CHAPTER III. THE PROPOSAL.
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Raoul de Rohan, better known by his ecclesiastical title
of Father Borromee, who was now attached to a mission of
French origin, and supported entirely by the French government,
which had seriously turned its attention to the colonization
of the Canadas, and the northeastern provinces of the
North American continent, was by birth a Frenchman, of the
very highest birth and station. His family had given more
than one marshal to their country, and the exploits of the name
of De Rohan had been recounted in every clime whose air
had fluttered the glorious oriflamme, whose sun had shone
upon the glittering panoply and brandished arms of the patrician
leaders and daring hosts of France. Cast early upon the
world, a noble and rich orphan, Raoul had followed the standard
of his country for the aggrandizement of her ambitious
monarch, had won great fame in the field while yet a mere
boy, and had been permitted to buckle on the golden spurs of
knighthood, long ere he had attained to the years of manhood.
Nay! it was openly asserted that he might have aspired to the
baton of a marechal of France; but suddenly, none knew
wherefore, he relinquished the dazzling career on which he
had entered with such early promise, betook himself to Rome,
where he joined the company of Jesus, and, before many years
had passed, enjoyed as high a reputation for energy, zeal,
learning, piety, eloquence, and absolute devotion to the interests
of his order, as he had formerly achieved for conduct and
valor in the tented field.
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By the director-general of the order, he had been several
times intrusted with missions of the highest importance in almost
every quarter of the world, from Pekin to Paraguay, and
from the shores of the Red sea and the summits of Lebanon
and Sinai, to the turbid flood of the Mississippi and the cold
crags of the Rocky Mountains. Nor had he once failed in
eliciting the highest praise from his superiors, until he reached
that pitch of eminence, most rare for his years, that whenever
duties were canvassed of more than ordinary peril, and requiring
more than ordinary powers and ability for their accomplishment,
the father Borromeè was ever the first named, both
as the fittest person to be employed and the most eager and
earnest aspirant of the order.
Melancholy, grave, and taciturn, nay, almost cold in his
natural deportment, few suspected, even those who knew him
best, that the calm, tranquil exterior, the impassive lineaments,
the voice imperturbable in its clear, slow, modulated flow,
were but the draperies and disguise of a nature fiery and fierce
as the noonday sun of the equator; and that under the cover
of that iron self-control which seemed immovable as the earthfast
hills, there raged a very furnace of burning and blighting
passions, a temper prone as the flint to give sparks of fire in
return for stroke of steel, as prone as the snow-wreath to melt
into pitiful tears at touch of human sympathy or sorrow.
Strange stories had been rife when he resigned the sword and
spurs for the crucifix and cowl, of frustrated affections, and the
course of true love as usual run astray, of crimes and agonies,
raptures and madness, but like vain rumors they died away,
and none who looked now on the taciturn, emaciated priest,
wasted with penance and maceration, watching and fasting,
and every form of self-denial, could have deemed it possible
that the very spirit of the gladiator, the very passions of the
restless, reckless, roving soldier dwelt beneath the hair-shirt,
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which he wore ever beneath the buckskin which was more
fitting wear for the western wilderness than the surge cassock
of the monk.
Yet, in despite his ascetism, the father Borromeè was a
favorite among the brothers of his order, the chosen counsellor
of his superior, and beloved by the Indians of the Mission with
a love approaching almost to idolatry, which he was wont at
times to censure in the frank and artless neophytes, as being
greater in degree and more intense in its character than it became
mortal creatures to bestow one upon the other. The
secret of this lay perhaps in the fact that stern and rigid toward
himself, he was indulgent, liberal, and unexacting toward
others; that grave and austere to himself when alone, he was
genial, bland, and warm-hearted, toward others, and that his
tact and tenderness in managing those full-grown children of
nature's own framing, the red Indians, he was celebrated above
the celebrated, and was everywhere, so far as his eloquence
or his report had penetrated, the counsellor, the friend, and almost
the father of those who loved to call themselves his red
children.
It was toward this stately and dignified personage that the
“Reed-shaken-by-the-wind” turned her footsteps, carrying in
her hand the string of rock-bass which she had taken, and
with a very singular expression in her large liquid eye, halfbashful
and shy, yet half-alluring and attractive, and with something
in her whole gait, air, and demeanor, that implied an
eager desire to attract notice, mingled with a timidity more
than mere girlish bashfulness, which seemed as if it must have
its own peculiar meaning. Her eyes were downcast as she
approached the priest, yet she shot long, furtive glances from
beneath the deep-fringed lashes which were pencilled in strong
relief against the glowing hues of her rich cheeks, for she
blushed deeply, almost painfully as she became conscious that
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his clear, cold, penetrating eye was fixed on her as she approached
with intense serutiny. As she drew nearer to him
yet, she faltered more and more, and with her head bowed
meekly, and her left arm pressed across her gently budding
bosom, she knelt silently at his feet, laying her little offering
of fish before him, and seeming to implore his blessing, although
her lips could syllable no sounds to ask it.
The cold face of the impassive churchman relaxed not in
the least, perhaps, if anything, it waxed graver, harder, and
more solemn, and that deep, keen, gray eye pierced deeper,
deeper, as if it would penetrate her soul, that she fancied she
could almost feel its penetration like that of a two-edged instrument
of steel.
At length, however, as if with something of an effort, he
signed the cross over her brow, and then extending both hands
with the palms deflected over her head — “Bless thee,” he
said, in tones full of calm, devotional affection, “bless thee, my
daughter, and may He bless thee, whose blessing only avails
anything, and keep thee to eternal life.”
She rose slowly and gazed wistfully and gratefully into his
eyes, and then turned as if to go toward the chapel, whither
many of the Indians, as well as all the brothers and lay brothers
of the company were flocking in from the fields, when his
steady and harmonious voice arrested her.
“Ashahgunushk, whither goest thou?”
“To church, father,” she replied, speaking in singularly
pure French, with an accent hardly at all foreign or provincial.
“I am almost too late, but I knew not the hour until I heard
the bell, where I was fishing.”
“Art thou prepared, Roseau tremblante?” he asked again,
addressing her now by the French translation of her Indian
name; “art thou prepared to worship the most high God, in
penitence of heart and sincerity of spirit?”
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“Father!” the girl replied, with a tremulous hesitation that
was singularly touching, but she said no more.
“Art thou prepared, I say, daughter, to bow the knee of thy
heart before the Lord of all mercies, and ask of him that forgiveness
which he alone can grant, and then only to the true
penitent?”
“Father, I am prepared — I know my own unworthiness.”
“When didst thou confess thyself, my daughter?”
“On Easter-Sunday, father,” she replied, again hesitating,
and casting down her eyes to the ground, and her cheeks now
steeped with burning blushes.
“Not since so long — and wherefore, Ahsahgunushk?
Thou wert wont to be truly penitent, daughter, even for small
offendings. Wherefore not since so long?”
“Father,” returned the Reed-shaken-by-the-wind. “Father,
it is that — that — I dare not.”
“Dare not! — you dare not confess?” he replied severely, in
his slowest and most solemn tones. “You dare not to confess,
Ahsahgunushk? — and how then shall you dare to die? and
how know that this very day, nay, that this very hour, He shall
not require your soul of you, to whom you dare not confess?
Of what so great sins are you guilty, that you should not repent
them, and confess, and be forgiven?”
“Oh, very, very guilty! Pardon me, father, pardon me!”
and she again knelt at his feet, and strove to clasp his knees,
burying her head in her lap as she did so, and bursting into a
flood of tears of humiliation, and an agony of self-abasement.
“It is not for me to pardon — only to pronounce the pardon
of Him who is in all, and through all, and over all, unto those
who repent them truly of their sins past, and intend steadfastly
to lead a new life.” And he drew back from her half-extended
arms as he spoke, adding — “Touch me not, daughter, for I
fear that thou art corrupt of heart, and that thy touch is of
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pollution. But, hear me, go thy way into the church, and pray
for strength and succor from above. To-morrow morning,
which is Sunday, I shall be in the chair, and see thou come to
confessional, so shall I set thee penance for thine ill-doings,
if that they deserve it, and grant thee absolution of thy sins.”
“Oh, no, no, father! I can not,” she exclaimed amid an
agony of passionate weeping. Oh, no, no, no — I can not — I
can not.”
“Canst not confess, Ahsahgunushk — and wherefore —
wherefore — what crime couldst thou have done so terrible
that thou must needs despair?”
“Not that,” she faltered — “not that, father. I could — I
could perhaps confess but — not — not — in short, not to thee!”
“Not to me!” exclaimed the father Borromeè starting backward,
“and wherefore, I prithee, not to me? Why it is to me
that you came for admission to the fold of Christ the Savior!
It is I, who prepared you for your first sacrament, I who have
absolved you ever of your failings and errors, for hitherto your
sins have been but venial — and, even now, I trust that I shall
not lack the power to console you, and absolve you of this
your evil doing, be it what it may. Only come, come, I command
you, as you would save your soul alive, come to the confessional
to-morrow morning.”
And with the words he turned on his heel, without uttering
another word, and strode away silent and austere, to robe himself
in clerical vestments, put on above his forest costume, in
order to minister at the altar, the only altar to the true God in
thousand miles of breadth of wilderness, and lake and river.
The maiden followed him silently, with her large dark eyes
swimming in tears, yet fixed upon his commanding form, like
pure stars shining through the mists which may dim, but can
not obliterate their spiritual lustre. Passing beneath the arch
iuto the corridor of the mission-house, she turned short to the
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right, and stood within the precincts of the chapel, a large rustic
building erected, it is true, from the perishable materials of
the forest only, but in the pointed Gothic style, the groined
arches being composed of the gnarled and fantastic knees of
gigantic oaks, and the columns of knotted shafts of heavenaspiring
pines, all wearing the natural colors of the timber,
unpainted and aspiring to no decoration beyond the ruggedlysymmetrical
forms in which they had been arranged by the
master-hand of one who had not studied architecture for mean
end or little purpose. At the entrance stood a vessel containing
holy water, and at the farther end was an altar, with an
ascent of six broad steps, and a wooden railing, above which
was seen the scanty sacramental plate, duly arranged on the
board, and several candelabra furnished with candles manufactured
from the wax of the wild-bee by the hands of the fathers
themselves within the walls of the mission. Not far from the
altar stood a pulpit of form so graceful, that it atoned for the
simplicity and rudeness of the material, and above the sacramental-table
towered on a huge cross of ebony, the semblance
of Him crucified, exquisitely carved in ivory; this sacred
effigy, together with the sacramental-plate, being the only
articles of foreign character discoverable in that foreign sanctuary.
Within its humble walls were associated all the members
of the order, and most of the Christian Indians, for it was the
usage of the fathers to commence every day with a brief service,
at which they required the presence of all the neophytes,
unless for especial reasons shown wherefore they should absent
themselves, and morning after morning, whether the burning
sun of July was scourging the tree-tops with his intolerable
lustre, or the deep snows of December lay spotless over miles
and miles of untrodden wilderness, the sounds of their matinbell,
hailing the advent of the happy dawn, and summoning the
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artless worshippers to greet the Giver of all good with their
unpretending orisons. Nearly a hundred Indians were collected,
mostly old men, or girls and women, for the chiefs were
principally absent fishing for the great salmon of the lakes, and
the delicious white-fish, which were beginning to run in toward
the shores and shallows about the river mouths, and on
which the community in a great degree depended for their
winter subsistence. And orderly they sat and attentive, with
their dark serious eyes fixed wistfully on the face of the ministering
priests, accurately performing all the signs and ceremonials
of the ritual, crossing themselves and making the accustomed
genuflexions, and even uplifting their sweet and
silvery voices to join the chanted hymns and litanies, but of
course unable to comprehend a word of the services, which
were couched in an unknown tongue. The brief services
were, however, soon completed, and then the Father Borromeè,
ascending the pulpit, preached a short, lucid, and eloquent,
because fervent, direct, and clearly comprehensible sermon, in
the French language, to as attentive an audience as ever listened
to the words of holy writ from the mouth of mortal man.
He had taken as his text the words — “Come unto me all ye
that are heavy laden,” and his discourse was not an apology
for the use of the confessional, but a direct and forcible argument
in behalf of its necessity, ending with a striking and
almost sublime peroration, inviting, commanding, imploring all
those who would not slight and impiously reject the gift inestimable
gift of the dying Redeemer, even the gift of his own
divine life, draw near and confess, meekly kneeling upon their
knees, the sins of which, being human, they must necessarily
have committed, and to receive that absolution and forgiveness
which should fit them for eternal life.
Many an eye of those who listened to his eager and solicitous
appeal, for he appeared this morning singularly and as
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it were personally earnest in enforcing his doctrines, was wet
with tears of genuine and sincere penitence for slight and
venial offences, and many a heart was moved to an earnest
renunciation of some familiar and favorite sin, for his words
were of that order that pierce the sick heart through the ear,
and speak with abiding force to all those who listen in humility,
eager to be convinced, through faith, unto salvation. But
there was one soul through the very depths of which every
word, every accent of that deep voice thrilled with a strange
and supernatural power; there was one eye, which, though
downcast and humbly fixed on vacancy, discerned every change
of the dark expressive features of the speaker, read the most
secret thoughts of his heart, felt that his deep, calm, penetrating
eye was fixed upon herself, and knew that however he
might be in appearance preaching to each and all of his little
congregation, every word was, indeed, addressed to herself,
every exhortation pointed at her, every thought suggested by
the conversation which they had held together but a little while
before — that was the girl Ahsahgunushk Numamahtahseng,
or the Reed-shaken-by-the-wind; and, indeed, like a very reed
she was shaken and distracted by the contending winds of
passion and devotion, of human wishes and holier aspirations.
“And can it be,” she thought within herself, “can it be that
he believes me so sinful, or am I, indeed, sinful, and is this
hopeless love, this settled, this devoted, this unselfish, fixed
affection, which never may be gratified; is this — is this, indeed,
a sin. Oh! that he knew, oh! that he knew, once for
all, that which is in this poor, faint heart of mine. For he is
good, and he would pity — he is wise, and he could guide;
and yet, and yet, how can I ever tell him — he can be so stern
to the obstinately sinful; and oh! but this sad love of mine is
very, very obstinate. How shall I ever tell him. “O mon
bon Dieu,” she cried aloud, as her thoughts, her fears, her
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imagination, overpowered her; “O mon bon Dieu, aidez moi, car
je suis fuible, car je suis faible, car je tombe. O mon bon
Dieu, aidez moi, sauvez moi, pardonnez moi, miserable que je
suis!”
And the deep voice of the preacher took up her words as
she uttered them, seemingly unconscious that he had been interrupted,
thus bringing it for the first time to her mind that
she had cried out in the bitterness of her soul before the whole
congregation. “O bon Dieu! aidez nous, sauvez nous, pardonnez
nous, miserables que nous sommes, pecheurs, et indignes,
pardonnez nous; au nom du fils bien cheri, au nom du SaintEsprit,
pardonnez, pardonnez, et sauvez — Amen! Amen!”
The words sunk deep into the wounded spirit of the girl,
and she believed for a moment that he penetrated her secret,
that he had fathomed the abysses of her obstinate and rebellious
heart, that he understood, pitied, prayed for her. Yet
never was she under the influence of a more unfounded fancy.
She had been rather a favorite of the Jesuit from the first, her
singular innocence and artlessness, the confidence with which
she had accepted his ministry, her simple and ingenuous faith,
and her remarkable readiness in acquiring the tongues of Europe,
which she had literally caught on the wing as they fell
from his fluent lips, had all attracted his attention and pleased
his imagination. She was his first convert, too, of that wild
tribe, so that he regarded her not only as an innocent and spotless
lamb rescued by his agency from the fangs of the devouring
wolf, but felt toward her something of the feeling which
dwells in the breast of a young mother toward a first-born
child.
Her rare beauty, too, though he was ignorant of its effect,
and would have shrunk back in horror could he have even
dreamed that the short-lived comeliness of flesh and blood
could influence his imagination, or win anything of his favor,
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had probably not failed of its wonted attraction; and he confessed
even to himself that her sweet, low voice — the voices
of most Indian women, while young, are liquid and melodious,
but Ahsahgunushk's was so even to the wonder of the tribe —
found a responsive chord in his memory, or his fancy — he
would not admit even to himself that he had a heart — and
transported him to days long past, and scenes long unvisited,
but never to be forgotten.
If, however, the maiden erred in supposing that the causes
of her agitation, her absenting herself from the confessional,
her tears and self-reproaches were understood or suspected
by the father, she deceived herself yet more blindly when she
supposed that they had escaped the eyes of another. And
yet, when she arose from her knees at the conclusion of the
service, and found the keen, hawk-like glance of the Bald-Eagle
riveted with a meaning expression, half fierce, half fond,
yet either way, most repulsive, upon her shrinking form and
conscious features, she shuddered with a sort of half-prophetic
terror, and endeavored so to mingle herself with the other girls,
as to escape his notice.
If such, however, was her intention, it was frustrated, for as
she passed out of the gateway into the garden, a hand was
laid firmly, though not forcibly, upon her shoulder, and as she
started, and instinctively endeavored to free herself from the
grasp, the deep voice of the Indian, suppressed into its gentlest
tones, fell upon her ear ungraciously, and conveying nothing
either of confidence or of gratification on its tones.
“Be not frightened, Ahsahgunushk,” it said, “it is only I —
the Bald-Eagle of the Iroquois. I, who am your friend, and
the son of your father” — for, when captured, almost in her infancy,
from her own tribe, the Ojibwas, whom the whites called
Chippewas, she had been adopted by the great war-chief
of the Hurons, the War-Eagle, and had been brought up in
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his wigwam as if she had been his daughter. “Come this
way,” he continued, waving his hand through the garden toward
the ravine and the woodland beyond it. “Come this
way, the Bald-Eagle would hold council with the Reed-shaken-by-the-wind.”
The girl trembled with ill-repressed aversion, and could
scarcely conceal her reluctance, although the Bald-Eagle was
both a well-formed and handsome Indian, whom any girl of
his tribe would have gladly enlisted among her admirers, and,
besides being the oldest son of the great chief and the succes-sor
to all his hereditary honors, was celebrated as the best
hunter and the bravest warrior of the [roquois of the lakes. He
did not, therefore, suspect for a moment that she could have
any repugnance to himself unless as connected with a preference
for another, and who that other was, he doubted if he did
not actually suspect. He was a man, however, of violent passions
and strong impulses, of an energetic will, and of a resolute,
unbending, and self-confident spirit. No one, therefore,
could be less likely to yield his pretensions to an imaginary
rival, or to shrink from the fanciful fear of meeting a repulse,
from making his wishes known to one over whom in the vain
audacity of his soul he conceived that his slightest wish ought
to have the influence of a law.
The girl, however, who was only annoyed, and not in the
least degree intimidated or overawed by one who could have
no influence over such a mind as hers, except that which may
be produced by the reality of physical superiority and the reputation
of manly courage over the less active spirit of the woman,
replied simply, “No, not that way. Let us take the
canoe, we will speak in it, on the river, where no one shall
hear what the Bald-Eagle wishes with his sister.”
“Not sister!” replied the chief, abruptly. “Do n't say that.
Not sister, I tell you. Ojibwa girl not sister to the
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Bald-Eagle of the Iroquois. Sister — no, never. Wife sometime,
maybe.”
In the meantime, the girl had stepped down the bank, and
taken her place in the stern of the canoe, paddle in hand, and,
although she distinctly heard the last words which the youthful
warrior uttered, she affected not to perceive or comprehend
his meaning, but motioned him to take his seat facing her,
near the head of the slight bark, and sent it out into the middle
of the stream by a dexterous sweep of her paddle.
Then turning her face full upon him, and fixing him with
her full, bright, calm eyes, she asked him, in a steady voice,
in the Iroquois tongue,
“What does the Bald-Eagle wish?”
“The Bald-Eagle,” replied the young man, “is alone. His
lodge is empty. The Bald-Eagle has plenty of venison, plenty
fish, plenty duck — the Bald-Eagle is a great hunter, his arrow
never misses, his spear is death to the salmon — he has plenty
of skins, plenty cloth of the pale faces, plenty of wampum —
but he has got no squaw. His lodge is very empty, his heart
is very lonely — the Bald-Eagle wishes a wife.”
“Why not take wife, then?” said the girl, blushing at his
words, yet still affecting to misunderstand him. “Plenty
young Huron girl wish husband, plenty good girl, plenty handsome.
Why not take Iroquois girl for wife, Bald-Eagle?”
“Iroquois girl not good, not handsome;” answered the warrior.
“Ojibwa girl better. Ahsahgunushk Numamahtahseng,
she wife good for Bald-Eagle.”
“Not wife, only sister,” she replied, quietly. “Grow up
with young chief in same lodge, they papoose together, children
together. Brother, sister — not good marry sister. No,
no, not wife, Bald-Eagle, only sister.”
Fire flashed from the dark eyes of the Iroquois chief, as he
heard her reply, and he clinched his hands vehemently; for
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he fully understood her meaning, and almost as fully comprehended
the inutility of contending against her gentle but assured
will, or endeavoring to alter her purpose. But knowing
that violence and rage would be only worse than useless, he
made a great effort, and subduing his fierce temper, replied in
a voice as quiet as that in which he had commenced his wooing.
“Not true,” he said. “One father, one mother make brother,
make sister. My father, War-Eagle, of the Iroquois, my
mother, `Mist-of-the-Lakes.' Ahsahgunushk's father, Chingwauk,
of the Ojibwas, he call White-Pine, great chief, too;
mother, Ojibwa squaw, maybe. Not brother, not sister at all.
I say not sister. The Bald-Eagle's lodge waits for the Reed-shaken-by-the-wind.
The Bald-Eagle thinks of her when he
is alone in the woods on the deer-stand; he sees her face in
the clear waters, when he should look for the hamaycush, the
great salmon of the lakes; he hears her voice on the winds
of heaven, when he should listen `Awunk' of the geese in the
clouds; he dreams of her when he is alone in his wigwam by
night. He loves Ahsahgunushk Numamahtahseng more than
all the girls of the Iroquois, more than all the daughters of the
pale faces down at the Isle Jesus.* Ojibwa girl best of all,
handsomest, most loved. Ojibwa girl be the wife of the Bald-Eagle.”
“Bald-Eagle,” answered the maiden, calmly and kindly,
“I have heard your words, and marked them. Now hear
mine, and believe them, for they are true.”
“Good,” replied the chief. “Will hear — will believe —
only say `yes;' will love, and take to wigwam.”
“The Bald-Eagle is a great warrior, a great chief. His
arm is very strong in the chase, very strong in the battle: He
can bend his enemies for his pride, he can bend the wild beasts
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of the forest for his sport, he can bend the trees of the wood
for his pleasure, but he can not bend the heart of a young girl,
he can only break it. Hark you, Bald-Eagle, a great chief
and warrior should not lead an unwilling bride to his wigwam.
A bride's eyes should look forward always, never look backward.
A bride's eyes should be blind to the face of her father,
her ears should be deaf to the calling of her mother. She
should see nothing, hear nothing, think of nothing, but her
husband. Bald-Eagle, the eyes of Ahsahgunushk look back
always, look forward not at all. She sees only gray hairs —
only the gray hairs of Chingwauk, the great chief of the Ojibwas.
She hears only a thin voice, only a thin, old, sorrowful
voice; it is the voice of her mother calling the Reed-shaken-by-the-wind—
calling to her to return to the hunting-ground
of the Ojibwas. Bald-Eagle, her eyes are so full of the past
that she can not see the present, can not see the future. Her
eyes are so full of tears,” and in truth they did fill and overflow
as she uttered the words, “so full of tears that she can
not see the face of the young warrior — her ears are stopped up
by the calling of her mother that she can not hear the voice
of the young brave. His form may be comely to the sight of
others, but it is not comely to the sight of Ahsahgunushk.
His voice may sound pleasant to the hearing of others, but it
is not pleasant to the ears of Ahsahgunushk. She can not be
the wife of Bald-Eagle. I have spoken.”
The young man glared at her with a vacant eye, and blank
expression for a moment, as if he had not clearly comprehended
what she said. But a minute afterward the blood came
hotly and fiercely to his cheek, his lip curled scornfully, his
eye flashed with a vengeful and malignant fire.
“It is a lie!” he said, not passionately but sullenly, resolutely;
and as he spoke his features again became impassive
as they had been before he heard her. “I have heard a
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voice,” he continued, “but it was a lying voice — a voice very
bad, very forked, even as the tongue of the rattlesnake that
lies among the rocks — a bad, lying voice. Her eyes do not
look backward, they look forward. Her eyes do not see the
face of Chingwouk, nor do her ears hear the voice of her
Ojibwa mother. If her heart is not in the wigwam of the
Bald-Eagle, neither is it in the far away hunting-grounds of
the Ojibwa. If her eyes can not see the form, neither her
ears hear the voice of the Bald-Eagle, neither are they blinded
by tears for the Ojibwa, nor stopped up by the callings
of her mother. If the Bald-Eagle be not comely to her sight,
nor his voice pleasant to her ear, it is because the face of another
is dearer, and the voice of another sounds sweeter. If
she will not enter the wigwam of the Bald-Eagle, it is because
she would enter the wooden house of the pale-faces. If
she will not be the wife of the Bald-Eagle, it is because she
would be the wife of the priest — the young priest of the pale-faces.”
As he uttered the last words in a deep, hissing, guttural
voice, his face livid with disappointed pride and envious spite,
and his fine form literally convulsed with fury, she met his
fierce glare with a calm, equable, and unmoved look, nor did
she even blush; for the very intensity of her emotions acted
to prevent the outward manifestation of them; and the shock
which she experienced at discovering that the most sacred
secret of her soul, unconfessed even to her own inmost thoughts,
her silent, hopeless, passionless devotion, had escaped her custody,
that it had been seen by profane eyes, and spoken of by
lips unfriendly and unsanctified, acted upon her system with
such violence as at the same time to stun her nerves, and to
strengthen her moral courage, and she made answer in a calm
voice, and with a firm and unmoved countenance.
“Forbear! Priests have no wives. You speak with a false
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tongue. Why are you so bad — why are you so false — why
are you so cruel? If she wished it, and he wished it likewise,
the Reed-shaken-by-the-wind could not be the wife of
the young priest of the pale faces.”
“And if she could, she should not,” retorted the vehement
and enraged warrior. “She shall not! She shall not! while
there is strength in the arm, and blood in the veins, and hatred
in the heart of the Bald-Eagle, she shall not be the wife of the
lying priest. My heart is very hard, my will is very strong.
I have spoken.”
“Go, leave me. You are bad,” cried the girl, actually shivering
through her whole frame with an irrepressible motion of
disgust and abhorrence. “That not the way for chief to speak
to girl. Do you think so to win heart, to get good thoughts,
to buy love? I tell you not so, not so. That the way to make
young girl fear — no, not fear! Ojibwa girl fears nothing — but
hate, loathe, despise — yes, despise — make, Ojibwa girl despise
you — you, great, brave chief of the Iroquois — despise
you, Bald-Eagle.”
“The Ojibwas are dogs,” answered the Huron warrior,
savagely. “Their women are she-dogs. They are not fit to
be the wives of warriors, or the mothers of braves. They are
good only to hoe corn, and carry water for the pale-faces. To
sit upon the knees of pale priests by the fire, and to kiss their
lips, and be their cast-aways. The Ojibwa girls are she-dogs,
that whine for the dogs of the pale-faces. Wagh! I
spit upon them — they are unchaste she-dogs.”
The maiden's face flushed crimson at the insult, and her
beautiful soft eyes seemed literally to flash living fire, as she
turned short upon the taunter.
“You coward!” she exclaimed, with vehement and passionate
indignation. “I say you coward, Bald-Eagle, to speak
such words to a good girl. You coward, not warrior — you
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liar, not chief. You Iroquois, I say, not Ojibwa. Go, go,
Ojibwa girl hate now — Iroquois girl shall hate soon, when I
tell them. All tribe shall hate — old chief, old squaw, young
warriors, young girls, all shall hate, all despise you?”
Goaded almost to madness by her vehement and indignant
reproaches, the Bald-Eagle rose to his feet, and passing with
a light and even foot down the canoe to the place where she
sat, still swelling with violent emotion, and more beautiful for
the very anger that warmed her into such impetuous life, and
grasping her tightly by the slender wrist, raised his right
hand and smote her with his open palm once, and again across
the cheek so forcibly as to leave the score of his fingers impressed
on the delicate and tender flesh.
A loud shout from the bank whereon several of the lay
brothers were assembled, and yet a shriller cry of indignation
from the Huron girls on the opposite shore, evinced the indignation
which his cowardly act had excited; but ere there was
time to mark the effect on his mind, she cast him from her
with such energy that he lost his balance, and as the fragile
canoe swayed with the motion, fell headlong overboard in the
deep water; while with a bitter, scornful laugh, she dipped
her paddle into the current, and steered swiftly back to the
wharf of the Jesuit Mission.
eaf581n16* Montreal.
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Herbert, Henry William, 1807-1858 [1853], The chevaliers of France, from the crusaders to the marechals of Louis XIV. (Redfield, New York) [word count] [eaf581T].
