CHAPTER XIV.

“A hectic pleasure flushed her faded face; It fled, and deeper paleness took its place; Then a cold shudder thrilled her—and, at last, Her lip a smile of bitter sarcasm cast.”

DRAKE.

A year and more had now passed, since the disaster on the Ohio, and the captive maiden had already gone through more adventures than fall to the lot of most heroines, or than even it is my intention to describe. And, with the lapse of time, came changes,—changes that we must all feel.—The girlish form which we last beheld indicated that time had added to it strength, and filled out its beautiful proportions, and the maiden was now as pretty as woman can be. Grief had left its traces, but even they were beautiful.

Reader, hast thou ever, in summer, watched a coming storm? Hast thou seen a cloud overcast the heavens, spreading abroad darkness and gloom?—The storm bursts,—the big drops come dancing to the earth, and the sky is cleared! How brightly then shines the sun! how the rain drops glitter in its beams! Beautiful as the rain drops are the traces of grief. Tears are to grief, what rain is to the parched earth. Oh! how beautiful are the remains of affection! Such were now the traces which time had left on the captive maiden. There are the cold and heartless, who, in the language of the world, would merely have said that she had broken,—how I hate the word in that sense,—and who would have thought her less beautiful than in girlhood she promised to be. With the world, it may be that she was. But to many, she would have been far dearer than in happier days; though less brilliant, there was something more touching in her melancholy,—something better calculated to sink deep into the heart, and call into play the finer feelings of our nature. The recollection of her family was now like a distant view, shadowy and undefined, and she rarely recurred to the sad evening of her misfortunes; but if she did, and would but for an instant dwell thereon, it was like applying the telescope to distant objects. The scene arose before her in all its startling horror, and she gave vent to her grief in a gush of tears.

But these scenes, as I have stated above, now occurred but rarely:—time had added its soothing power, and the captive now in her musings, began to turn her thoughts to still earlier days. The heart is more susceptible in misfortune, and loves then also to brood over moments which once were happy; probably because there is relief in indulging in anticipations or recollections which drive away heavier thoughts. So that now there were moments when she pondered over her heart's earliest joys, and dwelt with delight on the recollection of him who first, by his kind and gentle manner, won her affections, taught her to extract music from the gushing of fountains, and pleasure from the inspection of a flower, or the sight of a landscape.

This may not be intelligible to all my readers, for there are some persons who know nothing of the sympathies of the human heart. But is there one who has not felt his increased capability for enjoyment, when the heart is first warmed into life,—when the springs of affection first begin to flow. It is then that, stripped of sensuality, our thoughts seem purified. It is then, that even nature, seen through the first springings of pure affection, is lovelier than it is ever seen afterward, and we can then feel that we live. But delightful as those feelings are, like dew drops on flowers, they are beautiful, but last not;—no, an entrance into the world, is to them what frost is to the flowers. Yes, they wither and die, even while the functions of life are green on the tree. Feeling is to life, what malmsey is to wine. Yes, all that is beautiful and bright in life, dies while we are on the threshold. The loss of early feelings is beautifully described by Byron in the lines beginning

“There's not a joy the world can give, Like that it takes away, When the flow of early thought declines In feeling's dull decay.”

There is a sad truth in the lines here alluded to, which all who have read them, must have often felt.

Gentle reader, hast thou ever watched and wept over the loss of thy early feelings; hast thou seen them fast ebbing away, and felt thyself growing old, while thou wert yet young in years. I have, and like a mother over a dying child, like a lover over the sinking pulse of his mistress, I have watched and wept as they left me.

Reader, I have called thee gentle above, and I feel a sympathy for thee, though thou art unknown, for thou wilt see my wayward thoughts, and recollect that while tracing them, I held communion with thee. Yes, even at this moment, speculations float across my mind, as to the characters of the persons who may read them, and as to the impressions which my wayward fancies may produce. They may be glanced over, think I, by some early associate, and remind him perhaps of some long forgotten friend. But reader, whoever thou art, and whatever may be the cast of thy opinions, I sincerely hope, if thou wishest it, that the perusal of them may have the same effect upon thee, which the mere exertion of tracing them out has had upon me. It has served to rob life for a time of the tedium and weariness which often sits heavily upon me.

It would be tedious were we to trace minutely the movements of Netnokwa and her party, from the time that she left Rainy Lake, until her arrival among her own tribe—suffice it, that they all encountered more dangers and difficulties than belong to ordinary adventures, and after a long and toilsome journey arrived there safe. A longer acquaintance with the captive maiden only served to increase their affections, and they now strictly regarded her as a member of their family. No act of kindness on their part was wanting, and so devoted was Miskwa in her attentions, that she won the heart of the captive, whom she also cheered by giving a promise both for herself and mother, that as soon as the dread influence which the Prophet exercised over the tribes, should in some measure subside, or any other circumstance render it practicable, that they would restore her to the settlements. This promise rendered her cheerful at moments, and caused her to entertain for Miskwa the kindest possible feelings, nor was she otherwise than fond of Netnokwa; but Miskwa was of her own age, and though of a different complexion, still in her she found a kindred spirit. Thrown constantly in her company, they soon became inseparable companions, divided all their duties, and enjoyed together all their little amusements; and such was the power of culture and of mind, that Miskwa insensibly adopted many of the habits of the captive, and satisfied that in doing so she was improved, even attempted to learn her language. But grateful as was the captive, her heart was sad, her sources of amusement were only transient gleams of joy, flitting by like fleeting clouds—her thoughts were afar off—and when she recollected that it was the Prophet's influence which detained her from that land which she so much wished again to see—she began to inquire who he was, and what were his doctrines. The information received, only served to convince her of the futility of his pretensions; and when she heard a list of the victims which his doctrine of witchcraft had consigned to the stake, she no longer hesitated, but spoke of him as a bad man, and endeavoured to convince Netnokwa and Miskwa, that he was not even entitled to their good opinion. She spoke of the Great Spirit as the author of all goodness and mercy; it was the light in which Miskwa and her mother regarded him, and then asked them how, thinking as they did of him, they could believe that he would authorize the acts of the Prophet. Many conversations on this subject had taken place, and though always urged by the captive with the utmost timidity, and though Netnokwa and her daughter at first shrunk from them as from something fearful, yet their frequency, and the confident manner in which the captive, the more she spoke of it, now asserted, that his assumed character was a mere delusion, tended at least to familiarize them with the subject, and also caused the first dawnings of doubt.

It was a lovely evening, when two maidens were seen standing near the door of a neat little cottage situated on the banks of one of those many nameless tributaries which add their quota to the upper Red river. Many wild vines crept over and around it, and the sweetest flowers of the prairie and forest, tastefully arranged, bloomed in the richest luxuriance. It was not like an Indian wigwam, for taste, and refinement and cultivation, seemed blended in every thing therewith connected; and the wonder was, that so beautiful a spot, could be found so far from the white settlements, and embosomed in so vast and trackless a wilderness. Many hundred miles would scarcely have brought its inmates to the farthest advanced posts of civilization, and yet at that distance they now dwelt, and formed and fashioned for amusement their little Paradise with its garden of Eden which they themselves had created. One would have wondered and admired; and it was woman's delicate hands which had wrought it all.

Hast thou never observed that an accomplished and virtuous female seems, by her mere presence, to impart a charm to every thing around her, and add a beauty to every thing she touches. I mean not however to include the dispensers of fashion, or the mere creatures of art, for accomplished as they may be, there is always a frivolity of manner about them, which places them lower in the scale of excellence, and tends in a great measure to destroy their power; but I mean woman, lovely, beautiful and fascinating as she is, when her time is devoted to the improvement of her mind, and the cultivation of her heart. As pure in excellence as the snow in whiteness, was the captive maiden, for her intercourse with the world had never been sufficiently great to deform her either by fashion or by art, and the loss of her family had created in her breast no resentment against the authors of her misfortune, but had tended rather to soften her feelings towards the whole human race. This resulted partly from the destitute condition in which she found herself, and also from the resignation with which she submitted to the will of Providence.

As Miskwa, with the captive, stood before the door, the latter was gazing pensively in the direction of her far home, and as thoughts of the past rose before her, she sighed, and a shade of darker melancholy than was wont to rest upon her features, passed over her face. At that moment, Miskwa called her attention, and with a bow and quiver in her hand, proposed that they should walk. The sun's rays were mellowing the prospect, and the air was bland and mild. First turning to salute their flowers, they gathered some, and twining them into wreaths, decorated their brows. They then started on their walk, and Miskwa, with the mirth of a happy heart, ran bounding forward. As they continued it, thoughts which were sad passed from the mind of the captive maiden, and she too was apparently happy. They had proceeded in their rambles a mile or two, when their attention was suddenly aroused, by a stranger coming towards them. He was a son of the forest, yet there was something singular in his address, and peculiar in his manner. They knew not what to think, and as he approached, Miskwa bent her bow, and adjusted a keen pointed arrow. Yet he seemed not to notice it, but coming nearer, beckoned them to follow, and started off, leading the way to their own cabin. Miskwa spoke to him, but he refused to answer, and continued indicating to them signs that they must accompany him to their lodge. His eyes were cast upon the ground,—his countenance was grave in the extreme,—there was an air of mystery about him, and when he moved forward, Miskwa not being able to explain who or what he was, and feeling a vague fear, why or wherefore she knew not, spoke to her friend, and advised her to follow; and in silence they accompanied the stranger, who, to their great surprise, pursued the most direct path to their lodge. Having arrived there, he seemed not to regard Netnokwa, who was sitting just without the door, but uninvited, entered her lodge, and seating himself, began to smoke. Netnokwa at the same time, entering, made of him many inquiries; yet he paid not the least attention to her, but continued smoking.—Then calling in Miskwa and the maiden, they seated themselves to await his pleasure. None could divine the cause of his errand, and on account of it fear was felt by Netnokwa and her family. After a deep silence of half an hour, he stated that his name was Kenah, and that he had come with a message from the Shawanee Prophet. Then, after a few moments farther silence, he said:—“Henceforth, the fire must never be suffered to go out in your lodge. Summer and winter, day and night,—in the calm or in the storm,—you must remember that the life in your body, and the fire in your lodge, are the same, and of the same date. If you suffer your fire to be extinguished, at that moment your life will be at its end. You must not suffer a dog to live. The Prophet himself is coming to shake hands with you; but I have come before, that you may know what is the will of the Great Spirit, communicated to us by him; and to inform you that the preservation of your life for a single moment, depends on your entire obedience. From this time forward, we are neither to steal, to lie, or to go against our enemies. While we yield an entire obedience to these commands of the Great Spirit, the Sioux, even if they come to our country, will not be able to see us; we shall be protected and made happy.”[1]

[Footnote 1: See note B.]

When the speech was finished, the countenances of Miskwa and Netnokwa seemed troubled, and the captive, not being able to comprehend all he had said, asked Miskwa for an explanation. Kenah hearing this, and himself speaking English imperfectly, began in the same mysterious manner, to repeat to her what he had before said. To his surprise, his remarks, instead of inspiring her with the same dread which they had Netnokwa and her daughter, only served to excite her laughter, and turning to Miskwa, she began to ridicule his opinions, and then to ask Netnokwa if she thought the Great Spirit wanted her to kill her dogs, which aided in supplying them with food? and why he should care whether the fire went out in their lodge or not?

When Kenah saw this, clouds of anger passed over his brow, and he began to tell how many times the Great Spirit had visited the Prophet, and what he had ordered him to do for his red children. But as he talked of it, they became familiarized to his person, and a discussion of the subject only served to exhibit the folly and cruelty of his doctrines. The eyes of Netnokwa and her daughter had been before opened by the opinions of the captive, and the fear of which his words would but for that have inspired, was now with Miskwa, rather a subject of merriment, and she with the captive, began to persuade Netnokwa not to kill her dogs, nor to regard what Kenah had said.

Kenah, seeing that nothing could be effected, was filled with rage, and internally vowing vengeance against the captive, to whom mainly he attributed his want of success, and likewise against Miskwa, who seemed so much under her influence, he sank to sleep. Rising with the first light of day, he left the cottage before its inmates had risen, and proceeded on his journey, leaving them ignorant of his intentions. His behaviour and sudden disappearance, were for some days, with them a subject of wonder and conversation, but with the lapse of time they were forgotten, and with them even the remembrance of his visit was effaced from their minds.