“It matters little to Tula where she goes, so that she does not meet the Athapuscow. His hands are red with the blood of her father, her husband, her child. Let her never see his face, or walk in his shadow.”
The singular romance of Tula’s story, the comeliness of her person, and her approved accomplishments, touched the hearts of some of the young braves of the party. They had not gone far on their way, before a contest arose between them, who, according to immemorial usage among the tribes, should claim the privilege of making her his wife. The dispute—to which she was no party, for her views were not so much as consulted in the matter—ran very high, and had nearly resulted in serious consequences. The poor girl was actually won and lost, at wrestling, by near half a score of different men, in the course of as many days. When, at length, a compromise was effected, and the prize awarded to Lak-in-aw, a young warrior of the Temiscamings, Tula refused to receive the pipe at his hands, or to listen in any way to his suit.
“Tula is buried in the grave of O-ken-áh-ga,” she said. “Tula will walk alone on the earth. Her heart is in the spirit land. It will never come back. It has nothing here to love.”
Onward—onward—over interminable fields of snow and ice, where scarce a green thing appeared to relieve the utter desolation, the party proceeded, with their prize, on their journey to the far north. She was treated with chivalric tenderness and respect, and her comfort and convenience consulted in all the arrangements of the way. She needed but little indulgence, and solicited none. She was capable of enduring the fatigues and hardships of a man. She never flagged in the march, nor lingered a moment, when the word was given to go forward.
In traversing a deep valley near the eastern extremity of the Great Slave Lake, their track was crossed by that of a considerable party of Indians, returning from an expedition to the fur regions of the north. Their course lay along the southern border of the lake. Perceiving their encampment at no great distance, on the other side of the valley, it was resolved to visit them, and, if they were found to be friendly, to join their camp for the night. On approaching the spot, they were met by the chief, who, with a few attendants, came out to bid them welcome to his tent. He was a fine specimen of a young Indian brave—one who, in his green youth, had gained laurels, which it usually requires a life-time to win. His costume, though adapted to the severity of the climate, was tasteful and picturesque, and so fitted and arranged as to develop, to the best advantage, the admirable proportions of his person.
The parley that ensued was a fine specimen of Indian courtesy and diplomacy. But it was suddenly and violently interrupted, when Tula, who had remained in the rear of her party, with the Englishmen, came up. At the first sight of the young chief, she uttered a loud and piercing shriek—for the extremes of joy and grief use similar tones and gestures—and rushing forward, pushed aside friend and stranger alike, and flung herself upon his neck, exclaiming—“Ish-ta-le-ó-wah!—my brother! my brother!”