Diane, feeling that inexplicable attraction which frequently draws together persons of entirely different natures, examined her closely. The novel sensations and sentiments so recently awakened within her endowed all existence with a new pathos as well as a new delight. She knelt down beside the captive girl, smoothing the flaxen hair which the sunlight turned to gold, clasping the cold, passive hands in her own, whispering soft words of comfort and encouragement. The stranger stared vacantly into the French girl’s face, while Diane’s brilliant eyes dimmed with the sympathetic moisture of compassion.
“There has been a violent dispute concerning the prisoner,” explained du Chesne, who understood the Indian dialects perfectly; “Nitchoua wishes to take her as his wife. Another party want to torture her when they reach their own village, and Howaha has threatened to settle the dispute by a blow with a tomahawk which will terminate at once the discussion and the existence of the captive.”
“How beautiful she is! She is already half dead with misery and fatigue; I can scarcely feel her heart beat.” A keen compassion pleaded in the intensity of Diane’s faltering accents. “You know what captivity among the Indians means. Think of this tender creature submitted to the torture. I should know no rest all the remainder of my life for thinking of it. This might have been our own case had not the Holy Virgin sent us aid. We can never desert her in her extremity—you must find some way of ransoming her, du Chesne—you can surely manage it.”
“I do not know. There is the merest pinch of hope; but I will do my best to save her, Diane.”
The same thought already had crossed the young man’s mind. The chief impression made upon him by this stranger was one of helpless beauty and innocence. He was chivalrous and tender-hearted, yet he comprehended that the rescue of the prisoner was secondary in importance to propitiating these savage allies. In the one case the fate of an individual depended upon his exertions; in the other the fate of the whole settlement might hang in the balance. In their attempts to resist the encroachments of the Iroquois the French could not do without the help of the other Indian tribes. Du Chesne thoroughly understood the art of dealing with these children of the forest. He could conform to their customs and flatter them with courteous address. He understood the uncertain, vacillating temper common to all savages. Unsteady as aspens, fierce as panthers, rent by mad jealousies, they were a wild crew who changed their intentions with the veering of the wind, and whose dancing, singing and yelling might at any moment turn into war-whoops against each other or against the French. There were many difficulties to be considered, but the young Canadian was not easily daunted, and he determined to make the effort.
Nerving every faculty for the endeavor, the youth stood forth, his full deep eyes fixed on the savages with the masterful scrutiny with which a tamer of wild beasts might regard the ferocious animals committed to his charge. His dark eyes were aflame; there was so much of quiet strength suggested in his bearing that, as she listened to his glowing words, Diane’s heart beat high with pride. The daughter of a race of soldiers, she was deeply imbued with admiration for physical courage. With bold adroitness he assured Howaha that if his captive had become a subject of dissension among the red-men, he, their white brother, ever ready to oblige his allies, was willing to relieve them of the burden. He imitated the prolonged accents of the savages and addressed them in turn by their respective tribes, bands and families, calling their men of note by name as though he had been born among them. In all he said his voice and gestures answered to the words. The chiefs, silent and attentive, with gaze riveted upon the bowls of their pipes, listened with cool, impartial interest. Plainly the impression made by the young Canadian’s eloquence was favorable; at every pause in his harangue some sign of approval could be detected.
Du Chesne did not, however, gain his object without some trouble. At one moment Nitchoua started forward, brandishing his hatchet in the air, declaring furiously that the prisoner belonged to him by right of war; rather than waive his claim he would kill her as she lay helpless before them. “Has Nitchoua killed enemies on the war-path? His arm is weary with killing, his eye with counting. The scalps of his enemies ornament the wigwam of the great chief in such number that they shelter it from rain in the stormy night,” vaunted the fierce savage, proclaiming his own deeds of valor.
The English maiden was too far spent to be greatly excited by this new menace. She understood neither the French language nor the Indian dialects, even had she been able to control herself sufficiently to listen. Occurrences had been struck off by time in such quick succession that they seemed like some terrible continuous nightmare—an awful void in which every wretchedness was conceivable, and in which there was neither comfort nor solace to be found. She was not by nature endowed with nerve or courage. Within the last few days she had become familiar with scenes of massacre and pillage; she had seen her home burned to the ground, her relatives butchered before her eyes, had witnessed the cruel torture of friends and neighbors, had endured incredible fatigue, and had realized the uncertainty concerning her own fate. Now the overstrained brain refused to receive fresh impressions, a merciful lethargy deadened sensation. When the excited savage waved his axe above her head, though she believed her last hour had come, even in this extremity she had not sufficient strength to arouse herself. Prompted by some instinct, her blue eyes turned to Diane with a mute agonized appeal. The French girl returned the gaze with a sob of excitement and agitation swelling at her throat.
“We must take care of you, it is our bounden duty—we could not fail you—trust us,” she pleaded, unconscious or careless of the fact that the stranger could not know the meaning of her words. There is, however, a language of the soul which the most distraught can comprehend in the face of a great crisis. As she met the kindly glance bent upon her, a ray of comfort penetrated the darkness which had enveloped the captive’s spirit; it was like an ethereal stimulant quickening all her powers.
Finally, on the promise of a rich ransom being given, Nitchoua allowed his wrath to be appeased. He began to dance, holding his hands upraised as though apostrophizing the sky. Suddenly he seized his tomahawk, brandished it wildly, and then flung it far from him.