“Is the air of the tent not pleasant to the blossom of the clearings?” asked the warrior, evidently touched by her seeming misery.
Seeing that she made no answer, he continued, “What is written is written. The Red-man cannot lie. We must bear thee to the great white father at a distance. But perchance the door may one day be left open, and the bird can escape from its nest.”
“Ah! whither can I fly?” exclaimed Grace Bartlett, at length bursting into tears. “My native village is destroyed, my home is burned, and my parents and neighbors have fallen victims to the general ruin.” She wept for some moments bitter tears, which seemed to relieve her overcharged heart—the chief and his squaw looking on her with more of pity than is usual in their race.
The next morning their march commenced again through the interminable forest. The Indian traveled on foot, while the two females were mounted on mules. The wretchedness of the unfortunate prisoner seemed to increase throughout the whole route, her companions wearing the stolid indifference of the North American tribes, except when momently touched by her situation: For the most part, during the slow ride, Grace Bartlett was left to her own miserable reflections, receiving only at rare intervals some rude attentions from the female, who accompanied her.
The slow pace of the travelers, with various other causes of delay which it is needless to mention, detained them three nights upon their road. As soon as darkness approached the tent was again spread, and a halt was made until the morning. On the fourth evening, instead of encamping as before, they continued their journey until a late hour, when the eyes of the captive maiden, wearied with a succession of wild wood scenery, gazed with something like pleasure upon the scene that now opened before her.
The object that thus met the gaze of Grace Bartlett as they emerged from the forest, was one of those stern fortresses of which so many, in our early history, seemed to accuse England of designs against the Indians. It had external pretensions to the name by which we call it, for it looked strong enough to bid defiance to any attempts against it by siege or storm. A deep moat surrounded the lofty stone turrets on all sides, and a drawbridge was the only means of crossing to the entrance of the fort. To Grace, the sight of the fortification, though she gazed on it at first with pleasure, immediately after brought feelings of pain and apprehension; and however confident she might be in the good providence and protection of God, it cannot be denied that she felt deeply and with an anxious and sickening heart her entrance in a place which might prove to her a final prison.
After assisting his companions to dismount, the Indian blew a loud, shrill whistle. He was answered by a sentinel, who carried on a brief conversation with him, and withdrew to an inner lodge for the key of the great gate. He soon returned, it creaked upon its hinges, and the heavy drawbridge swung slowly up with a jarring sound of chains and huge iron-work—sadly harmonious with the uses of the building which they shut out. The bell, communicating with the mansion connected with the fortress, rung, and the chief, with his prisoner, passed slowly in to an inner court, leaving the squaw standing without.
The glare of light, the sound of music, mingled with the tones of the human voice in merry laughter and light conversation reached her ear, and startled the wretched girl with wonder. The Indian, with the utmost tranquillity and with slow and important steps, led the way toward this portion of the large and heavy mass of gloomy masonry, which, with its tall chimneys, loomed up before them. An immense doorway opened upon a broad staircase that seemed formed to make the head dizzy with its many windings. Up this the savage proceeded with his prisoner, whom he held by the arm, half-supporting her weight as she moved passively and like a piece of mechanism in his fingers. On the first landing they passed a drawing-room, splendidly illuminated and filled with revelers, from whence the noise that had reached the court-yard proceeded. Continuing up the various turnings until they had accomplished another flight, the savage paused, and opened a door communicating with a single chamber handsomely furnished.
Its solitary occupant was a man past the prime of life. He seemed immersed in business, examining documents and reading letters which were strewn on a table before him. He arose as our party entered, held out his hand to the Indian, and asked, “Any prisoners?”
“We have taken a daughter of the pale-faces, a blossom of the clearings,” was the reply of the savage as he pointed to his captive. “But the air of the woods is not pleasant to her: she pines after the wigwam of her fathers.”