him, as if seeking commendation for his stoicism, in the eyes of his auditors. But the stern customs of his people had made too severe an exaction of the feeble old man. The expression of his eye contradicted his figurative and boastful language, while every muscle in his swarthy and wrinkled visage was working with inward anguish. Standing a single minute to enjoy his bitter triumph, he turned away, as if sickening at the gaze of men, and veiling his face in his blanket, he walked from the lodge, with the noiseless step of an Indian, and sought, in the privacy of his own abode, the sympathy of one like himself, aged, forlorn, and childless.