A dead silence fell over them all after these words were spoken; that sort of stern, heavy, solemn silence which not unfrequently precedes the execution of some strong and terrible resolution. Yet of those twelve there were several gay and lively girls, as well as women fallen into the decline of life; but nevertheless all were as still as death. The volatile lightness of youth, as well as the garrulity of old age, was hushed.
Suddenly, after they had waited some twenty minutes, the blanket was pushed aside, and another figure was added to the number. The voice of Otaitsa whispered: "He has gone forth, armed as if for battle; he has his tomahawk with him; his face is very sad. I saw the Old Cedar Tree cross to the west gate, and others whom I knew not in the darkness."
She spoke in eager haste, and gasped for breath; but the old woman took her by the arm, saying: "Be calm! Be still! Now follow noiselessly. Then down as you pass through the maize, though in this black night who shall see us?"
She was the first to issue forth; then came Otaitsa, and the others followed, one by one, with quick but silent steps, through the wide field of maize that swept round the palisade, and then into the neighboring forest. Once, when they came near a spot where the polished mirror of the lake collected and cast back every ray of light that remained in the air, they caught sight of a dark file, shadowy and ghostlike as themselves, moving on at a little distance, in the same direction. But it was soon lost; and the sight only served to hasten their footsteps. Passing along a trail which cut across the neck of a little wooded promontory, they suddenly came in sight of the lake again, and by its side a low Indian hut, marked out plainly against the surface of the water. When within some thirty yards, the Gray Dove halted, whispered a word or two to those who followed, and then, bending down, crept closer to the lodge.
"Oh, let us hasten!" whispered Otaitsa. "They are already there! I hear my father speaking!"
"Hush! hush! Be still!" said the old woman, in the same tone. "The Black Eagle will do nothing hastily; it is for him a solemn rite. Let me first get near; then follow, and do what I do."
CHAPTER XXVII
It was a sad and weary day to poor Walter Prevost, for he was without 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 spirit. He learned, however, that it 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 by 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 situation, 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. But that young Indian was never seen near him more, and it was evident that he was looked upon as having betrayed counsel, and 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 her own efforts, she had obtained permission to visit him two hours each day. She had explained to him, however, that others, in whom she trusted, were busy in his cause, and that the Gray 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 these 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, 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 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 that 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.