THE IRIS.

Presented
To
C. Schuessele del.   Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

C. Schuessele del.   Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.
LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.

The IRIS
Souvenir
C. Schuessele del.   Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

THE IRIS:
An Illuminated Souvenir,
FOR
MDCCCLII.

EDITED BY
JOHN S. HART, LL. D.
PHILADELPHIA:
PUBLISHED BY LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.
SUCCESSORS TO GRIGG, ELLIOT & CO.
1852.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851,
BY LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
C. SHERMAN, PRINTER.

PREFACE.

Captain Eastman, of the United States Topographical Corps, having been stationed for nine years on our northwestern frontier, among the Indian tribes, at and around Fort Snelling, made a series of drawings of some of the most striking and remarkable objects connected with the Indian traditions. His accomplished lady, who was with him seven years of this time, collected the traditions themselves, and wove them into tales and poems that let us into the very heart of Indian life. The whole of this valuable and original collection has been secured for the Iris, and gives to the volume for 1852 its distinguishing feature. To make the illustrations conform more to the character of the subjects, they have all been printed in colours, in the style now so deservedly popular. Last year the publishers gave only four of these gorgeous illuminated pages. The present volume contains no less than twelve, all from original designs, and all printed in ten different colours. The happy blending of the colours in these pictures, the disposition of the light and shade, and the skill with which they are printed, give them the appearance of paintings rather than of prints. Such a collection of gems of art in one volume, could not be made without a heavy expense. But the publishers were desirous of making the Iris, as to the splendour of its appearance, not unworthy of the celestial visitant from which it has been named, and of the very marked favour with which its predecessor of the last season was received.

The literary matter, like that of the former volume, is entirely original, and with the exception of the beautiful poem by Miss Bremer, entirely American, both as to subjects and authorship. Though there are various shades of thought and feeling in these effusions of genius, each subject being coloured according to the mental constitution of the writer, yet, as in the divine bow of promise, all colours are blended and harmonized in the one aim to place before the beholder a new token of hope and gladness.

ILLUSTRATIONS
C. Schuessele del.   Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

CONTENTS.

THE IRIS.

PROEM.

BY SARAH ROBERTS.

They have christened me Iris; and why? oh, why?

Because, like the rainbow so bright,

I bring my own welcome, and tell my own tale,

And am hailed by all hearts with delight:

And this, this is why

I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

The rainbow, it cometh 'mid sunlight and tears,—

The tears it soon chaseth away;

I banish all sighs for the year that is passed,

And the future in sunlight array:

And this, this is why

I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

The rainbow, it telleth of promise and love,

Of hope, with its gay, golden wing;

It whispers of peacefulness, purity, heaven,—

Of these lofty themes do I sing:

And this, this is why

I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

The rainbow is painted in colours most fair,

By the hand of the Father of love;

So the genius and talent my pages bespeak,

Are inspired by the Great Mind above:

And this, this is why

I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.

BY THE EDITOR.

(See the [Frontispiece].)

The first landing of William Penn at Newcastle, in 1682, is one of those striking historical events that are peculiarly suited for pictorial illustration. The late Mr. Duponceau, in one of his discourses, first suggested the idea of making it the subject of an historical painting. This idea is seized with avidity by Mr. Dixon, the most recent biographer of the great Quaker, and the circumstances of the landing are given accordingly, with much minuteness. The artist who designed the picture that forms the frontispiece to the present volume has had this description in view. I cannot do better, therefore, than to quote the words of Mr. Dixon as the best possible commentary upon the picture.

"On the 27th of October, nine weeks after the departure from Deal, the Welcome moored off Newcastle, in the territories lately ceded by the Duke of York, and William Penn first set foot in the New World.[1] His landing made a general holiday in the town; young and old, Welsh, Dutch, English, Swedes, and Germans, crowded down to the landing-place, each eager to catch a glimpse of the great man who had come amongst them, less as their lord and governor than as their friend. In the centre of the foreground, only distinguished from the few companions of his voyage who have yet landed, by the nobleness of his mien, and a light blue silken sash tied round his waist, stands William Penn; erect in stature, every motion indicating courtly grace, his countenance lighted up with hope and honest pride,—in every limb and feature the expression of a serene and manly beauty.[2] The young officer before him, dressed in the gay costume of the English service, is his lieutenant, Markham, come to welcome his relative to the new land, and to give an account of his own stewardship. On the right stand the chief settlers of the district, arrayed in their national costumes, the light hair and quick eye of the Swede finding a good foil in the stolid look of the heavy Dutchman, who doffs his cap, but doubts whether he shall take the pipe out of his mouth even to say welcome to the new governor. A little apart, as if studying with the intense eagerness of Indian skill the physiognomy of the ruler who has come with his children to occupy their hunting-grounds, stands the wise and noble leader of the Red Men, Taminent, and a party of the Lenni Lenapé in their picturesque paints and costume. Behind the central figure are grouped the principal companions of his voyage; and on the dancing waters of the Delaware rides the stately ship, while between her and the shore a multitude of light canoes dart to and fro, bringing the passengers and merchandise to land. Part of the background shows an irregular line of streets and houses, the latter with the pointed roofs and fantastic gables which still delight the artist's eye in the streets of Leyden or Rotterdam; and further on the view is lost in one of those grand old pine and cedar forests which belong essentially to an American scene."

I take much pleasure in quoting also, in this connexion, another scene of somewhat similar character, though greatly misrepresented in the ordinary pictures of it heretofore given. Penn's personal appearance has been even more misapprehended than his character. He was, indeed, one of the most handsome men of his age, and at the time of his first coming to America he was in the very prime of life. West makes him an ugly, fat old fellow, in a costume half a century out of date. So says Mr. Dixon. The passage referred to, and about to be quoted, is from a description of the celebrated Treaty with the Indians at Shackamaxon.

"This conference has become one of the most striking scenes in history. Artists have painted, poets have sung, philosophers have applauded it; but it is nevertheless clear, that in words and colours it has been equally and generally misrepresented, because painters, poets, and historians have chosen to draw on their own imaginations for the features of a scene, every marking line of which they might have recovered from authentic sources.

"The great outlines of nature are easily obtained. There, the dense masses of cedar, pine, and chestnut, stretching far away into the interior of the land; here, the noble river rolling its waters down to the Atlantic Ocean; along its surface rose the purple smoke of the settlers' homestead; on the opposite shores lay the fertile and settled country of New Jersey. Here stood the gigantic elm which was to become immortal from that day forward,—and there lay the verdant council chamber formed by nature on the surface of the soil. In the centre stood William Penn, in costume undistinguished from the surrounding group, save by the silken sash. His costume was simple, but not pedantic or ungainly: an outer coat, reaching to the knees, and covered with buttons, a vest of other materials, but equally ample, trousers extremely full, slashed at the sides, and tied with strings or ribbons, a profusion of shirt sleeves and ruffles, with a hat of the cavalier shape (wanting only the feather), from beneath the brim of which escaped the curls of a new peruke, were the chief and not ungraceful ingredients.[3] At his right hand stood Colonel Markham, who had met the Indians in council more than once on that identical spot, and was regarded by them as a firm and faithful friend; on his left Pearson, the intrepid companion of his voyage; and near his person, but a little backward, a band of his most attached adherents. When the Indians approached in their old forest costume, their bright feathers sparkling in the sun, and their bodies painted in the most gorgeous manner, the governor received them with the easy dignity of one accustomed to mix with European courts. As soon as the reception was over, the sachems retired to a short distance, and after a brief consultation among themselves, Taminent, the chief sachem or king, a man whose virtues are still remembered by the sons of the forest, advanced again a few paces, and put upon his own head a chaplet, into which was twisted a small horn: this chaplet was his symbol of power; and in the customs of the Lenni Lenapé, whenever the chief placed it upon his brows the spot became at once sacred, and the person of every one present inviolable. The venerable Indian king then seated himself on the ground, with the older sachems on his right and left, the middle-aged warriors ranged themselves in the form of a crescent or half-moon round them, and the younger men formed a third and outer semicircle. All being seated in this striking and picturesque order, the old monarch announced to the governor that the natives were prepared to hear and consider his words. Penn then rose to address them, his countenance beaming with all the pride of manhood. He was at this time thirty-eight years old; light and graceful in form; the handsomest, best-looking, most lively gentleman she had ever seen, wrote a lady who was an eyewitness of the ceremony."

[1] "Watson, 16; Day, 299. The landing of Penn in America is commemorated on the 24th of October, that being the date given by Clarkson; but the diligent antiquary, Mr. J. F. Watson, has found in the records of Newcastle the original entry of his arrival."

[2] "The portrait by West is utterly spurious and unlike. Granville Penn, MSS."

[3] "Penn. Hist. Soc. Mem., iii. part ii. 76."

DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS.

BY FREDRIKA BREMER.

I was in company

With men and women,

And heard small talk

Of little things,

Of poor pursuits

And narrow views

Of narrow minds.

I rushed out

To breathe more freely,

To look on nature.

The evening star

Rose grave and bright,

The western sky

Was warm with light,

And the young moon

Shone softly down

Among the shadows

Of the town,

Where whispering trees

And fragrant flowers

Stood hushed in silent,

Balmy bowers.

All was romance,

All loveliness,

Wrapped in a trance

Of mystic bliss.

I looked on

In bitterness,

And sighed and asked,

Why the great Lord

Made so rich beauty

For such a race

Of little men?

I was in company

With men and women,

Heard noble talk

Of noble things,

Of noble doings,

And manly suffering

And man's heart beating

For all mankind.

The evening star

Seemed now less bright,

The western sky

Of paler light,

All nature's beauty

And romance,

So lovely

To gaze upon,

Retired at once,

A shadow but to that of man!

C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^t. S. Eastman. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.
WE-HAR-KA.

WE-HAR-KA,
OR, THE RIVAL CLANS.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

The Indian settlement, the opening scene of our story, presented a different appearance from what we call an Indian village at the present day. The lodges were far more numerous, and the Indians were not drooping about, without energy, and apparently without occupation. The long line of hills did not echo the revels of the drunkard, nor were the faces of the people marked with anxiety and care. The untaught and untamed dispositions of the red men were as yet unaffected by the evil influences of the degenerate white man.

The Sioux[4] were in their summer-houses, and the village stretched along the bank of the river for a quarter of a mile. It reached back, too, to the foot of a high hill, and some of the lodges were shaded by the overhanging branches of the elm and maple. Above the homes of the living might be seen the burial-place of the dead; for, on the summit of the hill the enveloped forms of the departed were receiving the last red beams of the retiring sun, whose rising and repose were now for ever unnoticed by them.

The long, warm day was closing in, and the Indians were enjoying themselves in the cool breezes that were stirring the waves of the river and the wild flowers that swept over its banks. They were collected in groups in every direction, but the largest party might be found surrounding a mat, on which was seated the old war-chief of the band, who had long dragged a tedious existence, a care to others and a burden to himself. The mat was placed near the wigwam, so that the sides of the wigwam supported the back of the aged and infirm warrior. His hair was cut straight over his forehead, but behind it hung in long locks over his neck.

Warm as was the season, the buffalo robe was wrapped around him, the fur side next to him, while on the outside, in Indian hieroglyphics, might be read many an event of his life. Around the edge of the robe was a row of hands painted in different colours, representing the number of enemies he had killed in battle. In the centre of the robe were drawn the sun and morning star, objects of worship among the Sioux, and placed on the robe as a remedy for a severe sickness which once prostrated his vital powers, but was conquered by the efficacious charm contained in the representation. Ornaments of different kinds adorned his person; but his limbs were shrunken to the bone with age, and the time had long since come to him when even the grasshopper was a burden.

The features of the Sioux were still expressive, though the eyes were closed and the lips thin and compressed; he was encircled with a dignity, which, in all ages and climes, attaches itself to an honourable old age.

Close by his side, and contrasting strongly with the war-chief, was one of his nearest relations. She was his granddaughter, the orphan girl of his favourite son. She was at once his companion, attendant, and idol.

They were never separated, that old man and young girl; for a long time he had been fed by her hands, and now he never saw the light of the sun he worshipped except when she raised and held open the eyelids which weakness had closed over his eyes. She had just assisted his tottering steps, and seated him on the mat, where he might enjoy the pleasant evening-time and the society of those who delighted in the strange stories his memory called up, or who were willing to receive the advice which the aged are ever privileged to pour into the hearts of the young.

The evening meal of the warrior had been a light one, for We-har-ka still held in her small and beautiful hand a bark dish, which contained venison cut up in small pieces, occasionally pressing him to eat again. It was evident there was something unusual agitating his thoughts, for he impatiently put aside the hand that fed him, and taking his pipe, the handle of which was elaborately adorned, he held it to have it lighted, then dreamily and quietly placed it in his mouth.

He had long been an object of reverence to his people; though superseded as a warrior and a leader, yet his influence was still acknowledged in the band which he had so long controlled. He had kept this alive in a great measure by the oft-repeated stories of his achievements, and above all, by the many personal encounters he had had, not only with his enemies, but with the gods, the objects of their devotion and fear.

The pipe was soon laid aside, and his low and murmuring words could not be understood by the group, that, attracted by the unusual excitement that showed itself in the war-chief's manner, had pressed near him.

After a short communing with himself he placed his hand upon the head of the girl, who was watching every change in his expressive face. "My daughter," he said, "you will not be alone—the Eagle Eye will not again see the form of his warrior son: he would have charged him to care for his sister, even as the small birds watch and guard around the home of the forest god.

"The children of the Great Spirit must submit to his will. My heart would laugh could I again see the tall form of my grandson. I would see once more the fleetness of his step and the strength of his arm; but it is not to be. Before he shall return, crying, 'It is for my father, the scalp of his enemy,' I shall be roaming over the hunting-grounds of the Great Spirit. Do not weep, my daughter; you will be happy in your husband's wigwam, and you will tell your children how the Eagle Eye loved you, even till his feet started on the warrior's journey.

"Your brother will return," he continued, "and it is for him that I lay aside the pipe, which I shall never smoke again; the drum that I have used since I have been a medicine-man, I wish laid near my side when I shall be dead, and wrapped in the buffalo robe which will cover me.

"You, my braves, shall know whence I obtained this drum. It has often brought back life to the dying man, and its sound has secured us success in battle. I have often told you that I had seen the God of the Great Deep in my dreams, and from him I obtained power to strike terror to the hearts of my enemies. Who has shouted the death-cry oftener than I? Look at the feathers[5] of honour in my head! What enemy ever heard the name of Eagle Eye without trembling? But I, terrible as I have been to my enemies, must grow weak like a woman, and die like a child. The waters of the rivers rush on; you may hear them and trace their way, but soon they join the waves of the great deep, and we see them no more—so I am about to join the company in the house of the Great Spirit, and when your children say, 'Where is Eagle Eye?' you may answer, 'The Great Spirit has called him, we cannot go where he is.'

"It was from Unk-ta-he, the god of the great deep, that I received that drum. Before I was born of woman I lived in the dark waters. Unk-ta-he rose up with his terrible eyes, and took me to his home. I lived with him and the other gods of the sea. I cannot to you all repeat the lessons of wisdom he has taught me; it is a part of the great medicine words that women should never hear.

"There, in the home of the god of the sea, I saw many wonders—the large doors through which the water gods passed when they visited the earth, the giant trees lying in the water higher than our mountains. They had lightning too, the weapons of the thunder birds;[6] when the winds arose, and the sea waved, then did Unk-ta-he hurl the streaked fire to the earth through the waters.

"The god of the great deep gave me this drum, and I wish it buried with me; he told me when I struck the drum my will should be obeyed, and it has been so.

"When my son returns, tell him to let his name be terrible like his grandfather's. Tell him that my arm was like a child's because of the winters I had seen, but that he must revenge his brother's death; then will he be like the brave men who have gone before him, and his deeds will be remembered as long as the Dacotas hate their enemies. The shadows grow deeper on the hills, and the long night will soon rest upon the head of the war-chief. I am old, yet my death-song shall call back the spirits of the dead. Where are the Chippeways, my enemies? See their red scalps scorching in the sun! I am a great warrior; tell me, where is the enemy who fears me not!"

While the voice of the old man now rose with the excitement that was influencing, now fell with the exhaustion, which brought big drops of perspiration on his face, the Indians were collecting in a crowd around him.

It was, indeed, a glorious evening for the war-chief to die. The horizon was a mass of crimson clouds, their gorgeous tints were reflected on the river; the rocky bluffs rose up like castle walls around the village, while on the opposite shore the deer were parting the foliage with their graceful heads and drinking from the low banks.

We-har-ka wiped the forehead and brow of her grandfather. There was something of more than ordinary interest about the appearance of this young person: her features were regularly formed, their expression mild; her figure light and yielding as a young tree; her hair was neatly parted and gathered in small braids over her neck; her dress well calculated to display the grace of her figure; a heavy necklace of wampum[7] covered her throat and neck, and on her bosom was suspended the holy cross!

Her complexion was lighter than usual for an Indian girl, owing to the confinement occasioned by the charge of her infirm relative; a subdued melancholy pervaded her features, and even the tone of her voice.

There was a pause, for the warrior slept a few moments, and again his voice was heard. Death was making him mindful of the glorious achievements of his life. Again he was brandishing his tomahawk in circles round the head of his fallen foe; again he taunted his prisoner, whose life he had spared that he might enjoy his sufferings under the torment; again, with a voice as strong as in early manhood, he shouted the death-cry—it was his own, for not another sound, not even a sigh escaped him.

* * * * *

Gently they moved him into the wigwam. We-har-ka stood by his head. There was no loud wailing, for he had outlived almost all who were bound to him by near ties.

Those who stood around heaped their most cherished possessions on his feet: the knife, the pipe, and the robe were freely and affectionately offered to the dead.

We-har-ka gazed earnestly upon him: large tears fell on her bosom and on the old man's brow. Some one drew near and respectfully covered his venerable face: the drum was placed, as he requested, at his side.

One of the men said, "Eagle Eye takes proud steps as he travels towards the land of souls. His heart has long been where warriors chase the buffalo on the prairies of the Great Spirit." We-har-ka drew from her belt her knife, and cut long, deep gashes on her round arms; then, not heeding the wounds,[8] she severed the braids of her glossy hair, and cutting them off with the knife, red with her own blood, she threw them at her feet.

How did the holy cross find its way to the wilds of a new country? A savage, yet powerful nation, idolaters at heart and in practice, bending to the sun, the forests, and the sea—how was it that the sign of the disciple of Jesus lay glittering on the bosom of one of the women of this heathen race?

Did the Christian hymn of praise ever rise with the soft and silvery vapours of morning to the heavens? Had the low and earnest Christian's prayer ever sounded among the bluffs that towered and the islands that slept? Never, and yet the emblem of their faith was there.

But, to what region did not the Jesuit penetrate? Hardly were the resources of our country discovered, before they were upon its shores.

They were there, with their promises and penances, their soft words and their Latin prayers, with purposes not to be subdued in accomplishing the mission for which they were sent. Was it a mission of faith, or of gain? Was it to extend the hopes and triumphs of the cross, or to aggrandize a Society always overflowing with means and with power? Witness the result.

Yet they poured like rain into the rich and beautiful country of Acadie.[9] See them passing through forests where the dark trees bent to and fro "like giants possessing fearful secrets," enduring hunger, privation, and fatigue. See them again in their frail barks bounding over the angry waters of Huron, riding upon its mountain waves, and often cast upon its inhospitable rocks.

Follow them as they tread the paths where the moccasin-step alone had ever been heard, regardless of danger and of death, planting the cross even in the midst of a Dacota village. Could this be for aught save the love of the Saviour? Those who know the history of the Society founded by Loyola, best can tell.

Among the ranks of the Jesuit were found the Christian and the martyr, as, among the priesthood of Rome, in her darkest days, were here and there those whose robes have, no doubt, been washed in the blood of the Lamb.

Those hearts that were really touched with the truth divine, drew nearer to the path of duty by the solemn spectacle of man, standing on the earth, gay and beautiful as if light had just been created, yet not even knowing of the existence of his great Creator.

Not far from the wigwam of the dead chief, Father Blanc knelt before the altar which he had erected. He wore the black robe of his order, and as he knelt, the strange words he uttered sounded stranger still here. On the altar were the crucifix and many of the usual ornaments carried by the wandering Romish priests.

Flowers too were strewn on the altar, flowers large and beautiful, such as he had never seen even in la belle France. He chaunted the vespers alone, and had but just risen from his devotions when the dying cry of the war-chief rung through the village.

The priest walked slowly to the scene of death. Why was he not there before with the cross and the holy oil? Ah! the war-chief was no subject for the Jesuit faith—he had worshipped too long Wakinyan-Unk-ta-he to listen to the words of the black robe. There were no baptisms, no chauntings of the mass here; there was no interest at stake to induce the haughty Sioux to the necessity of yielding up his household gods. They were not a weaker party warring with the French, and obliged from motives of policy to taste the consecrated wafer. Contrasted with the Indian's ignorance was his native dignity. When Father Blanc told them there was but one religion and that was the Roman Catholic, and that the time would come when all would be subject to the man who was in God's place upon the earth, who lived at Rome, then would the Sioux laugh, and say, "As long as the sun shines, the Dacotas will keep the medicine feast."

In vain were the pictured prayer-book and the holy relics exhibited. What were they to the tracks of Haokah the giant, or the gods' house, under the hill which reared itself even to the clouds, under which the gods rested themselves from their battles.

The priest wept when he thought of the useless sacrifice he had made: he could not even gain the love of the strange beings for whose sake he had endured so much. They were not like the Abnakis, "those men of the east," who so loved and obeyed the fathers who sojourned among them.

And the useless life he was leading, how long might it last? Restrained, as the Sioux were, only by the laws of hospitality and the promise they had made to the Indians who conducted him hither, how soon might these influences cease to affect them?

We-har-ka alone spoke gently and kindly to him. She knew that his heart, like hers, vibrated beneath a load of care; she found too a strange interest in his stories,—the woman's love of the marvellous was roused; the miracles of the saints delighted her as did the feats of the gods.

But only so far was she a Christian; though she wore a gift from the Jesuit, the consecrated sign. Perhaps in the after accounts of his converts she was reckoned among them. We are told by one of the Jesuit fathers of the true conversion and Christian death of a Canada Indian. "While I related to him," said he, "the scene of the crucifixion, 'Oh! that I had been there,' exclaimed the Indian, 'I would have brought away the scalps of those Jews.'"

The war-chief was arrayed in his choicest clothing; and, but for the silence in the wigwam, and the desolate appearance of the young person who was alone with her dead, one would have supposed that he slept as usual. The charms were still to be left about his person for protection. The body was wrapped in skins: they were as yet laid but loosely about him, ready for their final arrangement, when, with the face towards the rising sun, the warrior should be laid upon the scaffolding, to enjoy undisturbed repose.

But a few hours had elapsed since he sat and talked among them; but now each of the group had returned to his usual occupation. Even his daughter sat with her face drooping over her hands, forgetting for the moment her grief at his loss, and endeavouring to anticipate her own fate. The twilight had not yet given way to night, but the sudden death that had occurred had hushed all their usual noisy amusements. Nothing was heard but the subdued voices of the warriors as they dwelt on the exploits of Eagle Eye, or speculated on the employments that engaged him, now that their tie with him was sundered. Sometimes the subject was changed for another of more exciting interest. A party that had gone in search of the Chippeways,[10] who had been hovering near their village, was expected to return, and there was some little anxiety occasioned by their prolonged stay. Among the most noted of the party was the brother of We-har-ka and a young brave called the Beaver. These two young men, aspirants for glory and the preference which, among the Indians, is awarded to bravery, cunning, and the virtues, so considered among them, belonged to different clans. The rivalry and hatred between these clans raged high, more so at this time than for some years previous.

The Indian lives only for revenge; he has neither arts nor learning to occupy his mind, and his religion encourages rather than condemns this passion.

The daring showed by the Chippeways had only stimulated them to greater acts of bravery; they were determined that the tree of peace, now torn up by the roots, should never be planted again on the boundaries of the two countries.

We-har-ka had arisen from her recumbent attitude, and stood by the side of her dead relative. She had not time to reflect on the loneliness of her position.

She had only laid her hand on the cold forehead where Death had so recently set his seal, when the well-known triumphant voice of her brother echoed through the village.

Hardly had she turned towards the door when another yell of triumph, sounding even louder than the first, was heard. She knew that voice too, for the colour mounted to her cheeks, and her breath came short and quickly.

A chorus of yells now rent the air, answered by the Indians who had joyfully started up to meet the party. How every eye shone with delight, every feature working with convulsive excitement; all the fierce passions of their nature were aroused. Those prolonged and triumphant shouts had prepared them for what was to come. Already they longed to see the blood-dyed scalps, and, it might be, the face of some prisoner in whose sufferings they were to revel.

The figures of the successful war-party soon made themselves visible in the moonlight. One by one they turned the winding trail that led to the village. Over their heads they bore the fresh scalps; and as they came in view, a piercing universal shout arose from all. The eagerness of the women induced them to press forward, and when it was impossible to gain a view, from the great crowd in advance, they ascended the nearest rock, where they could distinctly see the approaching procession.

After the scalps and their bearers were recognised, another deafening shout arose. The prisoners were descried as they neared: it was seen there were two men and a woman. The arms of the men were pinioned back between their shoulders. Nearer still they come, but the shouting is over: intense curiosity and anxiety have succeeded this eager delight.

The prisoners and scalps were their enemies, but over every heart the question passed, Have they all returned? Has each husband been restored to his family, each child to the parent? But not long did these softer feelings influence the conduct of the Sioux. They had now nearly met, and the war-party, with the prisoners, had reached the outskirts of the village. Here the confusion had returned and attained its greatest height; welcomes had been said, and the crowd pressed around the scalps to feast their eyes on the precious sight. There were but four, and they had been taken in the hurry of flight: they were round pieces, torn from the top of the head, and from one of them fell the long, glossy hair of a woman.

There was nothing in the carriage of the prisoners to denote their condition, their attitude and demeanour proclaiming the conqueror instead of the conquered—the haughty determination of their looks, the bold freedom of their steps, their gait as erect as possible, with their hands bound behind them. Even the insolence of their language, in reply to the taunts of their victors, showed they were prepared for what was inevitable.

The calm, pale face of the young Chippeway girl showed that she had determined to brave the blood-loving Sioux, and let them see that a woman could meet death as well as a warrior.

The procession stopped, and one of the Sioux women called for her husband. "Where is he, warriors? give me back my husband."

"You will not weep," said one of the men; "here is the Chippeway who killed him," pointing to the younger of the male prisoners. "You may stone him, and then you may sing while the fire is burning under his feet."

A loud laugh of defiance was heard from the prisoner. "The Sioux are dogs," he said; "let them hurry; I am in haste to go to the land of souls." The words were not uttered ere a dozen spears pricked his body. There was no cry of pain; he only laughed at the anger he had excited.

The attention of the Indians was now withdrawn from their prisoners, for We-har-ka was rapidly walking towards them. Even the arrangement of her dress was distinctly visible as she approached them: her long and glossy hair disarranged purposely, to mark the intensity of her grief; the blood was still trickling from her arms; her pale face looking even paler than it was, by the moonlight and its broad shadows.

She was hastening to meet her brother, yet she did not offer him one congratulation on his safe return. "My brother," she cried, "your grandfather is dead. He lies cold and still, as the large buffalo when he has ceased to struggle with our hunters. Go to his lodge and tell him of your prisoners, and your scalps. For me, I will go myself to shed tears. I will follow the fresh tracks of the deer, and by the wakeen-stone,[11] in the prairie, I will sit and weep where no eye can see me but the Great Spirit's. While the moon walks through the sky, the spirits shall hear my voice."

She was listened to in silence, for the Indians always showed respect to We-har-ka; her being constantly with the war-chief had made them look upon her almost with reverence, as if she might have obtained from him some supernatural power.

"The Sioux listen to the words of a woman," said the old prisoner, as We-har-ka turned towards the prairie. "Why do they not make her a war-chief, and let her take them to battle?"

"We will," answered her brother, "when we go again to bring home old men. I would not have been troubled with your old carrion, but I thought to let my father return the kind treatment you once gave him; and I would kill you now, but that I would rather the women would do it."

"The Sioux are brave when their prisoners are bound," again taunted the prisoner; "let them do their will: the Chippeway fears neither fire nor death."

The rage of the Sioux was unbounded; the cold unconcern of their prisoner almost destroyed the pleasure of victory. The women clamorously demanded that he might be delivered over to them. They seized him, and moved forward to a large tree, whose massive trunk indicated its strength. Here they bound him with strong sinews and pieces of skin. His hands were tied in front, and a strong cord was passed about his waist, and with it he was fastened to the tree.

This was all the work of the women, and they evinced by their expedition and hideous laughs the pleasure they found in their employment.

The Sioux then went to see the body of their venerated chief; on their return they found their victim firmly secured to the tree. The son was bound at some little distance from the father, while the daughter was sitting, hiding her face between her hands, weeping for her father's situation. Pride had all gone, only affection occupied her heart. The old Chippeway was convinced now of his immediate sufferings; he had been tranquil and unmoved until the return of the warriors. Suddenly he shouted, in a loud voice, the wild notes of his death-song.

There was no failing in his voice; even his daughter turned towards him with satisfaction as he extolled his life, and expressed pleasure at the prospect of seeing the hunting-grounds of the Great Spirit.

As he ceased, Chashé told him he must rest from his journey ere he commenced his long way to the land of souls. "A great many winters ago," said the young Sioux, "my father was in your country; you took him prisoner, you bound him, and you told him what a good warm fire he was to have to die by.

"You said you loved him too well to let him be cold; but while you were binding him he was too strong for you. Unk-ta-he had made him brave; he bounded from your grasp in sight of your warriors. He flew; your bravest men chased him in vain. He came home and lived to an age greater than yours.

"The old war-chief is gone, or he would tell you how welcome you are to his village. He was always hospitable and loved to treat brave men well. But we must eat first, or we cannot enjoy ourselves while you are so comfortable with your old limbs burning."

Expressions of approbation followed this speech on the part of the Sioux, but there was no notice taken of it by the Chippeway, who was now occupied in contemplating his daughter. He had before seemed to be unconscious of her presence.

No bodily torture could equal the pang of the father, who saw the utterly helpless and unhappy situation of his child. His own fate was fixed—that caused him no uneasiness. There was even a feeling of enthusiasm in the prospect of showing his enemies how slight was their power over him; how little he cared for any tortures they might inflict.

But his young daughter, who would have been safe now among her own people, but for her affection for him, which induced her to remain by his side, refusing the opportunity of escape.

The Sioux saw his concern and rejoiced that this pang was added to the torture: not only his own fate to bear, but the consciousness that he had caused the destruction of both his children. His son was surrounded while endeavouring to protect his father.

Thus will nature assert her right in the hearts of all her children; but the Chippeway closed his eyes to all, save the effort of appearing indifferent to his sufferings. Again he sung his death-song, while the Sioux stretched themselves upon the grass, eating the tender venison which had been prepared for them, occasionally offering some to the Chippeway, advising him to eat and be strong, that he might bravely walk on his journey to the land of souls.

While the Dacotas were eating and resting themselves, the Chippeway chaunted his death-song; his son, apparently, was unmoved by his own and his father's desperate situation, but the daughter no longer endeavoured to restrain her grief. Exhausted from fatigue and fasting, she would gladly have known her own fate, even if death were to be her mode of release from her distressing position.

The Indians frequently offered her food. Chashé tried to persuade her to eat: she indignantly rejected the attention, her whole soul absorbed in her father's painful situation.

She saw there was no hope: even had she not understood their language, she could have read all in the fierce glaring eyes of her enemies, the impatient gestures of the men, and the eager, energetic movements of the women. The latter were not idle: they were making arrangements for the burning of the prisoner. Under his feet they piled small round pieces of wood, with brush conveniently placed, so as to kindle it at a moment's warning when all should be ready. To their frequent taunts their victim paid no attention: this only increased their anxiety to hasten his sufferings, young and old uniting their strength.

One woman struck him with the wood she was about to lay at his feet, another pierced him with the large thorn she had taken from the branch she held; but the loudest cries of merriment and applause greeted the appearance of an old creature, almost bowed together with the weight of a load she was carrying, large pieces of fat and skin, which she was to throw in the blaze at different times when it should be kindled.

The glare of day could not have made more perceptible the horrid faces of the savages than did the brilliant moonlight. Every sound that was uttered was more distinct, from the intense quiet that pervaded all nature. The face of the victim, now turned to the sky, now bent in scorn over his enemies; that of his son, pale, proud, and indifferent; the unrestrained grief of the girl, who only raised her head to gaze at her father, then trembling, with sobs, hid it deeper in her bosom; the malignant triumph of the Sioux men, the excitement and delight of the women;—all these were distinctly visible in the glowing brightness of the night.

Was there no hope for the aged and weary old man? no chance that these stern, revengeful spirits might relent? Will not woman, with her kind heart and gentle voice, ask that his life may be spared? Alas! it is woman's work that we are witnessing: they bound his limbs, they have beaten him, and even now are they disputing for the privilege of lighting the fire which is to consume him. Loud cries arise, but the contention is soon quelled, for the deep bass voice of the medicine-man is heard above theirs, and he says that the newly made widow, and she alone, shall start the blaze, and then all may join in adding fuel to the fire, and insult to the present disgrace of the Chippeway warrior.

And now the brush is piled round the wood and touches the victim's feet, and the men lie still on the grass, knowing their work will be well done, and the women who are crowded together make a way for the widow to advance. See her! the tears are on her cheek, yet there is a smile of exultation too—the blood is streaming from her bosom and her arms.

With her left hand she leads her young son forward. In her right she holds a large and flaming torch of pine. The red light of the burning wood contrasts strangely with the white light of the moon; the black smoke rises and is lost in the fleecy clouds that are flying through the air.

The silence is broken only by the heart-breaking sobs of the Chippeway girl. The Sioux woman kneels, and carefully holds the torch under the brush and kindling-wood. She withdraws her hand, and soon there is something beside sobs breaking the stillness. The dry branches snap, and the women shout and laugh as they hear the crackling sound. The men join in a derisive laugh; but above all is heard the loud, full voice of the victim. His death-chaunt drowns all other sounds, yet there is not a tone of pain or impatience in the voice; it is solemn and dignified; there is even a note of rapture as he shouts defiance to his enemies and their cruelty.

The dry twigs snap apart, and the smoke curls around the limbs of the prisoner: now the bright red flames embrace his form.

The warrior is still; he is collecting his energies and challenging his powers of endurance.

Chashé stood up. "My father," said he, "fled from the fire of the Chippeways; but you like the fire of the Dacotas, for you stand still."

"The Sioux are great warriors," replied the Chippeway, "when they fight old men and children," looking at the same time towards his daughter.

"But, is he an old man or a girl?" asked Chashé, pointing to the younger Chippeway.

"He is a great warrior," said the father, "but he was one against many. He could not see his father and sister scalped before his eyes. Had he fought man to man he would have showed you the sharp edge of his tomahawk; but he is a Chippeway, and knows how to suffer and to die."

The noise of the fire drowned the old man's words, for the women were amusing themselves by throwing on small pieces of dry wood and portions of deer-fat, which, crackling as it burned, rapidly consumed the body of the unfortunate man.

No suffering had, as yet, forced from him any cry of pain; it was evident that nature would soon relieve him of his agony. His heart had nigh ceased "beating its funeral march." Even he, an untutored savage, felt that

"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul."

His fortitude to endure was increased by the thought that soon the brilliant but mysterious future would be opened to him.

The Sioux were disappointed at his courage, and longed to have their gratification completed by some acknowledgment of his agony. An old and fierce-looking woman drew her knife from her belt, and springing upon the high roots of the tree, cut a deep gash between the shoulders of the prisoner, then stooping, she raised in her hand a flaming torch, which she applied to the fresh wound she had just made. This agony was unendurable: a deathlike struggle convulsed the heroic countenance of the sufferer; he uttered a sharp and piercing cry; then, as if apologizing for his want of firmness, exclaimed, "Fire is strong!"

This sufficed for his enemies, and shouts of joy echoed through the village, while the agonized daughter, unable longer to endure the dreadful sight, sunk insensible on the grass at her brother's feet.

It was not long ere another shout announced the relief of the Chippeway. The sweet hours of night had passed away while they watched his noble firmness, and awaited his last breath. During the last hour, long, low, black clouds had been deepening in the far west; now and then a distant murmur was heard, and faint flashes gleamed athwart the water. A slight murmuring of the waves witnessed the rising of the wind, and the Sioux separated to take a rest, which they all needed.

Seeing that their other prisoner was securely bound, they left him to face the storm and the hideous spectacle of his father's remains. Chashé raised the lifeless form of the girl and carried her to his sister's wigwam.

We-har-ka had taken no interest in the scene that had been enacting; she slept soundly, fatigued with her wanderings on the prairie and the indulgence of her grief. Chashé laid his unconscious burden by the side of his sister. Enemies as they were, the looker-on might observe a strong bond of sympathy between them. Their young faces were shadowed by grief,—that link which should unite, heart to heart, every child of earth.

* * * * *

The low sigh with which the Chippeway girl awoke from her deathlike trance, did not awaken We-har-ka. Starting up, she in a moment recalled the sad tragedy which had just been enacted before her eyes, yet she could not account for her being where she was. The wigwam was dark, except when illuminated by vivid flashes of lightning, which showed her the few articles of furniture and comfort that adorned an Indian woman's home.

The occasional pealing of the thunder, and We-har-ka's breathing, were the only sounds she heard. A thousand painful thoughts drove slumber from her eyelids. Her father she knew was gone: she pressed her hand before her eyes to recall, and then to chase away, the dreadful memory that tortured her. She was spared; it might be for a slave, or to be the wife of some one of her enemies. Her brother, she had no doubt, was still living: he had been reserved for protracted tortures. Overcome by these thoughts she sank again upon the ground, but not to sleep.

Could nothing be suggested to give her comfort? She cautiously raised the door of the wigwam, and by the red lightning she saw her brother bound as she had left him. Despair had nearly overpowered her once more, but the natural energy of her mind returning, she looked again to her own heart, to see if there was any hope. Should she never see again the home so dear to her! Were she and her bold brother to die by the hands of her father's murderers! Oh! that she possessed a sharp knife, to sever the thongs that bound him, how soon would they flee away as the birds do when winter's winds are heard from the north!

The idea once prominent in her mind, there was hope. Another flash showed her the most minute objects in the wigwam. Another directed her to the knife of We-har-ka, which lay glittering by her breast. A few moments of intense thought decided her: nerved by a sense of her own and her brother's danger, she no longer hesitated. What horrors could be greater than those by which she was surrounded! What if she were detected and murdered at once! Far better than to witness her brother's fate, and endure her own.

She placed herself near We-har-ka, then gently endeavoured to remove the knife she coveted. The young heart throbbed against her hand. Again she endeavoured to slide the knife from its place. We-har-ka turned upon her side as if disturbed. After a few moments had elapsed she once more made the effort; and now, as it is clasped in her hand, her senses have well-nigh left her, for this time she is successful.

But, well she knew there was no time for delay, nor even for consideration. The deepest darkness of night was now upon them; before long the morning twilight would be again resting over the earth.

The perfect and unusual repose of the Sioux was in her favour; and, excited even to desperation, she determined to endeavour to free her brother, and secure his and her own escape.

She first endeavoured to recall the situation of the principal objects in the village. She did not, however, require any effort of memory, for she could see distinctly where her brother was bound, and the path that led to this point. The storm's spirits were her friends: without the lightning she could have accomplished nothing.

There was a turn in the path that led through the village, and once or twice she was at a loss how to proceed. She would not be dismayed, though at times she feared her enemies would hear the loud beatings of her heart. Guided by the lightning, and resting for a moment when she feared her footfall would give the alarm, she at length reached the spot.

There had been no rest for the younger Chippeway. With the heart-crushing spectacle before his eyes, he had only given way to a horror at his father's sufferings, far more dreadful to witness than to endure. There was, besides, the anticipation of his own.

Again and again he looked at the strong cords that bound him. Could he for a short time possess the knife his enemies had wrested from him!

Useless, indeed, to him, without assistance!

Softer feelings, too, came in turn. His wife had been murdered before his eyes, his young son crushed under the feet of those who now lay sleeping tranquilly around him.

The weary night was wearing on. There would be no breaking of the day to him. There was no hope, but that which pointed to the unknown future; no light but that which glimmered from the silent land.

A slight noise arouses his acute senses, and he turns his head to that part of the village where were the greatest number of lodges. It might be that the footstep was that of some one of his foes, determined alone to enjoy the sight of his death. Oh! what joy thus to be saved the reproaches of his enemies, the laughing of the women, the sneers of all. Eagerly he peers through the darkness, and the first brilliant flash shows him the pale face of his sister, as she advances towards him.

Very near him slept, in a wigwam, two warriors who had the charge of him. They might awake: this thought made the very pulses of his life stand still.

For at once he understood his sister's intention. He knew her courage; he also knew that without an object she would not be thus incurring the risk of arousing their enemies.

Another flash, and she stood close by his side—her hand was upon his, as she felt for the thongs that bound him. One by one they were cautiously severed—slowly, for the slightest noise might be fatal.

It was hard work, too, for the maiden, for the sinews were like iron, and her strength failed her under the repeated efforts she was obliged to make. There was no word uttered,—their hearts silently conversed with each other. Time passed, and he was almost free; he was himself severing the last bond that detained him.

It yielded. Once more he could stretch out his muscular arm. Grasping his sister to his side, covered by the darkness and the thunder, and the heavily commencing rain, they made their way under the edges of the bluffs. The young Chippeway knew the route: a short peace had existed between the tribes, and he had more than once passed through the village.

At first their progress was slow and deliberate. There was no faltering, though. They were without weapons, with the exception of We-har-ka's knife. Hunger and faintness were oppressing them, but the danger they were in braced their hearts. As they began to leave the Sioux village in the distance, hope gave vigour to their frames.

After the day broke, the clouds were scattering, and the sunbeams were dotting the hills that lay between them and their foes. Still they could not rest. The wild plum was their only nourishment; nor was it until night had again shrouded the earth, and the young man laid his sister in the hospitable lodge of a Chippeway village, that he realized that he had been a prisoner and was again free.

It were impossible to describe the rage of the Sioux on ascertaining the escape of their prisoners. Chashé went soon after their flight to his sister's wigwam. His sleep had been restless, he thought of his dead relative, but he thought more of the Chippeway girl, whom he had resolved to adopt[12] in place of his young wife, who had died recently. Seeing his sister alone, he anxiously inquired of her what had become of the girl. What was his surprise when she told him there had been no one there; that when she arose, the storm was passing over, but it was still dark, but that no one had been in the lodge since then. Her brother, much irritated, contradicted her, using the most violent language; yet it was evident to him that his sister was unconscious of his having laid the girl by her side.

He turned away, and sought the scene of the last night's torture. There were the burnt fagots, and the ghastly remains. The smoke still curled and slowly rose from the ashes, but neither of the prisoners was to be seen. The thongs with which he had been bound lay on the ground.

There was no room for doubt: brother and sister had fled; and they lived so near the borders of the Chippeway country that there was every reason to believe they were beyond the reach of recovery.

Disappointment and rage overspread his features. He threw up the door of the lodge where the sentinels still slept calmly. Pushing the foremost over with his foot, "Where is your prisoner?" said he. "You are brave men, that cannot take care of one Chippeway!"

Starting to their feet, the sentinels at once became aware of what had occurred. "Where is the girl?" they asked of Chashé.

"They are both gone," said he, "and they must both have passed near you."

"And where were you when the girl went?" replied one of the sentinels. "You took her off with you, and if we could not keep the man, you could not keep the woman."

The inmates of the different lodges came forward to learn what had happened. Here advances a brave, followed by his young sons. The women throw down their bundles of sticks, to feast themselves with a sight of the Chippeways ere they commenced their usual avocations; but they only expressed their sorrow by groans of disappointment. It was decided that the fugitives should be pursued. A party of the younger men set out without delay; they were warned, however, not to go too near their enemy's country.

Glowing with the expectation of recapturing the prisoners, and, it might be, of bringing home more scalps, they were anxious to set out. The old medicine-men reminded them of their duty, gave them advice suitable to the occasion, and then, with uplifted hands, called upon Wakeen Tonca, Great Spirit, Father, to help them against their enemies.

The close of another evening found the Sioux quiet, and busy in drying venison, and the usual occupations of the season. With the day, however, were closing their labours. Often a cry of lamentation was heard from the lodge of the Sioux who had recently been killed in battle.

The body of Eagle Eye was deposited upon a high scaffolding. His two children were still engaged at the burial-ground. All cries of sorrow, usual at such times, were hushed. The sides of the high hills were tinged with gold and crimson. Some of these "mountains rose high, high up, until they could look into the heavens and hear God in the storm." The river was as calm as if no scene of cruelty had ever been enacted on its banks.

Round the frame where Eagle Eye's form was laid hung his medicine-bag. Chashé placed a vessel of water near the body. We-har-ka lightly lifted the bark dish of buffalo-meat[13] and wild rice, where the soul of the departed warrior could take it, and be refreshed when tired and hungry. Very near him was buried his wife. Her bones had been gathered and buried under the ground; branches of trees and solid pieces of wood had been placed crosswise over her grave, to protect it from the wolves.

The graves and scaffolds were continued to the very edge of the bluff, while flowers of the most brilliant hue sprung up at the feet of the mourners, and clung to the low small bushes that grew on the hilltop. The brother and sister were preparing to come down, when We-har-ka perceived the priest seated by one of the graves, apparently unconscious of all that was passing around him. She approached him, and softly laid her hand upon his shoulder. He turned to her slowly, as if aroused from a dream of long past years, and followed them to the village.

His lodge was near hers, and she listened to his full rich voice as he chaunted the vespers. Totally ignorant of what he said, she was yet soothed by the sweet sounds, and after they had ceased, unobserved by others, she sought him in his lodge, and night was closing over the earth as the voices of the two mingled in earnest conversation.

* * * * *

The Jesuit had long been anxious to take advantage of the first opportunity that offered to return to Canada. Here, his time was wasted and his health impaired to no purpose. He had succeeded in learning the language of the savages, so as to converse with them tolerably; but his mission was as useless here as it would have been among the wild beasts of Africa.

Constantly exposed to danger, without the means of living, except what he received from We-har-ka, and occasionally from others, his time unoccupied, his life was a burden. His health was not strong enough to enable him to join in the hardy exercises and sports of the red men. How anxiously, then, did he await the means of deliverance.

There was an occasional intercourse with the tribes that lived in the region of the great lakes: in this way he had come among the Sioux, and he hoped thus to return to Acadie. He passed hour after hour watching the approach of canoes, hoping to recognise the tall, gaunt forms of the Hurons, or some of those with whom the Sioux were on friendly terms. Over but one human being, We-har-ka, had he acquired the slightest influence. We have before alluded to the rivalry of the two young men, Chashé and the Beaver, for the disputed honour of being the war-chief of the band. They belonged to opposite clans, which were almost equally divided. It appeared evident that it could only be decided by some act of bravery performed by one of the parties.

The aspirants had equal claims. They were each daring in the greatest degree. Young, athletic, inured to fatigue and hardships, thirsting like the war-horse for the battle. Chashé owed his reputation in some degree to the reputation of his grandfather, while on the other hand the Beaver's courage made him feared by his own and the opposite clan.

The long-continued feud between the two clans had been more violent than ever since the death of the younger brother of Chashé. His sickness was attributed to a spell having been cast upon him by some one of the other clan. Eagle Eye attributed his death to the family of the Beaver; and so great was the hatred of the two clans[14] that murder after murder occurred, and every sickness and disaster was charged upon some individual, and thus revenge was constantly sought.

Especially was Eagle Eye dreaded; his powers as a medicine-man were rated so high, that in passing by him many avoided his observation—they dreaded lest he should, by an undefined power, bring upon them the wrath of an evil spirit. And each warrior wore beneath his richly embroidered hunting-dress a charm, to protect him from a machination that he feared.

Yet did the Beaver love the sister of his rival, and he had induced her to defy her brother's hot temper, and promise him all her young affection. Love had made him eloquent, and he persuaded her out of all the opinions she had imbibed from the time she was capable of forming one; while he, blind to the attractions of all others, could only see grace in her person.

It was not likely his life would be safe should he marry her, and remain among his own people; and could he yield the chances of his high position among the braves with whom he had grown up to the love of woman? He knew that We-har-ka would leave all for him. The only question was, could he make the sacrifice?

They had closely kept their secret. We-har-ka had been promised to a young man of her grandfather's clan. She had from time to time delayed the marriage, by her influence over the old man. The husband they had chosen for her was the tried friend of her brother, styled among the Indians, a comrade. Well did We-har-ka know how determined was her brother's temper, and that he would force her into the marriage after her grandfather's death, and that, unless by some great effort, there was no hope.

On the night of the return of the party, and the burning of the prisoner, she had, indeed, gone to the prairies to weep; but it was as much over the difficulties of her position as the death of her relative. It was not without an object that she had come forward to meet the war-party, and told them her intention. When the excitement of the burning of the Chippeway was at its height, her lover had left the group of young men, and a short time brought him to We-har-ka's side. After a few moments passed in the joy of reunion, We-har-ka told him that her fate must soon be decided, and implored him to take her away from their home, as their only chance of happiness. They could go, she said, among the Sioux who lived on the Missouri, and there live free from care.

The young man did not answer her at first, and We-har-ka, startled with the boldness of her own proposal, awaited his answer, standing. Her arms were clasped over her breast, and her eyes bent to the ground: the moonlight glittered on the wampum which lay on her bosom, and flashed from the silver cross suspended from her neck.

At length the Indian broke out into angry abuse of her brother and all connected with her. The colour varied in her cheek, and her lips were more firmly compressed when he charged them with cowardice, but still she spoke not. She had counted the cost of his love, and knew, that to retain it, she must resign even the natural impulses of her heart.

She waited until the torrent of his passion had ceased, then pointing to the dark clouds that were gathering in the west, reminded him that they would be missed. The shout that came from the village warned them too of the necessity of separation. He then marked the agitation of her manner, bade her return home, telling her that, after her father was buried, he would come to the lodge of the Jesuit: at what time he could not say, but not until some amusements should engage the Sioux: then he would tell her his determination. We-har-ka, overpowered with fatigue on her return to her lodge, slept soundly, even with the Chippeway girl by her side.

* * * * *

We-har-ka sat in the wigwam of the Jesuit, listening to the accounts of the grandeur of the churches and the magnificence of the altars in the country where Father Blanc had passed his youth. He pointed to the small figure of Christ, on the altar of cedar wood, which he had constructed, then told her of the large one of gold which he had often knelt before in assisting in the ceremonies of the church. We-har-ka, whose thoughts had been wandering in quest of her lover, asked him again of the ever interesting story of the death and sufferings of the Saviour. Like those who witnessed the crucifixion, she wondered that that Great Being should submit to such indignities. Her religion would have justified resenting them. Yet she did not believe it was true, loving still to hear it told over and over again; especially was it agreeable to her now to while away the hour until her lover, under pretence of speaking to the priest, should find a chance of acquainting her with the plans he had formed. She looked again at the familiar objects on the altar. Again, as ever, she told the priest he was good and kind, but that she knew the Great Spirit was the father of all. Father Blanc's insinuating eloquence touched her feelings, but her heart was unaffected: yet the father, glad of a listener, even in the untutored Indian girl, dwelt on scenes long past, and it might be forgotten by all but him.

When the moon rose they sat outside the lodge on a mat. They were now both silent. The thoughts of the Jesuit wandered far and wide: memory transported him to the forests of Languedoc.

There he pursued his studies, full of high hope and youthful happiness. He wandered through the most beautiful scenes of nature, and there was one by his side; her smile was bent upon him, as she parted the long ringlets from her brow. He gazed again as he was wont when he bade her good night, and wondered if angels smiled so sweetly when they bore the dead to the regions of Paradise. Memory changes the scene. Death and desolation are met; darkness and beauty are blended strangely. Those angel eyes are closed, but the sweet smile is there.

Hushed lips bend over the bier where roses are lavishly strewed. Echoes of grief are heard along the halls, as they pass on with their beautiful burden to the house of death. Then come the long nights of sorrow, the vigils of despair, the renouncing of the hopes and pleasures of life: then the morbid restlessness, the wish for death and forgetfulness. Afterwards, the solitary life of the student, then the seclusion of the cloister, and the longing to wear out life under a different sky. He traced again his course, until he sat here, a wanderer, by the side of the Indian girl.