The Knight of the Golden Melice: A Historical Romance

by John Turvill Adams

While uttering these words, he had kept his eyes fastened on the face of Waqua, as if to watch their effect; and he paused. But the features of Waqua remained undisturbed, and he steadily returned the fiery glances of the speaker.

"Pieskaret asks," resumed the Taranteen, "what have the Aberginians to do with our treaties? Who invited one of them, or did he slink without being whistled for between the legs of men into our midst?"

Again the speaker paused, but yet the calm Waqua moved not from his place, nor did he betray emotion.

"The Aberginians," begun the Taranteen again, with a gesture of contempt, "are cowards and dumb dogs: if spoken to, they dare not reply, even with a whine: the Taranteens have put petticoats on them, and there is nothing baser than themselves except their allies, the Pequots."

The hitherto undisturbed mien of Waqua changed at these last words, as by magic. With a clear, steady voice, while his stature seemed to increase, he suddenly cried out:

"Pieskaret, if that be the name of the scolding squaw, is a liar. He knows that when the Taranteens hear the steps of a Pequot they run like wood-chucks to their holes. Sassacus says that they are old women."

Of course, the whole of these speeches was unintelligible, except to the interpreter, to whom no opportunity was given to translate them, and to the Indians. Great surprise, therefore, was felt as the Taranteens all sprung to their feet at the name of Sassacus, and attempted to push through the dense circle that surrounded them. So solid, however, was the mass, that this was a work of some difficulty; even although the politeness of the angry warriors had restrained them less than it did from jostling others out of the way; and, by the time when the foremost Indian had reached the spot where Waqua or Sassacus had stood, the Pequot had vanished. They returned, disappointed, to their places, snorting the name of the redoubtable warrior who had ventured from his distant river to intrude upon a council of his enemies, and shaking their heads with resentment. When Mr. Eliot had explained to the Governor and Assistants the cause of the excitement, Winthrop endeavored to appease their indignation by expressions of regret, and protestations that he was ignorant that the famous head-sachem of the Pequots was among them; but his words were not attended with much effect, and it seemed that the council was about to be broken up, when Sir Christopher asked permission to speak to the Indians. It was granted; and to the surprise of all the Knight began, with great fluency, to address them in their own language. The tones of his voice were as sweet as those of a bubbling spring, and they seemed to fall with a soothing effect upon the irritated spirits of the sons of the forest. What he said Eliot himself could not understand, for the Knight spoke in the peculiar dialect of the Taranteens, which varies considerably from the Algonquin tongue before used. For, besides the general language which received from the French the name of Algonquin, and was nearly universally spoken all along the border of the Atlantic and far into the interior, the various tribes had dialects of their own, intelligible indeed to a native familiar with the parent speech, but strange to one who, like Eliot, had only an imperfect knowledge of it. As the Knight proceeded, those whom he addressed became more and more quiet; and when he ended, they signified their satisfaction at what he had said by the usual, and now unmistakable "ugh."

By this time, the last red rays of the setting sun were lighting up the calm, green surface of Boston harbor, and the council shortly broke up, to resume its sitting on the morrow. The procession was formed again, and in the order in which they came, Winthrop, attended by the Taranteens, was escorted to his house. As Arundel was departing, he felt his arm grasped by some one, and turning round, he beheld the Knight.

"Where is Waqua?" he inquired, in a low tone. "He was standing near thee when he spoke."

"I know no better than thyself," answered the young man, "and would gladly be informed. He vanished suddenly, and without warning."