[CHAPTER XL.]
It was a sad and weary day to poor Walter Prevost, for he was without his consolation. The time of his long imprisonment, indeed, had been less burdensome than might have been supposed, although, during the first two or three weeks, many a fruitless effort to escape had wearied his spirits. He learned, however, that escape was impossible; he was too closely and too continually watched. There was nothing to prevent his quitting the hut; but the moment he did so, whether night or day, he was met by two or three armed Indians. They were kind and courteous to him, though they suffered him not to bend his steps in the direction of their castle, or village, nor to approach the lake, to the banks of which many a canoe was moored. Sometimes one of them would take him to hunt; but two or three others followed, and never separated from his side. They were not fond of speaking of his probable fate, and generally avoided the subject with true Indian skill; but once a young warrior, less experienced than the rest, related to him the messages which the great chief had sent by the runner Proctor, and Walter learned the decision regarding his own fate, and the chances on which it hung. That young Indian was never seen near him more. It was evident that he was looked upon as having betrayed counsel, and that he had been removed.
But, about that time, the greatest solace and balm he could receive was afforded him. Otaitsa suddenly appeared in the hut, and told him that, by promising to make no personal effort for his rescue, and to take no advantage of the freedom granted her to facilitate his escape by his own efforts, she had obtained permission to visit him for two hours each day. She had explained to him, however, that others, in whom she trusted, were busy in his cause; and that the Grey Dove herself, on whom all her people looked with the greatest reverence, had positively assured her he should not die.
At first, their interviews were sad enough. Hope and fear kept up their battle in the heart; but in time those emotions passed away, and love and happiness were all that remained; or, if aught of fear mingled with those blessings, it was but enough, as it were, to sanctify their intercourse, to purify it of some portion of earthly passion, so that, even while they sat twined in each other's arms, their conversation would often be of death and future life, and happiness unmingled. She often called him "husband" to her father; but it was always "brother" when they were there alone.
Day after day, beneath the sunshine or the cloud, over the snow or the green earth, Otaitsa visited the hut. But she had grown anxious as the days rolled on. She had not calculated the time accurately; but she knew the appointed day was near, and Walter was not delivered. She accused herself of folly in having trusted to others; though she saw not how, watched as he was, his deliverance could be effected by herself. But she resolved now to bestir herself, and, if she lost her life in the attempt, to make one last great effort to set him free.
Such was her resolution on the preceding day, when, on parting with him, she whispered in his ear, lest any one should be listening without,--
"I shall not come to you again, my brother, till I come to save you. I know not how it will be; but, if I fail, Walter will not be long in heaven ere Otaitsa seeks him there."
He hardly believed she could keep her resolution of abstaining from at least one more interview. But the weary day passed by; the Indians who brought him food and fire appeared and disappeared; the rain fell heavily; the wind shook the hut; and Otaitsa did not come.
At length, the night began to fall, stern, gloomy, dark; a rayless sunset, a brief twilight, and then utter blackness. His spirit sank low indeed; his heart felt heavy and oppressed: he bent him down, stirred up the embers of his fire, piled more wood upon it, and kindled a bright, cheerful blaze. But it had no effect in raising his spirits or warming his heart. All within him was cheerless.
He sat and gazed into the fire, and thought of his absent home, and of the pleasant days of youth, and of the sweet dreams he had once cherished--the hopes that hung like faded pictures upon the wall of memory. A thousand little incidents, a thousand delightful recollections, came back upon him, while he sat and meditated, as if merely to make life more dear; when, suddenly, on the other side of the hut, a dark figure crossed the firelight, and then another, and another, and another, till they numbered six. They were all chiefs, and men of lofty mien; but stern, and grave, and silent. They seated themselves in a semicircle at the very further part of the hut, and for several minutes remained profoundly still.