Part 8 (1/2)

”The soul of the wicked desireth evil; his neighbour findeth no favour in his eyes.”--_Proverbs_.

FOR several days, they abstained from lighting a fire, lest the smoke should be seen; but this, the great height of the bank would have effectually prevented. They suffered much cold at night from the copious dews, which, even on sultry summer's evenings, is productive of much chilling. They could not account for the fact that the air, at night, was much warmer on the high hills than in the low valleys; they were even sensible of a rush of heat as they ascended to the higher ground.

These simple children had not been taught that it is the nature of the heated air to ascend, and its place to be supplied by the colder and denser particles. They noticed the effects, but understood nothing of the causes that ruled them.

The following days they procured several partridges, but feared to cook them; however, they plucked them, split them open, and dried the flesh for a future day. A fox or rac.o.o.n attracted by the smell of the birds, came one night, and carried them off, for in the morning they were gone.

They saw several herd of deer crossing the plain, and one day Wolfe tracked a wounded doe to a covert under the poplars, near a hidden spring, where she had lain herself down to die in peace, far from the haunts of her fellows. The arrow was in her throat; it was of white flint, and had evidently been sent from an Indian bow. It was almost with fear and trembling that they availed themselves of the venison thus providentially thrown in their way, lest the Indians should track the blood of the doe, and take vengeance on them for appropriating it for their own use. Not having seen anything of the Indians, who seemed to confine themselves to the neighbourhood of the lake, after many days had pa.s.sed, they began to take courage, and even lighted an evening fire, at which they cooked as much venison as would last them for several days, and hung the remaining portions above the smoke to preserve it from injury.

One morning, Hector proclaimed his intention of ascending the hills, in the direction of the Indian camp. ”I am tired of remaining shut up in this dull place, where we can see nothing but this dead flat, bounded by those melancholy pines in the distance that seem to shut us in.” Little did Hector know that beyond that dark ridge of pine hills lay the home of their childhood, and but a few miles of forest intervened to hide it from their sight. Had he known it how eagerly would his feet have pressed onward in the direction of that dark barrier of evergreens!

Thus is it often in this life: we wander on, sad and perplexed, our path beset with thorns and briars. We cannot see our way clear; doubts and apprehensions a.s.sail us. We know not how near we are to the fulfilment of our wishes: we see only the insurmountable barriers, the dark thickets and thorns of our way; and we know not how near we are to our Father's home, where he is waiting to welcome the wanderers of the flock back to the everlasting home, the fold of the Good Shepherd.

Hector became impatient of the restraint that the dread of the Indians imposed upon his movements; he wanted to see the lake again and to roam abroad free and uncontrolled.

”After all,” said he; ”we never met with any ill treatment from the Indians that used to visit us at Cold Springs; we may even find old friends and acquaintances among them.”

”The thing is possible, but not very likely,” replied Louis.

”Nevertheless, Hector, I would not willingly put myself in their power.

The Indian has his own notion of things, and might think himself quite justified in killing us, if he found us on his hunting-grounds.

_[FN: George Copway, an intelligent Rice Lake Indian, says the Indian hunting-grounds are parcelled out, and secured by right of law and custom among themselves, no one being allowed to hunt upon another's grounds uninvited. If any one belonging to another family or tribe is found trespa.s.sing, all his goods are taken from him; a handful of powder and shot, as much as he would need to shoot game for his sustenance in returning straight home, and his gun, knife, and tomahawk only are left, but all his game and furs are taken from him: a message is sent to his chief, and if he transgresses a third time, he is banished and outlawed.--_Life of G. Copway, Missionary, written by himself._]_ I have heard my father say,--and he knows a great deal about these people,--that their chiefs are very strict in punis.h.i.+ng any strangers that they find killing game on their bounds uninvited. They are both merciless and treacherous when angered, and we could not even speak to them in their own language, to explain by what chance we came here.”

This was very prudent of Louis, uncommonly so, for one who was naturally rash and headstrong, but unfortunately Hector was inflexible and wilful: when once he had made up his mind upon any point, he had too good an opinion of his own judgment to give it up. At last, he declared his intention, rather than remain a slave to such cowardly fears as he now deemed them, to go forth boldly, and endeavour to ascertain what the Indians were about, how many there were of them, and what real danger was to be apprehended from facing them.

”Depend upon it,” he added, ”cowards are never safer than brave men.

The Indians despise cowards, and would be more likely to kill us if they found us cowering here in this hole like a parcel of wolf-cubs, than if we openly faced them and showed that we neither feared them, nor cared for them.”

”Hector, dear Hector, be not so ras.h.!.+” cried his sister, pa.s.sionately weeping. ”Ah! if we were to lose you, what would become of us?”

”Never fear, Kate; I will run into no needless danger. I know how to take care of myself. I am of opinion, that the Indian camp is broken up; they seldom stay long in one place. I will go over the hills and examine the camp at a distance and the lake sh.o.r.e. You and Louis may keep watch for my return from the big pine that we halted under on our way hither.”

”But, Hector, if the savages should see you and take you prisoner,”

said Catharine, ”what would you do?” ”I will tell you what I would do.

Instead of running away, I would boldly walk up to them, and by signs make them understand that I am no scout, but a friend in need of nothing but kindness and friends.h.i.+p. I never yet heard of the Indian that would tomahawk the defenceless stranger that sought his camp openly in peace and goodwill.”

”If you do not return by sunset, Hector, we shall believe that you have fallen into the hands of the savages,” said Catharine, mournfully regarding her brother.

”If it were not for Catharine,” said Louis, ”you should not go alone, but, if evil befel this helpless one, her blood would be upon my head, who led her out with us, tempting her with false words.”

”Never mind that now, dearest cousin,” said Catharine, tenderly laying her hand on his arm. ”It is much better that we should have been all three together; I should never have been happy again if I had lost both Hec and you. It is better as it is; you and Hec would not have been so well off if I had not been with you to help you, and keep up your spirits by my songs and stories.”

”It is true, ma chere; but that is the reason that I am bound to take care of my little cousin, and I could not consent to exposing you to danger, or leaving you alone; so, if Hec will be so headstrong, I will abide by you.”

Hector was so confident that he should return in safety, that at last Louis and Catharine became more reconciled to his leaving them, and soon busied themselves in preparing some squirrels that Louis had brought in that morning.

The day wore away slowly, and many were the anxious glances that Catharine cast over the crest of the high bank to watch for her brother's return; at last, unable to endure the suspense, she with Louis left the shelter of the valley; they ascended the high ground, and bent their steps to the trysting tree, which commanded all the country within a wide sweep.

A painful and oppressive sense of loneliness? and desolation came over the minds of the cousins as they sat together at the foot of the pine, which cast its lengthened shadow upon the ground before them. The shades of evening were shrouding them, wrapping the lonely forest in gloom. The full moon had not yet risen, and they watched for the first gleam that should break above the eastern hills to cheer them, as for the coming of a friend.

Sadly these two poor lonely ones sat hand in hand, talking of the happy days of childhood, or the perplexing present and the uncertain future.