Thus saying, he turned and entered the lodge.
[CHAPTER XXXI.]
The promise of the sunset was verified. The succeeding day dawned bright and clear. The wind had shifted to the south-west; and, as frequently happens in the American autumn, the cold and icy breath of the north-east had been succeeded by a wind as soft and gentle as the warmest sigh of spring. In large masses, the snow fell from the boughs of the hemlock and the pine; the white surface of the earth's covering glistened as if with shining scales, as the upper surface began to melt; and, drop after drop, the water trickled from the extreme boughs of the trees, till the fully-risen sun sent the snow away dissolved into the streams and into the lake. It was like the recovery of the mind from sorrow, under the bright influence of happier days.
Only here and there, a patch of snow was still seen upon the tops of the hills, or in the more shady parts of the forest; only here and there upon the sky lingered the fragment of a cloud; but, instead of the dark, heavy, gray mass which had palled the heavens on the preceding day, that cloud was as light and soft as the down of the swan.
About two o'clock, several long lines of Indian chiefs and warriors might be seen approaching the great Oneida village. Soon after, a great fire was lighted before the door of the principal lodge; and, as on the preceding evening, the warriors were ranged in a circle round, and the women and children in another beyond.
The great chief, dressed in all the glittering finery of the Indian peace-costume, with feathers, and red and white head-dress, and crimson mantle, and embroidered shirt, and over-dress, and medals innumerable hanging round his neck, took the seat of honour with a grave dignity such as few civilized monarchs have ever, after the greatest study, been able to attain. He wore no warlike weapons; nothing but a single knife appeared in his girdle; and in his hand he carried the richly-ornamented calumet, or pipe of peace.
Close behind her father sat Otaitsa, with her heart greatly troubled, less perhaps with fear than with expectation. The Black Eagle had been kind and tender with her when they were alone together. He had held her to his heart with a display of fondness such as an Indian rarely shows openly to his child. He had listened to the whole tale of her love for Walter Prevost without a word of disapprobation or reproach; and sometimes even a playful smile had come upon his dark stern face as her words recalled the memory of feelings experienced in youth--like a well-remembered song heard again after a long lapse of years. Instead of reprehending her attempt to deliver Walter, he commended it highly.
"It was thy part, my child," said he; "thou shouldst have been a boy, Otaitsa; the warrior's spirit is in the maiden's bosom."
But when she came to speak of her lover's fate--to plead, to sue, to entreat--the stern, grave coldness of the Indian chief returned; and though she could see that he was full of fixed resolves, she could in no degree discover what they were. The explanation of them she knew was now to come; and it may be imagined, with what eager and intense interest she listened for every word.
There was, of course, some little confusion as the multitude took their places; but it was soon hushed, and then a deep silence ensued. The great pipe was lighted, and sent from hand to hand till it had passed all round the circle; and then, and not till then, Black Eagle rose and spoke.