The chief timber of the copse was the pecan hickory—almost an evergreen—and the trees were still in full leaf; only here and there, where the trunks stood far apart, did the moonbeams strike through the thick frondage. The surface of the ground was shrouded from her light; and the narrow aisles through which I passed were as dark as if no moon had been shining.
There was still light enough to reveal some horrid scenes. O Heaven! my heart bleeds at the remembrance.
I was wrong in my conjectures. The men had not all gone to the council; the captive women were not all by the camp-fires. I beheld ruffian men beside their helpless victims—women—fair white women—with drooping heads and listless air—dishevelled weeping! O Heaven! my heart bleeds at the remembrance!
It recoiled at the sight—it burned with indignation. At every turn did it prompt me to draw knife or pistol; at every step my fingers itched to immolate a hideous paint-besmeared brute—to slay a “noble” savage.
I was restrained only by my own desperate situation—by my apprehensions for the safety of Isolina, now more acute than ever. What horrid imaginings crowded into my brain, begot by the barbarous scenes that were being enacted around me!
The monsters, too earnestly occupied with their captives, took no heed of me; and I passed on without interruption.
I threaded the pathways of the grove one after another, gliding through as rapidly as the path would permit; I entered every aisle and glade; I sought everywhere, even to the farthest limits of the wood. I saw more men—more weeping women—more red ruffianism; I saw nought of her for whom I searched.
“In the tent then—she must be there.”
I turned my face towards the lodge; and, moving with stealthy step, soon arrived among the trees that stood in the rear.
I halted near the edge; and, separating the leaves with my hands, peered cautiously through. I had no need to search further—Isolina was before my eyes.