Part 53 (2/2)
”Faint with fatigue, brier-torn, in rags--his vengeance, but--_nothing worse_. That quarter-breed Montour attended her, supported her, struggled on with her through all the horrors of this retreat. He had herded the Valley prisoners together, guarded by Cayugas. The executioner lies dead a mile below, his black face in the water. And here _he_ lies!”
He swung his horse, head sternly averted. I flung myself into my saddle.
”This way, lad. She lies in a camp-wagon at headquarters, asleep, I think. Mount and your Oneida guard her. And the girl, Montour, lies stretched beside her, watching her as a dog watches a cradled child.”
The hunting-horns of the light infantry were sounding the recall as we rode through the low brush of Jerseyfield, where the sunset sky was aflame, painting the tall pines, staining the melting snow to palest crimson.
From black, wet branches overhead the clotted flakes fell, showering us as we came to the hemlock shelter where the camp-wagon stood. A fire burned there; before it crowded a shadowy group of riflemen; and one among them moved forward to meet me, touching his fur cap and pointing.
As I reached the rough shelter of fringing evergreen Mount and Little Otter stepped out; and I saw the giant forest-runner wink the tears away as he laid his huge finger across his lips.
”She sleeps as sweetly as a child,” he whispered. ”I told her you were coming. Oh, sir, it will tear your heart out to see her small white feet so bruised, and the soft, baby hands of her raw at the wrists, where they tied her at night.... _Is_ he surely dead, sir, as they say?”
”I saw him die, thank G.o.d!”
”That is safer for him, I think,” said Mount simply. ”Will you come this way, sir? Otter, fetch a splinter o' fat pine for a light. Mind the wheel there, Mr. Renault--this way on tiptoe!”
He took the splinter-light from the Oneida, fixed it in a split stick, backed out, and turned away, followed by the Indian.
At first I could not see, and set the burning stick nearer. Then, as I bent over the rough wagon, I saw her lying there very white and still, her torn hands swathed with lint, her bandaged feet wrapped in furs.
And beside her, stretched full length, lay Lyn Montour, awake, dark eyes fixed on mine.
She smiled as she caught my eye; then something in my face sobered her.
”He is dead?” she motioned with her lips. And my lips moved a.s.sent.
Gravely, scarcely stirring, she reached up and unbound her hair, letting it down over her face. I understood, and, stepping to the fire, returned with a charred ember. She held out first one hand, then the other, and I marked the palms with the ashes, touched her forehead, her breast, her feet. Thus, in the solemn presence of death itself, she claimed at the tribunal of the Most High the justice denied on earth, signing herself a widow with the ashes none but a wedded wife may dare to wear.
Lower and lower burned the tiny torch, sank to a spark, and went out.
The black curtains of obscurity closed in; redder and redder spread the glare from the camp-fire; crackling and roaring, the flames rose, tufted with smoke, through which a million sparks whirled upward, showering the void above. Dark shapes moved in the glow with a sparkle of spur and sword as they turned; the infernal light fell on the naked bodies of Oneidas, sitting like demons, eyes blinking at the flames.
And through the roar of the fire I heard their chanting undertone, monotonous, interminable, saluting their dead:
”_Cover the White Throat at Carenay, Lest evil fall at Danascara, Lay the phantom away, Men of Thendara, Trails of Kayaderos And Adriutha Cover our loss!
Tree of Oswaya, From Garoga To Caroga Cover the White Throat For the sake of the Silver Boat afloat In the Water of Light, O Tharon!
This for the pledge of Aroronon Lest the Long House end And the Tree bend And our dead ascend in every trail And the Great League fail.
Now by the brotherhood ye've sworn Let the Oneida mourn._”
And I heard from the forest the deadened blows of mattock and spade, and saw the glimmer of burial torches; and, through the steady chanting of the Oneida, the solemn voice of the chaplain in prayer for dead and living:
”Let the beauty of the Lord our G.o.d be upon us. And establish Thou the work of our hands upon us--yea, the work of our hands, establish Thou it!”
It lacked an hour to dawn when the harsh, stringy drums rolled from the forest and the smoky camp awoke; and I, keeping my vigil, there in the shadow where she lay, listening and bending above her, was aware of a bandaged hand touching me--a feverish arm about my neck, drawing my head lower, closer, till, in the darkness, my face lay on hers, and our tremulous lips united.
”Is all well, my beloved?”
<script>