She looked through the window again, and Harris was at the stake, and, with impatient yells, the savages were making ready for the sacrifice.
“Spare him—only spare the life of Harris, and take all!”
“We have all, and now we will consummate the work. Hark ye, Dahona! Harris must suffer the torments to which our captives are condemned. We have been injured by the whites. Your father was our chief—they destroyed him; and whose blood has flowed in revenge? You, the daughter of that chief, have been made to despise the people of your tribe, and to adopt the faith of the whites—a creed that makes one portion cowards—afraid of the life or the death of a warrior—and leaves the other portion to commit what crimes they choose upon the red men.
“Now, hear me, Dahona. It is the creed that makes the man, and not the man the creed; and the influence of your profession of that creed—the devotion which you pay to that book now lying at your feet—are weakening the attachment of our people to their chiefs, and giving power to the whites. Renounce the creed, spurn the book at your feet, and follow your brethren to their hunting grounds, and we will spare Harris.”
“I will follow you whither you wish—take me now; but first release that man.”
“Do you renounce the white man’s creed—will you spurn the Bible in presence of our men?”
A few hours before, the troubled spirit of Rebecca had been moved almost to doubt the truth of the religion into which she had been initiated; but when the question was its renunciation, she felt the hold which it had upon her mind—she showed the hold which it had upon her heart. Could she, with some mental reservation, make the renunciation, and thus save her benefactor’s life? She was not well versed in casuistry, but she knew that religion was of the heart.
“Speak,” said the chief; “the people are waiting my signal.”
“Give me a moment to think.”
“Take it. I will leave you until the messenger returns twice with new combustibles for the old man’s fire.”