He was soon clasped in the embrace of his long-lost Water-Lily, and Indian though he was, the old man wept over his recovered darling. He told her how Ponawtan had returned by nightfall, to find her daughter gone, and the village in ashes: their own wigwam had caught fire from the flying cinders, and was entirely consumed. She had lingered around the spot of her former happiness till his return; after a little time, as they could hear no news of Orikama, they had removed far away from the scene of desolation, to the valley of the Mohawk. Grief for the loss of her daughter had injured the health of Ponawtan, although time had now somewhat reconciled her to it: but Towandahoc said that the Wild Rose was drooping, that her leaves were withered, and her flowers falling one by one; and much he feared that another winter would lay her low in the dust.
When little Ellen understood that this was the dear Indian grandpa of whom she had so often heard, her shyness passed away, and soon she drew near to the aged hunter, handling his bow and arrows, and even presuming to climb up and scrutinize the feathers, that were at once her admiration and her dread. The old man took her upon his knee, and was showing her his bow, when Roland returned home; he eagerly seconded his wife's persuasions, to induce Towandahoc to remain with them for some time, and then to return for Ponawtan, that both might pass the remnant of their days within their daughter's dwelling. But the aged hunter shook his head:
"It cannot be," he said; "the Great Spirit has made the pale faces to dwell in houses, to plough the fields, and to listen to the voice which comes from the printed book, held up before his eyes; but he has made the red man to hunt the deer, and to live alone in the open air. When the Great Spirit created man, he made his red child first, out of the best clay: he then made the pale faces; and lastly, out of what was left he made the black man. And he placed before them three boxes; and because his red child was the favorite, he told him to choose which he would have. So he chose the box containing a bow and arrows, a tomahawk, and a pipe. Then the pale face chose; and he took the box which held a plough, carpenters' tools, a gun, and a book. And the black man took what was left: in his box was an overseer's whip, a spade, and a hoe. And this has been the portion of each ever since. I am a red man, and I cannot breathe where men are thicker than trees: to me belong the bow and arrows, the wild deer, and the open sky. The old man has returned to visit the graves of his ancestors; but soon, far away from them, he will drop to the ground, like the ripe persimmon after a frost. Orikama has returned to the ways of her fathers, and I do not blame her, for she is a pale face. But the old man cannot change, like a leaf in October; soon will his sun set in yonder western heaven, and he must now keep on his course. I have said."
When the moon arose, Towandahoc left the house, bending his steps to the forest: but he did not go without passing his word that he would bring Ponawtan to see her daughter. Before the winter set in, they arrived, and Emily's tender heart was grieved as she gazed upon the wasting form of her who had so often sheltered her in her arms: it was only too evident that another summer would not see her upon the earth. Ponawtan was greatly cheered by her visit; but could only be prevailed upon to stay for a few days, when she departed, never more to return. In the spring, Towandahoc came alone; his sorrowful face and drooping form told the tale of sorrow before he opened his lips: his energy and vital powers seemed to have died with Ponawtan. He never came again; and doubtless he soon found a resting-place by the side of her who had been his life-long companion.
"So, you didn't kill any of your people off, but the two farm-servants, for whom we do not care a fig!" cried Charlie Bolton.
"Not I," replied Mary; "I'm not very partial to blood and murder; I would not have put them out of the way, except to please you; I lay the manslaughter at your door, Cousin mine."
"I'm very willing to bear the penalty: if it's a hanging matter, please to imagine that my neck has paid the forfeit—just consider me hung—as the man said at the crowded dinner table, when an irritable fool took offence at something he had spoken, and being too far off to throw his glass of wine in his face, told him 'to consider the wine as thrown at him.' 'Very well, I will,' replied the first; 'and do you consider this sword as run through your body.'"
"A very good retaliation! And what did they do then? Did they fight?"
"Not they! They did much better—they laughed, shook hands, and were good friends ever after."
"And their honor was as well satisfied as if they had made targets of their bodies, I dare say: it was much more sensible."