The friends of William Russell had already assembled to perform the last sad duties to his remains. He was to be interred here, in accordance with the request of her who was to have been his bride.
“Here,” said she, “here on this little island he was slain, and here let him be buried. Here I will spend many of my hours; I will plant flowers around his grave. Here I can come and weep, away from all eyes but the eye of Him who has seen fit to afflict me thus.”
The ceremony had just been performed and they were just turning away from the grave, when all eyes were directed to a canoe which was slowly moving up the river. It had two occupants. One sat motionless in the stern—the other was gently using the paddle. As it approached the island, Tahattawa regarded it with a fixed and earnest gaze. As she did so her heart beat quick and her eyes darted with joy.
“It is—it is he,” cried she, “Wawhillowa;” and away she bounded to the shore. As the canoe touched the bank, the Indian, who sat in the stern, stepped on shore. The next instant his companion pushed off, turned down the stream, and quickly disappeared from view.
Wawhillowa—for it was he—advanced with a few staggering, uncertain steps towards the girl, but before they met, he fell headlong on the ground. Those who had been standing around the grave now approached. The girl sat holding his head, and chafing his temples with her hands. He had fainted. The blood was slowly oozing from a wound by a rifle ball in the right breast. It appeared to have bled considerably, for it had run down even to his ankle, and the right leggin was deeply stained. Tahattawa looked the very image of despair. Hope had been kindled in her breast only to be destroyed, and her poor heart could hardly contain its grief.
Shaomet ran to his tent, and brought a calabash full of water from the river, and some being sprinkled on the face of the young warrior, he slowly revived. Turning a melancholy glance on those around them, his eye brightened for a moment, and the sternness of his features relaxed as his look rested on the face of his betrothed.
“Tahattawa,” said he, in a feeble voice, “I am dying. Bury me—here—on the island. I am going—to the—happy—hunting grounds. See!—the spirit—of my father—calls me.—Ha! It grows dark—Tahattawa!”
The poor girl bent over him till her face rested on his bosom. When she again raised her eyes, the spirit of the Nonotuck chief had departed, and she looked on the cold, fixed features of the dead.
Another grave was dug close by the side of the one which had just been filled. Some of the friends of the “pale-face” objected to the burial of an Indian so near the body of their own kindred, but the sisters wished it, and their feelings were regarded. He was buried, after the manner of his people—his face towards the rising sun. His hunting weapons were buried with him. There they lay—two fierce and haughty spirits. They would not hold fellowship in life, but in death they sleep side by side.
From that hour the hearts of the two survivors were as one. Theirs had been a sad and mournful fate. Their destinies were similar. They lived—lived long—and as happily as two could live whose first dream of bliss had been thus cruelly broken. They lived to atone for the faults of those whom they had loved. They were never separated during their lives, and nearly at the same time the summons came to both to go and meet their Judge. They have long since passed away. Their clay has “returned to earth as it was, and their spirits have gone to the God who gave them.”