It was strange, but even in that moment, Esther forgot her peril, her bonds, and her captivity. Strange, and yet is not our being twin-mated? Are we not composed of widely different natures—different as bright day from ebon night, yet, like them, bound in indissoluble fetters? One the soaring spirit—the mystical essence of immortality, and the other, the dull and sluggish clay that shall never know aught of eternal life; the ethereal essence of endless being, and the lifeless clod of the valley; the foreshadowing of things to come, and the inanimate pitcher that shall yet be broken at the well; the subtle lightning of Divinity, and the gross longings of dust. Ah! well, indeed it is, that:
“The soul itself dissolving from clay fetters, heavy, dreary,
With spirit wings can travel the land of dread and doubt;
Can revel in the brightness, when fainting and earth-weary,
And for itself the secret of the mystery find out.”
A short descent, and the turning of a sudden curve brought horse and rider to the plateau upon which the band of Black Eagle were resting. With the silent greeting, usual among the red-men, he was received, and yet, more than one lip murmured audibly—Osse ’o.
Esther Morse watched his movements with keen interest. There was something kingly in his presence, and commanding in his movements, that convinced her he was a man of authority among the Indians. His dress partook more of a white hunter’s, than that of a Dacotah chief. The saddle and decorations of his horse bore evidence of having been manufactured by the hands of an artist. His dress and moccasins were of finely-dressed doeskin; a cap of soft fur sat easily on his head, surmounted by a single eagle’s plume; around his neck, hanging upon his bosom, as the Indians usually wear some favorite ornament, was a small shield, exquisitely engraved, and studded with silver knobs. Silver-mounted pistols were secured by a crimson sash, that girded his waist, and in his hand he poised a spear of finer workmanship than ever came from savage hands.
Surely this man was either an exquisite in his tribe or a man of wonderful authority—no warrior ever displayed a form more lithe and sinewy. His eyes were large, bright, and of a color rare among the Indians. In the graded avenue or the broad prairie it would have been difficult to match him in that haughty grace which gives command and insures respect. There was a softness, too, in his deep, rich voice which seemed inconsistent with his wild life, and once, when he turned to look upon Esther, an encouraging smile stole over his lips, a thing so unusual with his people that the young girl felt her heart beating quick with wild hopes.
“The warriors of the Dacotahs are wandering far from their wigwams,” he said, addressing Black Eagle, and looking with piercing eye around the circle of his followers as if he read the motive of their journey.
“The moccasins of Osse ’o are not often heard so far from the Spirit Lake,” was the evasive response.