In the chain of low cliffs which run at the distance of some four or five miles from the Oneida village, and to which, probably, at one time, the waters of the lake had extended, was a deep cleft or fissure in the hard rock, some fourteen or fifteen yards in width at its widest part, and narrower at the mouth than in the interior. One of the rocks, at the time I speak of--though large masses have fallen since, and a good deal altered the features of the scene--one of the rocks near the entrance at the time I speak of beetled considerably over its base, and projected so far as almost to touch the opposite crag, giving the mouth of the fissure somewhat the appearance of a cave. On either side the walls of this gloomy dell were perpendicular, in some places even overhanging; and at the end, where it might have been expected to slope gradually away to the upland, the general character of the scene was merely diversified by a break, or step, some fifteen or sixteen feet from the ground, dividing the face of the crag into two nearly equal parts. Beneath this ledge was a hollow of some four or five feet in depth, rendering ascent from that side impracticable.
Underneath that ledge, at the time referred to, had been hastily constructed a small hut, or Indian lodge, formed of stakes driven into the ground, and covered over skilfully enough with bark branches and other materials of the forest. A door had apparently been brought for it from some distance, for it was evidently old, and had some strange figures painted on it in red; and across this door was fixed a great bar, which would, indeed, have been very useless, had not the stakes forming the walls of the hut been placed close together, rendering it in reality much stronger than an ordinary Indian lodge.
On the day after Otaitsa's expedition, mentioned in the preceding chapter, some sixteen or eighteen Oneidas of different ages, but none of them far advanced in life, gathered round the mouth of the cliff and conversed together for several minutes in low tones, and with their usual slow and deliberate manner. At the end of their conference one seated himself on a stone near the entrance, two advanced into the chasm, and the rest dispersed themselves in different directions through the woods. The two who advanced approached the hut, following each other so close that the foot of each trod in the step of the other; and when they reached it the foremost took down the bar and opened the door, suffering the light to enter the dark chamber within. The sight which that light displayed was a very painful one.
There, seated on the ground, with his head almost bent down to his knees, his beautiful brown hair falling wild and shaggy over his face, his dress soiled and in some parts torn, and his hands thin and sallow, sat poor Walter Prevost, the image of despair. All the bright energies of his eager, impetuous nature seemed quelled; the look of youthful, happy enjoyment was altogether gone, and with it the warm hopes and glowing aspirations, the dreams of future happiness or greatness, of love, and joy, and tenderness. The sunshine had departed; the motes of existence no longer danced in the beam.
He lifted not his head when the Indians entered; still and impassive as themselves, he sat without movement or word; the very senses seemed dead in the living tomb where they had confined him; but the sight touched them with no pity.
Gazing at him with a curious, cunning, serpent-like look, Apukwa placed before him the wallet which he carried, containing some dried deer's flesh and parched Indian corn; and, after having watched him for a moment without a change of countenance, said in a cold tone: "There is food. Take it and eat."
As if the sound of his hated voice had startled the youth from a death-like sleep, Walter sprang suddenly on his feet, exclaiming: "Why should I eat to prolong my misery? Slay me! Take thy tomahawk and dash my brains out! Put an end to this torment, the most terrible that thy fiend-like race have ever devised."
The two Indians laughed with a low, quiet, satisfied laugh. "We cannot slay thee," said the brother of the Snake, "till we know that thy paleface brother who killed our brother cannot be found to take thy place."
"He is far beyond your power," cried Walter, vehemently. "He will never be within your grasp. I helped him to escape. I delivered him from you! Slay me! slay me! Dogs of Indians, your hearts are wolves' hearts! You are not men; you are women, who dare not use a tomahawk! You are the scoff of your enemies! They laugh at the Oneidas, they spit at them! They say they are children, who dare not kill an enemy till the old men say kill him! They fear the rod of their chief. They are like hares and rabbits, that fear the sound of the wind!"
It was in vain that he tried to provoke them. They only seemed to enjoy his agony and the bitter words that it called forth.