Historical fiction; King Philip's War, 1675-1676 -- Fiction; War stories
As the chief concluded, he pointed significantly towards the distant
church, out of which the excited congregation we have described was
at that moment pouring into the green and little-trodden street of
the hamlet. The other appeared to understand his meaning, and, at the
same instant, to feel the folly, as well as the uselessness, of
attempting any longer to mislead one that already knew so much of his
former mode of life.
"Indian, thou sayest true," he rejoined gloomily "the mind seeth far, and
it seeth often in the bitterness of sorrow. My spirit was communing with
the spirits of those thou seest, when thy step was first heard; besides
thine own, the feet of man never mounted to this place, except it be of
those who minister to my bodily wants. Thou sayest true; the mental sight
is keen; and far beyond those distant hills, on which the last rays of the
setting sun are now shining so gloriously, doth mine often bear me in
spirit. Thou wast once my fellow-lodger, youth, and much pleasure had I in
striving to open thy young mind to the truths of our race, and to teach
thee to speak with the tongue of a Christian; but years have passed
away--hark! There cometh one up the path. Hast thou dread of a Yengeese?"
The calm mien with which Conanchet had been listening, changed to a cold
smile. His hand had felt for the lock of the musket, some time before his
companion had betrayed any consciousness of the approaching footstep; but
until questioned, no change of countenance was visible.
"Is my father afraid for his friend?" he asked, pointing in the direction
of him who approached. "Is it an armed warrior?"
"No: he cometh with the means of sustaining a burthen that must be borne,
until it pleaseth him who knoweth what is good for all his creatures to
ease me of it. It may be the parent of her thou hast this day restored to
her friends, or it may be the brother; for, at times, I owe this kindness
to different members of that worthy family."
A look of intelligence shot across the swarthy features of the chief. His
decision appeared taken. Arising, he left his weapon at the feet of his
companion, and moved swiftly along the ledge, as if to meet the intruder.
In another instant he returned, bearing a little bundle closely enveloped
in belts of richly-beaded wampum. Placing the latter gently by the side of
the old man, for time had changed the color of the solitary's hair to
gray, he said, in a low, quick voice, pointing with significance at what
he had done--
"The Messenger will not go back with an empty hand. My father is wise; he
will say what is good."
There was little time for further explanation. The door of the hut had
scarcely closed on Conanchet, before Mark Heathcote appeared at the point
where the path bent around the angle of the precipice.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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