The third and younger of the Indians laughed, saying----
"The wind changes, Apukwa, and so does the love of our brother. The maiden in the lodge of Prevost is more beautiful than the Blossom. We have seen her thrice since this moon grew big; and my brother calls her the Fawn, because she has become the object of his chase."
"Thou knowest not my thought," said the brother of the Snake, gravely. "The maiden is fair, and she moves round her father's lodge like the sun. She shall be the light of mine, too; but the brother of the snake forgets not those who disappoint him; and the boy Prevost would rather have seen the tomahawk falling, than know that the Fawn is in his lodge."
The other two uttered that peculiar humming sound by which the Indians sometimes intimate that they are satisfied; and the conversation which went on between them related chiefly to the chances of making a successful attack upon the house of Mr. Prevost. Occasionally, indeed, they turned their eyes towards the boats upon Lake Champlain, and commented upon the struggle that was about to be renewed between France and England. That each party had made vast preparations was well known, and intelligence of the extent and nature of those preparations had spread far and wide amongst the tribes, with wonderful accuracy as to many of the details, but without any certain knowledge of where the storm was to break.
All saw, however, and comprehended, that a change had come over the British government; that the hesitating and doubtful policy which had hitherto characterized their military movements in America was at an end; and that the contest was now to be waged for the gain and loss of all the European possessions on the North American continent. Already was it known amongst the Five Nations, although the time for the transmission of the intelligence was incredibly small, that a large fleet and armament had arrived at Halifax, and that several naval successes over the French had cleared the way for some great enterprise in the north. At the same time, the neighbourhood of Albany was full of the bustle of military preparation; a large force was already collected under Abercrombie for some great attempt upon the lakes: and from the west news had been received that a British army was marching rapidly towards the French posts upon the Ohio and the Monongahela.
The Indian nations roused themselves at the sound of war; for, though some few of them acted more regularly in alliance with one or the other of the contending European powers, a greater number than is generally believed cared little whom they attacked, or for whom they fought, or whom they slew; and were, in reality, but as a flock of vultures spreading their wings at the scent of battle, and ready to take advantage of the carnage, whatever was the result of the strife.
[CHAPTER XXXIII.]
We must now return to the scene in which this narrative commenced. But oh, how changed was the aspect of all things from that which the house of Mr. Prevost presented but five short months before! The father and the daughter were there alone. The brother no longer glanced about the house with his blithesome air and active energies; and the thought of him and of his fate hung continually like a dark shadow over those to whom he was so dear. They were not wholly without comfort, they were not wholly without hope; for, from time to time, renewed assurances came to them from many a quarter that Walter would still be saved. Yet time wore on, and he was not delivered.
When one speaks of five months of uncertainty, it seems a long and tedious period, and it would be so if it were all one blank; but there are a thousand little incidents--incidents external and internal--that fill up the time, and make it pass wonderfully soon, especially if fear predominates over hope.
Didst thou ever sit up, reader, with the sick or dying through the livelong night? In contemplation, it seems an awful task of long endurance to watch there with the eternal battle going on in your breast between the only two deathless passions--the only two which may be called the immortal passions of the soul--from the fading of the evening light till the breaking of another day. And yet it is wonderful how soon, how very soon, one sees the faint blue light of dawn mingling with the sickly yellow glare of the watcher's lamp. Every thought, every expectation, is an incident. The change of breathing, the restless movement, the muttered word, the whispered comfort, the moistening of the parched lip, the smoothing of the pillow,--all are events that hurry on the time.