Woodchuck gave an anxious glance at Edith's face, and said, in a low voice, and in English,--
"We can't resist, but we may outwit them. Come on for the present, for I guess it may be no better. I will shed my blood for you, my dear, if I cannot for your brother."
Taking her hand, he led her on towards the north-east, preceded by one and followed by five or six Indians, who, according to their usual cautious plan, walked singly one after the other, well knowing that their prisoners could not escape them. Several remained upon the spot for a few minutes longer, engaged in stripping the pack-horse of all that he carried, and taking the saddles and bridles of the other horses, which they knew would be valuable in the eyes of the French.
All this was done with extraordinary rapidity, and then the last party followed the first into the depth of the wood.
By this time, the wind had considerably abated, though it still rained hard. The moment after the Indians had departed, however, the leaves and branches of a large flower-covered bush of the calmia, growing under a low, spreading hemlock, moved gently, and the next instant a black face protruded. After one hasty glance around, the whole form of the negress, Sister Bab, was drawn slowly out from the bush; and, running from tree to tree with silent speed, she stopped not till she caught sight again of the retiring Indians, and then followed them quietly and cautiously on their way towards Champlain.
[CHAPTER XXXVIII.]
The stillness of death pervaded the great lodge of the Oneidas; and yet it was not vacant. But Black Eagle sat in the outer chamber alone. With no eye to see him--with none to mark the traces of those emotions which the Indian so carefully conceals from observation, he gave way, in a degree at least, to feelings which, however sternly hidden from others, wrought powerfully in his own heart. His bright blue and scarlet apparel, feathers and belt, medals and armlets, were thrown aside; and, with his head bowed, his face full of gloomy sadness, and all the strong muscles of his finely-proportioned figure relaxed, he sat like an exquisite figure of grief sculptured in porphyry. No tear, indeed, bedewed his eyelids; no sigh escaped his lips; but the very attitude bespoke his sorrow, and there was something awfully sad in the perfect unvarying stillness of his form.
Oh, what a terrible strife was going on within! Grief is ten times more terrible to those who concentrate it in the heart, than to those who pour it forth upon the wide air.
The door of the lodge opened. He started, and instantly was himself again: the head upright, the face clear, the aspect active and dignified.
"Where hast thou been, my child?" asked the chief, gazing on his daughter as she entered, with feelings mingled of a thousand strong emotions,--parental love, fond admiration, pity, regret, and manifold memories.