Varnham dismounted, and left their horses with the guides. He, too, was stricken with a sudden impulse to press forward and penetrate towards the lake. They walked on at a rapid pace across the gleaming snow-crust, where all the naked branches and innumerable twigs of the forest were pencilled by the moonlight; the hacked oaks guided their way; and the winds in the distant hemlocks moaned after the father and child as they passed.
The first snow of winter had fallen, and lay heavily upon the forest. The lake was frozen, till it shone like a sheet of rock crystal. The Indians left behind by the chief amused themselves in skating, and catching fish through holes cut in the ice. Gi-en-gwa-tah had not yet returned, and Catharine received no tidings of Tahmeroo. Once she sent to Queen Esther’s house to make inquiries, but the old woman vouchsafed no answer; and Catharine was left alone with her feebleness and her weary heart.
One day she sat in her lonely lodge, looking out upon the lake. The wind moaned through the forest; the air was keen and sharp with sparks of frost; flakes of snow came down at intervals, but it was too cold for a heavy fall. Catharine Montour was more oppressed than usual; there was a strange trouble at her heart, and she felt that danger menaced her—or, possibly, her child, in some more terrible form. For herself she did not fear; but the thought of harm to Tahmeroo or Mary wrung her heart with anguish. The day wore on, and the night followed cold, still and icy. The moon was high in heaven, flooding the frozen lake with silver, and turning the snow-wreaths to garlands of pearls. Still Catharine sat looking forth, listening to the dirge-like moan of the pine forest with dreary thoughtfulness.
All was strangely still; the silence had something awful in it. The coldness about the watcher’s heart grew deeper, till it seemed as if the frosty air from without had penetrated to her soul. The silence became insupportable at length; she arose and passed through the different rooms; not an attendant was in sight; she looked out, searching for the guard which always surrounded her lodge; it had disappeared; not an Indian was to be seen.
The stillness seemed to increase—even the low wind died away, and the beating of her own heart sounded to Catharine like the ticking of a clock in the gloom. The fire had died down, and the apartment was lighted only by the moonbeams that crept in at the casement, and poured their ghostly pallor upon the floor.
Catharine could endure it no longer—torment, death, anything, were preferable to that fearful suspense. She folded a fur mantle about her and went out, taking the path which led to the settlement. Midway between the Indian village and Queen Esther’s mansion she saw the flame of a council-fire turning the snow golden with its brightness; seated about it were the old men of the tribe, whom the chief had left behind, with Queen Esther in their midst.
Catharine drew nearer, and from the rise of ground upon which she stood looked fearfully down upon the scene.
It was a strange sight: that blazing council-fire streaming far up in the heavens; that circle of stern warriors gathered about it, silent and motionless, with that grim woman in their midst, evidently speaking, though she made no movement or gesture. In the outskirts of the group hovered some young men and women of the tribe, with signs of awe breaking through the natural impassibility of their features.
Catharine drew closer still, and concealed from view by a massy hemlock, listened to what was passing.
“Drive her forth!” said the old queen, in her low, terrible voice; “a traitress and a craven. She has wronged your chief, and now only waits to sell his tribe to the rebels.”