“To submit myself to the will of my Ojebwa father,” was the meek reply. “May the daughter of the Bald Eagle’s enemy speak to her great father?”
“Say on,” was the brief reply, “the Bald Eagle’s ears are open.”
“The Bald Eagle is a mighty chief, the conqueror of his enemies and the father of his people,” replied the Mohawk girl, and again was silent. “The Mohawk squaw speaks well; let her say on.”
“The heart of the Mohawk is an open flower, it can be looked upon by the eye of the Great Spirit. She speaks the words of truth. The Ojebwa chief slew his enemies, they had done his good heart wrong; he punished them for the wrong they wrought; he left none living in the lodges of his enemies save one young squaw, the daughter of a brave, the grand-daughter of the Black Snake. The Bald Eagle loves even an enemy that is not afraid to raise the war-whoop or fling the tomahawk in battle. The young girl’s mother was a brave.” She paused, while her proud eye was fixed on the face of her aged auditor. He nodded assent, and she resumed, while a flush of emotion kindled her pale cheek and reddened her lips,—
“The Bald Eagle brought the lonely one to his lodge, he buried the hatchet and the scalping knife, he bade his squaws comfort her; but her heart was lonely, she pined for the homes of her fathers. She said, I will revenge my father, my mother, and my brothers and sisters; and her heart burned within her: but her hand was not strong to shed blood, the Great Spirit was about my Ojebwa father; she failed, and would have fled, for an arrow was in her flesh. The people of the Bald Eagle took her, they brought her down the great river to the council hill, they bound her with thongs and left her to die. She prayed, and the Great Spirit heard her prayer and sent her help. The white man came; his heart was soft; he unbound her, he gave water to cool her hot lips, he led her to his lodge. The white squaw (and she pointed to Catharine) was there, she bound up her wounds, she laid her on her own bed, she gave her meat and drink, and tended her with love. She taught her to pray to the Good Spirit, and told her to return good for evil, to be true and just, kind and merciful. The hard heart of the young girl became soft as clay when moulded for the pots and she loved her white sister and brothers, and was happy. The Bald Eagle’s people came when my white brothers were at peace, they found a trembling fawn within the lodge, they led her away, they left tears and loneliness where joy and peace had been. The Mohawk squaw could not see the hearth of her white brothers desolate; she took the canoe, she to the lodge of the great father of his tribe, and she says to him, ‘Give back the white squaw to her home on the Rice Lake, and take in her instead the rebellious daughter of the Ojebwa’s enemy, to die or be his servant; she fears nothing now the knife or the tomahawk, the arrow or the spear: her life is in the hand of the great chief.’” She sank on her knees as she spoke these last words and bowing down her head on her breast remained motionless as a statue.
There was silence for some minutes, and then the old man rose and said:—
“Daughter of a brave woman, thou hast spoken long, and thou hast spoken well; the ears of the Bald Eagle have been open. The white squaw shall be restored to her brother’s lodge—but thou remainest. I have spoken.”
Catharine in tears cast her arms around her disinterested friend and remained weeping—how could she accept this great sacrifice? She in her turn pleaded for the life and liberty of the Mohawk, but the chief turned a cold ear to her passionate and incoherent pleading. He was weary—he was impatient of further excitement—he coldly motioned to them to withdraw; and the friends in sadness retired to talk over all that had taken place since that sad day when Catharine was taken from her home. While her heart was joyful at the prospect of her own release, it was clouded with fears for the uncertain fate of her beloved friend.
“They will condemn me to a cruel death,” said Indiana, “but I can suffer and die for my white sister.”
That night the Indian girl slept sweetly and tranquilly beside Catharine; but Catharine could not sleep; she communed with her own heart in the still watches of the night—it seemed as if a new life had been infused within her. She no longer thought and felt as a child; the energies of her mind had been awakened, ripened into maturity as it were, and suddenly expanded. When all the inmates of the lodges were profoundly sleeping, Catharine arose,—a sudden thought had entered into her mind, and she hesitated not to put her design into execution. There was no moon, but a bright arch of light spanned the forest to the north; it was mild and soft as moonlight, but less bright, and cast no shadow across her path; it showed her the sacred tent of the widow of the murdered Mohawk. With noiseless step she lifted aside the curtain of skins that guarded it, and stood at the entrance. Light as was her step, it awakened the sleeper; she raised herself on her arm and looked up with a dreamy and abstracted air as Catharine, stretching forth her hand in tones low and tremulous, thus addressed her in the Ojebwa tongue:—