But After Having Proceeded A
Short Distance, Fearing That Her Story Would Not Be Believed If
She Should Escape To
Tell it, they returned to the silent wigwam,
and taking off the scalps of the dead, put them into a
Bag as
proofs of what they had done, and then retracing their steps to
the shore in the twilight, recommenced their voyage.
Early this morning this deed was performed, and now, perchance,
these tired women and this boy, their clothes stained with blood,
and their minds racked with alternate resolution and fear, are
making a hasty meal of parched corn and moose-meat, while their
canoe glides under these pine roots whose stumps are still
standing on the bank. They are thinking of the dead whom they
have left behind on that solitary isle far up the stream, and of
the relentless living warriors who are in pursuit. Every
withered leaf which the winter has left seems to know their
story, and in its rustling to repeat it and betray them. An
Indian lurks behind every rock and pine, and their nerves cannot
bear the tapping of a woodpecker. Or they forget their own
dangers and their deeds in conjecturing the fate of their
kindred, and whether, if they escape the Indians, they shall find
the former still alive. They do not stop to cook their meals
upon the bank, nor land, except to carry their canoe about the
falls. The stolen birch forgets its master and does them good
service, and the swollen current bears them swiftly along with
little need of the paddle, except to steer and keep them warm by
exercise.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 345 of 422
Words from 95069 to 95342
of 116321
