[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]

The illusions of a disordered fancy at length
floated quietly away. Lucy Everett awoke from
a long and refreshing slumber to recollection and
reason.

She was lying on a couch of elegant workmanship
beneath a light and fanciful covering.
The room though small, was lofty and tastefully
arranged. A few fragrant and fresh gathered
flowers lay scattered on the fair covering; and
a vase containing a still more beautiful variety,
stood on the low toilette beside her.

It was a bright still summer afternoon, and the
lofty window open before her, commanded a
prospect of extreme and varied beauty. A soft
haze hung over the quiet landscape below—the
broad bay, and clustering islands, and the woody
outline of its far off shores leaning against the
cloudless azure. A faint breeze was just creeping
along the sleepy wave, slightly stirring the
folds of the muslin curtain, and freshening the
pale brow and cheek of the invalid.

“Ah, Holy Mary, thou hast heard my orison,”
exclaimed a low whispering tone; and the next
moment a tall young female was bending over
her couch, her dark features glowing with pleasure,
and her lip yet trembling with the aspirations

[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]

of devotion. “Holy Mary, mother of Jesus, thou
hast heard thy suppliant. The English maiden
shall not die among strangers.”

There was much that, to Lucy at least, seemed
singular in the person and manner of the young
devotee. Notwithstanding the unusual richness
of her whole dress, and the air of hauteur which
seemed to proclaim the lady of rank, too deep a
shade was mingled over her fine and well formed
features for a daughter of the European race,
while the soft glow that suffused her countenance
seemed too clear and vivid for the cheek of an
Indian maiden. She wore on her bosom a small
diamond cross, a golden rosary adorned her neck,
and her long dark hair was wound in braided
tresses around her head. But the invalid felt
that it was the face of a stranger; and pained
and wearied, she turned away murmuring in
grieved tones the name of her parents, until a
sudden and violent flood of weeping relieved her
anguish. The stranger, meanwhile, still bent over
her, unconscious of the meaning of those impassioned
words, and uttering in her foreign language,
every expression of condolence, which sympathy
or affection could suggest.

“If you do indeed pity me,” exclaimed Lucy,
at length adopting the language of her companion,
“let me go home and die in my mother's
arms.”

“Ah, no, heaven forbid,” replied the young
lady with a smile. “You will not die now.
Your hand is as soft and as cold as my own, and
the deep flush is all faded out. No, English
maiden, I have not thus vainly told my beads.
The Holy Saints and the Blessed Virgin, will not

[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]

reject the orisons that, with fasting and incense,
I have offered them.”

“Oh, talk no more to me of the Virgin Mary,
nor of the Saints,” interrupted the invalid. “Dear
lady, if you do indeed love me, pray no more for
me in those unworthy names. Oh, it is a bitter
thing to die,”—she added, in murmuring
tones,—“but to die among the despisers of the
true faith, far away from all who love me, and
in the dwelling of this proud and wicked Baron—”

Three successive times the lady had crossed
herself during this burst of feeling, and at the
conclusion of it, her keen dark eye flashed with a
sudden expression of wounded pride.

“The Baron de Castine is my father,” she exclaimed,
drawing herself proudly up from the
couch, “and though you are a prisoner of war,
and the daughter of his enemy, he hath kindly
and honorably treated you, as though you were
of his own nation. It was he that bade me watch
by your couch, and soothe you in your sickness,
and do all for you that I would have done for
the sister of my love, and now—” The remainder
of the sentence was only told in the
proud glance, with which she turned away from
her, and walked slowly to the window. There
was now a short silence, interrupted only by frequent
and heavy sighs from the couch of the invalid.
The eye of the stranger occasionally returned,
and with every glance at that pale and
lovely countenance, her resentment seemed gradually
to grow less powerful, until at length entirely
forgetting it, amid the glow of generous
emotions, she again approached her couch.

“English maiden, I know that you have suffered

[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]

long and much, and I forgive your unkindness.
Say no more,” she whispered, as an expression of
gratitude trembled on the lip of her young charge,
“I know how hard it is to be parted from those
we love—and a mother too—my own is far away
in heaven, and though the daughter of the wild
Mohican race, I mourned for her none the less
bitterly.”

“Ah, my sweet young nurse, my dear Lady
Antoinette,” exclaimed a shrill quick voice,
at the door, “how fares your invalid, this afternoon.”

“Better, a thousand times better,” was the
reply. “Come in, Madame La Framboise,
and see if she be not changed, since yesterday.”

A small and delicate female now opened the
door, and gently approached the couch. “Ah,
yes, my dear young lady,” she exclaimed, after
examining, for a few moments, the pulse of the
patient, which though yet languid, was now
calm and regular. “The maiden needs only
your kind and gentle nursing, and she is well.
And now,” she added in a livelier tone, “I may
do you my message from Lieutenant Beaumont;
he says, if you do not join the dance this evening—”

“Hush, hush, Madame La Framboise,” exclaimed
the other, interrupting her, “how can
you thus disturb my patient?” and leading her
to the door, she added in a whisper, “If the
prisoner continues better, I will join you again
at vespers.”

A profound stillness now reigned in the apartment,
or if any sounds came upon the breeze
from below, they were softened and blended in

[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]

the distance, like some faint cradle air, and long
ere the vesper bell had chimed through the palace,
the English captive had sunk into a gentle
slumber.

Madame La Framboise had not vainly calculated
upon the effect of the unwearied attentions of the
Lady Antoinette, and in a few days more, her unfortunate
charge was so far recovered as to walk from
her couch to the window, while the faint pink of
returning health, hourly deepened on her countenance.
The subjects of reflection, however,
which now constantly engaged her attention,
were such as might naturally be supposed to retard
her recovery. The extreme hopelessness of
her situation,—for a long and bloody war was
just opening upon the colonists,—her anxiety for
the fate of her parents, and the idea of wasting,
within her prison walls, the bloom of that existence
which she would joyfully have devoted to
their happiness, all contributed to lower that pitch
of elastic feeling, with which we are wont to
arise from the couch of languishing. She was
not indeed insensible to the many alleviations of
her fate. The kind Antoinette had frequently
assured her of the utmost exertions of her influence;
but the idea of escape from that well
guarded fortress, was too hopeless even for the
longing fancy of the captive,—and might this be
effected, the impossibility of finding her way
through the forest, effectually checked every
project which friendship or hope could suggest.

It was in one of these dispirited frames, that
the captive one evening sat by her window,
watching the last lingerings of day upon the distant
hills, and warbling a few catches of her

[figure description] Page 250.[end figure description]

father's favorite air, while her thoughts wandered
far away, over the expanse of wave and forest,
to the lovely and beloved home of her childhood.
The noise in the court beneath had meanwhile
gradually diminished; and on casting her eye
downward, she perceived that the group of Indians
and soldiers, who a short time before had
crowded the pavement, was now gradually diminishing,
until only a single Indian remained in
sight. He was apparently engaged in mending a
broken bow; but Lucy noticed that as he persevered
in his employment, his eyes were occasionally
directed, as if by stealth, to the windows of her
apartment.

There was nothing in his appearance or employment,
at all peculiar, save that he hummed
as he worked, occasional snatches of that well
remembered song, which Alaska had formerly
used as the vehicle of his communications to her
in the forest; and at times too, she fancied that
the voice itself seemed familiar. But the object
of her curiosity soon arose from the pavement;
and after gazing cautiously about him, he turned
suddenly and directed his aim against the palace
walls. Lucy now watched his seemingly unimportant
manœuvres with intense interest, for the
light was still sufficient to reveal the form and
features of the noble hearted Alaska.

Several times he had shot carelessly against
the wall, as if to test the mended string; but
Lucy had noticed that each successive time the
aim was higher, and she was seeking to ascertain
whether this circumstance was indeed accidental,
when she perceived with surprise that he had
again fixed his aim, and was evidently about to
let fly his arrow, precisely at the spot where she

[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]

now stood. In a moment she had retreated from
the window, and the next, the arrow whizzed past
her.

It was several moments ere she had sufficiently
recovered from her surprise to venture from her
retreat, and she then timidly approached to examine
the arrow. A dark coil was wound around
one of its extremities. It yielded to her touch,
and the next moment a bracelet dropped to the
floor. It was her own, and braided of one of
those auburn locks that had waved on her mother's
head in the day of her youth and beauty;
and, with a sudden cry of joy, the captive at
once realized that she beheld a token from her
distant home. She leaned again from the window.

“They who send you this token, maiden,” said
Alaska, in low and distinct tones, glancing cautiously
around him, “bade me bring you this message
also. When one sun more has set, a guide
will wait for you on yonder shore. English maiden,
there is one within who can help you. The
daughter of the white chief is good and gentle,
she hath the heart of a Mohican, and she is
mighty. All night the guides will wait for
you, at the white rock beyond the hut of Wassaic.”

At that moment, the deep toned bell announced
that the hour of vespers was past; and
Alaska speedily retreated to a distant part of
the court. While yet trembling with the amazement
which this communication had excited, a
rapid step was heard along the corridor, and Antoinette
presented herself at the door. That she
was the person to whom Alaska alluded, Lucy

[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]

could not for a moment doubt; and the singular
and uniform kindness with which she had from
the first regarded her, together with the repeated
assurance of her sympathy and assistance, all
designated her as a proper object for confidence.

The Lady Antoinette listened in silence to the
brief detail. She trod swiftly up and down the
apartment, and there seemed a conflict of overwhelming
feelings.

“Forgive me, Lady Antoinette,” exclaimed
Lucy, at length interrupting the painful silence,
“if I have presumed too much on your friendship.
I had thought—but I was wrong. Do not
agitate yourself, Lady Antoinette, you are freed
from any engagements you may in your careless
moments have made me.”

“Speak lower, Mademoiselle,” replied her
companion, pointing to the door of the apartment,
“the guards were at this end of the corridor
as I passed, and if they overhear us we are
ruined. I know, my dear girl, that suspicions
are awakened; for when I kneeled at my confessions
this morning, the holy Father bade me remember
a sin of far more deadly hue than aught
that I had owned, and warned me of the guilt of
loving those whom the church regards only with
holy horror. But, Lucy, I do indeed love you,”
she added, pausing before her, and her dark eyes
filling with tears. “Stranger and heretic though
you are, I love you, may the Blessed Virgin forgive
me;—and for myself, I would joyfully incur
all the anger and reproach, if so I could effect
your escape. But, Lucy, I cannot do this alone.
I must exert my influence over those that love

[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]

me, to do that which would dishonor their noble
names,—secretly and treacherously to release the
prisoners whom the blood of their soldiers hath
purchased. Ah, that any should do this for the
love of Antoinette de Castine! I could do all but
this for you, Lucy Everett.”

“I believe it, dear lady. I believe that you
would do all for me, that is kind and honorable;
and I desire no more. Forgive me, if the idea of
liberty and happiness, hath made me selfish. Dear
Antoinette, I have had fearful thoughts to-day, I
know that the priests of your religion have ever
deemed the blood of such an one as I, a grateful
offering to heaven. Antoinette, I am a daughter
of the Puritans, and who knows what dark trials
are now in store for me. No—look not incredulous.
I have read too well the history of your
church and mine. Far better had it been for me
to have died in the forest.”

“Lucy Everett,” replied Antoinette, after some
minutes of thoughtful silence, “we must make
Madame La Framboise our confidant. Aye,—do
not fear her; she is a Catholic indeed, but so are
we all, and she is full of invention and skill, and
knows well how to conduct such stratagems as
we shall have need of. I know too that she pities
your misfortunes.”

Antoinette now drew towards the door.
“Do not be surprised,” she added, in a whisper,
“if I see you no more to-night. If suspicions
are once excited, my efforts are all in
vain. But I promise you, by the Mass, and
by this image of our Blessed Mary, that I will
not fail to exert my whole soul, for your deliverance.”

[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]

Lucy Everett could not for a moment doubt
the sincerity of this earnest appeal; but her
heart died within her, as the sound of retreating
steps grew faint in the distance, and she found
herself once more alone, in the solitude of her
prison.

Previous section

Next section