This luckily changed the direction of Rolfe's thoughts, and he asked, “what can be the hour of the night?” “Hard upon day-break,” said Earth, “you see it is darker than it has been, and you know it is always darkest just before the day dawns.” Leaving the hunters to hover about the temporary camp of the Indians, we must bring forward other parts of our story.
CHAPTER IV.
“These are the gardens of the desert,—these
The boundless, unshorn fields, where lingers yet
The beauty of the earth, ere man had sinned,—
The Prairies.”
BRYANT.
On the side of a green sloping hill, along whose base murmured a little rivulet, lay the temporary camp of a roving band of Indian warriors. It was situated within that region of country which now forms the state of Illinois, but over which, at that time, they roamed with all the freedom of undisputed sovereignty. Peace had reigned for many years, and apprehending no danger, they had selected their situation, a regard being had more to comfort than security. Somewhat elevated, it commanded a fine view of the surrounding scenery, and surely eyes never beheld a prospect more beautiful.
In the rear of their camp, and at a short distance, lay a boundless forest, wild, grand, and imposing from the deep stillness which reigned throughout it. There was no undergrowth, the Indians having regularly burned it every spring, and in its place, there sprung up a soft velvet grass, so green and luxuriant, that to the weary it seemed to invite repose; and upon this, far from the wigwams of the red men, fed herds of buffalo, deer, and elk.—Before it lay in all its silent beauty, a prairie, of whose extent the human eye could take no note. While you gazed searching for its boundary, the eye would sweep the greater segment of a circle, still there it lay illimitable; there, spread out before you, it undulated with the heavy swellings of the sea; yet it was not monotonous, for from its bosom arose many little islands as green and fresh as foliage could make them. The whole prairie was covered with grass of luxuriant growth, and adorned with every flower to which the climate gave birth, and when set in motion by the winds as they swept over it, it assumed the appearance of a gently heaving ocean, while the odour from the flowers, borne on the passing breeze, shed abroad so many sweets, that a stranger would have looked upon it as the land of promise.
And if there was a moment in which the prospect was more beautiful than at another, it was when the sun, near the western horizon, seemed pillowed on clouds of fire, or else sinking beneath it, grew large, and round, and red, shedding abroad a softer light, as if sorrowing that even for a time he was compelled to leave a scene so lovely.
Overlooking this, lay the Indian camp. A large buck which swung against a tree, and a buffalo from which several Indians were stripping the hide, indicated that they had just returned from a successful hunt. Yet you soon saw that hunting was not regarded as their sole occupation, for upon glancing round, you beheld stacked up in various piles, rifles, unstrung bows, and all the implements of Indian warfare; while the military dresses of the red men told plainly, that they were holding themselves in readiness for some warlike excursion.
The camp presented many scenes, several of which were strikingly impressive from their contrast. Scattered about in every direction, lay groups of warriors, some sleeping, others telling of battles, or cleaning their arms; while hard by, leaning over a log, might be seen several feathering their arrows, and decorating them with hieroglyphical characters. On the outside of the camp, burned a bright fire, over which several squaws were preparing their morning meal, and still farther without, rose up a bower, formed by the weaving of oaken boughs.—In this were reclining two female Indians, evidently of some distinction, from the manner in which they were treated. They were Netnokwa, and her daughter, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa.
Netnokwa was by birth an Ottawa, and notwithstanding her sex, was recognized as chief of her tribe. She possessed great energy of character, blended with ambition; bold, ardent, and indefatigable in her exertions, she had obtained an authority over her tribe which few of the opposite sex could have wielded. Conspicuous for her savage virtues, she also possessed those which would have shed lustre over any character; several times had she in former days led her warriors on to mingle in the exterminating war which then raged on the upper branches of the Wabash, and as often had she been successful. In the defeats of Generals Harmar and St. Clair, her warriors had been conspicuous, and she had also in person led them on to the decisive battle of Presque Isle, which marked its termination. From that time to the present, peace had reigned; but now clouds of war were again gathering, and Netnokwa, incited by the martial recollections of the past, had repaired from her distant home in the north-west to the scene of former conflicts, to learn the truth of flying rumours, gaze upon the far-famed Prophet, and acquaint herself with the situation of the tribes along the frontier.—In this journey she had been accompanied by her daughter, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, whom she brought with her to bestow in marriage on a Shawanee, whose growing reputation had already spread far abroad.
Having arrived in his country, she had ascertained the location of his encampment, and had with her daughter come to seek him. Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, or, “the Red Sky of the morning,” which her name implies, was as pretty as a dusky maid can be; beautiful in proportion, timid in appearance, and as easily startled as the fawn; with eyes so expressive, that they seemed to say a thousand things, while her hair, darker than the raven's wing, fell without a curl in rich luxuriance far below her shoulders.—She sate within her bower neatly dressed, and decorated with wild flowers, the snow-white petals of which, interwoven with her hair, wore the appearance of spotless gems.