Whereupon, addressing her in the language common among the Indians residing near the frontiers, and which was a compound of the languages of several tribes, Earth said: “Our mother seeks for something lost,—does she mark the steps of the pale face, to find out the path to his wigwam, or does she seek for a red man, whose blood is crying from the ground.”
At this speech she turned whence the voice came, and gazed on the hunters, without discovering the least emotion or even surprise, and seeing the mark of another foot-print, she approached, caused the light to fall on it, closely examined its proportions, and again moved on.
“The white man's heart is sorry,” said Earth, “he will help our mother.—Will she tell him for what she searches?”
Raising herself, and gazing for a moment on the speaker, she said, with a faultering voice, “I call, and he comes not; the vine has lost the tree which supported it.”
There was something so touching in her manner that even Earthquake was affected, and turning to Rolfe, he interpreted her words.
“Earth, she is the mother of that Indian whom that fellow killed.”
“Yes,” said Earth, “I'll lay any thing she is;” and the only feeling of sorrow which ever crossed his breast for the death of an Indian, then passed over it. The hunters remained for some moments silent, not knowing what to do, while the old woman continued her sad yet holy purpose.
“Come, Earth,” said Rolfe, “speak to her again; speak gently, and try and make her tell you her story, for there is something about her which very much affects me.” And following on, Earth again sought to draw her into conversation.
“Has thy husband gone to the settlements, and returned not,” continued he, “or dost thou seek in a son, the hope of thy evening hours?”
“He is gone,” said the mother, “he is gone. The tree was just beginning to cast its shade, the fountain would soon have become a running stream; but, alas! it is now dry. He is gone, he is gone, I call, and he comes not.”