“There is no room, dear Reginald, for thoughts of fear for the future in my heart, ’tis already full, too full, of gratitude for the past; you are again by my side, safe and unhurt. Yet, methinks, I am sadly changed of late! A short time since, the report of the rifle, the arrow’s hissing path, brought no terror to my ear, and now I tremble when I hear them! Will you not regret having chosen a coward for your bride?”
“Perhaps I may,” said Reginald, “when the thirsty summer–grass regrets being moistened by the dew of heaven; when the watchful mother regrets that she has borne the infant by whose cradle she is seated; when the miser regrets having discovered an unsuspected treasure; and the weary traveller regrets having found a fresh spring amid the burning sands of the desert, then may I perhaps regret having chosen Prairie–bird to be to my thirsting heart its summer–dew, its firstling, its treasure, its fountain of exhaustless joy and love!”
Although it was not the first time that she had received the assurance of his affection, her ear drank it in with delight: the repetitions of love have for his votaries perpetual freshness and variety.
“How silver–sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night!”
So says one of the fairest creations of the great interpreter of human passion; yet it is only to each other that these voices do so sweetly sound; to others, less interested, their parlance is apt to seem dull and monotonous. Neither would a dinner of honey, or guava jelly alone, be more nauseous and disappointing to the appetite of a hungry man than a volume filled with love–letters, or love–speeches, to one in search of literary food. Duly impressed with this truth, we will spare any further detail of the conversation that passed between Reginald and his betrothed, and will content ourselves with relating that after more than one “Good night!” such as only lovers know, Prairie–bird retired into her tent, with her thoughts so absorbed in one object, that she was scarcely conscious of the affectionate attentions of her faithful Lita, or of the watchful care of young Wingenund, who took his accustomed station at the entrance to the outer division of his sister’s canvasss dwelling.
An hour before the dawn the wakeful youth arose and looked abroad. The pale and expiring fires of the opposite camp were still distinctly visible; but his practised ear missed the usual sounds of Indian life—the hum of men, the cries of children, and the barking of curs. Having learnt the use of Reginald’s spy–glass, he took it down from the peg on which it was suspended, and examined the opposite hill. As the light of day gradually advanced, and objects became more easily distinguishable, his suspicions became confirmed, and he resolved no longer to delay communicating them to War–Eagle. He found the chief seated at the door of his lodge, in an attitude which he at first mistook for slumber, but it proved to be one of deep meditation; for, on the youth’s approach, he looked up, and said, in the gentle tone in which he always addressed his beloved brother,
“Wingenund is a foot before the sun; have his ears or eyes been open during the night?”
“They have,” said the youth gravely; “and the words that he brings to his brother are not good.”
“The Wolf–cap hunter is gone to the Upsaroka camp; that is bad news: is there any worse?”
“Wingenund knows nothing of the Wolf–cap hunter; but the Upsaroka camp is like the village of the Lenapé, on the prairies of the east; there remains in it neither man, nor woman, nor child!”