“I have no saycrets, girl—none as I’m afraid o’ bein’ heerd by anybody.”
“What of the half-blood?”
“I don’t care to hear o’ her.”
“The White Eagle speaks falsely! He does care to hear. He longs to know what has become of his lost Marian. Su-wa-nee can tell him.”
The last words produced an instantaneous change in the bearing of the young hunter. Instead of the repelling attitude, he had hitherto observed towards the Indian girl, I saw him bend eagerly forward—as if desirous of hearing what she had to say. Seeing that she had drawn his attention, the Indian again pointed to me, and inquired: “Is the pale-faced stranger to know the love-secrets of the White Eagle?”
I saw that my companion no longer desired me to be a listener. Without waiting for his reply, I drew my horse’s head in the opposite direction, and was riding away. In the turning, I came face to face with him; and by the moonlight shining full over his countenance, I fancied I could detect some traces of mistrust still lingering upon it. My fancy was not at fault: for, on brushing close past him, he leaned over towards me, and, in an earnest manner, muttered: “Please, stranger! don’t go fur—thar’s danger in this girl. She’s been arter me before.” I nodded assent to his request; and, turning back into the little bay, that formed the embouchure of the path, I pulled up under the shadow of the trees.
At this point I was not ten paces from the hunter, and could see him; but a little clump of white magnolias prevented me from seeing the girl—at the same time that it hid both myself and horse from her sight. The chirrup of the cicadas alone hindered me from hearing all of what was said; but many words reached my ear, and with sufficient distinctness, to give me a clue to the subject of the promised revelation. Delicacy would have prompted me to retire a little farther off; but the singular caution I had received from my companion, prevented me from obeying its impulse.
I could make out that a certain Marian was the subject of the conversation; and then more distinctively, that it was Marian Holt. Just as I expected, the daughter of my squatter: that other and older one, of whom mention had been already made. This part of the revelation was easily understood: since I was already better than half prepared for it. Equally easy of comprehension was the fact, that this Marian was the sweetheart of my travelling companion—had been, I should rather say; for, from what followed, I could gather that she was no longer in the neighbourhood; that some months before she had left it, or been carried away—spirited off in some mysterious manner, leaving no traces of the why or whither she had gone. Nearly all this I had conjectured before: since the young hunter had half revealed it to me by his manner, if not by words. Now, however, a point or two was added to my previous information relating to the fair Marian. She was married. Married—and to some odd sort of man, of whom the Indian appeared to speak slightingly. His name I could make out to be Steevens, or Steebins, or something of the sort—not very intelligible by the Indian’s mode of pronouncing it—and, furthermore, that he had been a schoolmaster in Swampville.
During the progress of the dialogue, I had my eye fixed on the young hunter. I could perceive that the announcement of the marriage was quite new to him; and its effect was as that of a sudden blow. Of course, equally unknown to him had been the name of the husband; though from the exclamatory phrase that followed, he had no doubt had his conjectures.
“O God!” he exclaimed, “I thort so—the very man to a’ done it. Lord ha’ mercy on her!” All this was uttered with a voice hoarse with emotion. “Tell me!” continued he, “whar are they gone? Ye say ye know!”