Sir William Johnson and his guest, as a mark of confidence and brotherhood, remained with them throughout the night, but retired to the further end of the hall. They did not sleep so soon as their dusky companions. Their conversation, carried on in low tones, was, nevertheless, eager and anxious; for the father could not help still feeling great apprehension regarding the fate of his son; and Sir William Johnson was not altogether without alarm regarding the consequences of the very determination to which he had brought the chiefs of the Mohawks and Onondagas. Symptoms of intestine discord had of late been perceived in the great Indian confederacy. They had not acted on the behalf of England with the unanimity which they had displayed in former years; and it was the policy of the British Government by every means to heal all divisions and consolidate their union, as well as to attach them more and more firmly to the English cause. Although he doubted not that whatever was done by the chiefs with whom he had just been in conference, would be effected with the utmost subtlety and secrecy, yet there was still the danger of producing a conflict between them and the Oneidas in the attempt, or causing angry feeling even if it were successful; and Sir William, who was not at all insensible to the value of his government's approbation, felt some alarm at the prospect before him.
He and Mr. Prevost both slept at length; and the following morning saw the chiefs dispersing in the gray dawn of a cold and threatening day.
[CHAPTER XXVIII.]
The snow was falling fast; the early snow of Northern America. The woods had not yet parted with all the splendour of their autumnal foliage; and the rivers still sang along their beds, confined, indeed, and narrowed in their channel by a ledge of thin ice along their banks, but still gay and sparkling. The air, however, was raw and cold; the ground hard beneath the tread; the sky dark and lowering; and the flakes rested unmelted on the earth, covering rapidly the green grass and the brown leaves.
Otaitsa stole forth from the shelter of the great lodge, passed amongst the huts around, and out into the fields through the opening in the palisade. She was going where she wished not her steps to be traced, and she knew that the fast-falling snow would speedily fill up every foot-print. Quietly and gracefully she glided on till she reached the edge of the deep wood, and then along a little-frequented trail, till, at the distance of about half a mile, her eyes, keenly bent forward, perceived something brown crouching still and motionless under cover of a young hemlock, the branches of which nearly swept the ground.
As the Blossom approached, a head, covered with glossy black hair, rolled up behind, was raised above a little bush which partly hid the woman's figure; and, coming nearer, Otaitsa asked, in a low voice,--
"Did he pass?"
"No," answered the young maiden to whom she spoke; "it was Apukwa, the medicine-man."
Otaitsa waved her head sadly to and fro, saying, "I understand." Then, speaking to the girl again, she said, "Now back to the castle, through the brush there to the other trail, and then home."
Her own walk was to be longer; and on she went, with the same gliding step, till, about half a mile further, she turned a little out of the path to the right; and there, concealed amongst the bushes, she found an old woman of her tribe, to whom she put the same question, and received nearly the same answer.