The grief and disappointment of the mother, in the loss of her only son, was not more deep or sincere, or enduring, than that of this affectionate and devoted sister. From the moment of his birth, he was the idol of her soul. She looked forward to the time, in her ardent imagination very near at hand, when, emulating the virtues and deeds of his father, he should become the noblest chief of his tribe. She had pictured to herself the many wonderful exploits he should achieve, and the love and veneration with which he would be regarded throughout the nation. But now, those hopes were blasted, those visions had all faded into darkness. Time had not soothed her disappointment, or softened the poignancy of her grief. Waking or sleeping, the image of her lost brother was before her. She longed to follow him, that she might overtake him on the way, and help him in his passage over that fearful stream.
She had laid down that night, as usual, and slept by the side of her mother. Her dreams were troubled. She thought that arid plain and dark river were before her. The faithful dog was struggling with the waves. The little ark which held that precious treasure, was buffeted about by the winds. Chilled with the cold, and terrified by the dark howling storm, the lone child sobbed bitterly, and looked imploringly round for his mother. In her distress and agitation, she awoke. Unable to sleep, or even to rest, she rose, and ran to the grave.
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“I come, I come, my precious one, I am ever by your side— Fear not, your voyage is almost done Over that dismal tide; The winds shall hush, the storm pass o’er, And a friendly band shall come To meet you on the spirit shore, And bid you welcome home. Fear not, for love that never sleeps Shall guard you o’er that wave; And mother her constant vigil keep Beside your quiet grave.” |
Having chanted her simple lay of love, Monica turned from the grave, stepped into a canoe, and paddled down the stream. Overcome with grief, she dropped her paddle, sat pensively down in her shallop, and left it to follow its course down the current. For several hours it glided silently on. She gave no heed to the hours, till morning broke in the east. Suddenly starting up from her long dream, she looked for her paddle. It was gone. Seeing a bough floating on the water near her, she leaned out to catch it, as the canoe passed on. It was decayed, and broke in her hand. Throwing it from her, she looked eagerly about for some other means of reaching the shore. At length, passing under the shadow of an immense tree, that overhung the stream, she seized a branch that almost dipped into the water, and drawing herself in to the bank, sprang on shore.
Slowly and doubtfully the timid girl threaded the thick forest, scarcely knowing which way to turn. Hoping to find some friendly wigwam near, she sounded the shrill call of her tribe. The call was instantly answered, but not by a friendly voice. Two stern and stalwart warriors of the Pawnee tribe, who were deadly enemies to the Iteans, chanced to be passing that way, and, recognizing the call as that of an enemy, sprang from the thicket, seized the trembling maiden, and bore her away in triumph. Many a weary league she travelled on by the side of her merciless captors, ere she reached their distant encampment. Worn, exhausted in strength and desponding in heart, she fell to the earth in the midst of the throng that gathered around her, and besought them to kill her at once, and let her go to her poor infant brother.
The Pawnees were not only hostile to the Iteans, but were, in some respects, the most savage tribe in the great valley. They alone, of the North American Indians, continued, down the present century, and far within it, to practice the savage rite of sacrificing human victims on the altar of their gods. With them it was a propitiatory sacrifice, offered to the Great Star, or the planet Venus. This dreadful ceremony annually preceded the preparations for planting corn, and was supposed to be necessary to secure a fruitful season. The victim was always some prisoner, who had been captured in war, or otherwise; and there was never wanting an individual who coveted the honor of making a captive from some hostile tribe, and dedicating the spoils of his prowess to the national benefit.
The captors of Monica were in quest of a victim for this sacrifice, when they wandered away alone, and prowled for several days, about the encampment of her tribe. With this view, they bore her away in triumph, deaf to all her entreaties and tears, and gave her in charge to the priests, to be made ready against the return of the season.
The best wigwam in the village was assigned for her accommodation. Cheerful companions of her own age were given her. The most sedulous attention was paid to her wants. She was dressed in gay apparel, continually feasted on the choicest luxuries which their fields and hunting grounds afforded, and treated with the utmost tenderness by all about her. Every possible means was employed to allay her grief, and promote that cheerfulness of spirit, which is essential to health and comeliness, in order that she might thus be made a more suitable and acceptable offering.
The personal charms of Monica required no such system of treatment, in order to their full development. She was a rare specimen of native grace and loveliness, and would have been a fitting model, in every feature and limb, for a Phidias or a Praxitiles. The exceeding beauty and gentleness of their captive, while it won the admiration and regard of all her young companions, only made her, in the view of the priests and chiefs of the tribe, a more desirable victim for the altar.
For a long time, Monica was inconsolable. Deprived of that dearest privilege of visiting daily the grave of her brother, distracted in view of the anxiety which her mother would feel for her, she refused to be comforted, or to take any pleasure in the means employed to amuse her. Time and kindness, however, and the promise that she should, by and by, return to her father-land, restored, in a degree, her serenity of mind. She was too affectionate and confiding, to reject the sympathy and kindness even of an enemy. Grateful for the unwearied efforts which her companions made to amuse and comfort her, she came, at last, to regard them as friends. Gratitude begat affection. Affection created confidence. She unburdened her heart of the sorrows that oppressed it. By that effort, the burden was lightened. Something of the elasticity and vivacity of youth returned. She sang and played, if not to amuse herself, yet to gratify others, whose assiduous kindness, and seemingly generous sympathy, she had no other means of repaying. Thus, entirely ignorant of the terrible doom that awaited her, Monica passed the winter of her captivity, looking ever forward to the opening spring as the period of her promised release, and return to the wigwam of her mother.