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THE interior of the cavern presented a singular
appearance.

A bright fire was burning, and on all sides were
piled up articles which the savages had carried
off with them from the plundered dwellings. These objects
were indicative of the mingled barbarism and childish simplicity
of the Indians. There was much gaily-colored
crockery; many bright linsey and other fabrics were seen
scattered about; and a few strings of beads, and brass rings,
taken from the dead bodies of the women whom they had
slain, and brought, not without unwillingness, to the general
mass, were the objects of longing and covetous glances.

The Indians were forty or fifty in number, and were scattered
about the large cavern in various attitudes, picturesque
and graceful, or odd and grotesque. Here a great
warrior was broiling a piece of venison at the blazing fire in
the centre, the savory odor diffusing itself throughout the
cave:—there an Indian boy was striving to put together the
broken pieces of a red crockery dish, which he had guarded
on the march with a jealous care which indicated the high
value which he placed upon it. In a corner a number of
the braves were sleeping tranquilly in the red light, the
blood of the slain still staining their tomahawks, and more
than one gory scalp hanging from their girdles, but slumbering,
nevertheless, like infants, under the stupefying
effects of a long march, a heavy meal, and some rum which
they had taken from the Ordinary.

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In an obscure corner to which the light of the fire scarcely
penetrated, a number of captives, male and female, with
their hands securely tied, were huddled together upon the
the floor of the cavern, under a guard, who watched them
with grave intentness. Neither Monsieur Jambot nor
Major Hastyluck was visible, however:—and we may as
well say here that these worthies had been “pricked onward”
under heavy loads, by another portion of the band,
who had hurried westward, and were never more heard of in
that region. Hastyluck, doubtless, drank punch among the
Sioux and Catawbas—when he could get it—for the remainder
of his life: and Monsieur Jambot taught the minuet
and reel to youthful savage maidens.

Lightfoot passed through the group, who made way for
the young chief with evident respect, and slowly ascended
the rugged stairway into the next cave above.

In this were confined, under guard of a single Indian, who
stood outside, Mrs. Butterton, Miss Argal, and Cannie.

The two former were sleeping, wrapped in shawls, near a
blazing fire, on piles of dry grass which had been arranged
for them—their feet swollen and frayed by the long journey—
their skirts cut off below the knees—a necessity to facilitate
their movements.*

Mrs. Butterton was slumbering fitfully; her dress was
stained with blood, and a wound was visible upon one of
her large fat arms; from which wound, indeed, had flowed
the blood which the pursuing party discovered at the point
of divergence of the two routes. The dame had been discovered
bending down and breaking the branches, and one
of the chiefs had struck her with his tomahawk. The
wound was not dangerous, however. She slept uneasily,
but evidently without much physical pain. But, from time
to time, her features would become distorted by an

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expression of fear, and she would raise her hands wildly and murmur
some broken and indistinct words, which the young
Indian sentinel would listen to with grave interest. Miss
Argal slept as quietly and sweetly as a child.

Cannie was awake, and when the light tread of the young
Indian attracted her attention, the little face became
brighter, and she held out her hand to Lightfoot with the
air of a child who sees a protector approach. The smile
with which she greeted him was inexpressibly sad; but his
presence was evidently a comfort to her.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you, Lightfoot!” she said, wiping
away two tears which hung like dew-drops upon her
eye-lashes; “this place frightens me, and it is like home to
see you.”

The word home seemed to direct the girl's thoughts to her
grandfather, and with a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks,
she placed both hands upon her face and sobbed.

“Oh, me! they have killed him! they have killed him!”

Lightfoot stood for a moment, silently regarding the girl
as she half reclined upon the couch of dry grass, her frame
shaken by sobs, her breast heaving, her long chestnut curls
falling wildly about her shoulders. An expression of unspeakable
love and tenderness came to his eyes; and he
seemed unable for the moment to command his voice.

He controlled his emotion, however, with the wonderful
art of his race, and made a movement of his hand toward
the young Indian who stood on guard.

“Go,” he said, in the Catawba tongue, “I would speak
with the captive.”

The sentinel obeyed with an alacrity which indicated perfect
willingness to join his companions below, and disappeared.
The cavern was left thus untenanted except by the
two persons, and the sleepers, whose heavy breathing invaded
the silence.

Lightfoot took the hand of the girl in his own, with an
air of the deepest respect, and said, mildly:

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“No, they have not killed your grandfather, Mountain
Dove. You know that I came from the forest as the Catawbas
made their attack. Had I arrived sooner,” added the
young Indian, raising his head proudly, “it would never
have happened, for they obey the son of War Eagle. I
came in time to stop the knife which would have scalped
the old man:—he is scarcely injured, and will soon walk the
mountain again.”

“Oh, are you sure, Lightfoot?” cried Cannie, removing
her hands quickly, and raising her wet face, “are you sure?
Dear Lightfoot! you love Cannie—do you not? Do not
deceive me! I am only a child,” she added, weeping silently,
“and very weak, but I can bear it—I won't cry! Are
you certain that grandpa was not killed?”

“He was only wounded, and not badly. I struck down
the arm of the warrior who would have sealped him; and
you know the tribe directly commenced their march.”

There was an air of such simplicity and sincerity about
the young Indian as he spoke, that his words carried conviction
to his hearer. Her eyes sparkled with sudden delight,
her breast was filled with a long, deep breath, which
seemed to afford her inexpressible relief, and seizing the
Indian's hand, she exclaimed with touching earnestness
and affection:

“How can I ever love you enough, dear Lightfoot, for
protecting grandpa? I will love you until I die!”

And carried away by glad emotion, before he was conscious
of her intention, Cannie raised the hand which she
held to her lips, and imprinted upon it a long, lingering
kiss.

A shudder of delight ran through the frame of the young
Indian. His face flushed, and the eyes which were generally
so calm and clear, suddenly filled with impetuous
emotion. A thrill of happiness agitated his pulses, at the
contact of the soft, warm lips, and he drew away the hand,

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with a look of such unspeakable tenderness that Cannie
colored to the roots of her hair.

That look had revealed to her in an instant, with the rapidity
of lightning, as it were, the secret of the young
Indian. For years she had known that he had a deep
affection for her—from her childhood he had visited the
mountain cottage regularly, and always exhibited his fondness—
but now she saw plainly that there was a deeper feeling
in his heart. The instinct of womanhood explained all
this to her—she saw for the first time, with agitated eyes,
that the young Indian loved her as a youth loves a maiden.

And Lightfoot was not backward in discerning the new
relations which must exist from that moment between himself
and Cannie. He saw that his glance had betrayed him,
that she had witnessed his tremor of delight—that she had
understood at last his real feelings. They had grown up
together, as youth and child—they were no longer such.
It was a man who was sitting beside the woman whom he
loved with a devotion and tenderness which absorbed his
very being,

For some moments deep silence reigned in the cavern.
Both were too much overcome to speak. A vague pain and
pity, not unmingled with tenderness, filled the bosom of
the young girl; and from time to time, she stole a furtive
glance at the Indian, her cheeks burning with blushes, her
lips trembling. Never had she looked so beautiful as at
that instant. The curls of her chestnut hair fell in glossy
masses around the pure young face with its innocent and
grave sweetness—the slender figure inclined sidewise, in an
attitude of exquisite grace—the head was bent over the left
shoulder, and nearly rested upon it:—in outline and carriage,
in the entire character and expression, of the girl,
there was no longer anything of the child: it was a woman,
and a woman of surpassing loveliness, who had burst into
bloom—passed suddenly from the bud to the perfect flower.
Had sorrow caused this rapid development? It may have

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been so. But often a similar phenomenon takes place without
any visible reason.

It was then that the young Indian proved the nobility of his
nature. Instead of taking her hand, he drew his own away.
Instead of gazing into the blushing and agitated face, to
discern if his feelings were returned, he lowered his eyes.
For some moments his gaze remained fixed upon the floor
of the cavern, and the heaving muscles of his chest alone
indicated the terrible war of emotion in his bosom.

When he raised his head he had become calm again.
There was no longer any light in his eyes, any flush in his
cheeks; and the lips were firm again. A grave sweetness
and serenity, just tinged with melancholy, had replaced the
sudden rush of ardent emotion. It was the face full of serious
and noble dignity to which she was accustomed: and
Cannie blushed again, as she looked into the clear eyes, as
the woman's thought came to her—he is so noble, and he
loves me!

For some moments they sat gazing thus in silence at each
other. Then the young Indian gravely took her little hand
in his own, and pressed it to his lips, with the expression of
a devotee at the shrine of his saint.

“Lightfoot is a poor weak boy,” he said, in a low voice,
which had not recovered its calmness wholly; “he has done
wrong. But the little Mountain Dove will forgive him—
will she not?”

“Forgive you, Lightfoot?” murmured Cannie, almost inaudibly,
“why, what have you done?”

“What was wrong,” said the young man, shaking his
head, sadly. “I cannot conceal anything—my father always
made me act honestly—I have tried to be the son of
War Eagle in truth, and this puts the words in my mouth.
I have done wrong, because I have spoken with my
eyes to the Dove, as a young pale-face may speak—and
said, `I love you.' I am not a pale-face, I am a poor Indian,
and inferior to the tribe beyond the Big Water. It is

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not right that my father's son should do this—that ho
should come to the little white Dove when she has no
friend near her—when she is a captive in the hands of
Lightfoot's tribe—and say, `I love you, and would have you
love me as your chosen warrior.' No, no,” said the young
Indian, his cheeks filling in spite of every effort, and his
voice trembling, “that is wrong, and my father's spirit
frowns upon me from the sky!”

And turning away his head, the speaker uttered a deep
sigh, which, but for his immense self-control, would have
turned into a groan.

The girl blushed and avoided his gaze as he spoke; but
now recovering her voice, said in low, broken accents:

“You pain me, Lightfoot! You hurt Cannie. Do not
talk thus. I am only a child, and you must love me as before—
for—for—I love you dearly—dear, dear, Lightfoot!”

She had not intended it. She never would have uttered
the words had she reflected for a single instant upon the
meaning which he must attach to them. It was an impulse
of irresistible pity and kindness which carried her away—of
woman's tenderness for one who loved her and suffered—
of admiration and old affection, and lonely weakness. She
burst into a flood of tears as she spoke, and then suddenly
drew her hand away.

The young Indian had seized it with passionate tenderness,
and covered it with kisses.

“No—no!” she sobbed; “do not! do not, Lightfoot! I
did not mean—how unhappy—how miserable I am!”

And the voice died away in an inarticulate murmur. The
Indian drew back, and folded his arms. He saw his terrible
error in an instant, and in its whole extent. His heart
turned cold, and with close-set teeth he remained as
silent and rigid as a statue, his dark eyes burning with
a fixed and immovable despair. The girl spoke first:
her voice was broken and agitated. Sobs interrupted it, at
every instant.

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“I was—wrong: it was cruel to—mislead you. I will
not affect—any ignorance of your meaning! Will you—
pardon me? I am not strong and calm like you, Lightfoot,”
she continued, wiping her eyes, and continuing more
calmly, “I am only a child, and I could not help saying
how much I—loved you, as my dear, dear friend and playmate,
at our dear little home! I did not think—but I will
not speak of that any more! Indeed, you are very dear
to me, for you have been kind and good to me always,
and to grandpapa, and I admire, and look up to you, Lightfoot.
I am only a child yet, and not a woman. You will
love me, will you not, as a child—as you always loved me—
and I will love you. You'll be my brother and friend, will
you not, Lightfoot?”

And Cannie, with all the simplicity and innocence of a
child, looked into the young Indian's agitated face, smiling
through her tears, and appealing to him, as it were, for care
and protection.

A last contraction of the Indian's features betrayed the
depth of the despair which he controlled with a will of iron.
He had conquered himself. His face grew calm and grave
again—he returned the confiding look of the girl with one
of brotherly kindness and affection.

“I thank the Great Spirit, who has blessed the poor son
of War Eagle with these moments,” he said, raising his
noble head and eyes toward heaven, “I thank the Master of
Life more than all for placing me where I may show the
young Dove of the mountain that I am her friend. Let her
cease to remember the wild words which Lightfoot has uttered—
they came from his lips without asking him to let
them. But the blood shall flow out of his heart as readily
for the Dove who has spoken to him so kindly. Yes, yes, I
will be your friend, Mountain Dove—the hour is near when
I will prove it. Forget now the words I have spoken, and
sleep. But pray for the poor son of War Eagle first.”

“Oh, yes!” said Cannie, wiping away her tears, “let us

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pray together as we have often done at home, Lightfoot!”

And taking the Indian's hand, the young girl knelt at his
side, and murmured a prayer for him, for her grandfather,
and for all whom she loved.

It was a touching spectacle, to see the young man and
the girl thus kneeling beside each other in the gloomy
cavern, only half revealed by the stray gleams of the dying
fire. They were of different and hostile races—they were
in deadly peril—the hours that came rapidly would decide
life or death for them—but they prayed. They prayed as
tranquilly and hopefully, their hunble prayer, as though
they knelt at home in the little mountain dwelling. And
mortals may do as much everywhere.

When Lightfoot slowly retired, his face was quite calm.
His great soul was untroubled. He had yielded his heart
and future to the “Master of Life,” and was tranquil.

Fifteen minutes after he had disappeared down the staircase,
the Half-breed, who had been concealed in a dark
nook at the entrance, glided out, and entered the cavern
from which he had just emerged.

p507-346

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