"Well, we have commissioned him," resumed the nobleman, "to seek for some Indian runner, or half-breed, to carry news of this event to Otaitsa, whom Edith believes the tribe will keep in the dark in regard to the capture of Walter."
"Likely--likely," said the Woodchuck. "Miss Prevost understands them; they'll not tell the women anything, for fear they should meddle. They've a poor opinion of squaws. But the girl may do a great deal of good, too, if you can get the tidings to her. She's not as cunning as the rest of them; but she has more heart, and soul, and resolution too, than a whole tribe of Indian women. That comes of her mother being a white woman."
"Her mother a white woman!" exclaimed Lord H----.
"Ay, didn't you know that?" interrogated Woodchuck; "just as white as Miss Prevost; and quite a lady, too, she was to look at, or to speak to--though she was not fond of speaking with white men, and would draw back into the lodge whenever she saw one. I did speak to her once, though, when she was in a great fright about Black Eagle, who had gone to battle against the French; and I, happening to come that way, gave her some news of him. But we are getting astray from what's of more matter than that. The girl will save him, take my word for it, if there's strength enough in that little body to do it. But let me see. You talk of Indian runners. Where is one to be found who can be trusted? They're generally a bad set, the scum of the tribes. No real warrior would take up on such a trade. However, what's to be done? No white person can go; for they'll scalp him to a certainty, and he would give his life for Walter's, that's all. On my life, it would be as well to give the dangerous errand to some felon, as I have heard say they do in despotic countries--give criminals some dangerous task to perform; and then, if they succeed and escape, so much the better for them; if they die, so much the better for the community. But I'm getting wandering again," he continued, rising. "Now, my lord, this is no use. Give me a few hours to think; to-morrow, at noon, if you will; and then I'll come and tell you what my opinion is."
As he spoke, he turned abruptly towards the house, without any ceremonious leave-taking, and only looked round to put one more question.
"At the post, I suppose?" he said.
Lord H---- assented; Brooks entered the house, and at once sought his own chamber.
[CHAPTER XXII.]
In a small room, under a roof which slanted not in one straight line, but made an obtuse angle in the midst of its descent, lighted alone by a horn lantern, such as was used on board the river-boats at night, sat the stout man whom we have described under the name of Woodchuck. The furniture of the chamber was of the meanest kind; a small half-tester bed, with its dull curtains of a broad red and white checked stuff; a little table jammed close against the wall; a solitary chair; a wash-stand, with the basin and its ewer both somewhat maimed; and a little looking-glass, hanging from a nail driven into the wall, with its narrow, badly-gilt frame, and its plate so distorted that, when one looked in it, the reflection seemed to be making faces at the original. Dull, with imbibing many a year's loaded atmosphere, were those faded walls; and many a guest had written upon them in pencil his own name, or the name of his sweetheart--permanent memorials of transitory tenants, like the long-cherished memories of affections gone to the grave. There were two or three rude distiches, too, and a quatrain somewhat more polished.
But the man who sat there noted none of these things. The dim light, the gloomy aspect of the apartment, might sink in upon his spirit, and render the darkness within more dark: the strange, ill-looking, double slant of the ceiling--the obtrusive two straight lines instead of one, with the blunt, unmeaning angle between them, giving an aspect of brokenness to the roof, as if it were ready to bulge out, and then crash down--might irritate without his knowing why. Still he noted them not with anything like observation. His mind was busy with things of its own--things in which feeling took a share as well as thought--and he was, if not dead, sleeping to the external world. Even his beloved woods, and streams, and fresh air, and open skies, were forgotten for the time.