Ethelston looked in his friend’s face; and its expression confirming his apprehensions, his lip grew pale and trembled; he gasped for breath, as, pressing Reginald’s hand within his own, he said, “Speak—speak! tell me what has happened?” then pointing to the tent, he added, “Is she safe?—is she well?”
“She is safe—she is well!” replied Reginald; “nevertheless—“
Ethelston heard no more, but a deep groan relieved the oppression of his heart, as he ejaculated, “Blessed be the God of Mercies!” and covering his face with his hands, stood for a moment in silence.
Reginald was surprised at this extraordinary emotion in his friend, usually so composed and calm, and at the deep interest that he took in one whom, although betrothed to his intended brother–in–law, he had not yet seen. But he added, gravely, “God knows, my dear friend, that my gratitude is not less fervent than yours. Precious as her life is, it has however been ransomed at a price dearer to me than aught else on earth besides herself. Wingenund,” he continued, addressing the youth, and affectionately taking his hand, “you are the son of a race of heroes; is your heart firm? are you prepared to suffer the griefs that the Great Spirit thinks fit to send?”
They youth raised his dark eyes to the speaker’s face; and subduing by a powerful effort the prescient agony of his soul, he said in a low tone, “Let Netis speak on; the ears of Wingenund are ready to hear what the Great Spirit has sent.”
“Dear Wingenund, alas! War–Eagle, our beloved brother is—“
“Dead!” interrupted the youth, letting the butt of his rifle fall heavily to the ground.
“Nay, not yet dead, perhaps worse than dead; for he is hurt beyond all hope of cure, yet suffers torture such as none but himself could endure without complaint.”
It was fearful for those who stood by to witness the agonising struggle of emotions that convulsed the frame of the young Delaware on receiving this announcement; for War–Eagle had been to him not only a brother, but father, companion, and friend, the object on whom all the affections of his young heart had been concentrated with an intensity almost idolatrous! Yet even in the extremity of anguish he forgot not the rude yet high philosophy of his race and nurture; he could not bear that any human eye should witness his weakness, or that any white man should be able to say that Wingenund, the last of the race of Tamenund, had succumbed to suffering. Terrible was the internal conflict; and while it was yet uncertain how it might end, his hand accidentally rested upon his belt, and his fingers closed upon the scalp of Mahéga; instantly, as if by magic, the grief of the loving brother was crushed by the stoic pride of the Indian warrior.
“War–Eagle is not dead; his eyes shall look upon the scalp of his great enemy slain by the hand which he first taught to use a bow; and when he goes to the hunting–fields of the brave, our fathers may ask him, ‘Where is the scalp of the destroyer of our race?’” Such were the thoughts that shot like wildfire through the brain and through the breast of the young Delaware, as with a countenance almost haughty in its expression, he drew up his graceful form to its full height, saying, “Where is War–Eagle? Wingenund would see him. Let the Black Father go too; perhaps his healing skill might avail.”