On swept the Tories, headed by Queen Esther and her band, over the smooth plains, then green with rustling forests, and keeping within sight of the river. When the dawn broke, grey and chill, Wintermoot’s Fort, the stronghold of the Tories, loomed before them, surrounded by bristling stockades and fortified outworks.
At their approach the gates were thrown open, and the whole army swept into the inclosure. Those within the fort crowded around, in eager curiosity, to gaze upon the old queen, but she seemed unconscious of their glances, dismounting at once from her horse, and following the commander of the fort into the room where the body of her son had been carried.
Tahmeroo was sitting on the floor by the corpse, but she did not raise her head when the door opened, and Queen Esther moved towards the bench where the body lay, without paying any heed to the presence of her grandchild. She stood over the dead chief without any sign of emotion; her frame never once relaxed—not a muscle moved, not an eyelash quivered; her motionless right hand fell at her side, with the gleaming tomahawk still clutched between her clasped fingers.
The Indians entered the room, took up the body and bore it forth, with a low death-wail that sounded ominously drear in the solemn stillness which came over all within the fort.
Among that group of awe-struck gazers stood Grenville Murray. He had come into the fort a few hours before, and had vainly attempted to instill some idea of mercy into the ferocity of the Indians and Tories, but the pacific measures which he pleaded were as much unheeded as if they had been made to wolves in the forest.
The train bearing the dead chief passed through the inclosure, and Queen Esther followed, erect and still, looking neither to the right nor the left, while Tahmeroo crouched behind—horror-stricken and pale.
“Will she take him away?” Murray whispered to the commander.
“Yes; for burial.”
“But she is partly a white woman; surely she will not allow him to be buried in this heathenish fashion.”
“Do you think Queen Esther a saint?” sneered the leader; “the scalping-knife is her religion!”