“Abode, not home,” Millicent said, half-jestingly. “Yes, come with me, but tread softly or you may be heard,” and she led the way through the wood. Upon reaching the brow of the hill she halted, and, placing her hand on the captain’s arm, said, “Look through these trees into the clearing yonder.” He did so, and saw a number of wigwams, with smoke curling out from their tops, and, sitting about on the ground outside, several women, and one or two old men.
“And there you have lived for nearly a year; but it is late; I must leave you. Be of good courage, and believe that never a crusader felt his pledge to visit the Holy Land more sacred than I do mine to liberate you;” and, lifting his hat with deference, he withdrew into the forest.
The scene above described carries the reader back to the time of the fierce and devastating war waged by King Philip against the settlers of New England, in which all the worst elements of the Indian nature came to the surface. The firebrand and the tomahawk were the weapons employed by the Indians to accomplish their purpose of destroying the advancing power of the white man; and so mercilessly did they use these that the outposts of civilization were swept away as by a whirlwind. The savages, avoiding direct conflict with organized forces of the English, made sudden and unsuspected attacks, under cover of darkness, upon exposed houses or towns, applying the torch to the buildings, and massacring the inhabitants or carrying them into captivity. Neither the life nor property of a white man was safe for an instant. While sitting quietly by his fireside or working in his cornfield, he was liable to instant death at the hands of an unseen foe. In such a condition of affairs it is not surprising that spots, where of late the influence of civilization had begun to make itself felt, were abandoned by their terror-stricken inhabitants. Thus, for a while, the rude savages again appeared as rulers of the land, and the forest often resounded with their war-cry as they fell on one partly-deserted town after another, and their yells of triumph rang on the hushes of midnight as they returned from their fiendish expeditions of plunder waving aloft the scalps of their victims. For a year or more this bloody war lasted, bringing death and desolation to many homes, until its guiding hand and vital breath, King Philip, was struck down, killed by one of his race.
[TO BE CONCLUDED IN NEXT ISSUE.]
THE SINGER.
[FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.]
BY LAURA GARLAND CARR.
“Outside the gate, what do I hear
Along the drawbridge sounding?
A song! Now let it reach my ear
Through palace-halls resounding!”
So speaks the king; the small page flies;
The lackey comes; the message hies;
The old man comes, low bowing.