Those tones fell not unheeded; there was another struggle as if to burst the leaden chain, and an expression of happiness spread like sunlight over her features. Her dark eyes were again unsealed, and a momentary brightness fell from beneath the long lashes, as she said faintly, “Weetano heard her brother’s voice in her dream, but she cannot awaken to its music—her slumber is not over;” and her voice died away in a murmur, like the lingering pulsations of a harp, and her head hung heavily.
All through the long afternoon did they labor to break that strange lethargy, but no care or remedy proved successful, and her breath grew shorter and fainter until evening, when she revived a little, and looked consciously on all around. The old chief was near, gazing mournfully on his drooping child, and beside her were Francois Waldo and Anna Temple, upon whom she still leaned for support. She bestowed on each a look of the most earnest affection, then said, in clear, unbroken accents—
“The Lily will brighten my brother’s pathway, but Oliwibatuc will be alone! You will not forsake my father,” continued she, fixing her dark eye on the pale youth before her, inquiringly.
“Never, Weetano, I promise in the sight of heaven, while I live he shall find in me a son to lean upon; he has been as a father to his captive—I will never desert him.”
“I believe you,” she said, pressing his hand to her lips—“Your words are true.” Then placing the hand of Anna Temple in that of her white brother, with a quiet smile she closed her eyes again for their last slumber.
All night the spirit of Weetano clung to its earthly tenement, and the morning found it still hovering around its beautiful abode, as if unwilling to forsake its companionship. The lodge was filled with the sorrowing faces of those who had gathered to obtain a last look of the daughter of their chief, who lay there in their midst like a breathing statue—but while the dew still lingered on the flower, the lips of the sleeper parted gently, her eyelids quivered—a momentary shudder passed over her frame, and the strife was over.
Captive Red-Bird had at last burst her prison bars, and unfolded her wings in the sunnier bowers of the spirit-land. One by one those who had gathered near to witness the last moments of the chief’s daughter went forth, that Oliwibatuc might stand alone in the presence of his dead. Francois and Anna withdrew to a little distance from the couch of the dear departed, and gazed with tearful faces on the old warrior, who stood with a mournful face gazing on the last of his household! He stooped at length, and took the hand, scarcely yet cold, in his own, and, pronounced in an unbroken tone an Indian farewell:
“The Great Spirit help thee on thy journey, my daughter—the way is long and fearful! Thou art a tender bird to try the unseen path alone, but let not thy wing falter in the misty valley, for the blue hills are shining brightly beyond! Pass onward—thy mother hath spread her couch there; thou art the last bird of our nest, and she waiteth for thee! Tell her—her warrior hath dwelt alone in his wigwam since we laid her by the quiet river! Tell her—that thou alone hast been the sunbeam of his lodge, and hast spread the couch of the weary! O, Weetano! thy father is lonely now—why didst thou go before him to the dwelling-place of the happy? The hunter will come to his wigwam weary at evening, but the torch will not be lighted, for Weetano will not be there! His cup will be empty, and his board desolate! No song shall lull him to slumber, for Red-Bird has gone to her mother!”
The old chief’s voice faltered here, for the first time; and he bowed his head. They saw him brush a tear from his eye—then another rolled down his dusky face, and Anna would have rushed to his side to pour forth her sympathy, had not Francois withheld her—he knew, better than her, the customs of the people among whom he dwelt, that they share with none their woes, but bear their burden alone. The momentary struggle was past, and Oliwibatuc spoke again, calmly, but with lower, sadder tone.
“Weetano, thou hast led us in all thy beauty! Thou hast gathered up the flowers of a few summers—but the great snows have not fallen on thee! I will lay thee gently by thy mother, and the braves shall rear the green mound, where I will sit with my bow at evening, gazing on the bright hills of the far south-west. Farewell! Weetano, I go to make thy grave by the river-side!”