The Indians, who believe in the hereditary transmission of virtues and defects in character, suffered him to depart in silence. Then, with an elevation of breeding that many in a more cultivated state of society might profitably emulate, one of the chiefs drew the attention of the young men from the weakness they had just witnessed, by saying, in a cheerful voice, addressing himself in courtesy to Magua, as the newest comer–
“The Delawares have been like bears after the honey-pots, prowling around my village. But who has ever found a Huron asleep!”
The darkness of the impending cloud which precedes a burst of thunder, was not blacker than the brow of Magua, as he exclaimed–
“The Delawares of the Lakes!”
“Not so. They who wear the petticoats of squaws on their own river. One of them has been passing the tribe.”
“Did my young men take his scalp?”
“His legs were good, though his arm is better for the hoe than the tomahawk,” returned the other, pointing to the immovable form of Uncas.
Instead of manifesting any womanish curiosity to feast his eyes with the sight of a captive from a people he was known to have so much reason to hate, Magua continued to smoke, with the meditative air that he usually maintained, when there was no immediate call on his cunning or his eloquence. Although secretly amazed at the facts betrayed in the speech of the aged father, he permitted himself to ask no questions, reserving all his inquiries for a more suitable moment. It was only after a sufficient interval, that he shook the ashes from his pipe, replaced the tomahawk, tightened his girdle, and arose, casting, for the first time, a glance in the direction of the prisoner, who stood a little behind him. The wary, though seemingly abstracted, Uncas, caught a glimpse of the movement, and turning suddenly to the light, their looks met. Near a minute these two bold and untamed spirits stood regarding one another steadily in the eye, neither quailing in the least before the fierce gaze he encountered. The form of Uncas dilated, and his nostrils opened, like a tiger at bay; but so rigid and unyielding was his posture, that he might easily have been converted, by the imagination, into an exquisite and faultless representation of the warlike deity of his tribe. The lineaments of the quivering features of Magua proved more ductile; his countenance gradually lost its character of defiance in an expression of ferocious oy, and heaving a breath from the very bottom of his chest, he pronounced aloud the formidable name of–
“Le Cerf Agile!”
Each warrior sprang upon his feet at the utterance of the well-known appellation, and there was a short period, during which the stoical constancy of the natives was completely conquered by surprise. The hated and yet respected name was repeated, as by one voice, carrying the sound even beyond the limits of the lodge. The women and children, who lingered around the entrance, took up the words in an echo, which was succeeded by another shrill and plaintive howl. The latter was not yet ended, when the sensation among the men had entirely abated. Each one in presence seated himself, as though ashamed of his precipitation, but it was many minutes before their meaning eyes ceased to roll towards their captive, in curious examination of a warrior, who had so often proved his prowess on the best and proudest of their nation.
Uncas enjoyed his victory, but was content with merely exhibiting his triumph, by a quiet and proud curl of the lip; an emblem of scorn that belongs to all time and every nation. Magua caught the expression, and raising his arm, he shook it at the captive–the light silver ornaments attached to his bracelet rattling with the trembling agitation of the limb, as, in a tone of vengeance, he exclaimed, in English–
“Mohican, you die!”
“The healing waters will never bring the dead Hurons to life!” returned Uncas, in the music of the Delawares; “the tumbling river washes their bones! their men are squaws; their women owls. Go–call together the Huron dogs, that they may look upon a warrior. My nostrils are offended; they scent the blood of a coward!”
The latter allusion struck deep, and the injury rankled. Many of the Hurons understood the strange tongue in which the captive spoke, among which number was Magua. This cunning savage beheld, and instantly profited by, his advantage. Dropping the light robe of skin from his shoulder, he stretched forth his arm, and commenced a burst of his dangerous and artful eloquence. However much his influence among his people had been impaired by his occasional and besetting weakness, as well as by his desertion of the tribe, his courage, and his fame as an orator, were undeniable. He never spoke without auditors, and rarely without making converts to his opinions. On the present occasion, his native powers were stimulated by the keenest thirst for revenge.
He again recounted the events of the attack on the island at Glenn’s; the death of his associates; and the escape of their most formidable enemies. Then he described the nature and position of the mount whither he had led such captives as had fallen into their hands. Of his own bloody intentions towards the maidens, and of his baffled malice, he made no mention, but passed rapidly on to the surprise by the party of “la Longue Carabine,” and its fatal termination. Here he paused, and looked about him, in affected veneration for the departed–but, in truth, to note the effect of his opening narrative. As usual, every eye was riveted on his face. Each dusky figure seemed a breathing statue, so motionless was the posture, so intense the attention of the individual.
Then Magua dropped his voice, which had hitherto been clear, strong, and elevated, and touched upon the merits of the dead. No quality that was likely to command the sympathy of an Indian, escaped his notice. One had never been known to follow the chase in vain; another had been indefatigable on the trail of their enemies. This was brave; that, generous. In short, he so managed his allusions, that in a nation which was composed of so few families, he contrived to strike every chord that might find, in its turn, some breast in which to vibrate.
“Are the bones of my young men,” he concluded, “in the burial place of the Hurons! You know they are not. Their spirits are gone towards the setting sun, and are already crossing the great waters, to the happy hunting grounds. But they departed without food, without guns or knives, without moccasins, naked and poor, as they were born. Shall this be? Are their souls to enter the land of the just, like hungry Iroquois, or unmanly Delawares; or shall they meet their friends with arms in their hands, and robes on their backs? What will our fathers think the tribes of the Wyandots have become? They will look on their children with a dark eye, and say, go; a Chippewa has come hither with the name of a Huron. Brothers, we must not forget the dead; a red skin never ceases to remember. We will load the back of this Mohican, until he staggers under our bounty, and despatch him after my young men. They call to us for aid, though our ears are not open; they say, forget us not. When they see the spirit of this Mohican toiling after them, with his burthen, they will know we are of that mind. Then will they go on happy; and our children will say, ‘so did our fathers to their friends, so must we do to them.’ What is a Yengee! we have slain many, but the earth is still pale. A stain on the name of a Huron can, only, be hid by blood that comes from the veins of an Indian. Let, then, this Delaware die.”
The effect of such an harangue, delivered in the nervous language, and with the emphatic manner of a Huron orator, could scarcely be mistaken. Magua had so artfully blended the natural sympathies with the religious superstition of his auditors, that their minds, already prepared by custom to sacrifice a victim to the manes of their countrymen, lost every vestige of humanity in a wish for instant revenge. One warrior in particular, a man of wild and ferocious mien, had been conspicuous for the attention he had given to the words of the speaker. His countenance had changed with each passing emotion, until it settled into a continued and deadly look of malice. As Magua ended, he arose, and uttering the yell of a demon, his polished little axe was seen glancing in the torch light, as he whirled it above his head. The motion and the cry were too sudden for words to interrupt his bloody intention. It appeared as if a bright gleam shot from his hand, which was crossed at the same moment by a dark and powerful line. The former was the tomahawk in its passage; the latter the arm that Magua darted forward to divert its aim. The quick and ready motion of the chief was not entirely too late. The keen weapon cut the short war-plume from the scalping tuft of Uncas, and passed through the frail wall of the lodge, as though it were hurled from some formidable engine.