For the Love of Lady Margaret: A Romance of the Lost ColonyWilson, William Thomas
General
For the Love of Lady Margaret: A Romance of the Lost Colony
Wilson, William Thomas
Roanoke Colony -- Fiction
Five good miles we must have trodden thus, and then crashing through
a cluster of undergrowth and trees, we halted upon the banks of the
river, the Roanoke the natives called it. Here, from underneath some
bushes and vines, the Indian brought out a canoe, and placed it upon
the water. Turning to me he spoke:
"Windango has kept his word, and has repaid the Eagle for the life
of Winona, which he saved from the wild beast in the forest. It is
not safe that the Eagle should remain longer with the Cherokees, for
to-night they plot his life, and while it may be that Windango could
save him for this once, yet in the end they would slay him. Let the
Eagle depart," and with a wave of his hand, he motioned me toward the
canoe.
"The Eagle will not forget Windango," I answered, as with a clasp of
his hard hand, I stepped into the boat, and picking up the paddle
dipped it into the water. "The memory of him will be as the sun upon
the tired traveler after the storm has passed. But how shall the Eagle
know when he has reached the lodges of the pale ones?"
"It is three suns' journey," answered the Indian. "The Eagle will see
upon the banks of the river upon his right a broad rock which juts out
into the water, and over it a withered oak. Let him alight there, and
take the trail which he will see; in an hour he will be at the lodges
of the pale men."
"The Eagle thanks his brother," I said, and with a wave of my paddle, I
pushed the little canoe into the stream, and made rapidly towards the
east, down its wide current.
I had left the Indian behind, and with strong strokes, I made haste
toward Dunraven. Overhead brooded the night, dark, silent; before
me lay the great river, and somewhere beyond those dark trees was
Margaret. My foot struck something in the bottom of the canoe, which
rang against the board. Stooping, I picked it up; it was my gold-hilted
sword--the companion of my wanderings--and beside it lay some food and
a jar of water, placed there by the same kind hand. Buckling the blade
about my waist, around which was still fastened the blue wampum belt, I
resumed my task, my mind engrossed in thought.
Why had not the Cherokees attacked the settlement of Dunraven, if they
knew so well where it lay? It was only a few miles away, and I knew
them too well to think they stood in awe of four men, however brave.
No, there was something deeper than this somewhere. This was the secret
of those steel hatchets and knives which I had seen among the Indians;
he had bought their friendship with these trinkets, and bribed them to
hold me a captive among them.
Ah! there was a long reckoning to settle with my lord, when we should
meet again. One which had been long in the making, and such as one
mortal man could seldom count up against another. If I could only reach
him with my sword, I would give worlds for the opportunity.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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