“We can do nothing yet, but we can revenge his death!”
Tahmeroo hurried away, horror-stricken by the oft-repeated word, and flew down the road towards the lake. Her mother’s house was upon the border of the water, and full three miles distant; but Tahmeroo never paused for breath, speeding along with the grace and swiftness of a young doe. There was a terrible pressure at her heart, but hope had once more begun to revive in it; she knew where her husband was, and could not believe that those so-all-powerful as she deemed her own family, could be without ability to save him.
Catharine Montour was seated in her lonely house, brooding over the sad thoughts which for months had returned to torture her with greater force from the few vague words which Butler had dropped that night, half in wantonness, half in revenge. Her conversation with the missionary had opened her long-silent heart, and amid the solitude of her life she was forced to listen to its troubled beatings. She had lost much of the indomitable will which had so long supported her, and the barbarous cruelty by which she was surrounded became every day more painful and revolting; as her own noble nature resumed its sway, she grew kind and gentle as a child but very sad.
Those cruel words which Butler had flung like a dagger at her heart were harder to bear than all beside. Murray was still alive—the evil chances of their destiny might bring them once more together, and that meeting would be as painful as if all the long weary past had been obliterated and the early vitality of their suffering brought back upon them. Catherine was worn out with struggles; her former pride and courage had forsaken her, and she longed to creep away to some quiet haunt where she might die alone.
The hard spirit of infidelity which she had forced upon her soul was shaken off; she could no longer delude herself with the false belief with which she had long endeavored to silence the pleadings of her conscience, and the familiar truths taught her in childhood, which were coming back to her soul, like a flock of doves to their desolated nests, had not yet acquired strength enough to afford her comfort.
When the door opened, and Tahmeroo rushed into the room, pale and agitated, she looked dreamily up, like one whose thoughts come back, with an effort, from afar, unfolded her hands from the loose sleeves of her robe, and smiled a sad welcome.
“Mother—oh, mother!” exclaimed the girl, “the chief has news—my brave is a prisoner among the rebels.”
Catharine Montour felt almost a pang of disappointment; she knew that his desertion or death would be nothing to what must come. Tahmeroo’s pride would, in a measure, have aided her to bear the former; but there was no refuge from his coldness or neglect. His safety seemed to her a misfortune.
“Speak, mother—comfort Tahmeroo, she is very wretched! Will you not help her—will you not save her husband? The granddame talks of vengeance, but your child pines for her mate—you are merciful and good—oh, help me!”
“Alas, my poor bird!” Catharine said, folding her to her heart, “I am powerless; the rebels are our enemies, and I cannot go into their camps.”