Historical fiction; King Philip's War, 1675-1676 -- Fiction; War stories
The obvious truth of the latter assertion probably weighed more with the
stranger than the unmeaning pledge of the woman.
"There is reason in this," he resumed. "Go, then, into the fields, and say
to thy people that they have mistaken the path; that, they are on, hath
led them to the dwelling of a friend--Here are no Pequots, nor any of the
men of the Manhattoes; but Christian Yengeese, who have long dealt with
the Indian as one just man dealeth with another. Go, and when thy signal
shall be heard at the gate, it shall be open to thee, for readmission."
Thus saying, the stranger motioned to the boy to follow, taking care, as
they left the room together, to instruct him in all such minor matters as
might assist in effecting the pacific object of the mission on which he
was employed.
A few minutes of doubt and of fearful suspense succeeded this experiment.
The stranger, after seeing that egress was permitted to his messenger, had
returned to the dwelling, and rejoined his companions. He passed the
moments in pacing the apartment, with the strides of one in whom powerful
concern was strongly at work. At times, the sound of his heavy footstep
ceased, and then all listened intently, in order to catch any sound that
might instruct them in the nature of the scene that was passing without.
In the midst of one of these pauses, a yell like that of savage delight
arose in the fields. It was succeeded by the death-like and portentous
calm, which had rendered the time since the momentary attack even more
alarming than when the danger had a positive and known character. But all
the attention the most intense anxiety could now lend, furnished no
additional clue to the movement of their foes. For many minutes, the quiet
of midnight reigned both within and without the defences. In the midst of
this suspense, the latch of the door was lifted, and their messenger
appeared with that noiseless tread and collected mien which distinguish
the people of his race.
"Thou hast met the warriors of thy tribe?" hastily demanded the stranger.
"The noise did not cheat the Yengeese. It was not a girl, laughing in
the woods."
"And thou hast said to thy people, 'we are friends'?"
"The words of my father were spoken."
"And heard--Were they loud enough to enter the ears of the young men?"
The boy was silent.
"Speak," continued the stranger, elevating his form, proudly, like one
ready to breast a more severe shock. "Thou hast men for thy listeners. Is
the pipe of the savage filled? Will he smoke in peace, or holdeth he the
tomahawk in a clenched hand?"
The countenance the boy worked with a feeling that it was not usual for an
Indian to betray. He bent his look, with concern, on the mild eyes of the
anxious Ruth; then drawing a hand slowly from beneath the light robe that
partly covered his body, he cast at the feet of the stranger a bundle of
arrows, wrapped in the glossy and striped skin of the rattlesnake.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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