I cannot live unless I revenge his death. To-morrow we
will set out and I will take their scalps."
The White Shield, as he expressed this resolution, seemed to have
lost all the accustomed fire and spirit of his look, and hung his
head as if in a fit of despondency.
As I was sitting that evening at one of the fires, I saw him arrayed
in his splendid war dress, his cheeks painted with vermilion, leading
his favorite war horse to the front of his lodge. He mounted and
rode round the village, singing his war song in a loud hoarse voice
amid the shrill acclamations of the women. Then dismounting, he
remained for some minutes prostrate upon the ground, as if in an act
of supplication. On the following morning I looked in vain for the
departure of the warriors. All was quiet in the village until late
in the forenoon, when the White Shield, issuing from his lodge, came
and seated himself in his old place before us. Reynal asked him why
he had not gone out to find the enemy.
"I cannot go," answered the White Shield in a dejected voice. "I
have given my war arrows to the Meneaska."
"You have only given him two of your arrows," said Reynal. "If you
ask him, he will give them back again."
For some time the White Shield said nothing. At last he spoke in a
gloomy tone:
"One of my young men has had bad dreams. The spirits of the dead
came and threw stones at him in his sleep."
If such a dream had actually taken place it might have broken up this
or any other war party, but both Reynal and I were convinced at the
time that it was a mere fabrication to excuse his remaining at home.
The White Shield was a warrior of noted prowess. Very probably, he
would have received a mortal wound without a show of pain, and
endured without flinching the worst tortures that an enemy could
inflict upon him. The whole power of an Indian's nature would be
summoned to encounter such a trial; every influence of his education
from childhood would have prepared him for it; the cause of his
suffering would have been visibly and palpably before him, and his
spirit would rise to set his enemy at defiance, and gain the highest
glory of a warrior by meeting death with fortitude. But when he
feels himself attacked by a mysterious evil, before whose insidious
assaults his manhood is wasted, and his strength drained away, when
he can see no enemy to resist and defy, the boldest warrior falls
prostrate at once. He believes that a bad spirit has taken
possession of him, or that he is the victim of some charm. When
suffering from a protracted disorder, an Indian will often abandon
himself to his supposed destiny, pine away and die, the victim of his
own imagination.
