The stern assembly of mourners gave their assent, and the young man retired; for many weeks he toiled indefatigably in the chase, his wife jerked and dried the meat as he daily brought it in, until he saw that the supply was ample for the ensuing winter; he then bid farewell to her and to his little ones, and once more presenting himself before the wigwam of his late friend, he said, “I am come: my squaw has meat for the winter, my life is now yours!” To these words the eldest male relative of the deceased replied, “It is well:” and rising from the ground, executed on the unresisting offender the summary justice of Indian retribution, by cleaving his skull with a tomahawk. Neither the self–devotion of the one, nor the unrelenting severity of the other, excited any peculiar sensation, each having acted according to the strict, though barbarous usage of the tribe.
Amongst a people accustomed to look with stoic composure on scenes such as that just described, War–Eagle had already won a distinguished name, and he supported it on this trying occasion by resigning what was dearer to him than life, and crushing, as under a weight of iron, that passion which had been for years the hope and nourishment of his heart; whether, albeit crushed and smothered, it still lingered there, is a secret which it is neither our wish nor our province to betray, but regarding which the reader may form his own opinion from the subsequent conduct of the chief.
His first step was to seek Reginald Brandon, whom he desired, by a silent signal, to leave the lodge and follow him. Our hero mechanically obeyed, in a painful state of excitement and agitation, feeling that he had been the unconscious means of blasting all the dearest hopes of his Indian friend; and although he had intended no injury, he was sensible that he had done one, such as man can rarely forgive, and can never repair; for even had the romantic generosity of friendship prompted him to resign all pretensions to Prairie–bird, he felt that such a resignation, while he was secure of her affections, would be mere mockery and insult. He knew also how prominent a feature is revenge in the Indian character, and thought it not improbable that he might be now following his conductor to some secluded spot, where their rivalry should be decided by mortal strife, and the survivor return to claim the lovely prize. This last thought, which would, under any other circumstances, have nerved his arm and made his heart exult within him, now overwhelmed him with sadness, for he loved both Wingenund and War–Eagle, they were endeared to him by reciprocal benefits, and he shrunk from a quarrel with the latter as from a fratricide.
Meanwhile the Indian strode rapidly forward; neither could Reginald detect the feelings that lurked beneath the dignified and unmoved composure of his countenance.
After walking in silence for some minutes, they reached a small hollow, where a few scattered alder–bushes screened them from the observation of the stragglers round the skirts of the Delaware camp: here the chief suddenly halted, and turning towards Reginald, bent on him the full gaze of his dark and lustrous eyes; the latter observed with surprise that their expression, as well as that of his usually haughty features, was a deep composed melancholy.
At length the Delaware broke the long and painful silence, addressing his companion, after his imperfect notion of English, in the following words:—
“The Great Spirit sent a cloud between Netis and War–Eagle—a very black cloud; the lightning came from it and blinded the eyes of the Lenapé chief, so that he looked on his brother and thought he saw an enemy. The Bad Spirit whispered in his ear that the tongue of Netis was forked; that the heart of Olitipa was false; that she had listened to a mockingbird, and had mingled for War–Eagle a cup of poison.”
The Delaware paused for a moment; his eye retained its steady but sad expression, his lips were firmly compressed, and not a muscle betrayed the intensity of his feeling; but Reginald appreciated rightly the self–control that had conquered, in so severe a struggle, and grasping his friend’s hand, he said,—
“Noble and generous son of the Lenapé, the Bad Spirit has no power over a heart like yours! Are we not brothers? Have not the waters of the Muskingum, and the treacherous knife of the Huron, tied our hearts together, so that no fear, no suspicion, no falsehood, can come between them? Netis believed that War–Eagle loved Olitipa only as a sister, or he would rather have given his scalp to Mahéga than have spoken soft words in the maiden’s ear!”
“My brother’s words are true,” replied the Delaware, in the low and musical tone for which his voice was remarkable; “War–Eagle knows it; he has dreamt, and is now awake: Olitipa is his sister—the Great Spirit decrees that no child of an Indian warrior shall call her mother. It is enough.” The countenance of the Delaware assumed a sterner expression as he continued:—