Through his sisters, who were among Liddenah’s most intimate friends, he sought a clandestine meeting with his former sweetheart. They met at the “Stepping Stones,” a crossing near the headwaters of Cowanshannock, in a mossy glade, which had formerly been his favorite trysting place with over a score of doting maidens in the ante-bellum days.
Liddenah, inspired by her great love, never looked more beautiful. She was probably a trifle above the average height, gracefully, but solidly made. Her skin was very white, her eyes dark, her hair that of a raven, while her aquiline nose, high cheek bones and small, fine mouth made her resemble a high-bred Jewess more than an Indian squaw, a heritage perhaps from a remote Semitic origin beyond the Pacific. She showed openly how happy she was to meet In-nan-ga-eh, until he told her the story of his tragic love, how she had broken his young heart by cruelly marrying another while he languished in a Southern prison camp. In vain she protested that, on all sides came seemingly authentic reports of his death; he was obdurate in the destiny he had decreed. Quinnemongh must die by his hand, and he would then flee with the widow to the country of the Ottawas. The hot blood surging in his veins, like a second flow of sap in a red maple, must be appeased by her submission.
Liddenah was horrified; she came of eminently respectable ancestry, she admired Quinnemongh, her husband, almost to the point of loving him, but where that affection ended, her all-pervading obsession for In-nan-ga-eh began and knew no limitations in her being.
“Tonight”, said In-nan-ga-eh, scowling dreadfully, “I will surprise the vile Quinnemongh in his lodge house, and with one blow of my stone war-hammer crush in his skull, then I will scalp him and meet you at the stepping stones, and by the moonlight we will decamp to the far free country of the Ottawas, his scalp dangling at my belt as proof of my hate and my bravery”.
Liddenah gave a reluctant assent to the fiendish program when they parted. On her way home through the forest path her conscience smote her with Mosaic insistence–the blood of her ancestors, of the Lost Tribe of Israel, would not permit her to sanction the murder of a good and true warrior. She would immolate herself for her family honor, and for her respect for Quinnemongh.
Arriving at the lodge-house she went straight to Quinnemongh and confessed the story of her meeting with the perfidious In-nan-ga-eh, all but the homicidal part. Quinnemongh was not much surprised, as he knew of her great love for the ex-Cherokee prisoner, and In-nan-ga-eh’s capricious pride.
“Quinnemongh”, she said, between her sobs, for, like a white girl, she was tearful, “I was to meet In-nan-ga-eh tonight, when the moon is over the tops of the trees, by the stepping stones, and we were to fly together to the country of the Ottawas. You present yourself there in my stead, and tell the false In-nan-ga-eh that I have changed my mind, that I am true to my noble husband”.
Needless to say, Quinnemongh was pleased at this recital, and promised to be at the ford at the appointed time. Like most persons under similar circumstances, he was eager to be on his errand, and departed early, armed with his favorite scalping knife. Liddenah kissed and embraced him, calling him her “hero”, and once he was out of sight, she darted into his cabin and lay down among his blankets and buffalo robes, covering herself, all but the top of her brow, and huddling, all curled up, for the autumnal air was chill.
The moon slowly rose higher and higher until it reached the crowns of the giant rock oaks along the edge of the “Indian fields”. The gaunt form of In-nan-ga-eh could now be seen creeping steadily out of the forest, bounding across the clearing and, stone axe in hand, entered the cabin where he supposed that Quinnemongh was sleeping. A ray of shimmery moonlight shone full on the upturned forehead of his victim. Animated by a jealous hate, he struck a heavy blow with his axe of dark diorite, crushing in the sleeper’s temples like an eggshell[eggshell]. Leaving the weapon imbedded in his victim’s skull, he deftly cut off the long bushy scalp with his sharp knife, and, springing out of the hut, started off on a dog-trot towards the stepping stones, waving his bloody, gruesome souvenir.
He approached the fording with the light of the full moon shining on the waters of the brook; he was exultant and grinding his teeth in lustful fury. Who should he see there–not the fair and yielding goddess Liddenah, but the stalwart form of the recently butchered and scalped Quinnemongh. Believer in ghosts that he was, this was almost too much of a visitation for him. Pausing a minute to make sure, he rushed forward brandishing the scalp in one hand, his knife, which caught the moon’s beams on its blade in the other.