She spoke as if unconscious of a second presence, and again abruptly addressed the missionary.
“Your services are needed in the Shawnee encampment a few miles back in the mountains. A guide shall be sent for you at the appointed time. Stay in this place during the next twenty-four hours, when you will be summoned.”
The missionary, though a humble man, was by no means wanting in the dignity of a Christian gentleman. He was displeased with the arrogant and commanding tone assumed by his singular visitor, and threw a slight degree of reproof into his manner when he answered.
“Lady, if the welfare of a human being—if the safety of an immortal soul can be secured by my presence, I will not hesitate to trust myself among your people, though they come here on an errand I can never approve; but for a less important matter I cannot promise to wait your pleasure.”
“Rash man! do you know who it is you are braving?” said the woman, fixing her eyes sternly on his face. “If your life is utterly valueless, delay but a moment in following the guide which I shall send, and you shall have the martyrdom you seem to brave! Catharine Montour’s will has never yet been disputed within twenty miles of her husband’s tent without frightful retribution.”
The missionary started at the mention of that name, but he speedily regained his composure, and answered her calmly and with firmness.
“Threats are powerless with me, lady. The man who places himself unarmed and defenceless in the midst of a horde of savages can scarcely be supposed to act against his conscience from the threat of a woman, however stern may be her heart, and however fearful her power. Tell me what the service is which I am required to perform, and then you shall have my answer.”
The haughty woman moved towards the door with an angry gesture, but returned again, and with more courtesy in her manner seated herself on the stool which had been placed for her.
“It is but just,” she said, “that you should know the service which you are required to perform. There is in the camp now lying beneath Campbell’s Ledge a maiden of mixed blood, my child—my only child; from the day that she first opened her eyes to mine in the solemn wilderness, with nothing but savage faces around me, with no heart to sympathize with mine, that child became a part of my own life. For years I had loved nothing; but the tenderness almost dead in my heart broke forth when she was born, the sweet feelings of humanity came back, and the infant became to me an idol. In the wide world I had but one object to love, and for the first time in a weary life affection brought happiness to me. You may be a father; think of the child who has lain in your bosom year after year, pure and gentle as a spring blossom, who has wound herself around your heart-strings—think of her, when dearest and loveliest, stolen from your bosom, and her innocent thoughts usurped by another.”
“Forbear—in mercy forbear!” said the missionary, in a voice of agony that for an instant silenced the woman.