A mention of the amulet as a “lost religion” was the next moment on the lips of the interpreter, echoing the rhetorical periods of Yachtino, the chief of Chilhowee, who had stepped forward and was speaking with a forceful dignity of gesture and the highly aspirated, greatly diversified intonations of the Cherokee language, illustrating its vaunted capacity for eloquent expressiveness, and affording the group a signal opportunity of judging of the grace of oratory for which these Indians were then famous.
The gratitude of the Indians, the spokesman declared, was not to be measured by gifts. Not in recognition of her beneficence, not in return for her kindness,—for kindness cannot be bought or repaid, and they were her debtors forever,—but as a matter of barter the Cherokee nation bestowed upon her their pearl, the “sleeping sun,” in exchange for the amulet which she had caused to be returned by the ruthless soldier.
Forthwith the chief of Chilhowee laid upon the table the beautiful fresh-water pearl which Raymond had seen at Cowetchee.
Heedless of all the subtler significance of the ceremony, and, under the British flag, caring naught for the vaunted puissance of Cherokee protection against the seen and the unseen, the astonished and delighted young beauty gazed speechless after the embassy, for their grotesquely splendid figures had disappeared as silently as the images of a dream, feeling that the reward was altogether out of proportion with the simplicity of the kindly impulse that had actuated her girlish heart. Because they were very old and savage, and, as she thought, very poor, and were agonized for a boon which in their ignorance they craved as dear and sacred, she had exerted the influence she knew she possessed to restore to them this trifle, this bauble,—and here in her hand the tear of compassion, as it were, was metamorphosed into a gem such as she had never before beheld.
Mounted by a London jeweller between prongs set with diamonds it was famous in her circle for its size and beauty, and regarded as a curio it could out-vie all Kent. She long remembered the Cherokee words which described it, and she entertained a sort of regretful reminiscence of Fort Prince George, soon dismantled and fallen into decay, where the spring had come so laden with beauty and charm, and with incidents of such strange interest.
Mrs. Annandale also remembered it regretfully, and with a bitter, oft-reiterated wish that Arabella had never seen the little stronghold or the officers of its garrison. She used her utmost endeavors against Raymond’s suit, but threats, persuasion, appeals, were vain with Arabella. She had made her choice, and she would not depart from it. Her heart was fixed, and not even the reproach to which her generous temper rendered her most susceptible,—that she had caused pain and unhappiness to Mervyn, encouraging him to cherish unfounded hopes,—moved her in the least. She reminded them both that she had warned him he must not presume on her qualified assent as a finality; she had always feared she did not love him, and now she knew it was impossible.
“I can’t imagine how Ensign Raymond had the opportunity to interfere,” Mrs. Annandale said wofully to her brother in one of their many conferences on the unexpected turn of the romance the match-maker had fostered. “I am sure I never gave him the opportunity to make love to her; it was dishonorable in him to introduce the subject of love when he knew of her engagement.”
“He did not introduce the subject of love,” said Arabella, remembering the scene in the fraise above the scarp, and laughing shyly. “I, myself, spoke first of love.”
Then awed by her aunt’s expression of horror and offended propriety, she added demurely:—
“It must have been the influence of that amulet. He had it then. They say it bestows on its possessor his own best good.”