The conversation went on in the gutturals of the Iroquois for some time, when the housekeeper said to Maggie, “It is all right; they know where Hemlock is, but it would not be safe to go to him now. They will lead you to him at daybreak. Come, we will go back and you will stay with me until morning.”
CHAPTER VI.
The rising of the housekeeper, whose bed she shared, woke Maggie, and a glance through the small window showed a faint whitening in the sky that betokened the coming of day. Knowing there was no time to spare, she dressed herself quickly, and, joining the housekeeper in the kitchen, asked if the messenger had come. She answered by pointing to the open door, and Maggie saw, seated on the lowest step, in silent waiting, the figure of an Indian. She was for going with him at once, when the housekeeper held her and, fearful of disturbing her master, whispered to eat of the food she had placed on the table. Having made a hurried repast, Maggie drew her shawl over her head and turned to bid her hostess good-bye. The good soul forced into her pocket the bread that remained on the table, and kissed her on both cheeks. When Maggie came to the door, the Indian rose and, without looking at her, proceeded to lead the way through the village and then past it, by a path that wound to the top of the sand-hill that hems it in on the north. Motioning her to stand still, the Indian crept forward as if to spy out the object of their search. Glancing around her, Maggie saw through the spruces the Ottawa outstretched at her feet, reflecting the first rosy gleam of the approaching sun. A twitch at her shawl startled her. It was her guide who had returned. Following him, as he slowly threaded his way through the grove of balsams and spruces, they soon came to a halt, and the Indian pointed to a black object outstretched upon the ground a few yards from them. Fear overcame Maggie, and she turned to grasp the arm of her guide—he was gone. Her commonsense came to her aid. If this was Hemlock, she had nothing to fear, and mastering her agitation she strove to discover whether the figure, which the dawn only rendered perceptible amid the gloom of the evergreens, was really the object of her quest. Silently she peered, afraid to move a hairsbreadth, for what seemed to her to be an age, and she came to see clearly the outline of a man, naked save for a girdle, fantastically fashioned out of furs of varied colors, stretched immoveable on the sod, face downward. Suddenly a groan of anguish escaped from the lips of the prostrate man and the body swayed as if in convulsions. Her sympathies overcame her fears, and advancing Maggie cried, “Hemlock, are you ill? Can I help you?”
With a terrific bound the figure leapt to its feet, the right arm swinging a tomahawk, and, despite an effort at control, Maggie shrieked. The light was now strong enough to show the lineaments of the Indian, whose face and body were smeared with grease and soot and whose countenance wore the expression of one roused from deep emotion in sudden rage.
“Hemlock, do not look at me so; I am Maggie Forsyth, come from the Chateaugay to seek you.”
Instantly the face of the Indian softened. “Why should the fawn leave the groves of the Chateaugay to seek so far the lair of the lynx?”
“Your friend Morton is doomed to die by the American soldiers and you alone can save him.”
“What! Did he not escape? Tell me all.”