His face was contorted with agony.
"Four years, and reconciled! Monsieur Ormerod, I have striven to forget for twenty years, and the pain still burns my soul! I chose the wrong way, the wrong way!"
He turned and stumbled from the forest, hands outthrust before him, as he walked blindly toward the fort.
"The wrong way! The wrong way!"
They were the last words I heard him speak. Months later, in New York, the news came from Quebec that the famous Père Hyacinthe, called far and wide the Apostle to the Savages, was serving a disciplinary sentence as scullery servant in the headquarters of the Order of Jesus.
On the afternoon of the second day after leaving Jagara we were challenged by an out-flung party of Seneca Wolves, Watchers of the Door, who made the forest aisles ring with their whoops of joy when they recognized Tawannears, clamoring for the story of our wanderings. But at his first question joy was turned to sadness, for they gave us the sorry tidings that Donehogaweh, the Guardian of the Door, lay at the point of death from a gangrened wound that had festered about the barbed head of a Miami arrow, shot into his shoulder during his last punitive raid.
We forgot all else in our haste to reach Deonundagaa in time to see the Royaneh before his end; and there remained a lingering splash of color in the Western sky as we trotted out of the forest, crossed the gardens and entered the village streets lined by the long ganasotes and thronged with mourning people. They exclaimed with amazement at sight of Corlaer's vast bulk and Tawannears' familiar figure. An irregular column formed at our heels, warriors who strove for a word with members of our escort, gossiping women and children who babbled and shrieked amongst themselves.
So we came to the open space by the council lodge. Beside its entrance Donehogaweh lay on a pallet of skins, in compliance with his request to pass in the outer air. A group of Royanehs and chiefs sat about him, sternly watching, their sympathy unspoken, their faces emotionless. Guanaea hovered over him, equally silent, but unable to restrain the sorrow that was revealed in her eyes and trembling lips. 'Twas her cry of astonishment gave him the first intimation of our coming. He turned his great head, with its gray-streaked scalp-lock, and his fever-bright eyes dwelt upon us almost unbelievingly.
"Is it indeed you, oh, my sister's son?" he asked weakly. "Do I see with you Otetiani, the white son of my old age, and Corlaer of the fat belly? Or do evil dreams taunt me again?"
"We are here, oh, my uncle," answered Tawannears kneeling by the pallet and drawing Kachina down beside him.