The Black Eagle; or, Ticonderoga

by G. P. R. James

And, leaving Edith, she descended to the room below, and then issued forth amongst the Indian huts, gliding from one to another, and stopping generally for a few moments at those lodges before which was to be seen a high pole, bearing the ghastly trophies with which the Indians signalized the death of an enemy.

Strange, that with one so gentle and so kind, with one taught Christianity from her youth, and imbued with many notions different from those of the rest of the people, the horrid sight of human scalps, parched by the sun and dangling in the wind produced no appearance of horror and disgust. In truth, she hardly saw them, and looked upon the pole and its cruel trophies merely as an indication that there dwelt a famous warrior of the tribe.

Edith in the meanwhile remained for some time in sad meditation. During her rapid journey from the neighbourhood of the Hudson, not more than thirty miles from Lake Horicon, to the Oneida Lake, she had had little leisure for thought. It had passed almost as a dream, full of confused objects and feelings, but with little like reflection in it.

The sun was by this time disappearing beyond the western extremity of the lake, but still sufficiently above the gently sloping ground to pour a long stream of glorious light over the placid waters; and Edith, seated near the window, gazed over the calm and beautiful scene with that solemn feeling--that echo of the voice from another world--which seems to rise in every sensitive heart at the death of each new day. Something gone! something gone to eternity! another day on its twelve golden wings taking flight to the infinite and the irrevocable, bearing with it to the dark treasury of late an infinite mass and multitude of deeds, and thoughts, and feelings, crimes, offences, virtuous acts, and little kindnesses, human charities, and human passions, wishes, hopes, joys, sorrows, disappointments, and regrets: the smiles and tears of a whole world, gone with the departing day. Sad and solemn is that feeling. It is standing by the death-bed of a friend, and seeing the faint eyes closed for ever.

For ever! No, not for ever! There is a morning for all, when another day shall dawn; and well were it for some, if the deeds of the dead day could be forgotten.

Still, although we know that another day will rise--as surely as we know that another life will come--there is a sort of hopelessness, though that is too strong a word, in seeing the sinking sun take his parting look of the world. Perhaps it is not hopelessness; but it is a something which transfuses a portion of the twilight gloom into the chambers of the heart, and dims the light of hope, though not extinguishes it.

Edith was sad--very, very sad; and she felt that gazing on that scene made her still more so. It gave her a sensation of solitariness, of helpless homelessness in a new, wild world, the tendency of which was to depress and enervate; and, saying to herself--"I will hope still; I will not despond; I will think of nothing but action and endeavour," she rose and looked about the room for something to occupy the mind and drive away impressions that seemed to crush her energies.

There were many things around which might have answered the purpose, only strange from being found in that place: several books; a small needle-book, of ancient pattern, but evidently European, and what seemed to be an old sketch-book, with a lock and clasp upon it. It evidently dated from many years before; was somewhat soiled; and on one of the sides were two or three dark spots. They were not of ink, for, through the blackness, there was a red.

Passing by these objects, Edith's eyes turned towards the sketches hanging round the room. On one in particular the reflected light from the surface of the lake streamed as it passed from the window; and Edith, going near, examined it attentively. It represented the head of a young man, apparently from seven-and-twenty to thirty years of age, and was done well, though not exactly in a masterly manner. It was merely in pencil, but highly finished; and there seemed something in it very familiar to Edith's eye. The features were generally like those of her brother Walter--so like, that, at first, she imagined that the drawing must be intended to represent his head; but the nearer view showed that it was that of a much older person; and the dress was one long gone out of fashion.

She was still gazing and puzzling herself with the questions of whence these drawings could come, and whether they could be Otaitsa's own productions, when some Indian women entered, with their noiseless tread, and placed several carved bowls, filled with different kinds of food, before her. It was all very simple; but she was much exhausted, for she had tasted nothing from an early hour of the day, and the refreshment was grateful to her. The women spoke to her, too, in the Iroquois tongue; and their sweet, low-toned voices, murmuring in the sort of sing-song of the tribes, was pleasant to her ear. It spoke of companionship.