“Groves freshened, as he looked, and flowers
Showed bright on rocky bank,
And fountains welled beneath the bowers,
Where deer and pheasant drank;
He saw the glittering streams, he heard
The rustling bough and twittering bird.”

BRYANT.

The mind of Ohquamehud dwelt upon his meeting with Holden. Sleeping or waking, the image of the latter pursued him. But it was not always in the shape of the Recluse that the vision appeared. More often it assumed the form of a young man, in the garb of a western hunter, with a rifle in his hand. Then rose up, in connection with him, boundless forests, through which the deer stole noiselessly, and the screech of the catamount was heard. And then again he hunted, and as he approached the game he had shot, Holden approached and claimed it as his; or he was on a war-path, and stumbled against a log, and fell; and as he strove to rise, the log was changed into Holden, who grappled him in a death-struggle wherever he was, and whithersoever he turned his eyes, there was the young man, seeming to be, and yet not to be Holden, and haunting him like a shadow. As these imaginations possessed themselves more and more of the Indian’s mind, he began to fancy himself the victim of some incantation, with which he naturally connected the Recluse as the cause; and, finally, by continual brooding on the subject, both his appetite and sleep deserted him. His moodiness at length attracted the attention of Peena. Ohquamehud was lying on the floor of her hut, his head resting on his hand, and he had been for some time gazing in the fire. The simple noon-day meal had barely been tasted, and that in silence.

“Have the hands of Peena,” she said, “forgot how to prepare his food, that the eyes of my brother turn away from it with displeasure?”

“The hands of my sister have not lost their skill, but Ohquamehud is not hungry.”

“Ohquamehud is a warrior, and Peena is but a weak woman, and he will not be angry,” she added, hesitatingly.

The Indian waved his hand, with dignity, as if inviting her to proceed.

“Ohquamehud sees the heart of his sister, and he knows that it loves him, for he is the brother of Huttamoiden. Why does he cover up his face from her, and hide his grief? Is she unworthy,” she added, laying her hand on his shoulder, and looking affectionately in his face, “to listen to his voice?”

He turned towards her, and paused before he said

“The stone in the path of Ohquamehud is very small, and will not hurt his feet.”

“Peena, then, will try to remove it. She has strength to move small stones.”

She ceased, and continued looking at him, without adding a word, as if she had said enough, and awaited a reply.

“Why should Ohquamehud speak?” he said, at last; “the breath of the Long Beard will blow away his words.”

A look of vacancy overspread the face of the squaw, as if she failed to apprehend his meaning.

“My brother’s words are dark,” she said.

“Has not the powawing of the Long Beard brought back the spirit of Huttamoiden’s cub from the happy hunting-grounds, and does not, therefore, the face of Peena turn to him as the sun-flower to the sun?”

“The Great Spirit loves the Long Beard, and the Long Beard loves his red brethren.”

“What! a Yenghese love an Indian? Yes, as a wild-cat loves the deer when he sucks his blood, as the water loves the fire it extinguishes. The lips of Peena speak foolishness.”

“If Peena feel grateful to the Long Beard, why should that anger her brother? Could he look into her heart, he would see his face as in a clear stream.”

It was not in human nature to withstand the soft voice and pleading looks of the woman. The momentary fierceness passed away from the countenance of the Indian, a milder expression assumed its place, and, in a gentle tone, he said

“Peena shall hear. She is like a stone which, when spoken to, repeats not what is said, and not like a brook that sings an idle song. My words shall enter her ears, but they will not descend to her tongue. Listen! the Manitou has troubled my thoughts, and sent a bird to tell me, that the hands of the Long Beard are red with the blood of my brothers.”

“It was a lying bird,” she exclaimed vehemently; “it was an owl that hooted untruth from the dark. When lifted the Long Beard a hatchet against my tribe?”

“The voice was as the voice of the waterfall,” he continued. “It spoke indistinctly, and I understood but half.”

“Why should not Ohquamehud talk with the Long Beard? The words of each shall be sweet to the other, and they will learn to have one heart.”

“It is well,” said the Indian, “Peena is a wise woman, and Ohquamehud will speak with the white man.”

It needed only the suggestion of the squaw to carry into effect a resolution already more than half adopted.

The Indian rose, and proceeding to the river, which was but a dozen rods distant from the hut, unloosed a canoe, and directing its course up the stream, was lost, in a few moments, from her view.

The appearance of Ohquamehud indicated no hostility when he presented himself before the Recluse, whom he found weaving baskets in front of his cabin, nor did his visit seem to surprise the latter. For an instant the Indian looked with disdain upon an employment which his wild education had taught him was fit only for women; but suppressing the expression of a sentiment that might have interfered with his purpose, with a quiet dignity, and, as if in answer to a wave of Holden’s hand, he seated himself on a large stone by his side. For a time he was silent, as if either out of deference to the superior years of the other, or because he wished to collect his thoughts before he began the conversation. Finding, however, he could obtain from the Solitary no further sign of recognition, he spoke in his own language.

“My brother has a big heart. He is making gifts for the beautiful women of his nation.”

“Indian,” replied Holden, “think not to deceive me. At this moment thou considerest this an occupation unfit for a man.”

“My brother has very long eyes. They can see the woodpecker on the rotten tree across the river, but they reach not here,” laying his hand upon his breast. “The Holder of the Heavens loves not to see things alike. He therefore made the leaf of the oak to differ from that of the hickory, and the pine from both, and also the white race from the red. And, for the same reason, he taught the white man to make big lodges of wood, and brick and stone, and to swim over the waters in large canoes with wings: while to the red man he gave the forests and prairies, with the deer, and bear, and buffalo, and caused him to dwell in very small wigwams made of bark. And so, also, he taught my white brother to weave beautiful baskets, but denied the skill to my father’s son.”

The Indian must have supposed he had seriously offended his new acquaintance, to induce him thus elaborately to attempt to avert his suspicions. However that might be, the Solitary resumed the conversation as though he felt no resentment.

“There is wisdom in thy speech. The Great Spirit loves variety, and it is he that maketh men to differ. But there was once a time many moons ago, when thy ancestors builded great houses and dwelt in cities, and sailed over the seas in winged-canoes.”

The Indian cast a quick, sharp glance at the Solitary, as if he wished to read his very soul. For a moment he looked as though he doubted the evidence of his senses. But recovering his composure, he said:

“The thoughts of my brother are very high, and his voice like the sound of a great wind.”

“Thou comprehendest me not. Know then, Indian, that innumerable years ago, there lived far towards the rising sun, twelve tribes, called the ‘Children of Israel,’ whom the Master of Life greatly loved. And they had wise and brave Sachems, who led them to battle, and their feet were red with the blood of their enemies. But they became wicked, and would not hearken unto the words of the Great Spirit, and He turned his face away from them. So their enemies came upon them, and despoiled them, and drove them from the land. Two of the tribes still linger near the rising sun, but ten wandered far away into distant countries, and they are thy fathers.”

The Indian listened with great attention, and upon the other pausing, said:

“Has the Manitou told all these things to my brother?”

“No, Indian; the Great Spirit speaks not now to his people as he did when the world was young. But,” he added, as if struck with the folly of continuing a conversation of this character, “the path is long that led me to this truth, and it would weary thy feet to travel it.”

“My brother is wise, and cannot lie, and I am a child. My ears drink in his words. The legs of my brother are long, and he has been a great traveller. Was it near the rising sun he learned the language of the red man?”

“Indian, I have never been nearer the rising sun than thou. But tell me the object of thy visit. Why dost thou seek me now, when but a few days since thou didst chide the squaw for her willingness to oblige me?”

“The lips of Ohquamehud spoke folly. He did not then know that this brother had talked to the Master of Life, who granted to him the life of Huttamoiden’s child. The blood of Huttamoiden runs in these veins.”

The explanation was perfectly natural, and whatever suspicion had arisen in Holden’s mind vanished. It seemed not surprising that the Indian, who also, by uttering his name, had proclaimed himself a Pequot, should be willing to form the acquaintance of one who had proved himself a friend to his tribe, and probably was invested in his imagination with the qualities of a “great medicine.” But, though to Holden’s high-wrought fancies, the recovery of the boy had seemed miraculous, and he could not avoid connecting his prayers with it, yet he shrank from directly claiming so great a power as the Indian ascribed to him.

“The issues of life and death are with the Great Spirit,” he said. “At his pleasure he breathes into our nostrils, and we live; or he turns away his face, and we die. Let not my brother give too much credit to a worm.”

The wily Indian, from the other’s altered tone and manner, perceived his advantage, and was not slow to use it.

“Because my white brother loved his red brethren, he sought them in their lodges, and there they taught him their language. So when the boy was departing for the happy hunting grounds, my brother remembered their kindness, and held the child by the hand, and would not let him go.”

The face of the Solitary worked with emotion while the other was speaking.

“Would that I could explain,” he said. “But thou art unable to understand. How canst thou know a Christian heart?”

“The heart of Ohquamehud is a man’s.”

“Aye; but a savage knows not, and despises forgiveness. I was a stately pine, whose branches mingled with the clouds, and the birds came and lodged therein. And a storm arose, and thunders rolled, and the lightning struck it, and its pride and glory tumbled to the ground. And it was burnt up, all save this blasted trunk.” He uttered this with a wild frenzy, and as if hardly conscious of the presence of another.

“Doth the lightning fall from a clear sky?” said the Indian, after a pause. “It is long since a black cloud burst over the ancient hunting-grounds of the Pequots.”

“Where the streams run toward the setting sun, the thunderbolt struck. Why was it not me instead of those dearer to me than life?”

“A bird hath sung to Ohquamehud that the land is pleasant, and the hunter only extends his hand to find something to savor his broth and to cover his feet.”

“It is a land of streams, and mountains, and forests, and the deer and the bear still are plenty. When the Creator made it, he smiled and pronounced it good; and there, as in your fabled hunting-grounds, might men be blessed but for their passions.”

“The red man loves his friend, and hates his enemy.”

“To hate is a devilish feeling. It comes not from the Good Spirit.”

Ohquamehud rose and stood before Holden. It seemed to his bold and ferocious temper, that he could not, without cowardice, hear assailed and not vindicate, a principle that had been inculcated upon him from youth, and formed a sacred portion of his creed. As he stood up, the blanket fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, around his person, and he stretched out a hand to solicit attention.

“Listen,” he said; “the tongue of Ohquamehud is one: it will speak the truth. Because the Great Spirit loved his children, he made them to love and to hate, and both are pleasant. The south wind is sweet when it comes in spring to tell that winter is past and the starved Indian need no longer shiver over the fire; and sweet are the kisses of Wullogana to Ohquamehud, and dear are the voices of his little ones when they meet him from the chase, but sweeter than the sighs of the wind of spring, or the caresses of Wullogana, or the laughter of his children, is it to strike an enemy. His flesh is good, for it strengthens a red heart. The wolf will never become a lamb, and the wolf is the totem of my clan. Ohquamehud has said.”

It would be impossible to describe the conflicting emotions of Holden during this savage speech. Whatever might have been the wild incidents of his youth, or whatever his wrongs and sufferings, the time was long past, and he had supposed all stormy passion subdued, and his heart chastised to resignation and submission. He listened at first with unmixed horror to the Indian’s declaration, but as the savage went on, the words became more and more indistinct, till they lost all meaning or were converted into other sounds, and, as in a dream, made the aliment of his thoughts. The whole conversation, and the very language in which they spoke, contributed to produce this state of mind. Lost to all around, his soul was far away. He saw a cabin beside a mountain torrent, overshadowed by immense trees. It was summer, and the birds were singing among the branches. The door of the cabin opened, and a young and beautiful white woman stepped out, holding a child by the hand. Suddenly it was night, and the cabin on fire, and he heard the yells of savages, and saw them like so many demons dancing round the flames; then hush, all again was still, and darkness brooded over the spot, lighted only by a flickering brand.

The bosom of Holden heaved convulsively, and his brain reeled.

The Indian watched his changing countenance with an eager look as if he revelled in his agony. Not a hard drawn breath, not a single expression escaped his notice. He saw the eyes of the Solitary flash, then settle into a dreamy gaze as if looking into a dim, unfathomable distance, then shut, as if he tried to exclude some horrid sight. Suddenly, with a shudder, Holden sprang to his feet.

“Accursed Shawnees,” he cried; “they have done this deed. But for every drop of blood they shed a river shall flow. Dog!” and he seized the Indian with a strength to which madness lent additional force, and dashed him to the ground, “thou art first delivered into my hand.”

He staggered toward the fallen man stopped glared at him a moment and with a wild cry rushed into the hut.

The Indian, who had immediately risen from the fall, and stood with folded arms regarding his motions, slowly gathered up his disordered blanket about him and stalked towards the canoe. A gleam of ferocity shot over his face as he resumed the paddle, and softly breathing the single word “Onontio,” pushed from the shore.