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Title: The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757

Author: James Fenimore Cooper

Release date: February 5, 2006 [eBook #940]
Most recently updated: August 26, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/940

Credits: John Horner and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST OF
THE MOHICANS; A NARRATIVE OF 1757 ***

The Last of the Mohicans

A Narrative of 1757

by James Fenimore Cooper

Contents

INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.

INTRODUCTION

It is believed that the scene of this tale, and most of the information
necessary to understand its allusions, are rendered sufficiently obvious to
the reader in the text itself, or in the accompanying notes. Still there is so
much obscurity in the Indian traditions, and so much confusion in the
Indian names, as to render some explanation useful.
Few men exhibit greater diversity, or, if we may so express it, greater
antithesis of character, than the native warrior of North America. In war, he
is daring, boastful, cunning, ruthless, self-denying, and self-devoted; in
peace, just, generous, hospitable, revengeful, superstitious, modest, and
commonly chaste. These are qualities, it is true, which do not distinguish all
alike; but they are so far the predominating traits of these remarkable
people as to be characteristic.
It is generally believed that the Aborigines of the American continent
have an Asiatic origin. There are many physical as well as moral facts
which corroborate this opinion, and some few that would seem to weigh
against it.
The color of the Indian, the writer believes, is peculiar to himself, and
while his cheek-bones have a very striking indication of a Tartar origin, his
eyes have not. Climate may have had great influence on the former, but it is
difficult to see how it can have produced the substantial difference which
exists in the latter. The imagery of the Indian, both in his poetry and in his
oratory, is oriental; chastened, and perhaps improved, by the limited range
of his practical knowledge. He draws his metaphors from the clouds, the
seasons, the birds, the beasts, and the vegetable world. In this, perhaps, he
does no more than any other energetic and imaginative race would do,
being compelled to set bounds to fancy by experience; but the North
American Indian clothes his ideas in a dress which is different from that of
the African, and is oriental in itself. His language has the richness and
sententious fullness of the Chinese. He will express a phrase in a word, and

he will qualify the meaning of an entire sentence by a syllable; he will even
convey different significations by the simplest inflections of the voice.
Philologists have said that there are but two or three languages, properly
speaking, among all the numerous tribes which formerly occupied the
country that now composes the United States. They ascribe the known
difficulty one people have to understand another to corruptions and dialects.
The writer remembers to have been present at an interview between two
chiefs of the Great Prairies west of the Mississippi, and when an interpreter
was in attendance who spoke both their languages. The warriors appeared to
be on the most friendly terms, and seemingly conversed much together; yet,
according to the account of the interpreter, each was absolutely ignorant of
what the other said. They were of hostile tribes, brought together by the
influence of the American government; and it is worthy of remark, that a
common policy led them both to adopt the same subject. They mutually
exhorted each other to be of use in the event of the chances of war throwing
either of the parties into the hands of his enemies. Whatever may be the
truth, as respects the root and the genius of the Indian tongues, it is quite
certain they are now so distinct in their words as to possess most of the
disadvantages of strange languages; hence much of the embarrassment that
has arisen in learning their histories, and most of the uncertainty which
exists in their traditions.
Like nations of higher pretensions, the American Indian gives a very
different account of his own tribe or race from that which is given by other
people. He is much addicted to overestimating his own perfections, and to
undervaluing those of his rival or his enemy; a trait which may possibly be
thought corroborative of the Mosaic account of the creation.
The whites have assisted greatly in rendering the traditions of the
Aborigines more obscure by their own manner of corrupting names. Thus,
the term used in the title of this book has undergone the changes of
Mahicanni, Mohicans, and Mohegans; the latter being the word commonly
used by the whites. When it is remembered that the Dutch (who first settled
New York), the English, and the French, all gave appellations to the tribes
that dwelt within the country which is the scene of this story, and that the
Indians not only gave different names to their enemies, but frequently to
themselves, the cause of the confusion will be understood.

In these pages, Lenni-Lenape, Lenope, Delawares, Wapanachki, and
Mohicans, all mean the same people, or tribes of the same stock. The
Mengwe, the Maquas, the Mingoes, and the Iroquois, though not all strictly
the same, are identified frequently by the speakers, being politically
confederated and opposed to those just named. Mingo was a term of
peculiar reproach, as were Mengwe and Maqua in a less degree.
The Mohicans were the possessors of the country first occupied by the
Europeans in this portion of the continent. They were, consequently, the
first dispossessed; and the seemingly inevitable fate of all these people, who
disappear before the advances, or it might be termed the inroads, of
civilization, as the verdure of their native forests falls before the nipping
frosts, is represented as having already befallen them. There is sufficient
historical truth in the picture to justify the use that has been made of it.
In point of fact, the country which is the scene of the following tale has
undergone as little change, since the historical events alluded to had place,
as almost any other district of equal extent within the whole limits of the
United States. There are fashionable and well-attended watering-places at
and near the spring where Hawkeye halted to drink, and roads traverse the
forests where he and his friends were compelled to journey without even a
path. Glen’s has a large village; and while William Henry, and even a
fortress of later date, are only to be traced as ruins, there is another village
on the shores of the Horican. But, beyond this, the enterprise and energy of
a people who have done so much in other places have done little here. The
whole of that wilderness, in which the latter incidents of the legend
occurred, is nearly a wilderness still, though the red man has entirely
deserted this part of the state. Of all the tribes named in these pages, there
exist only a few half-civilized beings of the Oneidas, on the reservations of
their people in New York. The rest have disappeared, either from the
regions in which their fathers dwelt, or altogether from the earth.
There is one point on which we would wish to say a word before closing
this preface. Hawkeye calls the Lac du Saint Sacrement, the “Horican.” As
we believe this to be an appropriation of the name that has its origin with
ourselves, the time has arrived, perhaps, when the fact should be frankly
admitted. While writing this book, fully a quarter of a century since, it
occurred to us that the French name of this lake was too complicated, the
American too commonplace, and the Indian too unpronounceable, for either

to be used familiarly in a work of fiction. Looking over an ancient map, it
was ascertained that a tribe of Indians, called “Les Horicans” by the French,
existed in the neighborhood of this beautiful sheet of water. As every word
uttered by Natty Bumppo was not to be received as rigid truth, we took the
liberty of putting the “Horican” into his mouth, as the substitute for “Lake
George.” The name has appeared to find favor, and all things considered, it
may possibly be quite as well to let it stand, instead of going back to the
House of Hanover for the appellation of our finest sheet of water. We
relieve our conscience by the confession, at all events leaving it to exercise
its authority as it may see fit.

CHAPTER I.
“Mine ear is open, and my heart prepared:
The worst is wordly loss thou canst unfold:—
Say, is my kingdom lost?”—Shakespeare

It was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of North America, that the
toils and dangers of the wilderness were to be encountered before the
adverse hosts could meet. A wide and apparently an impervious boundary
of forests severed the possessions of the hostile provinces of France and
England. The hardy colonist, and the trained European who fought at his
side, frequently expended months in struggling against the rapids of the
streams, or in effecting the rugged passes of the mountains, in quest of an
opportunity to exhibit their courage in a more martial conflict. But,
emulating the patience and self-denial of the practiced native warriors, they
learned to overcome every difficulty; and it would seem that, in time, there
was no recess of the woods so dark, nor any secret place so lovely, that it
might claim exemption from the inroads of those who had pledged their
blood to satiate their vengeance, or to uphold the cold and selfish policy of
the distant monarchs of Europe.
Perhaps no district throughout the wide extent of the intermediate
frontiers can furnish a livelier picture of the cruelty and fierceness of the
savage warfare of those periods than the country which lies between the
head waters of the Hudson and the adjacent lakes.
The facilities which nature had there offered to the march of the
combatants were too obvious to be neglected. The lengthened sheet of the
Champlain stretched from the frontiers of Canada, deep within the borders
of the neighboring province of New York, forming a natural passage across
half the distance that the French were compelled to master in order to strike
their enemies. Near its southern termination, it received the contributions of
another lake, whose waters were so limpid as to have been exclusively
selected by the Jesuit missionaries to perform the typical purification of

baptism, and to obtain for it the title of lake “du Saint Sacrément.” The less
zealous English thought they conferred a sufficient honor on its unsullied
fountains, when they bestowed the name of their reigning prince, the second
of the house of Hanover. The two united to rob the untutored possessors of
its wooded scenery of their native right to perpetuate its original appellation
of “Horican.”[1]
[1] As each nation of the Indians had its language or its dialect, they usually gave
different names to the same places, though nearly all of their appellations were
descriptive of the object. Thus a literal translation of the name of this beautiful
sheet of water, used by the tribe that dwelt on its banks, would be “The Tail of
the Lake.” Lake George, as it is vulgarly, and now, indeed, legally, called, forms
a sort of tail to Lake Champlain, when viewed on the map. Hence, the name.

Winding its way among countless islands, and imbedded in mountains,
the “holy lake” extended a dozen leagues still further to the south. With the
high plain that there interposed itself to the further passage of the water,
commenced a portage of as many miles, which conducted the adventurer to
the banks of the Hudson, at a point where, with the usual obstructions of the
rapids, or rifts, as they were then termed in the language of the country, the
river became navigable to the tide.
While, in the pursuit of their daring plans of annoyance, the restless
enterprise of the French even attempted the distant and difficult gorges of
the Alleghany, it may easily be imagined that their proverbial acuteness
would not overlook the natural advantages of the district we have just
described. It became, emphatically, the bloody arena, in which most of the
battles for the mastery of the colonies were contested. Forts were erected at
the different points that commanded the facilities of the route, and were
taken and retaken, razed and rebuilt, as victory alighted on the hostile
banners. While the husbandman shrank back from the dangerous passes,
within the safer boundaries of the more ancient settlements, armies larger
than those that had often disposed of the scepters of the mother countries,
were seen to bury themselves in these forests, whence they rarely returned
but in skeleton bands, that were haggard with care or dejected by defeat.
Though the arts of peace were unknown to this fatal region, its forests were
alive with men; its shades and glens rang with the sounds of martial music,
and the echoes of its mountains threw back the laugh, or repeated the
wanton cry, of many a gallant and reckless youth, as he hurried by them, in
the noontide of his spirits, to slumber in a long night of forgetfulness.

It was in this scene of strife and bloodshed that the incidents we shall
attempt to relate occurred, during the third year of the war which England
and France last waged for the possession of a country that neither was
destined to retain.
The imbecility of her military leaders abroad, and the fatal want of
energy in her councils at home, had lowered the character of Great Britain
from the proud elevation on which it had been placed by the talents and
enterprise of her former warriors and statesmen. No longer dreaded by her
enemies, her servants were fast losing the confidence of self-respect. In this
mortifying abasement, the colonists, though innocent of her imbecility, and
too humble to be the agents of her blunders, were but the natural
participators. They had recently seen a chosen army from that country,
which, reverencing as a mother, they had blindly believed invincible—an
army led by a chief who had been selected from a crowd of trained
warriors, for his rare military endowments, disgracefully routed by a
handful of French and Indians, and only saved from annihilation by the
coolness and spirit of a Virginian boy, whose riper fame has since diffused
itself, with the steady influence of moral truth, to the uttermost confines of
Christendom.[2] A wide frontier had been laid naked by this unexpected
disaster, and more substantial evils were preceded by a thousand fanciful
and imaginary dangers. The alarmed colonists believed that the yells of the
savages mingled with every fitful gust of wind that issued from the
interminable forests of the west. The terrific character of their merciless
enemies increased immeasurably the natural horrors of warfare. Numberless
recent massacres were still vivid in their recollections; nor was there any
ear in the provinces so deaf as not to have drunk in with avidity the
narrative of some fearful tale of midnight murder, in which the natives of
the forests were the principal and barbarous actors. As the credulous and
excited traveler related the hazardous chances of the wilderness, the blood
of the timid curdled with terror, and mothers cast anxious glances even at
those children which slumbered within the security of the largest towns. In
short, the magnifying influence of fear began to set at naught the
calculations of reason, and to render those who should have remembered
their manhood, the slaves of the basest passions. Even the most confident
and the stoutest hearts began to think the issue of the contest was becoming
doubtful; and that abject class was hourly increasing in numbers, who
thought they foresaw all the possessions of the English crown in America

subdued by their Christian foes, or laid waste by the inroads of their
relentless allies.
[2] Washington, who, after uselessly admonishing the European general of the
danger into which he was heedlessly running, saved the remnants of the British
army, on this occasion, by his decision and courage. The reputation earned by
Washington in this battle was the principal cause of his being selected to
command the American armies at a later day. It is a circumstance worthy of
observation, that while all America rang with his well-merited reputation, his
name does not occur in any European account of the battle; at least the author
has searched for it without success. In this manner does the mother country
absorb even the fame, under that system of rule.

When, therefore, intelligence was received at the fort which covered the
southern termination of the portage between the Hudson and the lakes, that
Montcalm had been seen moving up the Champlain, with an army
“numerous as the leaves on the trees,” its truth was admitted with more of
the craven reluctance of fear than with the stern joy that a warrior should
feel, in finding an enemy within reach of his blow. The news had been
brought, toward the decline of a day in midsummer, by an Indian runner,
who also bore an urgent request from Munro, the commander of a work on
the shore of the “holy lake,” for a speedy and powerful reinforcement. It has
already been mentioned that the distance between these two posts was less
than five leagues. The rude path, which originally formed their line of
communication, had been widened for the passage of wagons; so that the
distance which had been traveled by the son of the forest in two hours,
might easily be effected by a detachment of troops, with their necessary
baggage, between the rising and setting of a summer sun. The loyal servants
of the British crown had given to one of these forest-fastnesses the name of
William Henry, and to the other that of Fort Edward, calling each after a
favorite prince of the reigning family. The veteran Scotchman just named
held the first, with a regiment of regulars and a few provincials; a force
really by far too small to make head against the formidable power that
Montcalm was leading to the foot of his earthen mounds. At the latter,
however, lay General Webb, who commanded the armies of the king in the
northern provinces, with a body of more than five thousand men. By uniting
the several detachments of his command, this officer might have arrayed
nearly double that number of combatants against the enterprising
Frenchman, who had ventured so far from his reinforcements, with an army
but little superior in numbers.

But under the influence of their degraded fortunes, both officers and men
appeared better disposed to await the approach of their formidable
antagonists, within their works, than to resist the progress of their march, by
emulating the successful example of the French at Fort du Quesne, and
striking a blow on their advance.
After the first surprise of the intelligence had a little abated, a rumor was
spread through the entrenched camp, which stretched along the margin of
the Hudson, forming a chain of outworks to the body of the fort itself, that a
chosen detachment of fifteen hundred men was to depart, with the dawn, for
William Henry, the post at the northern extremity of the portage. That which
at first was only rumor, soon became certainty, as orders passed from the
quarters of the commander-in-chief to the several corps he had selected for
this service, to prepare for their speedy departure. All doubts as to the
intention of Webb now vanished, and an hour or two of hurried footsteps
and anxious faces succeeded. The novice in the military art flew from point
to point, retarding his own preparations by the excess of his violent and
somewhat distempered zeal; while the more practiced veteran made his
arrangements with a deliberation that scorned every appearance of haste;
though his sober lineaments and anxious eye sufficiently betrayed that he
had no very strong professional relish for the, as yet, untried and dreaded
warfare of the wilderness. At length the sun set in a flood of glory, behind
the distant western hills, and as darkness drew its veil around the secluded
spot the sounds of preparation diminished; the last light finally disappeared
from the log cabin of some officer; the trees cast their deeper shadows over
the mounds and the rippling stream, and a silence soon pervaded the camp,
as deep as that which reigned in the vast forest by which it was environed.
According to the orders of the preceding night, the heavy sleep of the
army was broken by the rolling of the warning drums, whose rattling echoes
were heard issuing, on the damp morning air, out of every vista of the
woods, just as day began to draw the shaggy outlines of some tall pines of
the vicinity, on the opening brightness of a soft and cloudless eastern sky. In
an instant the whole camp was in motion; the meanest soldier arousing from
his lair to witness the departure of his comrades, and to share in the
excitement and incidents of the hour. The simple array of the chosen band
was soon completed. While the regular and trained hirelings of the king
marched with haughtiness to the right of the line, the less pretending
colonists took their humbler position on its left, with a docility that long

practice had rendered easy. The scouts departed; strong guards preceded
and followed the lumbering vehicles that bore the baggage; and before the
gray light of the morning was mellowed by the rays of the sun, the main
body of the combatants wheeled into column, and left the encampment with
a show of high military bearing, that served to drown the slumbering
apprehensions of many a novice, who was now about to make his first essay
in arms. While in view of their admiring comrades, the same proud front
and ordered array was observed, until the notes of their fifes growing fainter
in distance, the forest at length appeared to swallow up the living mass
which had slowly entered its bosom.
The deepest sounds of the retiring and invisible column had ceased to be
borne on the breeze to the listeners, and the latest straggler had already
disappeared in pursuit; but there still remained the signs of another
departure, before a log cabin of unusual size and accommodations, in front
of which those sentinels paced their rounds, who were known to guard the
person of the English general. At this spot were gathered some half dozen
horses, caparisoned in a manner which showed that two, at least, were
destined to bear the persons of females, of a rank that it was not usual to
meet so far in the wilds of the country. A third wore trappings and arms of
an officer of the staff; while the rest, from the plainness of the housings, and
the traveling mails with which they were encumbered, were evidently fitted
for the reception of as many menials, who were, seemingly, already waiting
the pleasure of those they served. At a respectful distance from this unusual
show, were gathered divers groups of curious idlers; some admiring the
blood and bone of the high-mettled military charger, and others gazing at
the preparations, with the dull wonder of vulgar curiosity. There was one
man, however, who, by his countenance and actions, formed a marked
exception to those who composed the latter class of spectators, being
neither idle, nor seemingly very ignorant.
The person of this individual was to the last degree ungainly, without
being in any particular manner deformed. He had all the bones and joints of
other men, without any of their proportions. Erect, his stature surpassed that
of his fellows; though seated, he appeared reduced within the ordinary
limits of the race. The same contrariety in his members seemed to exist
throughout the whole man. His head was large; his shoulders narrow; his
arms long and dangling; while his hands were small, if not delicate. His legs
and thighs were thin, nearly to emaciation, but of extraordinary length; and

his knees would have been considered tremendous, had they not been
outdone by the broader foundations on which this false superstructure of
blended human orders was so profanely reared. The ill-assorted and
injudicious attire of the individual only served to render his awkwardness
more conspicuous. A sky-blue coat, with short and broad skirts and low
cape, exposed a long, thin neck, and longer and thinner legs, to the worst
animadversions of the evil-disposed. His nether garment was a yellow
nankeen, closely fitted to the shape, and tied at his bunches of knees by
large knots of white ribbon, a good deal sullied by use. Clouded cotton
stockings, and shoes, on one of the latter of which was a plated spur,
completed the costume of the lower extremity of this figure, no curve or
angle of which was concealed, but, on the other hand, studiously exhibited,
through the vanity or simplicity of its owner.
From beneath the flap of an enormous pocket of a soiled vest of
embossed silk, heavily ornamented with tarnished silver lace, projected an
instrument, which, from being seen in such martial company, might have
been easily mistaken for some mischievous and unknown implement of
war. Small as it was, this uncommon engine had excited the curiosity of
most of the Europeans in the camp, though several of the provincials were
seen to handle it, not only without fear, but with the utmost familiarity. A
large, civil cocked hat, like those worn by clergymen within the last thirty
years, surmounted the whole, furnishing dignity to a good-natured and
somewhat vacant countenance, that apparently needed such artificial aid, to
support the gravity of some high and extraordinary trust.
While the common herd stood aloof, in deference to the quarters of
Webb, the figure we have described stalked into the center of the domestics,
freely expressing his censures or commendations on the merits of the
horses, as by chance they displeased or satisfied his judgment.
“This beast, I rather conclude, friend, is not of home raising, but is from
foreign lands, or perhaps from the little island itself over the blue water?”
he said, in a voice as remarkable for the softness and sweetness of its tones,
as was his person for its rare proportions; “I may speak of these things, and
be no braggart; for I have been down at both havens; that which is situate at
the mouth of Thames, and is named after the capital of Old England, and
that which is called ‘Haven’, with the addition of the word ‘New’; and have
seen the scows and brigantines collecting their droves, like the gathering to

the ark, being outward bound to the Island of Jamaica, for the purpose of
barter and traffic in four-footed animals; but never before have I beheld a
beast which verified the true scripture war-horse like this: ‘He paweth in the
valley, and rejoiceth in his strength; he goeth on to meet the armed men. He
saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the battle afar off, the
thunder of the captains, and the shouting.’ It would seem that the stock of
the horse of Israel had descended to our own time; would it not, friend?”
Receiving no reply to this extraordinary appeal, which in truth, as it was
delivered with the vigor of full and sonorous tones, merited some sort of
notice, he who had thus sung forth the language of the holy book turned to
the silent figure to whom he had unwittingly addressed himself, and found a
new and more powerful subject of admiration in the object that encountered
his gaze. His eyes fell on the still, upright, and rigid form of the “Indian
runner,” who had borne to the camp the unwelcome tidings of the preceding
evening. Although in a state of perfect repose, and apparently disregarding,
with characteristic stoicism, the excitement and bustle around him, there
was a sullen fierceness mingled with the quiet of the savage, that was likely
to arrest the attention of much more experienced eyes than those which now
scanned him, in unconcealed amazement. The native bore both the
tomahawk and knife of his tribe; and yet his appearance was not altogether
that of a warrior. On the contrary, there was an air of neglect about his
person, like that which might have proceeded from great and recent
exertion, which he had not yet found leisure to repair. The colors of the war-
paint had blended in dark confusion about his fierce countenance, and
rendered his swarthy lineaments still more savage and repulsive than if art
had attempted an effect which had been thus produced by chance. His eye,
alone, which glistened like a fiery star amid lowering clouds, was to be seen
in its state of native wildness. For a single instant his searching and yet
wary glance met the wondering look of the other, and then changing its
direction, partly in cunning, and partly in disdain, it remained fixed, as if
penetrating the distant air.
It is impossible to say what unlooked-for remark this short and silent
communication, between two such singular men, might have elicited from
the white man, had not his active curiosity been again drawn to other
objects. A general movement among the domestics, and a low sound of
gentle voices, announced the approach of those whose presence alone was
wanted to enable the cavalcade to move. The simple admirer of the war-

horse instantly fell back to a low, gaunt, switch-tailed mare, that was
unconsciously gleaning the faded herbage of the camp nigh by; where,
leaning with one elbow on the blanket that concealed an apology for a
saddle, he became a spectator of the departure, while a foal was quietly
making its morning repast, on the opposite side of the same animal.
A young man, in the dress of an officer, conducted to their steeds two
females, who, as it was apparent by their dresses, were prepared to
encounter the fatigues of a journey in the woods. One, and she was the
more juvenile in her appearance, though both were young, permitted
glimpses of her dazzling complexion, fair golden hair, and bright blue eyes,
to be caught, as she artlessly suffered the morning air to blow aside the
green veil which descended low from her beaver.
The flush which still lingered above the pines in the western sky was not
more bright nor delicate than the bloom on her cheek; nor was the opening
day more cheering than the animated smile which she bestowed on the
youth, as he assisted her into the saddle. The other, who appeared to share
equally in the attention of the young officer, concealed her charms from the
gaze of the soldiery with a care that seemed better fitted to the experience
of four or five additional years. It could be seen, however, that her person,
though molded with the same exquisite proportions, of which none of the
graces were lost by the traveling dress she wore, was rather fuller and more
mature than that of her companion.
No sooner were these females seated, than their attendant sprang lightly
into the saddle of the war-horse, when the whole three bowed to Webb, who
in courtesy, awaited their parting on the threshold of his cabin and turning
their horses’ heads, they proceeded at a slow amble, followed by their train,
toward the northern entrance of the encampment. As they traversed that
short distance, not a voice was heard among them; but a slight exclamation
proceeded from the younger of the females, as the Indian runner glided by
her, unexpectedly, and led the way along the military road in her front.
Though this sudden and startling movement of the Indian produced no
sound from the other, in the surprise her veil also was allowed to open its
folds, and betrayed an indescribable look of pity, admiration, and horror, as
her dark eye followed the easy motions of the savage. The tresses of this
lady were shining and black, like the plumage of the raven. Her complexion
was not brown, but it rather appeared charged with the color of the rich

blood, that seemed ready to burst its bounds. And yet there was neither
coarseness nor want of shadowing in a countenance that was exquisitely
regular, and dignified and surpassingly beautiful. She smiled, as if in pity at
her own momentary forgetfulness, discovering by the act a row of teeth that
would have shamed the purest ivory; when, replacing the veil, she bowed
her face, and rode in silence, like one whose thoughts were abstracted from
the scene around her.

CHAPTER II.
“Sola, sola, wo ha, ho, sola!”
—Shakespeare

While one of the lovely beings we have so cursorily presented to the
reader was thus lost in thought, the other quickly recovered from the alarm
which induced the exclamation, and, laughing at her own weakness, she
inquired of the youth who rode by her side:
“Are such specters frequent in the woods, Heyward, or is this sight an
especial entertainment ordered on our behalf? If the latter, gratitude must
close our mouths; but if the former, both Cora and I shall have need to draw
largely on that stock of hereditary courage which we boast, even before we
are made to encounter the redoubtable Montcalm.”
“Yon Indian is a ‘runner’ of the army; and, after the fashion of his people,
he may be accounted a hero,” returned the officer. “He has volunteered to
guide us to the lake, by a path but little known, sooner than if we followed
the tardy movements of the column; and, by consequence, more agreeably.”
“I like him not,” said the lady, shuddering, partly in assumed, yet more in
real terror. “You know him, Duncan, or you would not trust yourself so
freely to his keeping?”
“Say, rather, Alice, that I would not trust you. I do know him, or he
would not have my confidence, and least of all at this moment. He is said to
be a Canadian too; and yet he served with our friends the Mohawks, who,
as you know, are one of the six allied nations. He was brought among us, as
I have heard, by some strange accident in which your father was interested,
and in which the savage was rigidly dealt by; but I forget the idle tale, it is
enough, that he is now our friend.”
“If he has been my father’s enemy, I like him still less!” exclaimed the
now really anxious girl. “Will you not speak to him, Major Heyward, that I

may hear his tones? Foolish though it may be, you have often heard me
avow my faith in the tones of the human voice!”
“It would be in vain; and answered, most probably, by an ejaculation.
Though he may understand it, he affects, like most of his people, to be
ignorant of the English; and least of all will he condescend to speak it, now
that the war demands the utmost exercise of his dignity. But he stops; the
private path by which we are to journey is, doubtless, at hand.”
The conjecture of Major Heyward was true. When they reached the spot
where the Indian stood, pointing into the thicket that fringed the military
road; a narrow and blind path, which might, with some little inconvenience,
receive one person at a time, became visible.
“Here, then, lies our way,” said the young man, in a low voice. “Manifest
no distrust, or you may invite the danger you appear to apprehend.”
“Cora, what think you?” asked the reluctant fair one. “If we journey with
the troops, though we may find their presence irksome, shall we not feel
better assurance of our safety?”
“Being little accustomed to the practices of the savages, Alice, you
mistake the place of real danger,” said Heyward. “If enemies have reached
the portage at all, a thing by no means probable, as our scouts are abroad,
they will surely be found skirting the column, where scalps abound the
most. The route of the detachment is known, while ours, having been
determined within the hour, must still be secret.”
“Should we distrust the man because his manners are not our manners,
and that his skin is dark?” coldly asked Cora.
Alice hesitated no longer; but giving her Narrangansett[1] a smart cut of
the whip, she was the first to dash aside the slight branches of the bushes,
and to follow the runner along the dark and tangled pathway. The young
man regarded the last speaker in open admiration, and even permitted her
fairer, though certainly not more beautiful companion, to proceed
unattended, while he sedulously opened the way himself for the passage of
her who has been called Cora. It would seem that the domestics had been
previously instructed; for, instead of penetrating the thicket, they followed
the route of the column; a measure which Heyward stated had been dictated
by the sagacity of their guide, in order to diminish the marks of their trail,
if, haply, the Canadian savages should be lurking so far in advance of their
army. For many minutes the intricacy of the route admitted of no further

dialogue; after which they emerged from the broad border of underbrush
which grew along the line of the highway, and entered under the high but
dark arches of the forest. Here their progress was less interrupted; and the
instant the guide perceived that the females could command their steeds, he
moved on, at a pace between a trot and a walk, and at a rate which kept the
sure-footed and peculiar animals they rode at a fast yet easy amble. The
youth had turned to speak to the dark-eyed Cora, when the distant sound of
horses hoofs, clattering over the roots of the broken way in his rear, caused
him to check his charger; and, as his companions drew their reins at the
same instant, the whole party came to a halt, in order to obtain an
explanation of the unlooked-for interruption.
[1] In the state of Rhode Island there is a bay called Narragansett, so named after
a powerful tribe of Indians, which formerly dwelt on its banks. Accident, or one
of those unaccountable freaks which nature sometimes plays in the animal world,
gave rise to a breed of horses which were once well known in America, and
distinguished by their habit of pacing. Horses of this race were, and are still, in
much request as saddle horses, on account of their hardiness and the ease of their
movements. As they were also sure of foot, the Narragansetts were greatly
sought for by females who were obliged to travel over the roots and holes in the
“new countries.”

In a few moments a colt was seen gliding, like a fallow deer, among the
straight trunks of the pines; and, in another instant, the person of the
ungainly man, described in the preceding chapter, came into view, with as
much rapidity as he could excite his meager beast to endure without coming
to an open rupture. Until now this personage had escaped the observation of
the travelers. If he possessed the power to arrest any wandering eye when
exhibiting the glories of his altitude on foot, his equestrian graces were still
more likely to attract attention.
Notwithstanding a constant application of his one armed heel to the
flanks of the mare, the most confirmed gait that he could establish was a
Canterbury gallop with the hind legs, in which those more forward assisted
for doubtful moments, though generally content to maintain a loping trot.
Perhaps the rapidity of the changes from one of these paces to the other
created an optical illusion, which might thus magnify the powers of the
beast; for it is certain that Heyward, who possessed a true eye for the merits
of a horse, was unable, with his utmost ingenuity, to decide by what sort of
movement his pursuer worked his sinuous way on his footsteps with such
persevering hardihood.

The industry and movements of the rider were not less remarkable than
those of the ridden. At each change in the evolutions of the latter, the former
raised his tall person in the stirrups; producing, in this manner, by the undue
elongation of his legs, such sudden growths and diminishings of the stature,
as baffled every conjecture that might be made as to his dimensions. If to
this be added the fact that, in consequence of the ex parte application of the
spur, one side of the mare appeared to journey faster than the other; and that
the aggrieved flank was resolutely indicated by unremitted flourishes of a
bushy tail, we finish the picture of both horse and man.
The frown which had gathered around the handsome, open, and manly
brow of Heyward, gradually relaxed, and his lips curled into a slight smile,
as he regarded the stranger. Alice made no very powerful effort to control
her merriment; and even the dark, thoughtful eye of Cora lighted with a
humor that it would seem, the habit, rather than the nature, of its mistress
repressed.
“Seek you any here?” demanded Heyward, when the other had arrived
sufficiently nigh to abate his speed; “I trust you are no messenger of evil
tidings?”
“Even so,” replied the stranger, making diligent use of his triangular
castor, to produce a circulation in the close air of the woods, and leaving his
hearers in doubt to which of the young man’s questions he responded;
when, however, he had cooled his face, and recovered his breath, he
continued, “I hear you are riding to William Henry; as I am journeying
thitherward myself, I concluded good company would seem consistent to
the wishes of both parties.”
“You appear to possess the privilege of a casting vote,” returned
Heyward; “we are three, while you have consulted no one but yourself.”
“Even so. The first point to be obtained is to know one’s own mind. Once
sure of that, and where women are concerned it is not easy, the next is, to
act up to the decision. I have endeavored to do both, and here I am.”
“If you journey to the lake, you have mistaken your route,” said
Heyward, haughtily; “the highway thither is at least half a mile behind
you.”
“Even so,” returned the stranger, nothing daunted by this cold reception;
“I have tarried at ‘Edward’ a week, and I should be dumb not to have
inquired the road I was to journey; and if dumb there would be an end to

my calling.” After simpering in a small way, like one whose modesty
prohibited a more open expression of his admiration of a witticism that was
perfectly unintelligible to his hearers, he continued, “It is not prudent for
any one of my profession to be too familiar with those he has to instruct; for
which reason I follow not the line of the army; besides which, I conclude
that a gentleman of your character has the best judgment in matters of
wayfaring; I have, therefore, decided to join company, in order that the ride
may be made agreeable, and partake of social communion.”
“A most arbitrary, if not a hasty decision!” exclaimed Heyward,
undecided whether to give vent to his growing anger, or to laugh in the
other’s face. “But you speak of instruction, and of a profession; are you an
adjunct to the provincial corps, as a master of the noble science of defense
and offense; or, perhaps, you are one who draws lines and angles, under the
pretense of expounding the mathematics?”
The stranger regarded his interrogator a moment in wonder; and then,
losing every mark of self-satisfaction in an expression of solemn humility,
he answered:
“Of offense, I hope there is none, to either party: of defense, I make none
—by God’s good mercy, having committed no palpable sin since last
entreating his pardoning grace. I understand not your allusions about lines
and angles; and I leave expounding to those who have been called and set
apart for that holy office. I lay claim to no higher gift than a small insight
into the glorious art of petitioning and thanksgiving, as practiced in
psalmody.”
“The man is, most manifestly, a disciple of Apollo,” cried the amused
Alice, “and I take him under my own especial protection. Nay, throw aside
that frown, Heyward, and in pity to my longing ears, suffer him to journey
in our train. Besides,” she added, in a low and hurried voice, casting a
glance at the distant Cora, who slowly followed the footsteps of their silent,
but sullen guide, “it may be a friend added to our strength, in time of need.”
“Think you, Alice, that I would trust those I love by this secret path, did I
imagine such need could happen?”
“Nay, nay, I think not of it now; but this strange man amuses me; and if
he ‘hath music in his soul’, let us not churlishly reject his company.” She
pointed persuasively along the path with her riding whip, while their eyes
met in a look which the young man lingered a moment to prolong; then,

yielding to her gentle influence, he clapped his spurs into his charger, and in
a few bounds was again at the side of Cora.
“I am glad to encounter thee, friend,” continued the maiden, waving her
hand to the stranger to proceed, as she urged her Narragansett to renew its
amble. “Partial relatives have almost persuaded me that I am not entirely
worthless in a duet myself; and we may enliven our wayfaring by indulging
in our favorite pursuit. It might be of signal advantage to one, ignorant as I,
to hear the opinions and experience of a master in the art.”
“It is refreshing both to the spirits and to the body to indulge in
psalmody, in befitting seasons,” returned the master of song, unhesitatingly
complying with her intimation to follow; “and nothing would relieve the
mind more than such a consoling communion. But four parts are altogether
necessary to the perfection of melody. You have all the manifestations of a
soft and rich treble; I can, by especial aid, carry a full tenor to the highest
letter; but we lack counter and bass! Yon officer of the king, who hesitated
to admit me to his company, might fill the latter, if one may judge from the
intonations of his voice in common dialogue.”
“Judge not too rashly from hasty and deceptive appearances,” said the
lady, smiling; “though Major Heyward can assume such deep notes on
occasion, believe me, his natural tones are better fitted for a mellow tenor
than the bass you heard.”
“Is he, then, much practiced in the art of psalmody?” demanded her
simple companion.
Alice felt disposed to laugh, though she succeeded in suppressing her
merriment, ere she answered:
“I apprehend that he is rather addicted to profane song. The chances of a
soldier’s life are but little fitted for the encouragement of more sober
inclinations.”
“Man’s voice is given to him, like his other talents, to be used, and not to
be abused. None can say they have ever known me to neglect my gifts! I am
thankful that, though my boyhood may be said to have been set apart, like
the youth of the royal David, for the purposes of music, no syllable of rude
verse has ever profaned my lips.”
“You have, then, limited your efforts to sacred song?”

“Even so. As the psalms of David exceed all other language, so does the
psalmody that has been fitted to them by the divines and sages of the land,
surpass all vain poetry. Happily, I may say that I utter nothing but the
thoughts and the wishes of the King of Israel himself; for though the times
may call for some slight changes, yet does this version which we use in the
colonies of New England so much exceed all other versions, that, by its
richness, its exactness, and its spiritual simplicity, it approacheth, as near as
may be, to the great work of the inspired writer. I never abide in any place,
sleeping or waking, without an example of this gifted work. ’Tis the six-
and-twentieth edition, promulgated at Boston, Anno Domini 1744; and is
entitled, ‘The Psalms, Hymns, and Spiritual Songs of the Old and New
Testaments; faithfully translated into English Metre, for the Use,
Edification, and Comfort of the Saints, in Public and Private, especially in
New England’.”
During this eulogium on the rare production of his native poets, the
stranger had drawn the book from his pocket, and fitting a pair of iron-
rimmed spectacles to his nose, opened the volume with a care and
veneration suited to its sacred purposes. Then, without circumlocution or
apology, first pronounced the word “Standish,” and placing the unknown
engine, already described, to his mouth, from which he drew a high, shrill
sound, that was followed by an octave below, from his own voice, he
commenced singing the following words, in full, sweet, and melodious
tones, that set the music, the poetry, and even the uneasy motion of his ill-
trained beast at defiance:
“How good it is, O see,
And how it pleaseth well,
Together e’en in unity,
For brethren so to dwell.

It’s like the choice ointment,
From the head to the beard did go;
Down Aaron’s head, that downward went
His garment’s skirts unto.”

The delivery of these skillful rhymes was accompanied, on the part of the
stranger, by a regular rise and fall of his right hand, which terminated at the
descent, by suffering the fingers to dwell a moment on the leaves of the
little volume; and on the ascent, by such a flourish of the member as none
but the initiated may ever hope to imitate. It would seem long practice had

rendered this manual accompaniment necessary; for it did not cease until
the preposition which the poet had selected for the close of his verse had
been duly delivered like a word of two syllables.
Such an innovation on the silence and retirement of the forest could not
fail to enlist the ears of those who journeyed at so short a distance in
advance. The Indian muttered a few words in broken English to Heyward,
who, in his turn, spoke to the stranger; at once interrupting, and, for the
time, closing his musical efforts.
“Though we are not in danger, common prudence would teach us to
journey through this wilderness in as quiet a manner as possible. You will
then, pardon me, Alice, should I diminish your enjoyments, by requesting
this gentleman to postpone his chant until a safer opportunity.”
“You will diminish them, indeed,” returned the arch girl; “for never did I
hear a more unworthy conjunction of execution and language than that to
which I have been listening; and I was far gone in a learned inquiry into the
causes of such an unfitness between sound and sense, when you broke the
charm of my musings by that bass of yours, Duncan!”
“I know not what you call my bass,” said Heyward, piqued at her remark,
“but I know that your safety, and that of Cora, is far dearer to me than could
be any orchestra of Handel’s music.” He paused and turned his head quickly
toward a thicket, and then bent his eyes suspiciously on their guide, who
continued his steady pace, in undisturbed gravity. The young man smiled to
himself, for he believed he had mistaken some shining berry of the woods
for the glistening eyeballs of a prowling savage, and he rode forward,
continuing the conversation which had been interrupted by the passing
thought.
Major Heyward was mistaken only in suffering his youthful and generous
pride to suppress his active watchfulness. The cavalcade had not long
passed, before the branches of the bushes that formed the thicket were
cautiously moved asunder, and a human visage, as fiercely wild as savage
art and unbridled passions could make it, peered out on the retiring
footsteps of the travelers. A gleam of exultation shot across the darkly-
painted lineaments of the inhabitant of the forest, as he traced the route of
his intended victims, who rode unconsciously onward, the light and
graceful forms of the females waving among the trees, in the curvatures of
their path, followed at each bend by the manly figure of Heyward, until,

finally, the shapeless person of the singing master was concealed behind the
numberless trunks of trees, that rose, in dark lines, in the intermediate
space.

CHAPTER III.
“Before these fields were shorn and till’d,
Full to the brim our rivers flow’d;
The melody of waters fill’d
The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dash’d, and rivulets play’d,
And fountains spouted in the shade.”—Bryant

Leaving the unsuspecting Heyward and his confiding companions to
penetrate still deeper into a forest that contained such treacherous inmates,
we must use an author’s privilege, and shift the scene a few miles to the
westward of the place where we have last seen them.
On that day, two men were lingering on the banks of a small but rapid
stream, within an hour’s journey of the encampment of Webb, like those
who awaited the appearance of an absent person, or the approach of some
expected event. The vast canopy of woods spread itself to the margin of the
river, overhanging the water, and shadowing its dark current with a deeper
hue. The rays of the sun were beginning to grow less fierce, and the intense
heat of the day was lessened, as the cooler vapors of the springs and
fountains rose above their leafy beds, and rested in the atmosphere. Still
that breathing silence, which marks the drowsy sultriness of an American
landscape in July, pervaded the secluded spot, interrupted only by the low
voices of the men, the occasional and lazy tap of a woodpecker, the
discordant cry of some gaudy jay, or a swelling on the ear, from the dull
roar of a distant waterfall. These feeble and broken sounds were, however,
too familiar to the foresters to draw their attention from the more interesting
matter of their dialogue. While one of these loiterers showed the red skin
and wild accouterments of a native of the woods, the other exhibited,
through the mask of his rude and nearly savage equipments, the brighter,
though sun-burned and long-faced complexion of one who might claim
descent from a European parentage. The former was seated on the end of a
mossy log, in a posture that permitted him to heighten the effect of his

earnest language, by the calm but expressive gestures of an Indian engaged
in debate. His body, which was nearly naked, presented a terrific emblem of
death, drawn in intermingled colors of white and black. His closely-shaved
head, on which no other hair than the well-known and chivalrous scalping
tuft[1] was preserved, was without ornament of any kind, with the exception
of a solitary eagle’s plume, that crossed his crown, and depended over the
left shoulder. A tomahawk and scalping knife, of English manufacture, were
in his girdle; while a short military rifle, of that sort with which the policy
of the whites armed their savage allies, lay carelessly across his bare and
sinewy knee. The expanded chest, full formed limbs, and grave
countenance of this warrior, would denote that he had reached the vigor of
his days, though no symptoms of decay appeared to have yet weakened his
manhood.
[1] The North American warrior caused the hair to be plucked from his whole
body; a small tuft was left on the crown of his head, in order that his enemy
might avail himself of it, in wrenching off the scalp in the event of his fall. The
scalp was the only admissible trophy of victory. Thus, it was deemed more
important to obtain the scalp than to kill the man. Some tribes lay great stress on
the honor of striking a dead body. These practices have nearly disappeared
among the Indians of the Atlantic states.

The frame of the white man, judging by such parts as were not concealed
by his clothes, was like that of one who had known hardships and exertion
from his earliest youth. His person, though muscular, was rather attenuated
than full; but every nerve and muscle appeared strung and indurated by
unremitted exposure and toil. He wore a hunting shirt of forest-green,
fringed with faded yellow[2], and a summer cap of skins which had been
shorn of their fur. He also bore a knife in a girdle of wampum, like that
which confined the scanty garments of the Indian, but no tomahawk. His
moccasins were ornamented after the gay fashion of the natives, while the
only part of his under dress which appeared below the hunting-frock was a
pair of buckskin leggings, that laced at the sides, and which were gartered
above the knees, with the sinews of a deer. A pouch and horn completed his
personal accouterments, though a rifle of great length[3], which the theory of
the more ingenious whites had taught them was the most dangerous of all
firearms, leaned against a neighboring sapling. The eye of the hunter, or
scout, whichever he might be, was small, quick, keen, and restless, roving
while he spoke, on every side of him, as if in quest of game, or distrusting
the sudden approach of some lurking enemy. Notwithstanding the

symptoms of habitual suspicion, his countenance was not only without
guile, but at the moment at which he is introduced, it was charged with an
expression of sturdy honesty.
[2] The hunting-shirt is a picturesque smock-frock, being shorter, and
ornamented with fringes and tassels. The colors are intended to imitate the hues
of the wood, with a view to concealment. Many corps of American riflemen have
been thus attired, and the dress is one of the most striking of modern times. The
hunting-shirt is frequently white.

[3] The rifle of the army is short; that of the hunter is always long.

“Even your traditions make the case in my favor, Chingachgook,” he
said, speaking in the tongue which was known to all the natives who
formerly inhabited the country between the Hudson and the Potomac, and
of which we shall give a free translation for the benefit of the reader;
endeavoring, at the same time, to preserve some of the peculiarities, both of
the individual and of the language. “Your fathers came from the setting sun,
crossed the big river[4], fought the people of the country, and took the land;
and mine came from the red sky of the morning, over the salt lake, and did
their work much after the fashion that had been set them by yours; then let
God judge the matter between us, and friends spare their words!”
[4] The Mississippi. The scout alludes to a tradition which is very popular among
the tribes of the Atlantic states. Evidence of their Asiatic origin is deduced from
the circumstances, though great uncertainty hangs over the whole history of the
Indians.

“My fathers fought with the naked red man!” returned the Indian, sternly,
in the same language. “Is there no difference, Hawkeye, between the stone-
headed arrow of the warrior, and the leaden bullet with which you kill?”
“There is reason in an Indian, though nature has made him with a red
skin!” said the white man, shaking his head like one on whom such an
appeal to his justice was not thrown away. For a moment he appeared to be
conscious of having the worst of the argument, then, rallying again, he
answered the objection of his antagonist in the best manner his limited
information would allow:
“I am no scholar, and I care not who knows it; but, judging from what I
have seen, at deer chases and squirrel hunts, of the sparks below, I should
think a rifle in the hands of their grandfathers was not so dangerous as a

hickory bow and a good flint-head might be, if drawn with Indian
judgment, and sent by an Indian eye.”
“You have the story told by your fathers,” returned the other, coldly
waving his hand. “What say your old men? Do they tell the young warriors
that the pale faces met the red men, painted for war and armed with the
stone hatchet and wooden gun?”
“I am not a prejudiced man, nor one who vaunts himself on his natural
privileges, though the worst enemy I have on earth, and he is an Iroquois,
daren’t deny that I am genuine white,” the scout replied, surveying, with
secret satisfaction, the faded color of his bony and sinewy hand, “and I am
willing to own that my people have many ways, of which, as an honest
man, I can’t approve. It is one of their customs to write in books what they
have done and seen, instead of telling them in their villages, where the lie
can be given to the face of a cowardly boaster, and the brave soldier can call
on his comrades to witness for the truth of his words. In consequence of this
bad fashion, a man, who is too conscientious to misspend his days among
the women, in learning the names of black marks, may never hear of the
deeds of his fathers, nor feel a pride in striving to outdo them. For myself, I
conclude the Bumppos could shoot, for I have a natural turn with a rifle,
which must have been handed down from generation to generation, as, our
holy commandments tell us, all good and evil gifts are bestowed; though I
should be loath to answer for other people in such a matter. But every story
has its two sides; so I ask you, Chingachgook, what passed, according to the
traditions of the red men, when our fathers first met?”
A silence of a minute succeeded, during which the Indian sat mute; then,
full of the dignity of his office, he commenced his brief tale, with a
solemnity that served to heighten its appearance of truth.
“Listen, Hawkeye, and your ear shall drink no lie. ’Tis what my fathers
have said, and what the Mohicans have done.” He hesitated a single instant,
and bending a cautious glance toward his companion, he continued, in a
manner that was divided between interrogation and assertion. “Does not this
stream at our feet run toward the summer, until its waters grow salt, and the
current flows upward?”
“It can’t be denied that your traditions tell you true in both these
matters,” said the white man; “for I have been there, and have seen them,

though why water, which is so sweet in the shade, should become bitter in
the sun, is an alteration for which I have never been able to account.”
“And the current!” demanded the Indian, who expected his reply with
that sort of interest that a man feels in the confirmation of testimony, at
which he marvels even while he respects it; “the fathers of Chingachgook
have not lied!”
“The holy Bible is not more true, and that is the truest thing in nature.
They call this up-stream current the tide, which is a thing soon explained,
and clear enough. Six hours the waters run in, and six hours they run out,
and the reason is this: when there is higher water in the sea than in the river,
they run in until the river gets to be highest, and then it runs out again.”
“The waters in the woods, and on the great lakes, run downward until
they lie like my hand,” said the Indian, stretching the limb horizontally
before him, “and then they run no more.”
“No honest man will deny it,” said the scout, a little nettled at the implied
distrust of his explanation of the mystery of the tides; “and I grant that it is
true on the small scale, and where the land is level. But everything depends
on what scale you look at things. Now, on the small scale, the ’arth is level;
but on the large scale it is round. In this manner, pools and ponds, and even
the great fresh-water lakes, may be stagnant, as you and I both know they
are, having seen them; but when you come to spread water over a great
tract, like the sea, where the earth is round, how in reason can the water be
quiet? You might as well expect the river to lie still on the brink of those
black rocks a mile above us, though your own ears tell you that it is
tumbling over them at this very moment.”
If unsatisfied by the philosophy of his companion, the Indian was far too
dignified to betray his unbelief. He listened like one who was convinced,
and resumed his narrative in his former solemn manner.
“We came from the place where the sun is hid at night, over great plains
where the buffaloes live, until we reached the big river. There we fought the
Alligewi, till the ground was red with their blood. From the banks of the big
river to the shores of the salt lake, there was none to meet us. The Maquas
followed at a distance. We said the country should be ours from the place
where the water runs up no longer on this stream, to a river twenty sun’s
journey toward the summer. We drove the Maquas into the woods with the

bears. They only tasted salt at the licks; they drew no fish from the great
lake; we threw them the bones.”
“All this I have heard and believe,” said the white man, observing that
the Indian paused; “but it was long before the English came into the
country.”
“A pine grew then where this chestnut now stands. The first pale faces
who came among us spoke no English. They came in a large canoe, when
my fathers had buried the tomahawk with the red men around them. Then,
Hawkeye,” he continued, betraying his deep emotion, only by permitting
his voice to fall to those low, guttural tones, which render his language, as
spoken at times, so very musical; “then, Hawkeye, we were one people, and
we were happy. The salt lake gave us its fish, the wood its deer, and the air
its birds. We took wives who bore us children; we worshipped the Great
Spirit; and we kept the Maquas beyond the sound of our songs of triumph.”
“Know you anything of your own family at that time?” demanded the
white. “But you are just a man, for an Indian; and as I suppose you hold
their gifts, your fathers must have been brave warriors, and wise men at the
council-fire.”
“My tribe is the grandfather of nations, but I am an unmixed man. The
blood of chiefs is in my veins, where it must stay forever. The Dutch
landed, and gave my people the fire-water; they drank until the heavens and
the earth seemed to meet, and they foolishly thought they had found the
Great Spirit. Then they parted with their land. Foot by foot, they were
driven back from the shores, until I, that am a chief and a Sagamore, have
never seen the sun shine but through the trees, and have never visited the
graves of my fathers.”
“Graves bring solemn feelings over the mind,” returned the scout, a good
deal touched at the calm suffering of his companion; “and they often aid a
man in his good intentions; though, for myself, I expect to leave my own
bones unburied, to bleach in the woods, or to be torn asunder by the wolves.
But where are to be found those of your race who came to their kin in the
Delaware country, so many summers since?”
“Where are the blossoms of those summers!—fallen, one by one; so all
of my family departed, each in his turn, to the land of spirits. I am on the
hilltop and must go down into the valley; and when Uncas follows in my

footsteps there will no longer be any of the blood of the Sagamores, for my
boy is the last of the Mohicans.”
“Uncas is here,” said another voice, in the same soft, guttural tones, near
his elbow; “who speaks to Uncas?”
The white man loosened his knife in his leathern sheath, and made an
involuntary movement of the hand toward his rifle, at this sudden
interruption; but the Indian sat composed, and without turning his head at
the unexpected sounds.
At the next instant, a youthful warrior passed between them, with a
noiseless step, and seated himself on the bank of the rapid stream. No
exclamation of surprise escaped the father, nor was any question asked, or
reply given, for several minutes; each appearing to await the moment when
he might speak, without betraying womanish curiosity or childish
impatience. The white man seemed to take counsel from their customs, and,
relinquishing his grasp of the rifle, he also remained silent and reserved. At
length Chingachgook turned his eyes slowly toward his son, and demanded:
“Do the Maquas dare to leave the print of their moccasins in these
woods?”
“I have been on their trail,” replied the young Indian, “and know that
they number as many as the fingers of my two hands; but they lie hid like
cowards.”
“The thieves are outlying for scalps and plunder,” said the white man,
whom we shall call Hawkeye, after the manner of his companions. “That
busy Frenchman, Montcalm, will send his spies into our very camp, but he
will know what road we travel!”
“’Tis enough,” returned the father, glancing his eye toward the setting
sun; “they shall be driven like deer from their bushes. Hawkeye, let us eat
to-night, and show the Maquas that we are men to-morrow.”
“I am as ready to do the one as the other; but to fight the Iroquois ’tis
necessary to find the skulkers; and to eat, ’tis necessary to get the game—
talk of the devil and he will come; there is a pair of the biggest antlers I
have seen this season, moving the bushes below the hill! Now, Uncas,” he
continued, in a half whisper, and laughing with a kind of inward sound, like
one who had learned to be watchful, “I will bet my charger three times full

of powder, against a foot of wampum, that I take him atwixt the eyes, and
nearer to the right than to the left.”
“It cannot be!” said the young Indian, springing to his feet with youthful
eagerness; “all but the tips of his horns are hid!”
“He’s a boy!” said the white man, shaking his head while he spoke, and
addressing the father. “Does he think when a hunter sees a part of the
creature’, he can’t tell where the rest of him should be!”
Adjusting his rifle, he was about to make an exhibition of that skill on
which he so much valued himself, when the warrior struck up the piece
with his hand, saying:
“Hawkeye! will you fight the Maquas?”
“These Indians know the nature of the woods, as it might be by instinct!”
returned the scout, dropping his rifle, and turning away like a man who was
convinced of his error. “I must leave the buck to your arrow, Uncas, or we
may kill a deer for them thieves, the Iroquois, to eat.”
The instant the father seconded this intimation by an expressive gesture
of the hand, Uncas threw himself on the ground, and approached the animal
with wary movements. When within a few yards of the cover, he fitted an
arrow to his bow with the utmost care, while the antlers moved, as if their
owner snuffed an enemy in the tainted air. In another moment the twang of
the cord was heard, a white streak was seen glancing into the bushes, and
the wounded buck plunged from the cover, to the very feet of his hidden
enemy. Avoiding the horns of the infuriated animal, Uncas darted to his
side, and passed his knife across the throat, when bounding to the edge of
the river it fell, dyeing the waters with its blood.

“’Twas done with Indian skill,” said the scout laughing inwardly, but
with vast satisfaction; “and ’twas a pretty sight to behold! Though an arrow
is a near shot, and needs a knife to finish the work.”
“Hugh!” ejaculated his companion, turning quickly, like a hound who
scented game.
“By the Lord, there is a drove of them!” exclaimed the scout, whose eyes
began to glisten with the ardor of his usual occupation; “if they come within
range of a bullet I will drop one, though the whole Six Nations should be
lurking within sound! What do you hear, Chingachgook? for to my ears the
woods are dumb.”

“There is but one deer, and he is dead,” said the Indian, bending his body
till his ear nearly touched the earth. “I hear the sounds of feet!”
“Perhaps the wolves have driven the buck to shelter, and are following on
his trail.”
“No. The horses of white men are coming!” returned the other, raising
himself with dignity, and resuming his seat on the log with his former
composure. “Hawkeye, they are your brothers; speak to them.”
“That I will, and in English that the king needn’t be ashamed to answer,”
returned the hunter, speaking in the language of which he boasted; “but I
see nothing, nor do I hear the sounds of man or beast; ’tis strange that an
Indian should understand white sounds better than a man who, his very
enemies will own, has no cross in his blood, although he may have lived
with the red skins long enough to be suspected! Ha! there goes something
like the cracking of a dry stick, too—now I hear the bushes move—yes,
yes, there is a trampling that I mistook for the falls—and—but here they
come themselves; God keep them from the Iroquois!”

CHAPTER IV.
“Well go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove
Till I torment thee for this injury.”—Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The words were still in the mouth of the scout, when the leader of the
party, whose approaching footsteps had caught the vigilant ear of the
Indian, came openly into view. A beaten path, such as those made by the
periodical passage of the deer, wound through a little glen at no great
distance, and struck the river at the point where the white man and his red
companions had posted themselves. Along this track the travelers, who had
produced a surprise so unusual in the depths of the forest, advanced slowly
toward the hunter, who was in front of his associates, in readiness to receive
them.
“Who comes?” demanded the scout, throwing his rifle carelessly across
his left arm, and keeping the forefinger of his right hand on the trigger,
though he avoided all appearance of menace in the act. “Who comes hither,
among the beasts and dangers of the wilderness?”
“Believers in religion, and friends to the law and to the king,” returned he
who rode foremost. “Men who have journeyed since the rising sun, in the
shades of this forest, without nourishment, and are sadly tired of their
wayfaring.”
“You are, then, lost,” interrupted the hunter, “and have found how
helpless ’tis not to know whether to take the right hand or the left?”
“Even so; sucking babes are not more dependent on those who guide
them than we who are of larger growth, and who may now be said to
possess the stature without the knowledge of men. Know you the distance
to a post of the crown called William Henry?”
“Hoot!” shouted the scout, who did not spare his open laughter, though
instantly checking the dangerous sounds he indulged his merriment at less
risk of being overheard by any lurking enemies. “You are as much off the

scent as a hound would be, with Horican atwixt him and the deer! William
Henry, man! if you are friends to the king and have business with the army,
your way would be to follow the river down to Edward, and lay the matter
before Webb, who tarries there, instead of pushing into the defiles, and
driving this saucy Frenchman back across Champlain, into his den again.”
Before the stranger could make any reply to this unexpected proposition,
another horseman dashed the bushes aside, and leaped his charger into the
pathway, in front of his companion.
“What, then, may be our distance from Fort Edward?” demanded a new
speaker; “the place you advise us to seek we left this morning, and our
destination is the head of the lake.”
“Then you must have lost your eyesight afore losing your way, for the
road across the portage is cut to a good two rods, and is as grand a path, I
calculate, as any that runs into London, or even before the palace of the
king himself.”
“We will not dispute concerning the excellence of the passage,” returned
Heyward, smiling; for, as the reader has anticipated, it was he. “It is
enough, for the present, that we trusted to an Indian guide to take us by a
nearer, though blinder path, and that we are deceived in his knowledge. In
plain words, we know not where we are.”
“An Indian lost in the woods!” said the scout, shaking his head
doubtingly; “When the sun is scorching the tree tops, and the water courses
are full; when the moss on every beech he sees will tell him in what quarter
the north star will shine at night. The woods are full of deer-paths which run
to the streams and licks, places well known to everybody; nor have the
geese done their flight to the Canada waters altogether! ’Tis strange that an
Indian should be lost atwixt Horican and the bend in the river! Is he a
Mohawk?”
“Not by birth, though adopted in that tribe; I think his birthplace was
farther north, and he is one of those you call a Huron.”
“Hugh!” exclaimed the two companions of the scout, who had continued
until this part of the dialogue, seated immovable, and apparently indifferent
to what passed, but who now sprang to their feet with an activity and
interest that had evidently got the better of their reserve by surprise.

“A Huron!” repeated the sturdy scout, once more shaking his head in
open distrust; “they are a thievish race, nor do I care by whom they are
adopted; you can never make anything of them but skulks and vagabonds.
Since you trusted yourself to the care of one of that nation, I only wonder
that you have not fallen in with more.”
“Of that there is little danger, since William Henry is so many miles in
our front. You forget that I have told you our guide is now a Mohawk, and
that he serves with our forces as a friend.”
“And I tell you that he who is born a Mingo will die a Mingo,” returned
the other positively. “A Mohawk! No, give me a Delaware or a Mohican for
honesty; and when they will fight, which they won’t all do, having suffered
their cunning enemies, the Maquas, to make them women—but when they
will fight at all, look to a Delaware, or a Mohican, for a warrior!”
“Enough of this,” said Heyward, impatiently; “I wish not to inquire into
the character of a man that I know, and to whom you must be a stranger.
You have not yet answered my question; what is our distance from the main
army at Edward?”
“It seems that may depend on who is your guide. One would think such a
horse as that might get over a good deal of ground atwixt sun-up and sun-
down.”
“I wish no contention of idle words with you, friend,” said Heyward,
curbing his dissatisfied manner, and speaking in a more gentle voice; “if
you will tell me the distance to Fort Edward, and conduct me thither, your
labor shall not go without its reward.”
“And in so doing, how know I that I don’t guide an enemy and a spy of
Montcalm, to the works of the army? It is not every man who can speak the
English tongue that is an honest subject.”
“If you serve with the troops, of whom I judge you to be a scout, you
should know of such a regiment of the king as the Sixtieth.”
“The Sixtieth! you can tell me little of the Royal Americans that I don’t
know, though I do wear a hunting-shirt instead of a scarlet jacket.”
“Well, then, among other things, you may know the name of its major?”
“Its major!” interrupted the hunter, elevating his body like one who was
proud of his trust. “If there is a man in the country who knows Major
Effingham, he stands before you.”

“It is a corps which has many majors; the gentleman you name is the
senior, but I speak of the junior of them all; he who commands the
companies in garrison at William Henry.”
“Yes, yes, I have heard that a young gentleman of vast riches, from one
of the provinces far south, has got the place. He is over young, too, to hold
such rank, and to be put above men whose heads are beginning to bleach;
and yet they say he is a soldier in his knowledge, and a gallant gentleman!”
“Whatever he may be, or however he may be qualified for his rank, he
now speaks to you and, of course, can be no enemy to dread.”
The scout regarded Heyward in surprise, and then lifting his cap, he
answered, in a tone less confident than before—though still expressing
doubt.
“I have heard a party was to leave the encampment this morning for the
lake shore?”
“You have heard the truth; but I preferred a nearer route, trusting to the
knowledge of the Indian I mentioned.”
“And he deceived you, and then deserted?”
“Neither, as I believe; certainly not the latter, for he is to be found in the
rear.”
“I should like to look at the creature; if it is a true Iroquois I can tell him
by his knavish look, and by his paint,” said the scout; stepping past the
charger of Heyward, and entering the path behind the mare of the singing
master, whose foal had taken advantage of the halt to exact the maternal
contribution. After shoving aside the bushes, and proceeding a few paces,
he encountered the females, who awaited the result of the conference with
anxiety, and not entirely without apprehension. Behind these, the runner
leaned against a tree, where he stood the close examination of the scout
with an air unmoved, though with a look so dark and savage, that it might in
itself excite fear. Satisfied with his scrutiny, the hunter soon left him. As he
repassed the females, he paused a moment to gaze upon their beauty,
answering to the smile and nod of Alice with a look of open pleasure.
Thence he went to the side of the motherly animal, and spending a minute
in a fruitless inquiry into the character of her rider, he shook his head and
returned to Heyward.

“A Mingo is a Mingo, and God having made him so, neither the
Mohawks nor any other tribe can alter him,” he said, when he had regained
his former position. “If we were alone, and you would leave that noble
horse at the mercy of the wolves to-night, I could show you the way to
Edward myself, within an hour, for it lies only about an hour’s journey
hence; but with such ladies in your company ’tis impossible!”
“And why? They are fatigued, but they are quite equal to a ride of a few
more miles.”
“’Tis a natural impossibility!” repeated the scout; “I wouldn’t walk a mile
in these woods after night gets into them, in company with that runner, for
the best rifle in the colonies. They are full of outlying Iroquois, and your
mongrel Mohawk knows where to find them too well to be my companion.”
“Think you so?” said Heyward, leaning forward in the saddle, and
dropping his voice nearly to a whisper; “I confess I have not been without
my own suspicions, though I have endeavored to conceal them, and affected
a confidence I have not always felt, on account of my companions. It was
because I suspected him that I would follow no longer; making him, as you
see, follow me.”
“I knew he was one of the cheats as soon as I laid eyes on him!” returned
the scout, placing a finger on his nose, in sign of caution.
“The thief is leaning against the foot of the sugar sapling, that you can
see over them bushes; his right leg is in a line with the bark of the tree,
and,” tapping his rifle, “I can take him from where I stand, between the
angle and the knee, with a single shot, putting an end to his tramping
through the woods, for at least a month to come. If I should go back to him,
the cunning varmint would suspect something, and be dodging through the
trees like a frightened deer.”
“It will not do. He may be innocent, and I dislike the act. Though, if I felt
confident of his treachery—”
“’Tis a safe thing to calculate on the knavery of an Iroquois,” said the
scout, throwing his rifle forward, by a sort of instinctive movement.
“Hold!” interrupted Heyward, “it will not do—we must think of some
other scheme—and yet, I have much reason to believe the rascal has
deceived me.”

The hunter, who had already abandoned his intention of maiming the
runner, mused a moment, and then made a gesture, which instantly brought
his two red companions to his side. They spoke together earnestly in the
Delaware language, though in an undertone; and by the gestures of the
white man, which were frequently directed towards the top of the sapling, it
was evident he pointed out the situation of their hidden enemy. His
companions were not long in comprehending his wishes, and laying aside
their firearms, they parted, taking opposite sides of the path, and burying
themselves in the thicket, with such cautious movements, that their steps
were inaudible.
“Now, go you back,” said the hunter, speaking again to Heyward, “and
hold the imp in talk; these Mohicans here will take him without breaking
his paint.”
“Nay,” said Heyward, proudly, “I will seize him myself.”
“Hist! what could you do, mounted, against an Indian in the bushes!”
“I will dismount.”
“And, think you, when he saw one of your feet out of the stirrup, he
would wait for the other to be free? Whoever comes into the woods to deal
with the natives, must use Indian fashions, if he would wish to prosper in
his undertakings. Go, then; talk openly to the miscreant, and seem to
believe him the truest friend you have on ’arth.”
Heyward prepared to comply, though with strong disgust at the nature of
the office he was compelled to execute. Each moment, however, pressed
upon him a conviction of the critical situation in which he had suffered his
invaluable trust to be involved through his own confidence. The sun had
already disappeared, and the woods, suddenly deprived of his light[1], were
assuming a dusky hue, which keenly reminded him that the hour the savage
usually chose for his most barbarous and remorseless acts of vengeance or
hostility, was speedily drawing near. Stimulated by apprehension, he left the
scout, who immediately entered into a loud conversation with the stranger
that had so unceremoniously enlisted himself in the party of travelers that
morning. In passing his gentler companions Heyward uttered a few words
of encouragement, and was pleased to find that, though fatigued with the
exercise of the day, they appeared to entertain no suspicion that their
present embarrassment was other than the result of accident. Giving them
reason to believe he was merely employed in a consultation concerning the

future route, he spurred his charger, and drew the reins again when the
animal had carried him within a few yards of the place where the sullen
runner still stood, leaning against the tree.
[1] The scene of this tale was in the 42d degree of latitude, where the twilight is
never of long continuation.

“You may see, Magua,” he said, endeavoring to assume an air of freedom
and confidence, “that the night is closing around us, and yet we are no
nearer to William Henry than when we left the encampment of Webb with
the rising sun.
“You have missed the way, nor have I been more fortunate. But, happily,
we have fallen in with a hunter, he whom you hear talking to the singer, that
is acquainted with the deerpaths and by-ways of the woods, and who
promises to lead us to a place where we may rest securely till the morning.”
The Indian riveted his glowing eyes on Heyward as he asked, in his
imperfect English, “Is he alone?”
“Alone!” hesitatingly answered Heyward, to whom deception was too
new to be assumed without embarrassment. “Oh! not alone, surely, Magua,
for you know that we are with him.”
“Then Le Renard Subtil will go,” returned the runner, coolly raising his
little wallet from the place where it had lain at his feet; “and the pale faces
will see none but their own color.”
“Go! Whom call you Le Renard?”
“’Tis the name his Canada fathers have given to Magua,” returned the
runner, with an air that manifested his pride at the distinction. “Night is the
same as day to Le Subtil, when Munro waits for him.”
“And what account will Le Renard give the chief of William Henry
concerning his daughters? Will he dare to tell the hot-blooded Scotsman
that his children are left without a guide, though Magua promised to be
one?”
“Though the gray head has a loud voice, and a long arm, Le Renard will
not hear him, nor feel him, in the woods.”
“But what will the Mohawks say? They will make him petticoats, and bid
him stay in the wigwam with the women, for he is no longer to be trusted
with the business of a man.”

“Le Subtil knows the path to the great lakes, and he can find the bones of
his fathers,” was the answer of the unmoved runner.
“Enough, Magua,” said Heyward; “are we not friends? Why should there
be bitter words between us? Munro has promised you a gift for your
services when performed, and I shall be your debtor for another. Rest your
weary limbs, then, and open your wallet to eat. We have a few moments to
spare; let us not waste them in talk like wrangling women. When the ladies
are refreshed we will proceed.”
“The pale faces make themselves dogs to their women,” muttered the
Indian, in his native language, “and when they want to eat, their warriors
must lay aside the tomahawk to feed their laziness.”
“What say you, Renard?”
“Le Subtil says it is good.”
The Indian then fastened his eyes keenly on the open countenance of
Heyward, but meeting his glance, he turned them quickly away, and seating
himself deliberately on the ground, he drew forth the remnant of some
former repast, and began to eat, though not without first bending his looks
slowly and cautiously around him.
“This is well,” continued Heyward; “and Le Renard will have strength
and sight to find the path in the morning”; he paused, for sounds like the
snapping of a dried stick, and the rustling of leaves, rose from the adjacent
bushes, but recollecting himself instantly, he continued, “we must be
moving before the sun is seen, or Montcalm may lie in our path, and shut us
out from the fortress.”
The hand of Magua dropped from his mouth to his side, and though his
eyes were fastened on the ground, his head was turned aside, his nostrils
expanded, and his ears seemed even to stand more erect than usual, giving
to him the appearance of a statue that was made to represent intense
attention.
Heyward, who watched his movements with a vigilant eye, carelessly
extricated one of his feet from the stirrup, while he passed a hand toward
the bear-skin covering of his holsters.
Every effort to detect the point most regarded by the runner was
completely frustrated by the tremulous glances of his organs, which seemed
not to rest a single instant on any particular object, and which, at the same

time, could be hardly said to move. While he hesitated how to proceed, Le
Subtil cautiously raised himself to his feet, though with a motion so slow
and guarded, that not the slightest noise was produced by the change.
Heyward felt it had now become incumbent on him to act. Throwing his leg
over the saddle, he dismounted, with a determination to advance and seize
his treacherous companion, trusting the result to his own manhood. In order,
however, to prevent unnecessary alarm, he still preserved an air of calmness
and friendship.
“Le Renard Subtil does not eat,” he said, using the appellation he had
found most flattering to the vanity of the Indian. “His corn is not well
parched, and it seems dry. Let me examine; perhaps something may be
found among my own provisions that will help his appetite.”
Magua held out the wallet to the proffer of the other. He even suffered
their hands to meet, without betraying the least emotion, or varying his
riveted attitude of attention. But when he felt the fingers of Heyward
moving gently along his own naked arm, he struck up the limb of the young
man, and, uttering a piercing cry, he darted beneath it, and plunged, at a
single bound, into the opposite thicket. At the next instant the form of
Chingachgook appeared from the bushes, looking like a specter in its paint,
and glided across the path in swift pursuit. Next followed the shout of
Uncas, when the woods were lighted by a sudden flash, that was
accompanied by the sharp report of the hunter’s rifle.

CHAPTER V.
...”In such a night
Did This be fearfully o’ertrip the dew;
And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself.”—Merchant of Venice

The suddenness of the flight of his guide, and the wild cries of the
pursuers, caused Heyward to remain fixed, for a few moments, in inactive
surprise. Then recollecting the importance of securing the fugitive, he
dashed aside the surrounding bushes, and pressed eagerly forward to lend
his aid in the chase. Before he had, however, proceeded a hundred yards, he
met the three foresters already returning from their unsuccessful pursuit.
“Why so soon disheartened!” he exclaimed; “the scoundrel must be
concealed behind some of these trees, and may yet be secured. We are not
safe while he goes at large.”
“Would you set a cloud to chase the wind?” returned the disappointed
scout; “I heard the imp brushing over the dry leaves, like a black snake, and
blinking a glimpse of him, just over ag’in yon big pine, I pulled as it might
be on the scent; but ’twouldn’t do! and yet for a reasoning aim, if anybody
but myself had touched the trigger, I should call it a quick sight; and I may
be accounted to have experience in these matters, and one who ought to
know. Look at this sumach; its leaves are red, though everybody knows the
fruit is in the yellow blossom in the month of July!”
“’Tis the blood of Le Subtil! he is hurt, and may yet fall!”
“No, no,” returned the scout, in decided disapprobation of this opinion, “I
rubbed the bark off a limb, perhaps, but the creature leaped the longer for it.
A rifle bullet acts on a running animal, when it barks him, much the same as
one of your spurs on a horse; that is, it quickens motion, and puts life into
the flesh, instead of taking it away. But when it cuts the ragged hole, after a
bound or two, there is, commonly, a stagnation of further leaping, be it
Indian or be it deer!”

“We are four able bodies, to one wounded man!”
“Is life grievous to you?” interrupted the scout. “Yonder red devil would
draw you within swing of the tomahawks of his comrades, before you were
heated in the chase. It was an unthoughtful act in a man who has so often
slept with the war-whoop ringing in the air, to let off his piece within sound
of an ambushment! But then it was a natural temptation! ’twas very natural!
Come, friends, let us move our station, and in such fashion, too, as will
throw the cunning of a Mingo on a wrong scent, or our scalps will be drying
in the wind in front of Montcalm’s marquee, ag’in this hour to-morrow.”
This appalling declaration, which the scout uttered with the cool
assurance of a man who fully comprehended, while he did not fear to face
the danger, served to remind Heyward of the importance of the charge with
which he himself had been intrusted. Glancing his eyes around, with a vain
effort to pierce the gloom that was thickening beneath the leafy arches of
the forest, he felt as if, cut off from human aid, his unresisting companions
would soon lie at the entire mercy of those barbarous enemies, who, like
beasts of prey, only waited till the gathering darkness might render their
blows more fatally certain. His awakened imagination, deluded by the
deceptive light, converted each waving bush, or the fragment of some fallen
tree, into human forms, and twenty times he fancied he could distinguish
the horrid visages of his lurking foes, peering from their hiding places, in
never ceasing watchfulness of the movements of his party. Looking upward,
he found that the thin fleecy clouds, which evening had painted on the blue
sky, were already losing their faintest tints of rose-color, while the
imbedded stream, which glided past the spot where he stood, was to be
traced only by the dark boundary of its wooded banks.
“What is to be done!” he said, feeling the utter helplessness of doubt in
such a pressing strait; “desert me not, for God’s sake! remain to defend
those I escort, and freely name your own reward!”
His companions, who conversed apart in the language of their tribe,
heeded not this sudden and earnest appeal. Though their dialogue was
maintained in low and cautious sounds, but little above a whisper, Heyward,
who now approached, could easily distinguish the earnest tones of the
younger warrior from the more deliberate speeches of his seniors. It was
evident that they debated on the propriety of some measure, that nearly
concerned the welfare of the travelers. Yielding to his powerful interest in

the subject, and impatient of a delay that seemed fraught with so much
additional danger, Heyward drew still nigher to the dusky group, with an
intention of making his offers of compensation more definite, when the
white man, motioning with his hand, as if he conceded the disputed point,
turned away, saying in a sort of soliloquy, and in the English tongue:
“Uncas is right! it would not be the act of men to leave such harmless
things to their fate, even though it breaks up the harboring place forever. If
you would save these tender blossoms from the fangs of the worst of
serpents, gentleman, you have neither time to lose nor resolution to throw
away!”
“How can such a wish be doubted! Have I not already offered—”
“Offer your prayers to Him who can give us wisdom to circumvent the
cunning of the devils who fill these woods,” calmly interrupted the scout,
“but spare your offers of money, which neither you may live to realize, nor I
to profit by. These Mohicans and I will do what man’s thoughts can invent,
to keep such flowers, which, though so sweet, were never made for the
wilderness, from harm, and that without hope of any other recompense but
such as God always gives to upright dealings. First, you must promise two
things, both in your own name and for your friends, or without serving you
we shall only injure ourselves!”
“Name them.”
“The one is, to be still as these sleeping woods, let what will happen and
the other is, to keep the place where we shall take you, forever a secret from
all mortal men.”
“I will do my utmost to see both these conditions fulfilled.”
“Then follow, for we are losing moments that are as precious as the
heart’s blood to a stricken deer!”
Heyward could distinguish the impatient gesture of the scout, through the
increasing shadows of the evening, and he moved in his footsteps, swiftly,
toward the place where he had left the remainder of the party. When they
rejoined the expecting and anxious females, he briefly acquainted them with
the conditions of their new guide, and with the necessity that existed for
their hushing every apprehension in instant and serious exertions. Although
his alarming communication was not received without much secret terror by
the listeners, his earnest and impressive manner, aided perhaps by the nature

of the danger, succeeded in bracing their nerves to undergo some unlooked-
for and unusual trial. Silently, and without a moment’s delay, they permitted
him to assist them from their saddles, and when they descended quickly to
the water’s edge, where the scout had collected the rest of the party, more
by the agency of expressive gestures than by any use of words.
“What to do with these dumb creatures!” muttered the white man, on
whom the sole control of their future movements appeared to devolve; “it
would be time lost to cut their throats, and cast them into the river; and to
leave them here would be to tell the Mingoes that they have not far to seek
to find their owners!”
“Then give them their bridles, and let them range the woods,” Heyward
ventured to suggest.
“No; it would be better to mislead the imps, and make them believe they
must equal a horse’s speed to run down their chase. Ay, ay, that will blind
their fireballs of eyes! Chingach—Hist! what stirs the bush?”
“The colt.”
“That colt, at least, must die,” muttered the scout, grasping at the mane of
the nimble beast, which easily eluded his hand; “Uncas, your arrows!”
“Hold!” exclaimed the proprietor of the condemned animal, aloud,
without regard to the whispering tones used by the others; “spare the foal of
Miriam! it is the comely offspring of a faithful dam, and would willingly
injure naught.”
“When men struggle for the single life God has given them,” said the
scout, sternly, “even their own kind seem no more than the beasts of the
wood. If you speak again, I shall leave you to the mercy of the Maquas!
Draw to your arrow’s head, Uncas; we have no time for second blows.”
The low, muttering sounds of his threatening voice were still audible,
when the wounded foal, first rearing on its hinder legs, plunged forward to
its knees. It was met by Chingachgook, whose knife passed across its throat
quicker than thought, and then precipitating the motions of the struggling
victim, he dashed into the river, down whose stream it glided away, gasping
audibly for breath with its ebbing life. This deed of apparent cruelty, but of
real necessity, fell upon the spirits of the travelers like a terrific warning of
the peril in which they stood, heightened as it was by the calm though
steady resolution of the actors in the scene. The sisters shuddered and clung

closer to each other, while Heyward instinctively laid his hand on one of the
pistols he had just drawn from their holsters, as he placed himself between
his charge and those dense shadows that seemed to draw an impenetrable
veil before the bosom of the forest.
The Indians, however, hesitated not a moment, but taking the bridles,
they led the frightened and reluctant horses into the bed of the river.
At a short distance from the shore they turned, and were soon concealed
by the projection of the bank, under the brow of which they moved, in a
direction opposite to the course of the waters. In the meantime, the scout
drew a canoe of bark from its place of concealment beneath some low
bushes, whose branches were waving with the eddies of the current, into
which he silently motioned for the females to enter. They complied without
hesitation, though many a fearful and anxious glance was thrown behind
them, toward the thickening gloom, which now lay like a dark barrier along
the margin of the stream.
So soon as Cora and Alice were seated, the scout, without regarding the
element, directed Heyward to support one side of the frail vessel, and
posting himself at the other, they bore it up against the stream, followed by
the dejected owner of the dead foal. In this manner they proceeded, for
many rods, in a silence that was only interrupted by the rippling of the
water, as its eddies played around them, or the low dash made by their own
cautious footsteps. Heyward yielded the guidance of the canoe implicitly to
the scout, who approached or receded from the shore, to avoid the
fragments of rocks, or deeper parts of the river, with a readiness that
showed his knowledge of the route they held. Occasionally he would stop;
and in the midst of a breathing stillness, that the dull but increasing roar of
the waterfall only served to render more impressive, he would listen with
painful intenseness, to catch any sounds that might arise from the
slumbering forest. When assured that all was still, and unable to detect,
even by the aid of his practiced senses, any sign of his approaching foes, he
would deliberately resume his slow and guarded progress. At length they
reached a point in the river where the roving eye of Heyward became
riveted on a cluster of black objects, collected at a spot where the high bank
threw a deeper shadow than usual on the dark waters. Hesitating to
advance, he pointed out the place to the attention of his companion.

“Ay,” returned the composed scout, “the Indians have hid the beasts with
the judgment of natives! Water leaves no trail, and an owl’s eyes would be
blinded by the darkness of such a hole.”
The whole party was soon reunited, and another consultation was held
between the scout and his new comrades, during which, they, whose fates
depended on the faith and ingenuity of these unknown foresters, had a little
leisure to observe their situation more minutely.
The river was confined between high and cragged rocks, one of which
impended above the spot where the canoe rested. As these, again, were
surmounted by tall trees, which appeared to totter on the brows of the
precipice, it gave the stream the appearance of running through a deep and
narrow dell. All beneath the fantastic limbs and ragged tree tops, which
were, here and there, dimly painted against the starry zenith, lay alike in
shadowed obscurity. Behind them, the curvature of the banks soon bounded
the view by the same dark and wooded outline; but in front, and apparently
at no great distance, the water seemed piled against the heavens, whence it
tumbled into caverns, out of which issued those sullen sounds that had
loaded the evening atmosphere. It seemed, in truth, to be a spot devoted to
seclusion, and the sisters imbibed a soothing impression of security, as they
gazed upon its romantic though not unappalling beauties. A general
movement among their conductors, however, soon recalled them from a
contemplation of the wild charms that night had assisted to lend the place to
a painful sense of their real peril.
The horses had been secured to some scattering shrubs that grew in the
fissures of the rocks, where, standing in the water, they were left to pass the
night. The scout directed Heyward and his disconsolate fellow travelers to
seat themselves in the forward end of the canoe, and took possession of the
other himself, as erect and steady as if he floated in a vessel of much firmer
materials. The Indians warily retraced their steps toward the place they had
left, when the scout, placing his pole against a rock, by a powerful shove,
sent his frail bark directly into the turbulent stream. For many minutes the
struggle between the light bubble in which they floated and the swift
current was severe and doubtful. Forbidden to stir even a hand, and almost
afraid to breath, lest they should expose the frail fabric to the fury of the
stream, the passengers watched the glancing waters in feverish suspense.
Twenty times they thought the whirling eddies were sweeping them to

destruction, when the master-hand of their pilot would bring the bows of the
canoe to stem the rapid. A long, a vigorous, and, as it appeared to the
females, a desperate effort, closed the struggle. Just as Alice veiled her eyes
in horror, under the impression that they were about to be swept within the
vortex at the foot of the cataract, the canoe floated, stationary, at the side of
a flat rock, that lay on a level with the water.
“Where are we, and what is next to be done!” demanded Heyward,
perceiving that the exertions of the scout had ceased.
“You are at the foot of Glenn’s,” returned the other, speaking aloud,
without fear of consequences within the roar of the cataract; “and the next
thing is to make a steady landing, lest the canoe upset, and you should go
down again the hard road we have traveled faster than you came up; ’tis a
hard rift to stem, when the river is a little swelled; and five is an unnatural
number to keep dry, in a hurry-skurry, with a little birchen bark and gum.
There, go you all on the rock, and I will bring up the Mohicans with the
venison. A man had better sleep without his scalp, than famish in the midst
of plenty.”
His passengers gladly complied with these directions. As the last foot
touched the rock, the canoe whirled from its station, when the tall form of
the scout was seen, for an instant, gliding above the waters, before it
disappeared in the impenetrable darkness that rested on the bed of the river.
Left by their guide, the travelers remained a few minutes in helpless
ignorance, afraid even to move along the broken rocks, lest a false step
should precipitate them down some one of the many deep and roaring
caverns, into which the water seemed to tumble, on every side of them.
Their suspense, however, was soon relieved; for, aided by the skill of the
natives, the canoe shot back into the eddy, and floated again at the side of
the low rock, before they thought the scout had even time to rejoin his
companions.
“We are now fortified, garrisoned, and provisioned,” cried Heyward
cheerfully, “and may set Montcalm and his allies at defiance. How, now, my
vigilant sentinel, can see anything of those you call the Iroquois, on the
main land!”
“I call them Iroquois, because to me every native, who speaks a foreign
tongue, is accounted an enemy, though he may pretend to serve the king! If
Webb wants faith and honesty in an Indian, let him bring out the tribes of

the Delawares, and send these greedy and lying Mohawks and Oneidas,
with their six nations of varlets, where in nature they belong, among the
French!”
“We should then exchange a warlike for a useless friend! I have heard
that the Delawares have laid aside the hatchet, and are content to be called
women!”
“Aye, shame on the Hollanders and Iroquois, who circumvented them by
their deviltries, into such a treaty! But I have known them for twenty years,
and I call him liar that says cowardly blood runs in the veins of a Delaware.
You have driven their tribes from the seashore, and would now believe what
their enemies say, that you may sleep at night upon an easy pillow. No, no;
to me, every Indian who speaks a foreign tongue is an Iroquois, whether the
castle[1] of his tribe be in Canada, or be in York.”
[1] The principal villages of the Indians are still called “castles” by the whites of
New York. “Oneida castle” is no more than a scattered hamlet; but the name is in
general use.

Heyward, perceiving that the stubborn adherence of the scout to the
cause of his friends the Delawares, or Mohicans, for they were branches of
the same numerous people, was likely to prolong a useless discussion,
changed the subject.
“Treaty or no treaty, I know full well that your two companions are brave
and cautious warriors! have they heard or seen anything of our enemies?”
“An Indian is a mortal to be felt afore he is seen,” returned the scout,
ascending the rock, and throwing the deer carelessly down. “I trust to other
signs than such as come in at the eye, when I am outlying on the trail of the
Mingoes.”
“Do your ears tell you that they have traced our retreat?”
“I should be sorry to think they had, though this is a spot that stout
courage might hold for a smart scrimmage. I will not deny, however, but the
horses cowered when I passed them, as though they scented the wolves; and
a wolf is a beast that is apt to hover about an Indian ambushment, craving
the offals of the deer the savages kill.”
“You forget the buck at your feet! or, may we not owe their visit to the
dead colt? Ha! what noise is that?”

“Poor Miriam!” murmured the stranger; “thy foal was foreordained to
become a prey to ravenous beasts!” Then, suddenly lifting up his voice,
amid the eternal din of the waters, he sang aloud:
“First born of Egypt, smite did he,
Of mankind, and of beast also:
O, Egypt! wonders sent ’midst thee,
On Pharaoh and his servants too!”

“The death of the colt sits heavy on the heart of its owner,” said the
scout; “but it’s a good sign to see a man account upon his dumb friends. He
has the religion of the matter, in believing what is to happen will happen;
and with such a consolation, it won’t be long afore he submits to the
rationality of killing a four-footed beast to save the lives of human men. It
may be as you say,” he continued, reverting to the purport of Heyward’s last
remark; “and the greater the reason why we should cut our steaks, and let
the carcass drive down the stream, or we shall have the pack howling along
the cliffs, begrudging every mouthful we swallow. Besides, though the
Delaware tongue is the same as a book to the Iroquois, the cunning varlets
are quick enough at understanding the reason of a wolf’s howl.”
The scout, while making his remarks, was busied in collecting certain
necessary implements; as he concluded, he moved silently by the group of
travelers, accompanied by the Mohicans, who seemed to comprehend his
intentions with instinctive readiness, when the whole three disappeared in
succession, seeming to vanish against the dark face of a perpendicular rock
that rose to the height of a few yards, within as many feet of the water’s
edge.

CHAPTER VI.
“Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide;
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And ‘Let us worship God’, he says, with solemn air.”—Burns

Heyward and his female companions witnessed this mysterious
movement with secret uneasiness; for, though the conduct of the white man
had hitherto been above reproach, his rude equipments, blunt address, and
strong antipathies, together with the character of his silent associates, were
all causes for exciting distrust in minds that had been so recently alarmed
by Indian treachery.
The stranger alone disregarded the passing incidents. He seated himself
on a projection of the rocks, whence he gave no other signs of
consciousness than by the struggles of his spirit, as manifested in frequent
and heavy sighs. Smothered voices were next heard, as though men called
to each other in the bowels of the earth, when a sudden light flashed upon
those without, and laid bare the much-prized secret of the place.
At the further extremity of a narrow, deep cavern in the rock, whose
length appeared much extended by the perspective and the nature of the
light by which it was seen, was seated the scout, holding a blazing knot of
pine. The strong glare of the fire fell full upon his sturdy, weather-beaten
countenance and forest attire, lending an air of romantic wildness to the
aspect of an individual, who, seen by the sober light of day, would have
exhibited the peculiarities of a man remarkable for the strangeness of his
dress, the iron-like inflexibility of his frame, and the singular compound of
quick, vigilant sagacity, and of exquisite simplicity, that by turns usurped
the possession of his muscular features. At a little distance in advance stood
Uncas, his whole person thrown powerfully into view. The travelers
anxiously regarded the upright, flexible figure of the young Mohican,
graceful and unrestrained in the attitudes and movements of nature. Though
his person was more than usually screened by a green and fringed hunting-

shirt, like that of the white man, there was no concealment to his dark,
glancing, fearless eye, alike terrible and calm; the bold outline of his high,
haughty features, pure in their native red; or to the dignified elevation of his
receding forehead, together with all the finest proportions of a noble head,
bared to the generous scalping tuft. It was the first opportunity possessed by
Duncan and his companions to view the marked lineaments of either of
their Indian attendants, and each individual of the party felt relieved from a
burden of doubt, as the proud and determined, though wild expression of
the features of the young warrior forced itself on their notice. They felt it
might be a being partially benighted in the vale of ignorance, but it could
not be one who would willingly devote his rich natural gifts to the purposes
of wanton treachery. The ingenuous Alice gazed at his free air and proud
carriage, as she would have looked upon some precious relic of the Grecian
chisel, to which life had been imparted by the intervention of a miracle;
while Heyward, though accustomed to see the perfection of form which
abounds among the uncorrupted natives, openly expressed his admiration at
such an unblemished specimen of the noblest proportions of man.
“I could sleep in peace,” whispered Alice, in reply, “with such a fearless
and generous-looking youth for my sentinel. Surely, Duncan, those cruel
murders, those terrific scenes of torture, of which we read and hear so
much, are never acted in the presence of such as he!”
“This certainly is a rare and brilliant instance of those natural qualities in
which these peculiar people are said to excel,” he answered. “I agree with
you, Alice, in thinking that such a front and eye were formed rather to
intimidate than to deceive; but let us not practice a deception upon
ourselves, by expecting any other exhibition of what we esteem virtue than
according to the fashion of the savage. As bright examples of great qualities
are but too uncommon among Christians, so are they singular and solitary
with the Indians; though, for the honor of our common nature, neither are
incapable of producing them. Let us then hope that this Mohican may not
disappoint our wishes, but prove what his looks assert him to be, a brave
and constant friend.”
“Now Major Heyward speaks as Major Heyward should,” said Cora;
“who that looks at this creature of nature, remembers the shade of his
skin?”

A short and apparently an embarrassed silence succeeded this remark,
which was interrupted by the scout calling to them, aloud, to enter.
“This fire begins to show too bright a flame,” he continued, as they
complied, “and might light the Mingoes to our undoing. Uncas, drop the
blanket, and show the knaves its dark side. This is not such a supper as a
major of the Royal Americans has a right to expect, but I’ve known stout
detachments of the corps glad to eat their venison raw, and without a relish,
too[1]. Here, you see, we have plenty of salt, and can make a quick broil.
There’s fresh sassafras boughs for the ladies to sit on, which may not be as
proud as their my-hog-guinea chairs, but which sends up a sweeter flavor,
than the skin of any hog can do, be it of Guinea, or be it of any other land.
Come, friend, don’t be mournful for the colt; ’twas an innocent thing, and
had not seen much hardship. Its death will save the creature many a sore
back and weary foot!”
[1] In vulgar parlance the condiments of a repast are called by the American “a
relish,” substituting the thing for its effect. These provincial terms are frequently
put in the mouths of the speakers, according to their several conditions in life.
Most of them are of local use, and others quite peculiar to the particular class of
men to which the character belongs. In the present instance, the scout uses the
word with immediate reference to the “salt,” with which his own party was so
fortunate as to be provided.

Uncas did as the other had directed, and when the voice of Hawkeye
ceased, the roar of the cataract sounded like the rumbling of distant thunder.
“Are we quite safe in this cavern?” demanded Heyward. “Is there no
danger of surprise? A single armed man, at its entrance, would hold us at his
mercy.”
A spectral-looking figure stalked from out of the darkness behind the
scout, and seizing a blazing brand, held it toward the further extremity of
their place of retreat. Alice uttered a faint shriek, and even Cora rose to her
feet, as this appalling object moved into the light; but a single word from
Heyward calmed them, with the assurance it was only their attendant,
Chingachgook, who, lifting another blanket, discovered that the cavern had
two outlets. Then, holding the brand, he crossed a deep, narrow chasm in
the rocks which ran at right angles with the passage they were in, but
which, unlike that, was open to the heavens, and entered another cave,
answering to the description of the first, in every essential particular.

“Such old foxes as Chingachgook and myself are not often caught in a
barrow with one hole,” said Hawkeye, laughing; “you can easily see the
cunning of the place—the rock is black limestone, which everybody knows
is soft; it makes no uncomfortable pillow, where brush and pine wood is
scarce; well, the fall was once a few yards below us, and I dare to say was,
in its time, as regular and as handsome a sheet of water as any along the
Hudson. But old age is a great injury to good looks, as these sweet young
ladies have yet to l’arn! The place is sadly changed! These rocks are full of
cracks, and in some places they are softer than at othersome, and the water
has worked out deep hollows for itself, until it has fallen back, ay, some
hundred feet, breaking here and wearing there, until the falls have neither
shape nor consistency.”
“In what part of them are we?” asked Heyward.
“Why, we are nigh the spot that Providence first placed them at, but
where, it seems, they were too rebellious to stay. The rock proved softer on
each side of us, and so they left the center of the river bare and dry, first
working out these two little holes for us to hide in.”
“We are then on an island!”
“Ay! there are the falls on two sides of us, and the river above and below.
If you had daylight, it would be worth the trouble to step up on the height of
this rock, and look at the perversity of the water. It falls by no rule at all;
sometimes it leaps, sometimes it tumbles; there it skips; here it shoots; in
one place ’tis white as snow, and in another ’tis green as grass; hereabouts,
it pitches into deep hollows, that rumble and crush the ’arth; and
thereaways, it ripples and sings like a brook, fashioning whirlpools and
gullies in the old stone, as if ’twas no harder than trodden clay. The whole
design of the river seems disconcerted. First it runs smoothly, as if meaning
to go down the descent as things were ordered; then it angles about and
faces the shores; nor are there places wanting where it looks backward, as if
unwilling to leave the wilderness, to mingle with the salt. Ay, lady, the fine
cobweb-looking cloth you wear at your throat is coarse, and like a fishnet,
to little spots I can show you, where the river fabricates all sorts of images,
as if having broke loose from order, it would try its hand at everything. And
yet what does it amount to! After the water has been suffered so to have its
will, for a time, like a headstrong man, it is gathered together by the hand

that made it, and a few rods below you may see it all, flowing on steadily
toward the sea, as was foreordained from the first foundation of the ’arth!”
While his auditors received a cheering assurance of the security of their
place of concealment from this untutored description of Glenn’s,[2] they
were much inclined to judge differently from Hawkeye, of its wild beauties.
But they were not in a situation to suffer their thoughts to dwell on the
charms of natural objects; and, as the scout had not found it necessary to
cease his culinary labors while he spoke, unless to point out, with a broken
fork, the direction of some particularly obnoxious point in the rebellious
stream, they now suffered their attention to be drawn to the necessary
though more vulgar consideration of their supper.
[2] Glenn’s Falls are on the Hudson, some forty or fifty miles above the head of
tide, or that place where the river becomes navigable for sloops. The description
of this picturesque and remarkable little cataract, as given by the scout, is
sufficiently correct, though the application of the water to uses of civilized life
has materially injured its beauties. The rocky island and the two caverns are
known to every traveler, since the former sustains the pier of a bridge, which is
now thrown across the river, immediately above the fall. In explanation of the
taste of Hawkeye, it should be remembered that men always prize that most
which is least enjoyed. Thus, in a new country, the woods and other objects,
which in an old country would be maintained at great cost, are got rid of, simply
with a view of “improving” as it is called.

The repast, which was greatly aided by the addition of a few delicacies
that Heyward had the precaution to bring with him when they left their
horses, was exceedingly refreshing to the weary party. Uncas acted as
attendant to the females, performing all the little offices within his power,
with a mixture of dignity and anxious grace, that served to amuse Heyward,
who well knew that it was an utter innovation on the Indian customs, which
forbid their warriors to descend to any menial employment, especially in
favor of their women. As the rights of hospitality were, however, considered
sacred among them, this little departure from the dignity of manhood
excited no audible comment. Had there been one there sufficiently
disengaged to become a close observer, he might have fancied that the
services of the young chief were not entirely impartial. That while he
tendered to Alice the gourd of sweet water, and the venison in a trencher,
neatly carved from the knot of the pepperidge, with sufficient courtesy, in
performing the same offices to her sister, his dark eye lingered on her rich,
speaking countenance. Once or twice he was compelled to speak, to

command the attention of those he served. In such cases he made use of
English, broken and imperfect, but sufficiently intelligible, and which he
rendered so mild and musical, by his deep, guttural voice, that it never
failed to cause both ladies to look up in admiration and astonishment. In the
course of these civilities, a few sentences were exchanged, that served to
establish the appearance of an amicable intercourse between the parties.
In the meanwhile, the gravity of Chingcachgook remained immovable.
He had seated himself more within the circle of light, where the frequent,
uneasy glances of his guests were better enabled to separate the natural
expression of his face from the artificial terrors of the war paint. They found
a strong resemblance between father and son, with the difference that might
be expected from age and hardships. The fierceness of his countenance now
seemed to slumber, and in its place was to be seen the quiet, vacant
composure which distinguishes an Indian warrior, when his faculties are not
required for any of the greater purposes of his existence. It was, however,
easy to be seen, by the occasional gleams that shot across his swarthy
visage, that it was only necessary to arouse his passions, in order to give
full effect to the terrific device which he had adopted to intimidate his
enemies. On the other hand, the quick, roving eye of the scout seldom
rested. He ate and drank with an appetite that no sense of danger could
disturb, but his vigilance seemed never to desert him. Twenty times the
gourd or the venison was suspended before his lips, while his head was
turned aside, as though he listened to some distant and distrusted sounds—a
movement that never failed to recall his guests from regarding the novelties
of their situation, to a recollection of the alarming reasons that had driven
them to seek it. As these frequent pauses were never followed by any
remark, the momentary uneasiness they created quickly passed away, and
for a time was forgotten.
“Come, friend,” said Hawkeye, drawing out a keg from beneath a cover
of leaves, toward the close of the repast, and addressing the stranger who
sat at his elbow, doing great justice to his culinary skill, “try a little spruce;
’twill wash away all thoughts of the colt, and quicken the life in your
bosom. I drink to our better friendship, hoping that a little horse-flesh may
leave no heart-burnings atween us. How do you name yourself?”
“Gamut—David Gamut,” returned the singing master, preparing to wash
down his sorrows in a powerful draught of the woodsman’s high-flavored

and well-laced compound.
“A very good name, and, I dare say, handed down from honest
forefathers. I’m an admirator of names, though the Christian fashions fall
far below savage customs in this particular. The biggest coward I ever knew
was called Lyon; and his wife, Patience, would scold you out of hearing in
less time than a hunted deer would run a rod. With an Indian ’tis a matter of
conscience; what he calls himself, he generally is—not that Chingachgook,
which signifies Big Sarpent, is really a snake, big or little; but that he
understands the windings and turnings of human natur’, and is silent, and
strikes his enemies when they least expect him. What may be your calling?”
“I am an unworthy instructor in the art of psalmody.”
“Anan!”
“I teach singing to the youths of the Connecticut levy.”
“You might be better employed. The young hounds go laughing and
singing too much already through the woods, when they ought not to
breathe louder than a fox in his cover. Can you use the smoothbore, or
handle the rifle?”
“Praised be God, I have never had occasion to meddle with murderous
implements!”
“Perhaps you understand the compass, and lay down the watercourses
and mountains of the wilderness on paper, in order that they who follow
may find places by their given names?”
“I practice no such employment.”
“You have a pair of legs that might make a long path seem short! you
journey sometimes, I fancy, with tidings for the general.”
“Never; I follow no other than my own high vocation, which is
instruction in sacred music!”
“’Tis a strange calling!” muttered Hawkeye, with an inward laugh, “to go
through life, like a catbird, mocking all the ups and downs that may happen
to come out of other men’s throats. Well, friend, I suppose it is your gift,
and mustn’t be denied any more than if ’twas shooting, or some other better
inclination. Let us hear what you can do in that way; ’twill be a friendly
manner of saying good-night, for ’tis time that these ladies should be
getting strength for a hard and a long push, in the pride of the morning,
afore the Maquas are stirring.”

“With joyful pleasure do I consent”, said David, adjusting his iron-
rimmed spectacles, and producing his beloved little volume, which he
immediately tendered to Alice. “What can be more fitting and consolatory,
than to offer up evening praise, after a day of such exceeding jeopardy!”
Alice smiled; but, regarding Heyward, she blushed and hesitated.
“Indulge yourself,” he whispered; “ought not the suggestion of the
worthy namesake of the Psalmist to have its weight at such a moment?”
Encouraged by his opinion, Alice did what her pious inclinations, and her
keen relish for gentle sounds, had before so strongly urged. The book was
open at a hymn not ill adapted to their situation, and in which the poet, no
longer goaded by his desire to excel the inspired King of Israel, had
discovered some chastened and respectable powers. Cora betrayed a
disposition to support her sister, and the sacred song proceeded, after the
indispensable preliminaries of the pitchpipe, and the tune had been duly
attended to by the methodical David.
The air was solemn and slow. At times it rose to the fullest compass of
the rich voices of the females, who hung over their little book in holy
excitement, and again it sank so low, that the rushing of the waters ran
through their melody, like a hollow accompaniment. The natural taste and
true ear of David governed and modified the sounds to suit the confined
cavern, every crevice and cranny of which was filled with the thrilling notes
of their flexible voices. The Indians riveted their eyes on the rocks, and
listened with an attention that seemed to turn them into stone. But the scout,
who had placed his chin in his hand, with an expression of cold
indifference, gradually suffered his rigid features to relax, until, as verse
succeeded verse, he felt his iron nature subdued, while his recollection was
carried back to boyhood, when his ears had been accustomed to listen to
similar sounds of praise, in the settlements of the colony. His roving eyes
began to moisten, and before the hymn was ended scalding tears rolled out
of fountains that had long seemed dry, and followed each other down those
cheeks, that had oftener felt the storms of heaven than any testimonials of
weakness. The singers were dwelling on one of those low, dying chords,
which the ear devours with such greedy rapture, as if conscious that it is
about to lose them, when a cry, that seemed neither human nor earthly, rose
in the outward air, penetrating not only the recesses of the cavern, but to the
inmost hearts of all who heard it. It was followed by a stillness apparently

as deep as if the waters had been checked in their furious progress, at such a
horrid and unusual interruption.
“What is it?” murmured Alice, after a few moments of terrible suspense.

“What is it?” murmured Alice, after a few moments of terrible
suspense.

“What is it?” repeated Hewyard aloud.
Neither Hawkeye nor the Indians made any reply. They listened, as if
expecting the sound would be repeated, with a manner that expressed their
own astonishment. At length they spoke together, earnestly, in the Delaware
language, when Uncas, passing by the inner and most concealed aperture,

cautiously left the cavern. When he had gone, the scout first spoke in
English.
“What it is, or what it is not, none here can tell, though two of us have
ranged the woods for more than thirty years. I did believe there was no cry
that Indian or beast could make, that my ears had not heard; but this has
proved that I was only a vain and conceited mortal.”
“Was it not, then, the shout the warriors make when they wish to
intimidate their enemies?” asked Cora who stood drawing her veil about her
person, with a calmness to which her agitated sister was a stranger.
“No, no; this was bad, and shocking, and had a sort of unhuman sound;
but when you once hear the war-whoop, you will never mistake it for
anything else. Well, Uncas!” speaking in Delaware to the young chief as he
re-entered, “what see you? do our lights shine through the blankets?”
The answer was short, and apparently decided, being given in the same
tongue.
“There is nothing to be seen without,” continued Hawkeye, shaking his
head in discontent; “and our hiding-place is still in darkness. Pass into the
other cave, you that need it, and seek for sleep; we must be afoot long
before the sun, and make the most of our time to get to Edward, while the
Mingoes are taking their morning nap.”
Cora set the example of compliance, with a steadiness that taught the
more timid Alice the necessity of obedience. Before leaving the place,
however, she whispered a request to Duncan, that he would follow. Uncas
raised the blanket for their passage, and as the sisters turned to thank him
for this act of attention, they saw the scout seated again before the dying
embers, with his face resting on his hands, in a manner which showed how
deeply he brooded on the unaccountable interruption which had broken up
their evening devotions.
Heyward took with him a blazing knot, which threw a dim light through
the narrow vista of their new apartment. Placing it in a favorable position,
he joined the females, who now found themselves alone with him for the
first time since they had left the friendly ramparts of Fort Edward.
“Leave us not, Duncan,” said Alice: “we cannot sleep in such a place as
this, with that horrid cry still ringing in our ears.”

“First let us examine into the security of your fortress,” he answered,
“and then we will speak of rest.”
He approached the further end of the cavern, to an outlet, which, like the
others, was concealed by blankets; and removing the thick screen, breathed
the fresh and reviving air from the cataract. One arm of the river flowed
through a deep, narrow ravine, which its current had worn in the soft rock,
directly beneath his feet, forming an effectual defense, as he believed,
against any danger from that quarter; the water, a few rods above them,
plunging, glancing, and sweeping along in its most violent and broken
manner.
“Nature has made an impenetrable barrier on this side,” he continued,
pointing down the perpendicular declivity into the dark current before he
dropped the blanket; “and as you know that good men and true are on guard
in front I see no reason why the advice of our honest host should be
disregarded. I am certain Cora will join me in saying that sleep is necessary
to you both.”
“Cora may submit to the justice of your opinion though she cannot put it
in practice,” returned the elder sister, who had placed herself by the side of
Alice, on a couch of sassafras; “there would be other causes to chase away
sleep, though we had been spared the shock of this mysterious noise. Ask
yourself, Heyward, can daughters forget the anxiety a father must endure,
whose children lodge he knows not where or how, in such a wilderness, and
in the midst of so many perils?”
“He is a soldier, and knows how to estimate the chances of the woods.”
“He is a father, and cannot deny his nature.”
“How kind has he ever been to all my follies, how tender and indulgent
to all my wishes!” sobbed Alice. “We have been selfish, sister, in urging our
visit at such hazard.”
“I may have been rash in pressing his consent in a moment of much
embarrassment, but I would have proved to him, that however others might
neglect him in his strait his children at least were faithful.”
“When he heard of your arrival at Edward,” said Heyward, kindly, “there
was a powerful struggle in his bosom between fear and love; though the
latter, heightened, if possible, by so long a separation, quickly prevailed. ‘It
is the spirit of my noble-minded Cora that leads them, Duncan’, he said,

‘and I will not balk it. Would to God, that he who holds the honor of our
royal master in his guardianship, would show but half her firmness!’”
“And did he not speak of me, Heyward?” demanded Alice, with jealous
affection; “surely, he forgot not altogether his little Elsie?”
“That were impossible,” returned the young man; “he called you by a
thousand endearing epithets, that I may not presume to use, but to the
justice of which, I can warmly testify. Once, indeed, he said—”
Duncan ceased speaking; for while his eyes were riveted on those of
Alice, who had turned toward him with the eagerness of filial affection, to
catch his words, the same strong, horrid cry, as before, filled the air, and
rendered him mute. A long, breathless silence succeeded, during which each
looked at the others in fearful expectation of hearing the sound repeated. At
length, the blanket was slowly raised, and the scout stood in the aperture
with a countenance whose firmness evidently began to give way before a
mystery that seemed to threaten some danger, against which all his cunning
and experience might prove of no avail.

CHAPTER VII.
“They do not sleep,
On yonder cliffs, a grizzly band,
I see them sit.”—Gray

“’Twould be neglecting a warning that is given for our good to lie hid any
longer,” said Hawkeye “when such sounds are raised in the forest. These
gentle ones may keep close, but the Mohicans and I will watch upon the
rock, where I suppose a major of the Sixtieth would wish to keep us
company.”
“Is, then, our danger so pressing?” asked Cora.
“He who makes strange sounds, and gives them out for man’s
information, alone knows our danger. I should think myself wicked, unto
rebellion against His will, was I to burrow with such warnings in the air!
Even the weak soul who passes his days in singing is stirred by the cry, and,
as he says, is ‘ready to go forth to the battle’ If ’twere only a battle, it would
be a thing understood by us all, and easily managed; but I have heard that
when such shrieks are atween heaven and ’arth, it betokens another sort of
warfare!”
“If all our reasons for fear, my friend, are confined to such as proceed
from supernatural causes, we have but little occasion to be alarmed,”
continued the undisturbed Cora, “are you certain that our enemies have not
invented some new and ingenious method to strike us with terror, that their
conquest may become more easy?”
“Lady,” returned the scout, solemnly, “I have listened to all the sounds of
the woods for thirty years, as a man will listen whose life and death depend
on the quickness of his ears. There is no whine of the panther, no whistle of
the catbird, nor any invention of the devilish Mingoes, that can cheat me! I
have heard the forest moan like mortal men in their affliction; often, and
again, have I listened to the wind playing its music in the branches of the
girdled trees; and I have heard the lightning cracking in the air like the

snapping of blazing brush as it spitted forth sparks and forked flames; but
never have I thought that I heard more than the pleasure of him who sported
with the things of his hand. But neither the Mohicans, nor I, who am a
white man without a cross, can explain the cry just heard. We, therefore,
believe it a sign given for our good.”
“It is extraordinary!” said Heyward, taking his pistols from the place
where he had laid them on entering; “be it a sign of peace or a signal of war,
it must be looked to. Lead the way, my friend; I follow.”
On issuing from their place of confinement, the whole party instantly
experienced a grateful renovation of spirits, by exchanging the pent air of
the hiding-place for the cool and invigorating atmosphere which played
around the whirlpools and pitches of the cataract. A heavy evening breeze
swept along the surface of the river, and seemed to drive the roar of the falls
into the recesses of their own cavern, whence it issued heavily and constant,
like thunder rumbling beyond the distant hills. The moon had risen, and its
light was already glancing here and there on the waters above them; but the
extremity of the rock where they stood still lay in shadow. With the
exception of the sounds produced by the rushing waters, and an occasional
breathing of the air, as it murmured past them in fitful currents, the scene
was as still as night and solitude could make it. In vain were the eyes of
each individual bent along the opposite shores, in quest of some signs of
life, that might explain the nature of the interruption they had heard. Their
anxious and eager looks were baffled by the deceptive light, or rested only
on naked rocks, and straight and immovable trees.
“Here is nothing to be seen but the gloom and quiet of a lovely evening,”
whispered Duncan; “how much should we prize such a scene, and all this
breathing solitude, at any other moment, Cora! Fancy yourselves in
security, and what now, perhaps, increases your terror, may be made
conducive to enjoyment—”
“Listen!” interrupted Alice.
The caution was unnecessary. Once more the same sound arose, as if
from the bed of the river, and having broken out of the narrow bounds of
the cliffs, was heard undulating through the forest, in distant and dying
cadences.
“Can any here give a name to such a cry?” demanded Hawkeye, when
the last echo was lost in the woods; “if so, let him speak; for myself, I judge

it not to belong to ’arth!”
“Here, then, is one who can undeceive you,” said Duncan; “I know the
sound full well, for often have I heard it on the field of battle, and in
situations which are frequent in a soldier’s life. ’Tis the horrid shriek that a
horse will give in his agony; oftener drawn from him in pain, though
sometimes in terror. My charger is either a prey to the beasts of the forest,
or he sees his danger, without the power to avoid it. The sound might
deceive me in the cavern, but in the open air I know it too well to be
wrong.”
The scout and his companions listened to this simple explanation with the
interest of men who imbibe new ideas, at the same time that they get rid of
old ones, which had proved disagreeable inmates. The two latter uttered
their usual expressive exclamation, “hugh!” as the truth first glanced upon
their minds, while the former, after a short, musing pause, took upon
himself to reply.
“I cannot deny your words,” he said, “for I am little skilled in horses,
though born where they abound. The wolves must be hovering above their
heads on the bank, and the timorsome creatures are calling on man for help,
in the best manner they are able. Uncas”—he spoke in Delaware—“Uncas,
drop down in the canoe, and whirl a brand among the pack; or fear may do
what the wolves can’t get at to perform, and leave us without horses in the
morning, when we shall have so much need to journey swiftly!”
The young native had already descended to the water to comply, when a
long howl was raised on the edge of the river, and was borne swiftly off into
the depths of the forest, as though the beasts, of their own accord, were
abandoning their prey in sudden terror. Uncas, with instinctive quickness,
receded, and the three foresters held another of their low, earnest
conferences.
“We have been like hunters who have lost the points of the heavens, and
from whom the sun has been hid for days,” said Hawkeye, turning away
from his companions; “now we begin again to know the signs of our course,
and the paths are cleared from briers! Seat yourselves in the shade which
the moon throws from yonder beech—’tis thicker than that of the pines—
and let us wait for that which the Lord may choose to send next. Let all
your conversation be in whispers; though it would be better, and, perhaps,

in the end, wiser, if each one held discourse with his own thoughts, for a
time.”
The manner of the scout was seriously impressive, though no longer
distinguished by any signs of unmanly apprehension. It was evident that his
momentary weakness had vanished with the explanation of a mystery which
his own experience had not served to fathom; and though he now felt all the
realities of their actual condition, that he was prepared to meet them with
the energy of his hardy nature. This feeling seemed also common to the
natives, who placed themselves in positions which commanded a full view
of both shores, while their own persons were effectually concealed from
observation. In such circumstances, common prudence dictated that
Heyward and his companions should imitate a caution that proceeded from
so intelligent a source. The young man drew a pile of the sassafras from the
cave, and placing it in the chasm which separated the two caverns, it was
occupied by the sisters, who were thus protected by the rocks from any
missiles, while their anxiety was relieved by the assurance that no danger
could approach without a warning. Heyward himself was posted at hand, so
near that he might communicate with his companions without raising his
voice to a dangerous elevation; while David, in imitation of the woodsmen,
bestowed his person in such a manner among the fissures of the rocks, that
his ungainly limbs were no longer offensive to the eye.
In this manner hours passed without further interruption. The moon
reached the zenith, and shed its mild light perpendicularly on the lovely
sight of the sisters slumbering peacefully in each other’s arms. Duncan cast
the wide shawl of Cora before a spectacle he so much loved to contemplate,
and then suffered his own head to seek a pillow on the rock. David began to
utter sounds that would have shocked his delicate organs in more wakeful
moments; in short, all but Hawkeye and the Mohicans lost every idea of
consciousness, in uncontrollable drowsiness. But the watchfulness of these
vigilant protectors neither tired nor slumbered. Immovable as that rock, of
which each appeared to form a part, they lay, with their eyes roving,
without intermission, along the dark margin of trees, that bounded the
adjacent shores of the narrow stream. Not a sound escaped them; the most
subtle examination could not have told they breathed. It was evident that
this excess of caution proceeded from an experience that no subtlety on the
part of their enemies could deceive. It was, however, continued without any
apparent consequences, until the moon had set, and a pale streak above the

treetops, at the bend of the river a little below, announced the approach of
day.
Then, for the first time, Hawkeye was seen to stir. He crawled along the
rock and shook Duncan from his heavy slumbers.
“Now is the time to journey,” he whispered; “awake the gentle ones, and
be ready to get into the canoe when I bring it to the landing-place.”
“Have you had a quiet night?” said Heyward; “for myself, I believe sleep
has got the better of my vigilance.”
“All is yet still as midnight. Be silent, but be quick.”
By this time Duncan was thoroughly awake, and he immediately lifted
the shawl from the sleeping females. The motion caused Cora to raise her
hand as if to repulse him, while Alice murmured, in her soft, gentle voice,
“No, no, dear father, we were not deserted; Duncan was with us!”
“Yes, sweet innocence,” whispered the youth; “Duncan is here, and while
life continues or danger remains, he will never quit thee. Cora! Alice!
awake! The hour has come to move!”
A loud shriek from the younger of the sisters, and the form of the other
standing upright before him, in bewildered horror, was the unexpected
answer he received.
While the words were still on the lips of Heyward, there had arisen such
a tumult of yells and cries as served to drive the swift currents of his own
blood back from its bounding course into the fountains of his heart. It
seemed, for near a minute, as if the demons of hell had possessed
themselves of the air about them, and were venting their savage humors in
barbarous sounds. The cries came from no particular direction, though it
was evident they filled the woods, and, as the appalled listeners easily
imagined, the caverns of the falls, the rocks, the bed of the river, and the
upper air. David raised his tall person in the midst of the infernal din, with a
hand on either ear, exclaiming:
“Whence comes this discord! Has hell broke loose, that man should utter
sounds like these!”
The bright flashes and the quick reports of a dozen rifles, from the
opposite banks of the stream, followed this incautious exposure of his
person, and left the unfortunate singing master senseless on that rock where
he had been so long slumbering. The Mohicans boldly sent back the

intimidating yell of their enemies, who raised a shout of savage triumph at
the fall of Gamut. The flash of rifles was then quick and close between
them, but either party was too well skilled to leave even a limb exposed to
the hostile aim. Duncan listened with intense anxiety for the strokes of the
paddle, believing that flight was now their only refuge. The river glanced by
with its ordinary velocity, but the canoe was nowhere to be seen on its dark
waters. He had just fancied they were cruelly deserted by their scout, as a
stream of flame issued from the rock beneath them, and a fierce yell,
blended with a shriek of agony, announced that the messenger of death sent
from the fatal weapon of Hawkeye, had found a victim. At this slight
repulse the assailants instantly withdrew, and gradually the place became as
still as before the sudden tumult.
Duncan seized the favorable moment to spring to the body of Gamut,
which he bore within the shelter of the narrow chasm that protected the
sisters. In another minute the whole party was collected in this spot of
comparative safety.
“The poor fellow has saved his scalp,” said Hawkeye, coolly passing his
hand over the head of David; “but he is a proof that a man may be born with
too long a tongue! ’Twas downright madness to show six feet of flesh and
blood, on a naked rock, to the raging savages. I only wonder he has escaped
with life.”
“Is he not dead?” demanded Cora, in a voice whose husky tones showed
how powerfully natural horror struggled with her assumed firmness. “Can
we do aught to assist the wretched man?”
“No, no! the life is in his heart yet, and after he has slept awhile he will
come to himself, and be a wiser man for it, till the hour of his real time shall
come,” returned Hawkeye, casting another oblique glance at the insensible
body, while he filled his charger with admirable nicety. “Carry him in,
Uncas, and lay him on the sassafras. The longer his nap lasts the better it
will be for him, as I doubt whether he can find a proper cover for such a
shape on these rocks; and singing won’t do any good with the Iroquois.”
“You believe, then, the attack will be renewed?” asked Heyward.
“Do I expect a hungry wolf will satisfy his craving with a mouthful!
They have lost a man, and ’tis their fashion, when they meet a loss, and fail
in the surprise, to fall back; but we shall have them on again, with new
expedients to circumvent us, and master our scalps. Our main hope,” he

continued, raising his rugged countenance, across which a shade of anxiety
just then passed like a darkening cloud, “will be to keep the rock until
Munro can send a party to our help! God send it may be soon and under a
leader that knows the Indian customs!”
“You hear our probable fortunes, Cora,” said Duncan, “and you know we
have everything to hope from the anxiety and experience of your father.
Come, then, with Alice, into this cavern, where you, at least, will be safe
from the murderous rifles of our enemies, and where you may bestow a care
suited to your gentle natures on our unfortunate comrade.”
The sisters followed him into the outer cave, where David was beginning,
by his sighs, to give symptoms of returning consciousness, and then
commending the wounded man to their attention, he immediately prepared
to leave them.
“Duncan!” said the tremulous voice of Cora, when he had reached the
mouth of the cavern. He turned and beheld the speaker, whose color had
changed to a deadly paleness, and whose lips quivered, gazing after him,
with an expression of interest which immediately recalled him to her side.
“Remember, Duncan, how necessary your safety is to our own—how you
bear a father’s sacred trust—how much depends on your discretion and care
—in short,” she added, while the telltale blood stole over her features,
crimsoning her very temples, “how very deservedly dear you are to all of
the name of Munro.”
“If anything could add to my own base love of life,” said Heyward,
suffering his unconscious eyes to wander to the youthful form of the silent
Alice, “it would be so kind an assurance. As major of the Sixtieth, our
honest host will tell you I must take my share of the fray; but our task will
be easy; it is merely to keep these blood-hounds at bay for a few hours.”
Without waiting for a reply, he tore himself from the presence of the
sisters, and joined the scout and his companions, who still lay within the
protection of the little chasm between the two caves.
“I tell you, Uncas,” said the former, as Heyward joined them, “you are
wasteful of your powder, and the kick of the rifle disconcerts your aim!
Little powder, light lead, and a long arm, seldom fail of bringing the death
screech from a Mingo! At least, such has been my experience with the
creatur’s. Come, friends: let us to our covers, for no man can tell when or
where a Maqua[1] will strike his blow.”

[1] Mingo was the Delaware term of the Five Nations. Maquas was the name
given them by the Dutch. The French, from their first intercourse with them,
called them Iroquois.

The Indians silently repaired to their appointed stations, which were
fissures in the rocks, whence they could command the approaches to the
foot of the falls. In the center of the little island, a few short and stunted
pines had found root, forming a thicket, into which Hawkeye darted with
the swiftness of a deer, followed by the active Duncan. Here they secured
themselves, as well as circumstances would permit, among the shrubs and
fragments of stone that were scattered about the place. Above them was a
bare, rounded rock, on each side of which the water played its gambols, and
plunged into the abysses beneath, in the manner already described. As the
day had now dawned, the opposite shores no longer presented a confused
outline, but they were able to look into the woods, and distinguish objects
beneath a canopy of gloomy pines.
A long and anxious watch succeeded, but without any further evidences
of a renewed attack; and Duncan began to hope that their fire had proved
more fatal than was supposed, and that their enemies had been effectually
repulsed. When he ventured to utter this impression to his companions, it
was met by Hawkeye with an incredulous shake of the head.
“You know not the nature of a Maqua, if you think he is so easily beaten
back without a scalp!” he answered. “If there was one of the imps yelling
this morning, there were forty! and they know our number and quality too
well to give up the chase so soon. Hist! look into the water above, just
where it breaks over the rocks. I am no mortal, if the risky devils haven’t
swam down upon the very pitch, and, as bad luck would have it, they have
hit the head of the island. Hist! man, keep close! or the hair will be off your
crown in the turning of a knife!”
Heyward lifted his head from the cover, and beheld what he justly
considered a prodigy of rashness and skill. The river had worn away the
edge of the soft rock in such a manner as to render its first pitch less abrupt
and perpendicular than is usual at waterfalls. With no other guide than the
ripple of the stream where it met the head of the island, a party of their
insatiable foes had ventured into the current, and swam down upon this
point, knowing the ready access it would give, if successful, to their
intended victims.

As Hawkeye ceased speaking, four human heads could be seen peering
above a few logs of drift-wood that had lodged on these naked rocks, and
which had probably suggested the idea of the practicability of the hazardous
undertaking. At the next moment, a fifth form was seen floating over the
green edge of the fall, a little from the line of the island. The savage
struggled powerfully to gain the point of safety, and, favored by the
glancing water, he was already stretching forth an arm to meet the grasp of
his companions, when he shot away again with the shirling current,
appeared to rise into the air, with uplifted arms and starting eyeballs, and
fell, with a sudden plunge, into that deep and yawning abyss over which he
hovered. A single, wild, despairing shriek rose from the cavern, and all was
hushed again as the grave.
The first generous impulse of Duncan was to rush to the rescue of the
hapless wretch; but he felt himself bound to the spot by the iron grasp of the
immovable scout.
“Would ye bring certain death upon us, by telling the Mingoes where we
lie?” demanded Hawkeye, sternly; “’Tis a charge of powder saved, and
ammunition is as precious now as breath to a worried deer! Freshen the
priming of your pistols—the midst of the falls is apt to dampen the
brimstone—and stand firm for a close struggle, while I fire on their rush.”
He placed a finger in his mouth, and drew a long, shrill whistle, which
was answered from the rocks that were guarded by the Mohicans. Duncan
caught glimpses of heads above the scattered drift-wood, as this signal rose
on the air, but they disappeared again as suddenly as they had glanced upon
his sight. A low, rustling sound next drew his attention behind him, and
turning his head, he beheld Uncas within a few feet, creeping to his side.
Hawkeye spoke to him in Delaware, when the young chief took his position
with singular caution and undisturbed coolness. To Heyward this was a
moment of feverish and impatient suspense; though the scout saw fit to
select it as a fit occasion to read a lecture to his more youthful associates on
the art of using firearms with discretion.
“Of all we’pons,” he commenced, “the long barreled, true-grooved, soft-
metaled rifle is the most dangerous in skillful hands, though it wants a
strong arm, a quick eye, and great judgment in charging, to put forth all its
beauties. The gunsmiths can have but little insight into their trade when
they make their fowling-pieces and short horsemen’s—”

He was interrupted by the low but expressive “hugh” of Uncas.
“I see them, boy, I see them!” continued Hawkeye; “they are gathering
for the rush, or they would keep their dingy backs below the logs. Well, let
them,” he added, examining his flint; “the leading man certainly comes on
to his death, though it should be Montcalm himself!”
At that moment the woods were filled with another burst of cries, and at
the signal four savages sprang from the cover of the driftwood. Heyward
felt a burning desire to rush forward to meet them, so intense was the
delirious anxiety of the moment; but he was restrained by the deliberate
examples of the scout and Uncas.
When their foes, who had leaped over the black rocks that divided them,
with long bounds, uttering the wildest yells, were within a few rods, the
rifle of Hawkeye slowly rose among the shrubs, and poured out its fatal
contents. The foremost Indian bounded like a stricken deer, and fell
headlong among the clefts of the island.
“Now, Uncas!” cried the scout, drawing his long knife, while his quick
eyes began to flash with ardor, “take the last of the screeching imps; of the
other two we are sartain!”
He was obeyed; and but two enemies remained to be overcome. Heyward
had given one of his pistols to Hawkeye, and together they rushed down a
little declivity toward their foes; they discharged their weapons at the same
instant, and equally without success.
“I know’d it! and I said it!” muttered the scout, whirling the despised
little implement over the falls with bitter disdain. “Come on, ye bloody
minded hell-hounds! ye meet a man without a cross!”
The words were barely uttered, when he encountered a savage of gigantic
stature, of the fiercest mien. At the same moment, Duncan found himself
engaged with the other, in a similar contest of hand to hand. With ready
skill, Hawkeye and his antagonist each grasped that uplifted arm of the
other which held the dangerous knife. For near a minute they stood looking
one another in the eye, and gradually exerting the power of their muscles
for the mastery.

At length, the toughened sinews of the white man prevailed over the less
practiced limbs of the native. The arm of the latter slowly gave way before
the increasing force of the scout, who, suddenly wresting his armed hand
from the grasp of the foe, drove the sharp weapon through his naked bosom
to the heart. In the meantime, Heyward had been pressed in a more deadly
struggle. His slight sword was snapped in the first encounter. As he was
destitute of any other means of defense, his safety now depended entirely
on bodily strength and resolution. Though deficient in neither of these
qualities, he had met an enemy every way his equal. Happily, he soon
succeeded in disarming his adversary, whose knife fell on the rock at their
feet; and from this moment it became a fierce struggle who should cast the
other over the dizzy height into a neighboring cavern of the falls. Every

successive struggle brought them nearer to the verge, where Duncan
perceived the final and conquering effort must be made. Each of the
combatants threw all his energies into that effort, and the result was, that
both tottered on the brink of the precipice. Heyward felt the grasp of the
other at his throat, and saw the grim smile the savage gave, under the
revengeful hope that he hurried his enemy to a fate similar to his own, as he
felt his body slowly yielding to a resistless power, and the young man
experienced the passing agony of such a moment in all its horrors. At that
instant of extreme danger, a dark hand and glancing knife appeared before
him; the Indian released his hold, as the blood flowed freely from around
the severed tendons of the wrist; and while Duncan was drawn backward by
the saving hand of Uncas, his charmed eyes still were riveted on the fierce
and disappointed countenance of his foe, who fell sullenly and disappointed
down the irrecoverable precipice.
“To cover! to cover!” cried Hawkeye, who just then had despatched the
enemy; “to cover, for your lives! the work is but half ended!”
The young Mohican gave a shout of triumph, and followed by Duncan,
he glided up the acclivity they had descended to the combat, and sought the
friendly shelter of the rocks and shrubs.

CHAPTER VIII.
“They linger yet,
Avengers of their native land.”—Gray

The warning call of the scout was not uttered without occasion. During
the occurrence of the deadly encounter just related, the roar of the falls was
unbroken by any human sound whatever. It would seem that interest in the
result had kept the natives on the opposite shores in breathless suspense,
while the quick evolutions and swift changes in the positions of the
combatants effectually prevented a fire that might prove dangerous alike to
friend and enemy. But the moment the struggle was decided, a yell arose as
fierce and savage as wild and revengeful passions could throw into the air.
It was followed by the swift flashes of the rifles, which sent their leaden
messengers across the rock in volleys, as though the assailants would pour
out their impotent fury on the insensible scene of the fatal contest.
A steady, though deliberate return was made from the rifle of
Chingachgook, who had maintained his post throughout the fray with
unmoved resolution. When the triumphant shout of Uncas was borne to his
ears, the gratified father raised his voice in a single responsive cry, after
which his busy piece alone proved that he still guarded his pass with
unwearied diligence. In this manner many minutes flew by with the
swiftness of thought; the rifles of the assailants speaking, at times, in
rattling volleys, and at others in occasional, scattering shots. Though the
rock, the trees, and the shrubs, were cut and torn in a hundred places around
the besieged, their cover was so close, and so rigidly maintained, that, as
yet, David had been the only sufferer in their little band.
“Let them burn their powder,” said the deliberate scout, while bullet after
bullet whizzed by the place where he securely lay; “there will be a fine
gathering of lead when it is over, and I fancy the imps will tire of the sport
afore these old stones cry out for mercy! Uncas, boy, you waste the kernels
by overcharging; and a kicking rifle never carries a true bullet. I told you to

take that loping miscreant under the line of white point; now, if your bullet
went a hair’s breadth it went two inches above it. The life lies low in a
Mingo, and humanity teaches us to make a quick end to the sarpents.”
A quiet smile lighted the haughty features of the young Mohican,
betraying his knowledge of the English language as well as of the other’s
meaning; but he suffered it to pass away without vindication of reply.
“I cannot permit you to accuse Uncas of want of judgment or of skill,”
said Duncan; “he saved my life in the coolest and readiest manner, and he
has made a friend who never will require to be reminded of the debt he
owes.”
Uncas partly raised his body, and offered his hand to the grasp of
Heyward. During this act of friendship, the two young men exchanged
looks of intelligence which caused Duncan to forget the character and
condition of his wild associate. In the meanwhile, Hawkeye, who looked on
this burst of youthful feeling with a cool but kind regard made the following
reply:
“Life is an obligation which friends often owe each other in the
wilderness. I dare say I may have served Uncas some such turn myself
before now; and I very well remember that he has stood between me and
death five different times; three times from the Mingoes, once in crossing
Horican, and—”
“That bullet was better aimed than common!” exclaimed Duncan,
involuntarily shrinking from a shot which struck the rock at his side with a
smart rebound.
Hawkeye laid his hand on the shapeless metal, and shook his head, as he
examined it, saying, “Falling lead is never flattened, had it come from the
clouds this might have happened.”
But the rifle of Uncas was deliberately raised toward the heavens,
directing the eyes of his companions to a point, where the mystery was
immediately explained. A ragged oak grew on the right bank of the river,
nearly opposite to their position, which, seeking the freedom of the open
space, had inclined so far forward that its upper branches overhung that arm
of the stream which flowed nearest to its own shore. Among the topmost
leaves, which scantily concealed the gnarled and stunted limbs, a savage
was nestled, partly concealed by the trunk of the tree, and partly exposed, as

though looking down upon them to ascertain the effect produced by his
treacherous aim.
“These devils will scale heaven to circumvent us to our ruin,” said
Hawkeye; “keep him in play, boy, until I can bring ‘killdeer’ to bear, when
we will try his metal on each side of the tree at once.”
Uncas delayed his fire until the scout uttered the word.
The rifles flashed, the leaves and bark of the oak flew into the air, and
were scattered by the wind, but the Indian answered their assault by a
taunting laugh, sending down upon them another bullet in return, that struck
the cap of Hawkeye from his head. Once more the savage yells burst out of
the woods, and the leaden hail whistled above the heads of the besieged, as
if to confine them to a place where they might become easy victims to the
enterprise of the warrior who had mounted the tree.
“This must be looked to,” said the scout, glancing about him with an
anxious eye. “Uncas, call up your father; we have need of all our we’pons
to bring the cunning varmint from his roost.”
The signal was instantly given; and, before Hawkeye had reloaded his
rifle, they were joined by Chingachgook. When his son pointed out to the
experienced warrior the situation of their dangerous enemy, the usual
exclamatory “hugh” burst from his lips; after which, no further expression
of surprise or alarm was suffered to escape him. Hawkeye and the
Mohicans conversed earnestly together in Delaware for a few moments,
when each quietly took his post, in order to execute the plan they had
speedily devised.
The warrior in the oak had maintained a quick, though ineffectual fire,
from the moment of his discovery. But his aim was interrupted by the
vigilance of his enemies, whose rifles instantaneously bore on any part of
his person that was left exposed. Still his bullets fell in the center of the
crouching party. The clothes of Heyward, which rendered him peculiarly
conspicuous, were repeatedly cut, and once blood was drawn from a slight
wound in his arm.
At length, emboldened by the long and patient watchfulness of his
enemies, the Huron attempted a better and more fatal aim. The quick eyes
of the Mohicans caught the dark line of his lower limbs incautiously
exposed through the thin foliage, a few inches from the trunk of the tree.
Their rifles made a common report, when, sinking on his wounded limb,

part of the body of the savage came into view. Swift as thought, Hawkeye
seized the advantage, and discharged his fatal weapon into the top of the
oak. The leaves were unusually agitated; the dangerous rifle fell from its
commanding elevation, and after a few moments of vain struggling, the
form of the savage was seen swinging in the wind, while he still grasped a
ragged and naked branch of the tree with hands clenched in desperation.
“Give him, in pity, give him the contents of another rifle,” cried Duncan,
turning away his eyes in horror from the spectacle of a fellow creature in
such awful jeopardy.
“Not a karnel!” exclaimed the obdurate Hawkeye; “his death is certain,
and we have no powder to spare, for Indian fights sometimes last for days;
’tis their scalps or ours! and God, who made us, has put into our natures the
craving to keep the skin on the head.”
Against this stern and unyielding morality, supported as it was by such
visible policy, there was no appeal. From that moment the yells in the forest
once more ceased, the fire was suffered to decline, and all eyes, those of
friends as well as enemies, became fixed on the hopeless condition of the
wretch who was dangling between heaven and earth. The body yielded to
the currents of air, and though no murmur or groan escaped the victim, there
were instants when he grimly faced his foes, and the anguish of cold despair
might be traced, through the intervening distance, in possession of his
swarthy lineaments. Three several times the scout raised his piece in mercy,
and as often, prudence getting the better of his intention, it was again
silently lowered. At length one hand of the Huron lost its hold, and dropped
exhausted to his side. A desperate and fruitless struggle to recover the
branch succeeded, and then the savage was seen for a fleeting instant,
grasping wildly at the empty air. The lightning is not quicker than was the
flame from the rifle of Hawkeye; the limbs of the victim trembled and
contracted, the head fell to the bosom, and the body parted the foaming
waters like lead, when the element closed above it, in its ceaseless velocity,
and every vestige of the unhappy Huron was lost forever.
No shout of triumph succeeded this important advantage, but even the
Mohicans gazed at each other in silent horror. A single yell burst from the
woods, and all was again still. Hawkeye, who alone appeared to reason on
the occasion, shook his head at his own momentary weakness, even uttering
his self-disapprobation aloud.

“’Twas the last charge in my horn and the last bullet in my pouch, and
’twas the act of a boy!” he said; “what mattered it whether he struck the
rock living or dead! feeling would soon be over. Uncas, lad, go down to the
canoe, and bring up the big horn; it is all the powder we have left, and we
shall need it to the last grain, or I am ignorant of the Mingo nature.”
The young Mohican complied, leaving the scout turning over the useless
contents of his pouch, and shaking the empty horn with renewed discontent.
From this unsatisfactory examination, however, he was soon called by a
loud and piercing exclamation from Uncas, that sounded, even to the
unpracticed ears of Duncan, as the signal of some new and unexpected
calamity. Every thought filled with apprehension for the previous treasure
he had concealed in the cavern, the young man started to his feet, totally
regardless of the hazard he incurred by such an exposure. As if actuated by
a common impulse, his movement was imitated by his companions, and,
together they rushed down the pass to the friendly chasm, with a rapidity
that rendered the scattering fire of their enemies perfectly harmless. The
unwonted cry had brought the sisters, together with the wounded David,
from their place of refuge; and the whole party, at a single glance, was made
acquainted with the nature of the disaster that had disturbed even the
practiced stoicism of their youthful Indian protector.
At a short distance from the rock, their little bark was to be seen floating
across the eddy, toward the swift current of the river, in a manner which
proved that its course was directed by some hidden agent. The instant this
unwelcome sight caught the eye of the scout, his rifle was leveled as by
instinct, but the barrel gave no answer to the bright sparks of the flint.
“’Tis too late, ’tis too late!” Hawkeye exclaimed, dropping the useless
piece in bitter disappointment; “the miscreant has struck the rapid; and had
we powder, it could hardly send the lead swifter than he now goes!”
The adventurous Huron raised his head above the shelter of the canoe,
and, while it glided swiftly down the stream, he waved his hand, and gave
forth the shout, which was the known signal of success. His cry was
answered by a yell and a laugh from the woods, as tauntingly exulting as if
fifty demons were uttering their blasphemies at the fall of some Christian
soul.
“Well may you laugh, ye children of the devil!” said the scout, seating
himself on a projection of the rock, and suffering his gun to fall neglected at

his feet, “for the three quickest and truest rifles in these woods are no better
than so many stalks of mullein, or the last year’s horns of a buck!”
“What is to be done?” demanded Duncan, losing the first feeling of
disappointment in a more manly desire for exertion; “what will become of
us?”
Hawkeye made no other reply than by passing his finger around the
crown of his head, in a manner so significant, that none who witnessed the
action could mistake its meaning.
“Surely, surely, our case is not so desperate!” exclaimed the youth; “the
Hurons are not here; we may make good the caverns, we may oppose their
landing.”
“With what?” coolly demanded the scout. “The arrows of Uncas, or such
tears as women shed! No, no; you are young, and rich, and have friends,
and at such an age I know it is hard to die! But,” glancing his eyes at the
Mohicans, “let us remember we are men without a cross, and let us teach
these natives of the forest that white blood can run as freely as red, when
the appointed hour is come.”
Duncan turned quickly in the direction indicated by the other’s eyes, and
read a confirmation of his worst apprehensions in the conduct of the
Indians. Chingachgook, placing himself in a dignified posture on another
fragment of the rock, had already laid aside his knife and tomahawk, and
was in the act of taking the eagle’s plume from his head, and smoothing the
solitary tuft of hair in readiness to perform its last and revolting office. His
countenance was composed, though thoughtful, while his dark, gleaming
eyes were gradually losing the fierceness of the combat in an expression
better suited to the change he expected momentarily to undergo.
“Our case is not, cannot be so hopeless!” said Duncan; “even at this very
moment succor may be at hand. I see no enemies! They have sickened of a
struggle in which they risk so much with so little prospect of gain!”
“It may be a minute, or it may be an hour, afore the wily sarpents steal
upon us, and it is quite in natur’ for them to be lying within hearing at this
very moment,” said Hawkeye; “but come they will, and in such a fashion as
will leave us nothing to hope! Chingachgook”—he spoke in Delaware
—“my brother, we have fought our last battle together, and the Maquas will
triumph in the death of the sage man of the Mohicans, and of the pale face,

whose eyes can make night as day, and level the clouds to the mists of the
springs!”
“Let the Mingo women go weep over the slain!” returned the Indian, with
characteristic pride and unmoved firmness; “the Great Snake of the
Mohicans has coiled himself in their wigwams, and has poisoned their
triumph with the wailings of children, whose fathers have not returned!
Eleven warriors lie hid from the graves of their tribes since the snows have
melted, and none will tell where to find them when the tongue of
Chingachgook shall be silent! Let them draw the sharpest knife, and whirl
the swiftest tomahawk, for their bitterest enemy is in their hands. Uncas,
topmost branch of a noble trunk, call on the cowards to hasten, or their
hearts will soften, and they will change to women!”
“They look among the fishes for their dead!” returned the low, soft voice
of the youthful chieftain; “the Hurons float with the slimy eels! They drop
from the oaks like fruit that is ready to be eaten! and the Delawares laugh!”
“Ay, ay,” muttered the scout, who had listened to this peculiar burst of the
natives with deep attention; “they have warmed their Indian feelings, and
they’ll soon provoke the Maquas to give them a speedy end. As for me, who
am of the whole blood of the whites, it is befitting that I should die as
becomes my color, with no words of scoffing in my mouth, and without
bitterness at the heart!”
“Why die at all!” said Cora, advancing from the place where natural
horror had, until this moment, held her riveted to the rock; “the path is open
on every side; fly, then, to the woods, and call on God for succor. Go, brave
men, we owe you too much already; let us no longer involve you in our
hapless fortunes!”
“You but little know the craft of the Iroquois, lady, if you judge they have
left the path open to the woods!” returned Hawkeye, who, however,
immediately added in his simplicity, “the down stream current, it is certain,
might soon sweep us beyond the reach of their rifles or the sound of their
voices.”
“Then try the river. Why linger to add to the number of the victims of our
merciless enemies?”
“Why,” repeated the scout, looking about him proudly; “because it is
better for a man to die at peace with himself than to live haunted by an evil

conscience! What answer could we give Munro, when he asked us where
and how we left his children?”
“Go to him, and say that you left them with a message to hasten to their
aid,” returned Cora, advancing nigher to the scout in her generous ardor;
“that the Hurons bear them into the northern wilds, but that by vigilance
and speed they may yet be rescued; and if, after all, it should please heaven
that his assistance come too late, bear to him,” she continued, her voice
gradually lowering, until it seemed nearly choked, “the love, the blessings,
the final prayers of his daughters, and bid him not mourn their early fate,
but to look forward with humble confidence to the Christian’s goal to meet
his children.” The hard, weather-beaten features of the scout began to work,
and when she had ended, he dropped his chin to his hand, like a man
musing profoundly on the nature of the proposal.
“There is reason in her words!” at length broke from his compressed and
trembling lips; “ay, and they bear the spirit of Christianity; what might be
right and proper in a red-skin, may be sinful in a man who has not even a
cross in blood to plead for his ignorance. Chingachgook! Uncas! hear you
the talk of the dark-eyed woman?”
He now spoke in Delaware to his companions, and his address, though
calm and deliberate, seemed very decided. The elder Mohican heard with
deep gravity, and appeared to ponder on his words, as though he felt the
importance of their import. After a moment of hesitation, he waved his hand
in assent, and uttered the English word “Good!” with the peculiar emphasis
of his people. Then, replacing his knife and tomahawk in his girdle, the
warrior moved silently to the edge of the rock which was most concealed
from the banks of the river. Here he paused a moment, pointed significantly
to the woods below, and saying a few words in his own language, as if
indicating his intended route, he dropped into the water, and sank from
before the eyes of the witnesses of his movements.
The scout delayed his departure to speak to the generous girl, whose
breathing became lighter as she saw the success of her remonstrance.
“Wisdom is sometimes given to the young, as well as to the old,” he said;
“and what you have spoken is wise, not to call it by a better word. If you are
led into the woods, that is such of you as may be spared for awhile, break
the twigs on the bushes as you pass, and make the marks of your trail as

broad as you can, when, if mortal eyes can see them, depend on having a
friend who will follow to the ends of the ’arth afore he desarts you.”
He gave Cora an affectionate shake of the hand, lifted his rifle, and after
regarding it a moment with melancholy solicitude, laid it carefully aside,
and descended to the place where Chingachgook had just disappeared. For
an instant he hung suspended by the rock, and looking about him, with a
countenance of peculiar care, he added bitterly, “Had the powder held out,
this disgrace could never have befallen!” then, loosening his hold, the water
closed above his head, and he also became lost to view.
All eyes now were turned on Uncas, who stood leaning against the
ragged rock, in immovable composure. After waiting a short time, Cora
pointed down the river, and said:
“Your friends have not been seen, and are now, most probably, in safety.
Is it not time for you to follow?”
“Uncas will stay,” the young Mohican calmly answered in English.
“To increase the horror of our capture, and to diminish the chances of our
release! Go, generous young man,” Cora continued, lowering her eyes
under the gaze of the Mohican, and perhaps, with an intuitive consciousness
of her power; “go to my father, as I have said, and be the most confidential
of my messengers. Tell him to trust you with the means to buy the freedom
of his daughters. Go! ’tis my wish, ’tis my prayer, that you will go!”
The settled, calm look of the young chief changed to an expression of
gloom, but he no longer hesitated. With a noiseless step he crossed the rock,
and dropped into the troubled stream. Hardly a breath was drawn by those
he left behind, until they caught a glimpse of his head emerging for air, far
down the current, when he again sank, and was seen no more.
These sudden and apparently successful experiments had all taken place
in a few minutes of that time which had now become so precious. After a
last look at Uncas, Cora turned and with a quivering lip, addressed herself
to Heyward:
“I have heard of your boasted skill in the water, too, Duncan,” she said;
“follow, then, the wise example set you by these simple and faithful
beings.”
“Is such the faith that Cora Munro would exact from her protector?” said
the young man, smiling mournfully, but with bitterness.

“This is not a time for idle subtleties and false opinions,” she answered;
“but a moment when every duty should be equally considered. To us you
can be of no further service here, but your precious life may be saved for
other and nearer friends.”
He made no reply, though his eye fell wistfully on the beautiful form of
Alice, who was clinging to his arm with the dependency of an infant.
“Consider,” continued Cora, after a pause, during which she seemed to
struggle with a pang even more acute than any that her fears had excited,
“that the worst to us can be but death; a tribute that all must pay at the good
time of God’s appointment.”
“There are evils worse than death,” said Duncan, speaking hoarsely, and
as if fretful at her importunity, “but which the presence of one who would
die in your behalf may avert.”
Cora ceased her entreaties; and veiling her face in her shawl, drew the
nearly insensible Alice after her into the deepest recess of the inner cavern.

CHAPTER IX.
“Be gay securely;
Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim’rous clouds,
That hang on thy clear brow.”—Death of Agrippina

The sudden and almost magical change, from the stirring incidents of the
combat to the stillness that now reigned around him, acted on the heated
imagination of Heyward like some exciting dream. While all the images and
events he had witnessed remained deeply impressed on his memory, he felt
a difficulty in persuading him of their truth. Still ignorant of the fate of
those who had trusted to the aid of the swift current, he at first listened
intently to any signal or sounds of alarm, which might announce the good
or evil fortune of their hazardous undertaking. His attention was, however,
bestowed in vain; for with the disappearance of Uncas, every sign of the
adventurers had been lost, leaving him in total uncertainty of their fate.
In a moment of such painful doubt, Duncan did not hesitate to look
around him, without consulting that protection from the rocks which just
before had been so necessary to his safety. Every effort, however, to detect
the least evidence of the approach of their hidden enemies was as fruitless
as the inquiry after his late companions. The wooded banks of the river
seemed again deserted by everything possessing animal life. The uproar
which had so lately echoed through the vaults of the forest was gone,
leaving the rush of the waters to swell and sink on the currents of the air, in
the unmingled sweetness of nature. A fish-hawk, which, secure on the
topmost branches of a dead pine, had been a distant spectator of the fray,
now swooped from his high and ragged perch, and soared, in wide sweeps,
above his prey; while a jay, whose noisy voice had been stilled by the
hoarser cries of the savages, ventured again to open his discordant throat, as
though once more in undisturbed possession of his wild domains. Duncan
caught from these natural accompaniments of the solitary scene a

glimmering of hope; and he began to rally his faculties to renewed
exertions, with something like a reviving confidence of success.
“The Hurons are not to be seen,” he said, addressing David, who had by
no means recovered from the effects of the stunning blow he had received;
“let us conceal ourselves in the cavern, and trust the rest to Providence.”
“I remember to have united with two comely maidens, in lifting up our
voices in praise and thanksgiving,” returned the bewildered singing-master;
“since which time I have been visited by a heavy judgment for my sins. I
have been mocked with the likeness of sleep, while sounds of discord have
rent my ears, such as might manifest the fullness of time, and that nature
had forgotten her harmony.”
“Poor fellow! thine own period was, in truth, near its accomplishment!
But arouse, and come with me; I will lead you where all other sounds but
those of your own psalmody shall be excluded.”
“There is melody in the fall of the cataract, and the rushing of many
waters is sweet to the senses!” said David, pressing his hand confusedly on
his brow. “Is not the air yet filled with shrieks and cries, as though the
departed spirits of the damned—”
“Not now, not now,” interrupted the impatient Heyward, “they have
ceased, and they who raised them, I trust in God, they are gone, too!
everything but the water is still and at peace; in, then, where you may create
those sounds you love so well to hear.”
David smiled sadly, though not without a momentary gleam of pleasure,
at this allusion to his beloved vocation. He no longer hesitated to be led to a
spot which promised such unalloyed gratification to his wearied senses; and
leaning on the arm of his companion, he entered the narrow mouth of the
cave. Duncan seized a pile of the sassafras, which he drew before the
passage, studiously concealing every appearance of an aperture. Within this
fragile barrier he arranged the blankets abandoned by the foresters,
darkening the inner extremity of the cavern, while its outer received a
chastened light from the narrow ravine, through which one arm of the river
rushed to form the junction with its sister branch a few rods below.
“I like not the principle of the natives, which teaches them to submit
without a struggle, in emergencies that appear desperate,” he said, while
busied in this employment; “our own maxim, which says, ‘while life
remains there is hope’, is more consoling, and better suited to a soldier’s

temperament. To you, Cora, I will urge no words of idle encouragement;
your own fortitude and undisturbed reason will teach you all that may
become your sex; but cannot we dry the tears of that trembling weeper on
your bosom?”
“I am calmer, Duncan,” said Alice, raising herself from the arms of her
sister, and forcing an appearance of composure through her tears; “much
calmer, now. Surely, in this hidden spot we are safe, we are secret, free from
injury; we will hope everything from those generous men who have risked
so much already in our behalf.”
“Now does our gentle Alice speak like a daughter of Munro!” said
Heyward, pausing to press her hand as he passed toward the outer entrance
of the cavern. “With two such examples of courage before him, a man
would be ashamed to prove other than a hero.” He then seated himself in
the center of the cavern, grasping his remaining pistol with a hand
convulsively clenched, while his contracted and frowning eye announced
the sullen desperation of his purpose. “The Hurons, if they come, may not
gain our position so easily as they think,” he slowly muttered; and propping
his head back against the rock, he seemed to await the result in patience,
though his gaze was unceasingly bent on the open avenue to their place of
retreat.
With the last sound of his voice, a deep, a long, and almost breathless
silence succeeded. The fresh air of the morning had penetrated the recess,
and its influence was gradually felt on the spirits of its inmates. As minute
after minute passed by, leaving them in undisturbed security, the insinuating
feeling of hope was gradually gaining possession of every bosom, though
each one felt reluctant to give utterance to expectations that the next
moment might so fearfully destroy.
David alone formed an exception to these varying emotions. A gleam of
light from the opening crossed his wan countenance, and fell upon the
pages of the little volume, whose leaves he was again occupied in turning,
as if searching for some song more fitted to their condition than any that
had yet met their eye. He was, most probably, acting all this time under a
confused recollection of the promised consolation of Duncan. At length, it
would seem, his patient industry found its reward; for, without explanation
or apology, he pronounced aloud the words “Isle of Wight,” drew a long,
sweet sound from his pitch-pipe, and then ran through the preliminary

modulations of the air whose name he had just mentioned, with the sweeter
tones of his own musical voice.
“May not this prove dangerous?” asked Cora, glancing her dark eye at
Major Heyward.
“Poor fellow! his voice is too feeble to be heard above the din of the
falls,” was the answer; “beside, the cavern will prove his friend. Let him
indulge his passions since it may be done without hazard.”
“Isle of Wight!” repeated David, looking about him with that dignity with
which he had long been wont to silence the whispering echoes of his
school; “’tis a brave tune, and set to solemn words! let it be sung with meet
respect!”
After allowing a moment of stillness to enforce his discipline, the voice
of the singer was heard, in low, murmuring syllables, gradually stealing on
the ear, until it filled the narrow vault with sounds rendered trebly thrilling
by the feeble and tremulous utterance produced by his debility. The melody,
which no weakness could destroy, gradually wrought its sweet influence on
the senses of those who heard it. It even prevailed over the miserable
travesty of the song of David which the singer had selected from a volume
of similar effusions, and caused the sense to be forgotten in the insinuating
harmony of the sounds. Alice unconsciously dried her tears, and bent her
melting eyes on the pallid features of Gamut, with an expression of
chastened delight that she neither affected or wished to conceal. Cora
bestowed an approving smile on the pious efforts of the namesake of the
Jewish prince, and Heyward soon turned his steady, stern look from the
outlet of the cavern, to fasten it, with a milder character, on the face of
David, or to meet the wandering beams which at moments strayed from the
humid eyes of Alice. The open sympathy of the listeners stirred the spirit of
the votary of music, whose voice regained its richness and volume, without
losing that touching softness which proved its secret charm. Exerting his
renovated powers to their utmost, he was yet filling the arches of the cave
with long and full tones, when a yell burst into the air without, that instantly
stilled his pious strains, choking his voice suddenly, as though his heart had
literally bounded into the passage of his throat.
“We are lost!” exclaimed Alice, throwing herself into the arms of Cora.
“Not yet, not yet,” returned the agitated but undaunted Heyward: “the
sound came from the center of the island, and it has been produced by the

sight of their dead companions. We are not yet discovered, and there is still
hope.”
Faint and almost despairing as was the prospect of escape, the words of
Duncan were not thrown away, for it awakened the powers of the sisters in
such a manner that they awaited the results in silence. A second yell soon
followed the first, when a rush of voices was heard pouring down the
island, from its upper to its lower extremity, until they reached the naked
rock above the caverns, where, after a shout of savage triumph, the air
continued full of horrible cries and screams, such as man alone can utter,
and he only when in a state of the fiercest barbarity.
The sounds quickly spread around them in every direction. Some called
to their fellows from the water’s edge, and were answered from the heights
above. Cries were heard in the startling vicinity of the chasm between the
two caves, which mingled with hoarser yells that arose out of the abyss of
the deep ravine. In short, so rapidly had the savage sounds diffused
themselves over the barren rock, that it was not difficult for the anxious
listeners to imagine they could be heard beneath, as in truth they were
above on every side of them.
In the midst of this tumult, a triumphant yell was raised within a few
yards of the hidden entrance to the cave. Heyward abandoned every hope,
with the belief it was the signal that they were discovered. Again the
impression passed away, as he heard the voices collect near the spot where
the white man had so reluctantly abandoned his rifle. Amid the jargon of
Indian dialects that he now plainly heard, it was easy to distinguish not only
words, but sentences, in the patois of the Canadas. A burst of voices had
shouted simultaneously, “La Longue Carabine!” causing the opposite
woods to re-echo with a name which, Heyward well remembered, had been
given by his enemies to a celebrated hunter and scout of the English camp,
and who, he now learned for the first time, had been his late companion.
“La Longue Carabine! La Longue Carabine!” passed from mouth to
mouth, until the whole band appeared to be collected around a trophy which
would seem to announce the death of its formidable owner. After a
vociferous consultation, which was, at times, deafened by bursts of savage
joy, they again separated, filling the air with the name of a foe, whose body,
Heywood could collect from their expressions, they hoped to find concealed
in some crevice of the island.

“Now,” he whispered to the trembling sisters, “now is the moment of
uncertainty! if our place of retreat escape this scrutiny, we are still safe! In
every event, we are assured, by what has fallen from our enemies, that our
friends have escaped, and in two short hours we may look for succor from
Webb.”
There were now a few minutes of fearful stillness, during which
Heyward well knew that the savages conducted their search with greater
vigilance and method. More than once he could distinguish their footsteps,
as they brushed the sassafras, causing the faded leaves to rustle, and the
branches to snap. At length, the pile yielded a little, a corner of a blanket
fell, and a faint ray of light gleamed into the inner part of the cave. Cora
folded Alice to her bosom in agony, and Duncan sprang to his feet. A shout
was at that moment heard, as if issuing from the center of the rock,
announcing that the neighboring cavern had at length been entered. In a
minute, the number and loudness of the voices indicated that the whole
party was collected in and around that secret place.
As the inner passages to the two caves were so close to each other,
Duncan, believing that escape was no longer possible, passed David and the
sisters, to place himself between the latter and the first onset of the terrible
meeting. Grown desperate by his situation, he drew nigh the slight barrier
which separated him only by a few feet from his relentless pursuers, and
placing his face to the casual opening, he even looked out with a sort of
desperate indifference, on their movements.
Within reach of his arm was the brawny shoulder of a gigantic Indian,
whose deep and authoritative voice appeared to give directions to the
proceedings of his fellows. Beyond him again, Duncan could look into the
vault opposite, which was filled with savages, upturning and rifling the
humble furniture of the scout. The wound of David had dyed the leaves of
sassafras with a color that the native well knew as anticipating the season.
Over this sign of their success, they sent up a howl, like an opening from so
many hounds who had recovered a lost trail. After this yell of victory, they
tore up the fragrant bed of the cavern, and bore the branches into the chasm,
scattering the boughs, as if they suspected them of concealing the person of
the man they had so long hated and feared. One fierce and wild-looking
warrior approached the chief, bearing a load of the brush, and pointing
exultingly to the deep red stains with which it was sprinkled, uttered his joy

in Indian yells, whose meaning Heyward was only enabled to comprehend
by the frequent repetition of the name “La Longue Carabine!” When his
triumph had ceased, he cast the brush on the slight heap Duncan had made
before the entrance of the second cavern, and closed the view. His example
was followed by others, who, as they drew the branches from the cave of
the scout, threw them into one pile, adding, unconsciously, to the security of
those they sought. The very slightness of the defense was its chief merit, for
no one thought of disturbing a mass of brush, which all of them believed, in
that moment of hurry and confusion, had been accidentally raised by the
hands of their own party.
As the blankets yielded before the outward pressure, and the branches
settled in the fissure of the rock by their own weight, forming a compact
body, Duncan once more breathed freely. With a light step and lighter heart,
he returned to the center of the cave, and took the place he had left, where
he could command a view of the opening next the river. While he was in the
act of making this movement, the Indians, as if changing their purpose by a
common impulse, broke away from the chasm in a body, and were heard
rushing up the island again, toward the point whence they had originally
descended. Here another wailing cry betrayed that they were again collected
around the bodies of their dead comrades.
Duncan now ventured to look at his companions; for, during the most
critical moments of their danger, he had been apprehensive that the anxiety
of his countenance might communicate some additional alarm to those who
were so little able to sustain it.
“They are gone, Cora!” he whispered; “Alice, they are returned whence
they came, and we are saved! To Heaven, that has alone delivered us from
the grasp of so merciless an enemy, be all the praise!”
“Then to Heaven will I return my thanks!” exclaimed the younger sister,
rising from the encircling arm of Cora, and casting herself with enthusiastic
gratitude on the naked rock; “to that Heaven who has spared the tears of a
gray-headed father; has saved the lives of those I so much love.”
Both Heyward and the more temperate Cora witnessed the act of
involuntary emotion with powerful sympathy, the former secretly believing
that piety had never worn a form so lovely as it had now assumed in the
youthful person of Alice. Her eyes were radiant with the glow of grateful
feelings; the flush of her beauty was again seated on her cheeks, and her

whole soul seemed ready and anxious to pour out its thanksgivings through
the medium of her eloquent features. But when her lips moved, the words
they should have uttered appeared frozen by some new and sudden chill.
Her bloom gave place to the paleness of death; her soft and melting eyes
grew hard, and seemed contracting with horror; while those hands, which
she had raised, clasped in each other, toward heaven, dropped in horizontal
lines before her, the fingers pointed forward in convulsed motion. Heyward
turned the instant she gave a direction to his suspicions, and peering just
above the ledge which formed the threshold of the open outlet of the
cavern, he beheld the malignant, fierce and savage features of Le Renard
Subtil.
In that moment of surprise, the self-possession of Heyward did not desert
him. He observed by the vacant expression of the Indian’s countenance, that
his eye, accustomed to the open air had not yet been able to penetrate the
dusky light which pervaded the depth of the cavern. He had even thought of
retreating beyond a curvature in the natural wall, which might still conceal
him and his companions, when by the sudden gleam of intelligence that
shot across the features of the savage, he saw it was too late, and that they
were betrayed.
The look of exultation and brutal triumph which announced this terrible
truth was irresistibly irritating. Forgetful of everything but the impulses of
his hot blood, Duncan leveled his pistol and fired. The report of the weapon
made the cavern bellow like an eruption from a volcano; and when the
smoke it vomited had been driven away before the current of air which
issued from the ravine the place so lately occupied by the features of his
treacherous guide was vacant. Rushing to the outlet, Heyward caught a
glimpse of his dark figure stealing around a low and narrow ledge, which
soon hid him entirely from sight.
Among the savages a frightful stillness succeeded the explosion, which
had just been heard bursting from the bowels of the rock. But when Le
Renard raised his voice in a long and intelligible whoop, it was answered by
a spontaneous yell from the mouth of every Indian within hearing of the
sound.
The clamorous noises again rushed down the island; and before Duncan
had time to recover from the shock, his feeble barrier of brush was scattered
to the winds, the cavern was entered at both its extremities, and he and his

companions were dragged from their shelter and borne into the day, where
they stood surrounded by the whole band of the triumphant Hurons.

CHAPTER X.
“I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn
As much as we this night have overwatched!”
—Midsummer Night’s Dream

The instant the shock of this sudden misfortune had abated, Duncan
began to make his observations on the appearance and proceedings of their
captors. Contrary to the usages of the natives in the wantonness of their
success they had respected, not only the persons of the trembling sisters, but
his own. The rich ornaments of his military attire had indeed been
repeatedly handled by different individuals of the tribes with eyes
expressing a savage longing to possess the baubles; but before the
customary violence could be resorted to, a mandate in the authoritative
voice of the large warrior, already mentioned, stayed the uplifted hand, and
convinced Heyward that they were to be reserved for some object of
particular moment.
While, however, these manifestations of weakness were exhibited by the
young and vain of the party, the more experienced warriors continued their
search throughout both caverns, with an activity that denoted they were far
from being satisfied with those fruits of their conquest which had already
been brought to light. Unable to discover any new victim, these diligent
workers of vengeance soon approached their male prisoners, pronouncing
the name “La Longue Carabine,” with a fierceness that could not be easily
mistaken. Duncan affected not to comprehend the meaning of their repeated
and violent interrogatories, while his companion was spared the effort of a
similar deception by his ignorance of French. Wearied at length by their
importunities, and apprehensive of irritating his captors by too stubborn a
silence, the former looked about him in quest of Magua, who might
interpret his answers to questions which were at each moment becoming
more earnest and threatening.

The conduct of this savage had formed a solitary exception to that of all
his fellows. While the others were busily occupied in seeking to gratify
their childish passion for finery, by plundering even the miserable effects of
the scout, or had been searching with such bloodthirsty vengeance in their
looks for their absent owner, Le Renard had stood at a little distance from
the prisoners, with a demeanor so quiet and satisfied, as to betray that he
had already effected the grand purpose of his treachery. When the eyes of
Heyward first met those of his recent guide, he turned them away in horror
at the sinister though calm look he encountered. Conquering his disgust,
however, he was able, with an averted face, to address his successful
enemy.
“Le Renard Subtil is too much of a warrior,” said the reluctant Heyward,
“to refuse telling an unarmed man what his conquerors say.”
“They ask for the hunter who knows the paths through the woods,”
returned Magua, in his broken English, laying his hand, at the same time,
with a ferocious smile, on the bundle of leaves with which a wound on his
own shoulder was bandaged. “‘La Longue Carabine’! His rifle is good, and
his eye never shut; but, like the short gun of the white chief, it is nothing
against the life of Le Subtil.”
“Le Renard is too brave to remember the hurts received in war, or the
hands that gave them.”
“Was it war, when the tired Indian rested at the sugartree to taste his
corn! who filled the bushes with creeping enemies! who drew the knife,
whose tongue was peace, while his heart was colored with blood! Did
Magua say that the hatchet was out of the ground, and that his hand had dug
it up?”
As Duncan dared not retort upon his accuser by reminding him of his
own premeditated treachery, and disdained to deprecate his resentment by
any words of apology, he remained silent. Magua seemed also content to
rest the controversy as well as all further communication there, for he
resumed the leaning attitude against the rock from which, in momentary
energy, he had arisen. But the cry of “La Longue Carabine” was renewed
the instant the impatient savages perceived that the short dialogue was
ended.
“You hear,” said Magua, with stubborn indifference: “the red Hurons call
for the life of ‘The Long Rifle’, or they will have the blood of him that keep

him hid!”
“He is gone—escaped; he is far beyond their reach.”
Renard smiled with cold contempt, as he answered:
“When the white man dies, he thinks he is at peace; but the red men
know how to torture even the ghosts of their enemies. Where is his body?
Let the Hurons see his scalp.”
“He is not dead, but escaped.”
Magua shook his head incredulously.
“Is he a bird, to spread his wings; or is he a fish, to swim without air! The
white chief read in his books, and he believes the Hurons are fools!”
“Though no fish, ‘The Long Rifle’ can swim. He floated down the stream
when the powder was all burned, and when the eyes of the Hurons were
behind a cloud.”
“And why did the white chief stay?” demanded the still incredulous
Indian. “Is he a stone that goes to the bottom, or does the scalp burn his
head?”
“That I am not stone, your dead comrade, who fell into the falls, might
answer, were the life still in him,” said the provoked young man, using, in
his anger, that boastful language which was most likely to excite the
admiration of an Indian. “The white man thinks none but cowards desert
their women.”
Magua muttered a few words, inaudibly, between his teeth, before he
continued, aloud:
“Can the Delawares swim, too, as well as crawl in the bushes? Where is
‘Le Gros Serpent’?”
Duncan, who perceived by the use of these Canadian appellations, that
his late companions were much better known to his enemies than to
himself, answered, reluctantly: “He also is gone down with the water.”
“‘Le Cerf Agile’ is not here?”
“I know not whom you call ‘The Nimble Deer’,” said Duncan gladly
profiting by any excuse to create delay.
“Uncas,” returned Magua, pronouncing the Delaware name with even
greater difficulty than he spoke his English words. “‘Bounding Elk’ is what
the white man says, when he calls to the young Mohican.”

“Here is some confusion in names between us, Le Renard,” said Duncan,
hoping to provoke a discussion. “Daim is the French for deer, and cerf for
stag; elan is the true term, when one would speak of an elk.”
“Yes,” muttered the Indian, in his native tongue; “the pale faces are
prattling women! they have two words for each thing, while a red-skin will
make the sound of his voice speak for him.” Then, changing his language,
he continued, adhering to the imperfect nomenclature of his provincial
instructors. “The deer is swift, but weak; the elk is swift, but strong; and the
son of ‘Le Serpent’ is ‘Le Cerf Agile.’ Has he leaped the river to the
woods?”
“If you mean the younger Delaware, he, too, has gone down with the
water.”
As there was nothing improbable to an Indian in the manner of the
escape, Magua admitted the truth of what he had heard, with a readiness
that afforded additional evidence how little he would prize such worthless
captives. With his companions, however, the feeling was manifestly
different.
The Hurons had awaited the result of this short dialogue with
characteristic patience, and with a silence that increased until there was a
general stillness in the band. When Heyward ceased to speak, they turned
their eyes, as one man, on Magua, demanding, in this expressive manner, an
explanation of what had been said. Their interpreter pointed to the river, and
made them acquainted with the result, as much by the action as by the few
words he uttered. When the fact was generally understood, the savages
raised a frightful yell, which declared the extent of their disappointment.
Some ran furiously to the water’s edge, beating the air with frantic gestures,
while others spat upon the element, to resent the supposed treason it had
committed against their acknowledged rights as conquerors. A few, and they
not the least powerful and terrific of the band, threw lowering looks, in
which the fiercest passion was only tempered by habitual self-command, at
those captives who still remained in their power, while one or two even
gave vent to their malignant feelings by the most menacing gestures,
against which neither the sex nor the beauty of the sisters was any
protection. The young soldier made a desperate but fruitless effort to spring
to the side of Alice, when he saw the dark hand of a savage twisted in the
rich tresses which were flowing in volumes over her shoulders, while a

knife was passed around the head from which they fell, as if to denote the
horrid manner in which it was about to be robbed of its beautiful ornament.
But his hands were bound; and at the first movement he made, he felt the
grasp of the powerful Indian who directed the band, pressing his shoulder
like a vise. Immediately conscious how unavailing any struggle against
such an overwhelming force must prove, he submitted to his fate,
encouraging his gentle companions by a few low and tender assurances,
that the natives seldom failed to threaten more than they performed.
But while Duncan resorted to these words of consolation to quiet the
apprehensions of the sisters, he was not so weak as to deceive himself. He
well knew that the authority of an Indian chief was so little conventional,
that it was oftener maintained by physical superiority than by any moral
supremacy he might possess. The danger was, therefore, magnified exactly
in proportion to the number of the savage spirits by which they were
surrounded. The most positive mandate from him who seemed the
acknowledged leader, was liable to be violated at each moment by any rash
hand that might choose to sacrifice a victim to the manes of some dead
friend or relative. While, therefore, he sustained an outward appearance of
calmness and fortitude, his heart leaped into his throat, whenever any of
their fierce captors drew nearer than common to the helpless sisters, or
fastened one of their sullen, wandering looks on those fragile forms which
were so little able to resist the slightest assault.
His apprehensions were, however, greatly relieved, when he saw that the
leader had summoned his warriors to himself in counsel. Their deliberations
were short, and it would seem, by the silence of most of the party, the
decision unanimous. By the frequency with which the few speakers pointed
in the direction of the encampment of Webb, it was apparent they dreaded
the approach of danger from that quarter. This consideration probably
hastened their determination, and quickened the subsequent movements.
During his short conference, Heyward, finding a respite from his gravest
fears, had leisure to admire the cautious manner in which the Hurons had
made their approaches, even after hostilities had ceased.
It has already been stated that the upper half of the island was a naked
rock, and destitute of any other defenses than a few scattered logs of
driftwood. They had selected this point to make their descent, having borne
the canoe through the wood around the cataract for that purpose. Placing

their arms in the little vessel a dozen men clinging to its sides had trusted
themselves to the direction of the canoe, which was controlled by two of the
most skillful warriors, in attitudes that enabled them to command a view of
the dangerous passage. Favored by this arrangement, they touched the head
of the island at that point which had proved so fatal to their first
adventurers, but with the advantages of superior numbers, and the
possession of firearms. That such had been the manner of their descent was
rendered quite apparent to Duncan; for they now bore the light bark from
the upper end of the rock, and placed it in the water, near the mouth of the
outer cavern. As soon as this change was made, the leader made signs to the
prisoners to descend and enter.
As resistance was impossible, and remonstrance useless, Heyward set the
example of submission, by leading the way into the canoe, where he was
soon seated with the sisters and the still wondering David. Notwithstanding
the Hurons were necessarily ignorant of the little channels among the eddies
and rapids of the stream, they knew the common signs of such a navigation
too well to commit any material blunder. When the pilot chosen for the task
of guiding the canoe had taken his station, the whole band plunged again
into the river, the vessel glided down the current, and in a few moments the
captives found themselves on the south bank of the stream, nearly opposite
to the point where they had struck it the preceding evening.

Here was held another short but earnest consultation, during which the
horses, to whose panic their owners ascribed their heaviest misfortune, were
led from the cover of the woods, and brought to the sheltered spot. The
band now divided. The great chief, so often mentioned, mounting the
charger of Heyward, led the way directly across the river, followed by most
of his people, and disappeared in the woods, leaving the prisoners in charge
of six savages, at whose head was Le Renard Subtil. Duncan witnessed all
their movements with renewed uneasiness.
He had been fond of believing, from the uncommon forbearance of the
savages, that he was reserved as a prisoner to be delivered to Montcalm. As
the thoughts of those who are in misery seldom slumber, and the invention
is never more lively than when it is stimulated by hope, however feeble and

remote, he had even imagined that the parental feelings of Munro were to
be made instrumental in seducing him from his duty to the king. For though
the French commander bore a high character for courage and enterprise, he
was also thought to be expert in those political practises which do not
always respect the nicer obligations of morality, and which so generally
disgraced the European diplomacy of that period.
All those busy and ingenious speculations were now annihilated by the
conduct of his captors. That portion of the band who had followed the huge
warrior took the route toward the foot of the Horican, and no other
expectation was left for himself and companions, than that they were to be
retained as hopeless captives by their savage conquerors. Anxious to know
the worst, and willing, in such an emergency, to try the potency of gold he
overcame his reluctance to speak to Magua. Addressing himself to his
former guide, who had now assumed the authority and manner of one who
was to direct the future movements of the party, he said, in tones as friendly
and confiding as he could assume:
“I would speak to Magua, what is fit only for so great a chief to hear.”
The Indian turned his eyes on the young soldier scornfully, as he
answered:
“Speak; trees have no ears.”
“But the red Hurons are not deaf; and counsel that is fit for the great men
of a nation would make the young warriors drunk. If Magua will not listen,
the officer of the king knows how to be silent.”
The savage spoke carelessly to his comrades, who were busied, after their
awkward manner, in preparing the horses for the reception of the sisters,
and moved a little to one side, whither by a cautious gesture he induced
Heyward to follow.
“Now, speak,” he said; “if the words are such as Magua should hear.”
“Le Renard Subtil has proved himself worthy of the honorable name
given to him by his Canada fathers,” commenced Heyward; “I see his
wisdom, and all that he has done for us, and shall remember it when the
hour to reward him arrives. Yes! Renard has proved that he is not only a
great chief in council, but one who knows how to deceive his enemies!”
“What has Renard done?” coldly demanded the Indian.

“What! has he not seen that the woods were filled with outlying parties of
the enemies, and that the serpent could not steal through them without being
seen? Then, did he not lose his path to blind the eyes of the Hurons? Did he
not pretend to go back to his tribe, who had treated him ill, and driven him
from their wigwams like a dog? And, when we saw what he wished to do,
did we not aid him, by making a false face, that the Hurons might think the
white man believed that his friend was his enemy? Is not all this true? And
when Le Subtil had shut the eyes and stopped the ears of his nation by his
wisdom, did they not forget that they had once done him wrong, and forced
him to flee to the Mohawks? And did they not leave him on the south side
of the river, with their prisoners, while they have gone foolishly on the
north? Does not Renard mean to turn like a fox on his footsteps, and to
carry to the rich and gray-headed Scotchman his daughters? Yes, Magua, I
see it all, and I have already been thinking how so much wisdom and
honesty should be repaid. First, the chief of William Henry will give as a
great chief should for such a service. The medal[1] of Magua will no longer
be of tin, but of beaten gold; his horn will run over with powder; dollars
will be as plenty in his pouch as pebbles on the shore of Horican; and the
deer will lick his hand, for they will know it to be vain to fly from the rifle
he will carry! As for myself, I know not how to exceed the gratitude of the
Scotchman, but I—yes, I will—”
[1] It has long been a practice with the whites to conciliate the important men of
the Indians by presenting medals, which are worn in the place of their own rude
ornaments. Those given by the English generally bear the impression of the
reigning king, and those given by the Americans that of the president.

“What will the young chief, who comes from toward the sun, give?”
demanded the Huron, observing that Heyward hesitated in his desire to end
the enumeration of benefits with that which might form the climax of an
Indian’s wishes.
“He will make the fire-water from the islands in the salt lake flow before
the wigwam of Magua, until the heart of the Indian shall be lighter than the
feathers of the humming-bird, and his breath sweeter than the wild
honeysuckle.”
Le Renard had listened gravely as Heyward slowly proceeded in this
subtle speech. When the young man mentioned the artifice he supposed the
Indian to have practised on his own nation, the countenance of the listener

was veiled in an expression of cautious gravity. At the allusion to the injury
which Duncan affected to believe had driven the Huron from his native
tribe, a gleam of such ungovernable ferocity flashed from the other’s eyes,
as induced the adventurous speaker to believe he had struck the proper
chord. And by the time he reached the part where he so artfully blended the
thirst of vengeance with the desire of gain, he had, at least, obtained a
command of the deepest attention of the savage. The question put by Le
Renard had been calm, and with all the dignity of an Indian; but it was quite
apparent, by the thoughtful expression of the listener’s countenance, that the
answer was most cunningly devised. The Huron mused a few moments, and
then laying his hand on the rude bandages of his wounded shoulder, he said,
with some energy:
“Do friends make such marks?”
“Would ‘La Longue Carbine’ cut one so slight on an enemy?”
“Do the Delawares crawl upon those they love like snakes, twisting
themselves to strike?”
“Would ‘Le Gros Serpent’ have been heard by the ears of one he wished
to be deaf?”
“Does the white chief burn his powder in the faces of his brothers?”
“Does he ever miss his aim, when seriously bent to kill?” returned
Duncan, smiling with well acted sincerity.
Another long and deliberate pause succeeded these sententious questions
and ready replies. Duncan saw that the Indian hesitated. In order to
complete his victory, he was in the act of recommencing the enumeration of
the rewards, when Magua made an expressive gesture and said:
“Enough; Le Renard is a wise chief, and what he does will be seen. Go,
and keep the mouth shut. When Magua speaks, it will be the time to
answer.”
Heyward, perceiving that the eyes of his companion were warily fastened
on the rest of the band, fell back immediately, in order to avoid the
appearance of any suspicious confederacy with their leader. Magua
approached the horses, and affected to be well pleased with the diligence
and ingenuity of his comrades. He then signed to Heyward to assist the
sisters into the saddles, for he seldom deigned to use the English tongue,
unless urged by some motive of more than usual moment.

There was no longer any plausible pretext for delay; and Duncan was
obliged, however reluctantly, to comply. As he performed this office, he
whispered his reviving hopes in the ears of the trembling females, who,
through dread of encountering the savage countenances of their captors,
seldom raised their eyes from the ground. The mare of David had been
taken with the followers of the large chief; in consequence, its owner, as
well as Duncan, was compelled to journey on foot. The latter did not,
however, so much regret this circumstance, as it might enable him to retard
the speed of the party; for he still turned his longing looks in the direction
of Fort Edward, in the vain expectation of catching some sound from that
quarter of the forest, which might denote the approach of succor. When all
were prepared, Magua made the signal to proceed, advancing in front to
lead the party in person. Next followed David, who was gradually coming
to a true sense of his condition, as the effects of the wound became less and
less apparent. The sisters rode in his rear, with Heyward at their side, while
the Indians flanked the party, and brought up the close of the march, with a
caution that seemed never to tire.
In this manner they proceeded in uninterrupted silence, except when
Heyward addressed some solitary word of comfort to the females, or David
gave vent to the moanings of his spirit, in piteous exclamations, which he
intended should express the humility of resignation. Their direction lay
toward the south, and in a course nearly opposite to the road to William
Henry. Notwithstanding this apparent adherence in Magua to the original
determination of his conquerors, Heyward could not believe his tempting
bait was so soon forgotten; and he knew the windings of an Indian’s path
too well to suppose that its apparent course led directly to its object, when
artifice was at all necessary. Mile after mile was, however, passed through
the boundless woods, in this painful manner, without any prospect of a
termination to their journey. Heyward watched the sun, as he darted his
meridian rays through the branches of the trees, and pined for the moment
when the policy of Magua should change their route to one more favorable
to his hopes. Sometimes he fancied the wary savage, despairing of passing
the army of Montcalm in safety, was holding his way toward a well-known
border settlement, where a distinguished officer of the crown, and a favored
friend of the Six Nations, held his large possessions, as well as his usual
residence. To be delivered into the hands of Sir William Johnson was far
preferable to being led into the wilds of Canada; but in order to effect even

the former, it would be necessary to traverse the forest for many weary
leagues, each step of which was carrying him further from the scene of the
war, and, consequently, from the post, not only of honor, but of duty.
Cora alone remembered the parting injunctions of the scout, and
whenever an opportunity offered, she stretched forth her arm to bend aside
the twigs that met her hands. But the vigilance of the Indians rendered this
act of precaution both difficult and dangerous. She was often defeated in
her purpose, by encountering their watchful eyes, when it became necessary
to feign an alarm she did not feel, and occupy the limb by some gesture of
feminine apprehension. Once, and once only, was she completely
successful; when she broke down the bough of a large sumach, and by a
sudden thought, let her glove fall at the same instant. This sign, intended for
those that might follow, was observed by one of her conductors, who
restored the glove, broke the remaining branches of the bush in such a
manner that it appeared to proceed from the struggling of some beast in its
branches, and then laid his hand on his tomahawk, with a look so
significant, that it put an effectual end to these stolen memorials of their
passage.
As there were horses, to leave the prints of their footsteps, in both bands
of the Indians, this interruption cut off any probable hopes of assistance
being conveyed through the means of their trail.
Heyward would have ventured a remonstrance had there been anything
encouraging in the gloomy reserve of Magua. But the savage, during all this
time, seldom turned to look at his followers, and never spoke. With the sun
for his only guide, or aided by such blind marks as are only known to the
sagacity of a native, he held his way along the barrens of pine, through
occasional little fertile vales, across brooks and rivulets, and over
undulating hills, with the accuracy of instinct, and nearly with the directness
of a bird. He never seemed to hesitate. Whether the path was hardly
distinguishable, whether it disappeared, or whether it lay beaten and plain
before him, made no sensible difference in his speed or certainty. It seemed
as if fatigue could not affect him. Whenever the eyes of the wearied
travelers rose from the decayed leaves over which they trod, his dark form
was to be seen glancing among the stems of the trees in front, his head
immovably fastened in a forward position, with the light plume on his crest

fluttering in a current of air, made solely by the swiftness of his own
motion.
But all this diligence and speed were not without an object. After
crossing a low vale, through which a gushing brook meandered, he
suddenly ascended a hill, so steep and difficult of ascent, that the sisters
were compelled to alight in order to follow. When the summit was gained,
they found themselves on a level spot, but thinly covered with trees, under
one of which Magua had thrown his dark form, as if willing and ready to
seek that rest which was so much needed by the whole party.

CHAPTER XI.
“Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him.”
—Shylock

The Indian had selected for this desirable purpose one of those steep,
pyramidal hills, which bear a strong resemblance to artificial mounds, and
which so frequently occur in the valleys of America. The one in question
was high and precipitous; its top flattened, as usual; but with one of its sides
more than ordinarily irregular. It possessed no other apparent advantage for
a resting place, than in its elevation and form, which might render defense
easy, and surprise nearly impossible. As Heyward, however, no longer
expected that rescue which time and distance now rendered so improbable,
he regarded these little peculiarities with an eye devoid of interest, devoting
himself entirely to the comfort and condolence of his feebler companions.
The Narragansetts were suffered to browse on the branches of the trees and
shrubs that were thinly scattered over the summit of the hill, while the
remains of their provisions were spread under the shade of a beech, that
stretched its horizontal limbs like a canopy above them.
Notwithstanding the swiftness of their flight, one of the Indians had
found an opportunity to strike a straggling fawn with an arrow, and had
borne the more preferable fragments of the victim, patiently on his
shoulders, to the stopping place. Without any aid from the science of
cookery, he was immediately employed, in common with his fellows, in
gorging himself with this digestible sustenance. Magua alone sat apart,
without participating in the revolting meal, and apparently buried in the
deepest thought.
This abstinence, so remarkable in an Indian, when he possessed the
means of satisfying hunger, at length attracted the notice of Heyward. The
young man willingly believed that the Huron deliberated on the most
eligible manner of eluding the vigilance of his associates. With a view to
assist his plans by any suggestion of his own, and to strengthen the

temptation, he left the beech, and straggled, as if without an object, to the
spot where Le Renard was seated.
“Has not Magua kept the sun in his face long enough to escape all danger
from the Canadians?” he asked, as though no longer doubtful of the good
intelligence established between them; “and will not the chief of William
Henry be better pleased to see his daughters before another night may have
hardened his heart to their loss, to make him less liberal in his reward?”
“Do the pale faces love their children less in the morning than at night?”
asked the Indian, coldly.
“By no means,” returned Heyward, anxious to recall his error, if he had
made one; “the white man may, and does often, forget the burial place of his
fathers; he sometimes ceases to remember those he should love, and has
promised to cherish; but the affection of a parent for his child is never
permitted to die.”
“And is the heart of the white-headed chief soft, and will he think of the
babes that his squaws have given him? He is hard on his warriors and his
eyes are made of stone!”
“He is severe to the idle and wicked, but to the sober and deserving he is
a leader, both just and humane. I have known many fond and tender parents,
but never have I seen a man whose heart was softer toward his child. You
have seen the gray-head in front of his warriors, Magua; but I have seen his
eyes swimming in water, when he spoke of those children who are now in
your power!”
Heyward paused, for he knew not how to construe the remarkable
expression that gleamed across the swarthy features of the attentive Indian.
At first it seemed as if the remembrance of the promised reward grew vivid
in his mind, while he listened to the sources of parental feeling which were
to assure its possession; but, as Duncan proceeded, the expression of joy
became so fiercely malignant that it was impossible not to apprehend it
proceeded from some passion more sinister than avarice.
“Go,” said the Huron, suppressing the alarming exhibition in an instant,
in a death-like calmness of countenance; “go to the dark-haired daughter,
and say, ‘Magua waits to speak.’ The father will remember what the child
promises.”

Duncan, who interpreted this speech to express a wish for some
additional pledge that the promised gifts should not be withheld, slowly and
reluctantly repaired to the place where the sisters were now resting from
their fatigue, to communicate its purport to Cora.
“You understand the nature of an Indian’s wishes,” he concluded, as he
led her toward the place where she was expected, “and must be prodigal of
your offers of powder and blankets. Ardent spirits are, however, the most
prized by such as he; nor would it be amiss to add some boon from your
own hand, with that grace you so well know how to practise. Remember,
Cora, that on your presence of mind and ingenuity, even your life, as well as
that of Alice, may in some measure depend.”
“Heyward, and yours!”
“Mine is of little moment; it is already sold to my king, and is a prize to
be seized by any enemy who may possess the power. I have no father to
expect me, and but few friends to lament a fate which I have courted with
the insatiable longings of youth after distinction. But hush! we approach the
Indian. Magua, the lady with whom you wish to speak, is here.”
The Indian rose slowly from his seat, and stood for near a minute silent
and motionless. He then signed with his hand for Heyward to retire, saying,
coldly:
“When the Huron talks to the women, his tribe shut their ears.”
Duncan, still lingering, as if refusing to comply, Cora said, with a calm
smile:
“You hear, Heyward, and delicacy at least should urge you to retire. Go
to Alice, and comfort her with our reviving prospects.”
She waited until he had departed, and then turning to the native, with the
dignity of her sex in her voice and manner, she added: “What would Le
Renard say to the daughter of Munro?”
“Listen,” said the Indian, laying his hand firmly upon her arm, as if
willing to draw her utmost attention to his words; a movement that Cora as
firmly but quietly repulsed, by extricating the limb from his grasp: “Magua
was born a chief and a warrior among the red Hurons of the lakes; he saw
the suns of twenty summers make the snows of twenty winters run off in the
streams before he saw a pale face; and he was happy! Then his Canada
fathers came into the woods, and taught him to drink the fire-water, and he

became a rascal. The Hurons drove him from the graves of his fathers, as
they would chase the hunted buffalo. He ran down the shores of the lakes,
and followed their outlet to the ‘city of cannon.’ There he hunted and
fished, till the people chased him again through the woods into the arms of
his enemies. The chief, who was born a Huron, was at last a warrior among
the Mohawks!”
“Something like this I had heard before,” said Cora, observing that he
paused to suppress those passions which began to burn with too bright a
flame, as he recalled the recollection of his supposed injuries.
“Was it the fault of Le Renard that his head was not made of rock? Who
gave him the fire-water? who made him a villain? ’Twas the pale faces, the
people of your own color.”
“And am I answerable that thoughtless and unprincipled men exist,
whose shades of countenance may resemble mine?” Cora calmly demanded
of the excited savage.
“No; Magua is a man, and not a fool; such as you never open their lips to
the burning stream: the Great Spirit has given you wisdom!”
“What, then, have I do to, or say, in the matter of your misfortunes, not to
say of your errors?”
“Listen,” repeated the Indian, resuming his earnest attitude; “when his
English and French fathers dug up the hatchet, Le Renard struck the war-
post of the Mohawks, and went out against his own nation. The pale faces
have driven the red-skins from their hunting grounds, and now when they
fight, a white man leads the way. The old chief at Horican, your father, was
the great captain of our war-party. He said to the Mohawks do this, and do
that, and he was minded. He made a law, that if an Indian swallowed the
fire-water, and came into the cloth wigwams of his warriors, it should not
be forgotten. Magua foolishly opened his mouth, and the hot liquor led him
into the cabin of Munro. What did the gray-head? let his daughter say.”
“He forgot not his words, and did justice, by punishing the offender,”
said the undaunted daughter.
“Justice!” repeated the Indian, casting an oblique glance of the most
ferocious expression at her unyielding countenance; “is it justice to make
evil and then punish for it? Magua was not himself; it was the fire-water

that spoke and acted for him! but Munro did believe it. The Huron chief
was tied up before all the pale-faced warriors, and whipped like a dog.”
Cora remained silent, for she knew not how to palliate this imprudent
severity on the part of her father in a manner to suit the comprehension of
an Indian.
“See!” continued Magua, tearing aside the slight calico that very
imperfectly concealed his painted breast; “here are scars given by knives
and bullets—of these a warrior may boast before his nation; but the gray-
head has left marks on the back of the Huron chief that he must hide like a
squaw, under this painted cloth of the whites.”
“I had thought,” resumed Cora, “that an Indian warrior was patient, and
that his spirit felt not and knew not the pain his body suffered.”
“When the Chippewas tied Magua to the stake, and cut this gash,” said
the other, laying his finger on a deep scar, “the Huron laughed in their faces,
and told them, Women struck so light! His spirit was then in the clouds! But
when he felt the blows of Munro, his spirit lay under the birch. The spirit of
a Huron is never drunk; it remembers forever!”
“But it may be appeased. If my father has done you this injustice, show
him how an Indian can forgive an injury, and take back his daughters. You
have heard from Major Heyward—”
Magua shook his head, forbidding the repetition of offers he so much
despised.
“What would you have?” continued Cora, after a most painful pause,
while the conviction forced itself on her mind that the too sanguine and
generous Duncan had been cruelly deceived by the cunning of the savage.
“What a Huron loves—good for good; bad for bad!”
“You would, then, revenge the injury inflicted by Munro on his helpless
daughters. Would it not be more like a man to go before his face, and take
the satisfaction of a warrior?”
“The arms of the pale faces are long, and their knives sharp!” returned
the savage, with a malignant laugh: “why should Le Renard go among the
muskets of his warriors, when he holds the spirit of the gray-head in his
hand?”
“Name your intention, Magua,” said Cora, struggling with herself to
speak with steady calmness. “Is it to lead us prisoners to the woods, or do

you contemplate even some greater evil? Is there no reward, no means of
palliating the injury, and of softening your heart? At least, release my gentle
sister, and pour out all your malice on me. Purchase wealth by her safety
and satisfy your revenge with a single victim. The loss of both his daughters
might bring the aged man to his grave, and where would then be the
satisfaction of Le Renard?”
“Listen,” said the Indian again. “The light eyes can go back to the
Horican, and tell the old chief what has been done, if the dark-haired
woman will swear by the Great Spirit of her fathers to tell no lie.”
“What must I promise?” demanded Cora, still maintaining a secret
ascendancy over the fierce native by the collected and feminine dignity of
her presence.
“When Magua left his people his wife was given to another chief; he has
now made friends with the Hurons, and will go back to the graves of his
tribe, on the shores of the great lake. Let the daughter of the English chief
follow, and live in his wigwam forever.”
However revolting a proposal of such a character might prove to Cora,
she retained, notwithstanding her powerful disgust, sufficient self-command
to reply, without betraying the weakness.
“And what pleasure would Magua find in sharing his cabin with a wife
he did not love; one who would be of a nation and color different from his
own? It would be better to take the gold of Munro, and buy the heart of
some Huron maid with his gifts.”
The Indian made no reply for near a minute, but bent his fierce looks on
the countenance of Cora, in such wavering glances, that her eyes sank with
shame, under an impression that for the first time they had encountered an
expression that no chaste female might endure. While she was shrinking
within herself, in dread of having her ears wounded by some proposal still
more shocking than the last, the voice of Magua answered, in its tones of
deepest malignancy:
“When the blows scorched the back of the Huron, he would know where
to find a woman to feel the smart. The daughter of Munro would draw his
water, hoe his corn, and cook his venison. The body of the gray-head would
sleep among his cannon, but his heart would lie within reach of the knife of
Le Subtil.”

“Monster! well dost thou deserve thy treacherous name,” cried Cora, in
an ungovernable burst of filial indignation. “None but a fiend could
meditate such a vengeance. But thou overratest thy power! You shall find it
is, in truth, the heart of Munro you hold, and that it will defy your utmost
malice!”
The Indian answered this bold defiance by a ghastly smile, that showed
an unaltered purpose, while he motioned her away, as if to close the
conference forever. Cora, already regretting her precipitation, was obliged
to comply, for Magua instantly left the spot, and approached his gluttonous
comrades. Heyward flew to the side of the agitated female, and demanded
the result of a dialogue that he had watched at a distance with so much
interest. But, unwilling to alarm the fears of Alice, she evaded a direct reply,
betraying only by her anxious looks fastened on the slightest movements of
her captors. To the reiterated and earnest questions of her sister concerning
their probable destination, she made no other answer than by pointing
toward the dark group, with an agitation she could not control, and
murmuring as she folded Alice to her bosom.
“There, there; read our fortunes in their faces; we shall see; we shall
see!”
The action, and the choked utterance of Cora, spoke more impressively
than any words, and quickly drew the attention of her companions on that
spot where her own was riveted with an intenseness that nothing but the
importance of the stake could create.
When Magua reached the cluster of lolling savages, who, gorged with
their disgusting meal, lay stretched on the earth in brutal indulgence, he
commenced speaking with the dignity of an Indian chief. The first syllables
he uttered had the effect to cause his listeners to raise themselves in
attitudes of respectful attention. As the Huron used his native language, the
prisoners, notwithstanding the caution of the natives had kept them within
the swing of their tomahawks, could only conjecture the substance of his
harangue from the nature of those significant gestures with which an Indian
always illustrates his eloquence.
At first, the language, as well as the action of Magua, appeared calm and
deliberative. When he had succeeded in sufficiently awakening the attention
of his comrades, Heyward fancied, by his pointing so frequently toward the
direction of the great lakes, that he spoke of the land of their fathers, and of

their distant tribe. Frequent indications of applause escaped the listeners,
who, as they uttered the expressive “Hugh!” looked at each other in
commendation of the speaker. Le Renard was too skillful to neglect his
advantage. He now spoke of the long and painful route by which they had
left those spacious grounds and happy villages, to come and battle against
the enemies of their Canadian fathers. He enumerated the warriors of the
party; their several merits; their frequent services to the nation; their
wounds, and the number of the scalps they had taken. Whenever he alluded
to any present (and the subtle Indian neglected none), the dark countenance
of the flattered individual gleamed with exultation, nor did he even hesitate
to assert the truth of the words, by gestures of applause and confirmation.
Then the voice of the speaker fell, and lost the loud, animated tones of
triumph with which he had enumerated their deeds of success and victory.
He described the cataract of Glenn’s; the impregnable position of its rocky
island, with its caverns and its numerous rapids and whirlpools; he named
the name of “La Longue Carabine,” and paused until the forest beneath
them had sent up the last echo of a loud and long yell, with which the hated
appellation was received. He pointed toward the youthful military captive,
and described the death of a favorite warrior, who had been precipitated into
the deep ravine by his hand. He not only mentioned the fate of him who,
hanging between heaven and earth, had presented such a spectacle of horror
to the whole band, but he acted anew the terrors of his situation, his
resolution and his death, on the branches of a sapling; and, finally, he
rapidly recounted the manner in which each of their friends had fallen,
never failing to touch upon their courage, and their most acknowledged
virtues. When this recital of events was ended, his voice once more
changed, and became plaintive and even musical, in its low guttural sounds.
He now spoke of the wives and children of the slain; their destitution; their
misery, both physical and moral; their distance; and, at last, of their
unavenged wrongs. Then suddenly lifting his voice to a pitch of terrific
energy, he concluded by demanding:
“Are the Hurons dogs to bear this? Who shall say to the wife of
Menowgua that the fishes have his scalp, and that his nation have not taken
revenge! Who will dare meet the mother of Wassawattimie, that scornful
woman, with his hands clean! What shall be said to the old men when they
ask us for scalps, and we have not a hair from a white head to give them!
The women will point their fingers at us. There is a dark spot on the names

of the Hurons, and it must be hid in blood!” His voice was no longer
audible in the burst of rage which now broke into the air, as if the wood,
instead of containing so small a band, was filled with the nation. During the
foregoing address the progress of the speaker was too plainly read by those
most interested in his success through the medium of the countenances of
the men he addressed. They had answered his melancholy and mourning by
sympathy and sorrow; his assertions, by gestures of confirmation; and his
boasting, with the exultation of savages. When he spoke of courage, their
looks were firm and responsive; when he alluded to their injuries, their eyes
kindled with fury; when he mentioned the taunts of the women, they
dropped their heads in shame; but when he pointed out their means of
vengeance, he struck a chord which never failed to thrill in the breast of an
Indian. With the first intimation that it was within their reach, the whole
band sprang upon their feet as one man; giving utterance to their rage in the
most frantic cries, they rushed upon their prisoners in a body with drawn
knives and uplifted tomahawks. Heyward threw himself between the sisters
and the foremost, whom he grappled with a desperate strength that for a
moment checked his violence. This unexpected resistance gave Magua time
to interpose, and with rapid enunciation and animated gesture, he drew the
attention of the band again to himself. In that language he knew so well
how to assume, he diverted his comrades from their instant purpose, and
invited them to prolong the misery of their victims. His proposal was
received with acclamations, and executed with the swiftness of thought.
Two powerful warriors cast themselves on Heyward, while another was
occupied in securing the less active singing-master. Neither of the captives,
however, submitted without a desperate, though fruitless, struggle. Even
David hurled his assailant to the earth; nor was Heyward secured until the
victory over his companion enabled the Indians to direct their united force
to that object. He was then bound and fastened to the body of the sapling,
on whose branches Magua had acted the pantomime of the falling Huron.
When the young soldier regained his recollection, he had the painful
certainty before his eyes that a common fate was intended for the whole
party. On his right was Cora in a durance similar to his own, pale and
agitated, but with an eye whose steady look still read the proceedings of
their enemies. On his left, the withes which bound her to a pine, performed
that office for Alice which her trembling limbs refused, and alone kept her
fragile form from sinking. Her hands were clasped before her in prayer, but

instead of looking upward toward that power which alone could rescue
them, her unconscious looks wandered to the countenance of Duncan with
infantile dependency. David had contended, and the novelty of the
circumstance held him silent, in deliberation on the propriety of the unusual
occurrence.
The vengeance of the Hurons had now taken a new direction, and they
prepared to execute it with that barbarous ingenuity with which they were
familiarized by the practise of centuries. Some sought knots, to raise the
blazing pile; one was riving the splinters of pine, in order to pierce the flesh
of their captives with the burning fragments; and others bent the tops of two
saplings to the earth, in order to suspend Heyward by the arms between the
recoiling branches. But the vengeance of Magua sought a deeper and more
malignant enjoyment.
While the less refined monsters of the band prepared, before the eyes of
those who were to suffer, these well-known and vulgar means of torture, he
approached Cora, and pointed out, with the most malign expression of
countenance, the speedy fate that awaited her:
“Ha!” he added, “what says the daughter of Munro? Her head is too good
to find a pillow in the wigwam of Le Renard; will she like it better when it
rolls about this hill a plaything for the wolves? Her bosom cannot nurse the
children of a Huron; she will see it spit upon by Indians!”
“What means the monster!” demanded the astonished Heyward.
“Nothing!” was the firm reply. “He is a savage, a barbarous and ignorant
savage, and knows not what he does. Let us find leisure, with our dying
breath, to ask for him penitence and pardon.”
“Pardon!” echoed the fierce Huron, mistaking in his anger, the meaning
of her words; “the memory of an Indian is no longer than the arm of the
pale faces; his mercy shorter than their justice! Say; shall I send the yellow
hair to her father, and will you follow Magua to the great lakes, to carry his
water, and feed him with corn?”
Cora beckoned him away, with an emotion of disgust she could not
control.
“Leave me,” she said, with a solemnity that for a moment checked the
barbarity of the Indian; “you mingle bitterness in my prayers; you stand
between me and my God!”

The slight impression produced on the savage was, however, soon
forgotten, and he continued pointing, with taunting irony, toward Alice.
“Look! the child weeps! She is too young to die! Send her to Munro, to
comb his gray hairs, and keep life in the heart of the old man.”
Cora could not resist the desire to look upon her youthful sister, in whose
eyes she met an imploring glance, that betrayed the longings of nature.
“What says he, dearest Cora?” asked the trembling voice of Alice. “Did
he speak of sending me to our father?”
For many moments the elder sister looked upon the younger, with a
countenance that wavered with powerful and contending emotions. At
length she spoke, though her tones had lost their rich and calm fullness, in
an expression of tenderness that seemed maternal.
“Alice,” she said, “the Huron offers us both life, nay, more than both; he
offers to restore Duncan, our invaluable Duncan, as well as you, to our
friends—to our father—to our heart-stricken, childless father, if I will bow
down this rebellious, stubborn pride of mine, and consent—”
Her voice became choked, and clasping her hands, she looked upward, as
if seeking, in her agony, intelligence from a wisdom that was infinite.
“Say on,” cried Alice; “to what, dearest Cora? Oh! that the proffer were
made to me! to save you, to cheer our aged father, to restore Duncan, how
cheerfully could I die!”
“Die!” repeated Cora, with a calmer and firmer voice, “that were easy!
Perhaps the alternative may not be less so. He would have me,” she
continued, her accents sinking under a deep consciousness of the
degradation of the proposal, “follow him to the wilderness; go to the
habitations of the Hurons; to remain there; in short, to become his wife!
Speak, then, Alice; child of my affections! sister of my love! And you, too,
Major Heyward, aid my weak reason with your counsel. Is life to be
purchased by such a sacrifice? Will you, Alice, receive it at my hands at
such a price? And you, Duncan, guide me; control me between you; for I
am wholly yours!”
“Would I!” echoed the indignant and astonished youth. “Cora! Cora! you
jest with our misery! Name not the horrid alternative again; the thought
itself is worse than a thousand deaths.”

“That such would be your answer, I well knew!” exclaimed Cora, her
cheeks flushing, and her dark eyes once more sparkling with the lingering
emotions of a woman. “What says my Alice? for her will I submit without
another murmur.”
Although both Heyward and Cora listened with painful suspense and the
deepest attention, no sounds were heard in reply. It appeared as if the
delicate and sensitive form of Alice would shrink into itself, as she listened
to this proposal. Her arms had fallen lengthwise before her, the fingers
moving in slight convulsions; her head dropped upon her bosom, and her
whole person seemed suspended against the tree, looking like some
beautiful emblem of the wounded delicacy of her sex, devoid of animation
and yet keenly conscious. In a few moments, however, her head began to
move slowly, in a sign of deep, unconquerable disapprobation.
“No, no, no; better that we die as we have lived, together!”

“Then die!” shouted Magua, hurling his tomahawk with violence at
the unresisting speaker

“Then die!” shouted Magua, hurling his tomahawk with violence at the
unresisting speaker, and gnashing his teeth with a rage that could no longer
be bridled at this sudden exhibition of firmness in the one he believed the
weakest of the party. The axe cleaved the air in front of Heyward, and
cutting some of the flowing ringlets of Alice, quivered in the tree above her
head. The sight maddened Duncan to desperation. Collecting all his
energies in one effort he snapped the twigs which bound him and rushed
upon another savage, who was preparing, with loud yells and a more
deliberate aim, to repeat the blow. They encountered, grappled, and fell to
the earth together. The naked body of his antagonist afforded Heyward no

means of holding his adversary, who glided from his grasp, and rose again
with one knee on his chest, pressing him down with the weight of a giant.
Duncan already saw the knife gleaming in the air, when a whistling sound
swept past him, and was rather accompanied than followed by the sharp
crack of a rifle. He felt his breast relieved from the load it had endured; he
saw the savage expression of his adversary’s countenance change to a look
of vacant wildness, when the Indian fell dead on the faded leaves by his
side.

CHAPTER XII.
“Clo.—I am gone, sire,
And anon, sire, I’ll be with you again.”
—Twelfth Night

The Hurons stood aghast at this sudden visitation of death on one of their
band. But as they regarded the fatal accuracy of an aim which had dared to
immolate an enemy at so much hazard to a friend, the name of “La Longue
Carabine” burst simultaneously from every lip, and was succeeded by a
wild and a sort of plaintive howl. The cry was answered by a loud shout
from a little thicket, where the incautious party had piled their arms; and at
the next moment, Hawkeye, too eager to load the rifle he had regained, was
seen advancing upon them, brandishing the clubbed weapon, and cutting
the air with wide and powerful sweeps. Bold and rapid as was the progress
of the scout, it was exceeded by that of a light and vigorous form which,
bounding past him, leaped, with incredible activity and daring, into the very
center of the Hurons, where it stood, whirling a tomahawk, and flourishing
a glittering knife, with fearful menaces, in front of Cora. Quicker than the
thoughts could follow those unexpected and audacious movements, an
image, armed in the emblematic panoply of death, glided before their eyes,
and assumed a threatening attitude at the other’s side. The savage
tormentors recoiled before these warlike intruders, and uttered, as they
appeared in such quick succession, the often repeated and peculiar
exclamations of surprise, followed by the well-known and dreaded
appellations of:
“Le Cerf Agile! Le Gros Serpent!”
But the wary and vigilant leader of the Hurons was not so easily
disconcerted. Casting his keen eyes around the little plain, he
comprehended the nature of the assault at a glance, and encouraging his
followers by his voice as well as by his example, he unsheathed his long
and dangerous knife, and rushed with a loud whoop upon the expected

Chingachgook. It was the signal for a general combat. Neither party had
firearms, and the contest was to be decided in the deadliest manner, hand to
hand, with weapons of offense, and none of defense.
Uncas answered the whoop, and leaping on an enemy, with a single,
well-directed blow of his tomahawk, cleft him to the brain. Heyward tore
the weapon of Magua from the sapling, and rushed eagerly toward the fray.
As the combatants were now equal in number, each singled an opponent
from the adverse band. The rush and blows passed with the fury of a
whirlwind, and the swiftness of lightning. Hawkeye soon got another
enemy within reach of his arm, and with one sweep of his formidable
weapon he beat down the slight and inartificial defenses of his antagonist,
crushing him to the earth with the blow. Heyward ventured to hurl the
tomahawk he had seized, too ardent to await the moment of closing. It
struck the Indian he had selected on the forehead, and checked for an
instant his onward rush. Encouraged by this slight advantage, the impetuous
young man continued his onset, and sprang upon his enemy with naked
hands. A single instant was enough to assure him of the rashness of the
measure, for he immediately found himself fully engaged, with all his
activity and courage, in endeavoring to ward the desperate thrusts made
with the knife of the Huron. Unable longer to foil an enemy so alert and
vigilant, he threw his arms about him, and succeeded in pinning the limbs
of the other to his side, with an iron grasp, but one that was far too
exhausting to himself to continue long. In this extremity he heard a voice
near him, shouting:
“Extarminate the varlets! no quarter to an accursed Mingo!”
At the next moment, the breech of Hawkeye’s rifle fell on the naked head
of his adversary, whose muscles appeared to wither under the shock, as he
sank from the arms of Duncan, flexible and motionless.
When Uncas had brained his first antagonist, he turned, like a hungry
lion, to seek another. The fifth and only Huron disengaged at the first onset
had paused a moment, and then seeing that all around him were employed
in the deadly strife, he had sought, with hellish vengeance, to complete the
baffled work of revenge. Raising a shout of triumph, he sprang toward the
defenseless Cora, sending his keen axe as the dreadful precursor of his
approach. The tomahawk grazed her shoulder, and cutting the withes which
bound her to the tree, left the maiden at liberty to fly. She eluded the grasp

of the savage, and reckless of her own safety, threw herself on the bosom of
Alice, striving with convulsed and ill-directed fingers, to tear asunder the
twigs which confined the person of her sister. Any other than a monster
would have relented at such an act of generous devotion to the best and
purest affection; but the breast of the Huron was a stranger to sympathy.
Seizing Cora by the rich tresses which fell in confusion about her form, he
tore her from her frantic hold, and bowed her down with brutal violence to
her knees. The savage drew the flowing curls through his hand, and raising
them on high with an outstretched arm, he passed the knife around the
exquisitely molded head of his victim, with a taunting and exulting laugh.
But he purchased this moment of fierce gratification with the loss of the
fatal opportunity. It was just then the sight caught the eye of Uncas.
Bounding from his footsteps he appeared for an instant darting through the
air and descending in a ball he fell on the chest of his enemy, driving him
many yards from the spot, headlong and prostrate. The violence of the
exertion cast the young Mohican at his side. They arose together, fought,
and bled, each in his turn. But the conflict was soon decided; the tomahawk
of Heyward and the rifle of Hawkeye descended on the skull of the Huron,
at the same moment that the knife of Uncas reached his heart.

The battle was now entirely terminated with the exception of the
protracted struggle between “Le Renard Subtil” and “Le Gros Serpent.”
Well did these barbarous warriors prove that they deserved those significant
names which had been bestowed for deeds in former wars. When they
engaged, some little time was lost in eluding the quick and vigorous thrusts
which had been aimed at their lives. Suddenly darting on each other, they
closed, and came to the earth, twisted together like twining serpents, in
pliant and subtle folds. At the moment when the victors found themselves
unoccupied, the spot where these experienced and desperate combatants lay
could only be distinguished by a cloud of dust and leaves, which moved
from the center of the little plain toward its boundary, as if raised by the
passage of a whirlwind. Urged by the different motives of filial affection,

friendship and gratitude, Heyward and his companions rushed with one
accord to the place, encircling the little canopy of dust which hung above
the warriors. In vain did Uncas dart around the cloud, with a wish to strike
his knife into the heart of his father’s foe; the threatening rifle of Hawkeye
was raised and suspended in vain, while Duncan endeavored to seize the
limbs of the Huron with hands that appeared to have lost their power.
Covered as they were with dust and blood, the swift evolutions of the
combatants seemed to incorporate their bodies into one. The death-like
looking figure of the Mohican, and the dark form of the Huron, gleamed
before their eyes in such quick and confused succession, that the friends of
the former knew not where to plant the succoring blow. It is true there were
short and fleeting moments, when the fiery eyes of Magua were seen
glittering, like the fabled organs of the basilisk through the dusty wreath by
which he was enveloped, and he read by those short and deadly glances the
fate of the combat in the presence of his enemies; ere, however, any hostile
hand could descend on his devoted head, its place was filled by the
scowling visage of Chingachgook. In this manner the scene of the combat
was removed from the center of the little plain to its verge. The Mohican
now found an opportunity to make a powerful thrust with his knife; Magua
suddenly relinquished his grasp, and fell backward without motion, and
seemingly without life. His adversary leaped on his feet, making the arches
of the forest ring with the sounds of triumph.
“Well done for the Delawares! victory to the Mohicans!” cried Hawkeye,
once more elevating the butt of the long and fatal rifle; “a finishing blow
from a man without a cross will never tell against his honor, nor rob him of
his right to the scalp.”
But at the very moment when the dangerous weapon was in the act of
descending, the subtle Huron rolled swiftly from beneath the danger, over
the edge of the precipice, and falling on his feet, was seen leaping, with a
single bound, into the center of a thicket of low bushes, which clung along
its sides. The Delawares, who had believed their enemy dead, uttered their
exclamation of surprise, and were following with speed and clamor, like
hounds in open view of the deer, when a shrill and peculiar cry from the
scout instantly changed their purpose, and recalled them to the summit of
the hill.

“’Twas like himself!” cried the inveterate forester, whose prejudices
contributed so largely to veil his natural sense of justice in all matters which
concerned the Mingoes; “a lying and deceitful varlet as he is. An honest
Delaware now, being fairly vanquished, would have lain still, and been
knocked on the head, but these knavish Maquas cling to life like so many
cats-o’-the-mountain. Let him go—let him go; ’tis but one man, and he
without rifle or bow, many a long mile from his French commerades; and
like a rattler that lost his fangs, he can do no further mischief, until such
time as he, and we too, may leave the prints of our moccasins over a long
reach of sandy plain. See, Uncas,” he added, in Delaware, “your father is
flaying the scalps already. It may be well to go round and feel the
vagabonds that are left, or we may have another of them loping through the
woods, and screeching like a jay that has been winged.”
So saying the honest but implacable scout made the circuit of the dead,
into whose senseless bosoms he thrust his long knife, with as much
coolness as though they had been so many brute carcasses. He had,
however, been anticipated by the elder Mohican, who had already torn the
emblems of victory from the unresisting heads of the slain.
But Uncas, denying his habits, we had almost said his nature, flew with
instinctive delicacy, accompanied by Heyward, to the assistance of the
females, and quickly releasing Alice, placed her in the arms of Cora. We
shall not attempt to describe the gratitude to the Almighty Disposer of
Events which glowed in the bosoms of the sisters, who were thus
unexpectedly restored to life and to each other. Their thanksgivings were
deep and silent; the offerings of their gentle spirits burning brightest and
purest on the secret altars of their hearts; and their renovated and more
earthly feelings exhibiting themselves in long and fervent though speechless
caresses. As Alice rose from her knees, where she had sunk by the side of
Cora, she threw herself on the bosom of the latter, and sobbed aloud the
name of their aged father, while her soft, dove-like eyes, sparkled with the
rays of hope.
“We are saved! we are saved!” she murmured; “to return to the arms of
our dear, dear father, and his heart will not be broken with grief. And you,
too, Cora, my sister, my more than sister, my mother; you, too, are spared.
And Duncan,” she added, looking round upon the youth with a smile of

ineffable innocence, “even our own brave and noble Duncan has escaped
without a hurt.”
To these ardent and nearly innocent words Cora made no other answer
than by straining the youthful speaker to her heart, as she bent over her in
melting tenderness. The manhood of Heyward felt no shame in dropping
tears over this spectacle of affectionate rapture; and Uncas stood, fresh and
blood-stained from the combat, a calm, and, apparently, an unmoved
looker-on, it is true, but with eyes that had already lost their fierceness, and
were beaming with a sympathy that elevated him far above the intelligence,
and advanced him probably centuries before, the practises of his nation.
During this display of emotions so natural in their situation, Hawkeye,
whose vigilant distrust had satisfied itself that the Hurons, who disfigured
the heavenly scene, no longer possessed the power to interrupt its harmony,
approached David, and liberated him from the bonds he had, until that
moment, endured with the most exemplary patience.
“There,” exclaimed the scout, casting the last withe behind him, “you are
once more master of your own limbs, though you seem not to use them with
much greater judgment than that in which they were first fashioned. If
advice from one who is not older than yourself, but who, having lived most
of his time in the wilderness, may be said to have experience beyond his
years, will give no offense, you are welcome to my thoughts; and these are,
to part with the little tooting instrument in your jacket to the first fool you
meet with, and buy some we’pon with the money, if it be only the barrel of
a horseman’s pistol. By industry and care, you might thus come to some
prefarment; for by this time, I should think, your eyes would plainly tell you
that a carrion crow is a better bird than a mocking-thresher. The one will, at
least, remove foul sights from before the face of man, while the other is
only good to brew disturbances in the woods, by cheating the ears of all that
hear them.”
“Arms and the clarion for the battle, but the song of thanksgiving to the
victory!” answered the liberated David. “Friend,” he added, thrusting forth
his lean, delicate hand toward Hawkeye, in kindness, while his eyes
twinkled and grew moist, “I thank thee that the hairs of my head still grow
where they were first rooted by Providence; for, though those of other men
may be more glossy and curling, I have ever found mine own well suited to
the brain they shelter. That I did not join myself to the battle, was less

owing to disinclination, than to the bonds of the heathen. Valiant and
skillful hast thou proved thyself in the conflict, and I hereby thank thee,
before proceeding to discharge other and more important duties, because
thou hast proved thyself well worthy of a Christian’s praise.”
“The thing is but a trifle, and what you may often see if you tarry long
among us,” returned the scout, a good deal softened toward the man of
song, by this unequivocal expression of gratitude. “I have got back my old
companion, ‘killdeer’,” he added, striking his hand on the breech of his
rifle; “and that in itself is a victory. These Iroquois are cunning, but they
outwitted themselves when they placed their firearms out of reach; and had
Uncas or his father been gifted with only their common Indian patience, we
should have come in upon the knaves with three bullets instead of one, and
that would have made a finish of the whole pack; yon loping varlet, as well
as his commerades. But ’twas all fore-ordered, and for the best.”
“Thou sayest well,” returned David, “and hast caught the true spirit of
Christianity. He that is to be saved will be saved, and he that is predestined
to be damned will be damned. This is the doctrine of truth, and most
consoling and refreshing it is to the true believer.”
The scout, who by this time was seated, examining into the state of his
rifle with a species of parental assiduity, now looked up at the other in a
displeasure that he did not affect to conceal, roughly interrupting further
speech.
“Doctrine or no doctrine,” said the sturdy woodsman, “’tis the belief of
knaves, and the curse of an honest man. I can credit that yonder Huron was
to fall by my hand, for with my own eyes I have seen it; but nothing short
of being a witness will cause me to think he has met with any reward, or
that Chingachgook there will be condemned at the final day.”
“You have no warranty for such an audacious doctrine, nor any covenant
to support it,” cried David who was deeply tinctured with the subtle
distinctions which, in his time, and more especially in his province, had
been drawn around the beautiful simplicity of revelation, by endeavoring to
penetrate the awful mystery of the divine nature, supplying faith by self-
sufficiency, and by consequence, involving those who reasoned from such
human dogmas in absurdities and doubt; “your temple is reared on the
sands, and the first tempest will wash away its foundation. I demand your
authorities for such an uncharitable assertion (like other advocates of a

system, David was not always accurate in his use of terms). Name chapter
and verse; in which of the holy books do you find language to support
you?”
“Book!” repeated Hawkeye, with singular and ill-concealed disdain; “do
you take me for a whimpering boy at the apronstring of one of your old
gals; and this good rifle on my knee for the feather of a goose’s wing, my
ox’s horn for a bottle of ink, and my leathern pouch for a cross-barred
handkercher to carry my dinner? Book! what have such as I, who am a
warrior of the wilderness, though a man without a cross, to do with books? I
never read but in one, and the words that are written there are too simple
and too plain to need much schooling; though I may boast that of forty long
and hard-working years.”
“What call you the volume?” said David, misconceiving the other’s
meaning.
“’Tis open before your eyes,” returned the scout; “and he who owns it is
not a niggard of its use. I have heard it said that there are men who read in
books to convince themselves there is a God. I know not but man may so
deform his works in the settlement, as to leave that which is so clear in the
wilderness a matter of doubt among traders and priests. If any such there be,
and he will follow me from sun to sun, through the windings of the forest,
he shall see enough to teach him that he is a fool, and that the greatest of his
folly lies in striving to rise to the level of One he can never equal, be it in
goodness, or be it in power.”
The instant David discovered that he battled with a disputant who
imbibed his faith from the lights of nature, eschewing all subtleties of
doctrine, he willingly abandoned a controversy from which he believed
neither profit nor credit was to be derived. While the scout was speaking, he
had also seated himself, and producing the ready little volume and the iron-
rimmed spectacles, he prepared to discharge a duty, which nothing but the
unexpected assault he had received in his orthodoxy could have so long
suspended. He was, in truth, a minstrel of the western continent—of a much
later day, certainly, than those gifted bards, who formerly sang the profane
renown of baron and prince, but after the spirit of his own age and country;
and he was now prepared to exercise the cunning of his craft, in celebration
of, or rather in thanksgiving for, the recent victory. He waited patiently for

Hawkeye to cease, then lifting his eyes, together with his voice, he said,
aloud:
“I invite you, friends, to join in praise for this signal deliverance from the
hands of barbarians and infidels, to the comfortable and solemn tones of the
tune called ‘Northampton’.”
He next named the page and verse where the rhymes selected were to be
found, and applied the pitch-pipe to his lips, with the decent gravity that he
had been wont to use in the temple. This time he was, however, without any
accompaniment, for the sisters were just then pouring out those tender
effusions of affection which have been already alluded to. Nothing deterred
by the smallness of his audience, which, in truth, consisted only of the
discontented scout, he raised his voice, commencing and ending the sacred
song without accident or interruption of any kind.

Hawkeye listened while he coolly adjusted his flint and reloaded his rifle;
but the sounds, wanting the extraneous assistance of scene and sympathy,
failed to awaken his slumbering emotions. Never minstrel, or by whatever
more suitable name David should be known, drew upon his talents in the
presence of more insensible auditors; though considering the singleness and
sincerity of his motive, it is probable that no bard of profane song ever
uttered notes that ascended so near to that throne where all homage and
praise is due. The scout shook his head, and muttering some unintelligible
words, among which “throat” and “Iroquois” were alone audible, he walked
away, to collect and to examine into the state of the captured arsenal of the
Hurons. In this office he was now joined by Chingachgook, who found his
own, as well as the rifle of his son, among the arms. Even Heyward and

David were furnished with weapons; nor was ammunition wanting to render
them all effectual.
When the foresters had made their selection, and distributed their prizes,
the scout announced that the hour had arrived when it was necessary to
move. By this time the song of Gamut had ceased, and the sisters had
learned to still the exhibition of their emotions. Aided by Duncan and the
younger Mohican, the two latter descended the precipitous sides of that hill
which they had so lately ascended under so very different auspices, and
whose summit had so nearly proved the scene of their massacre. At the foot
they found the Narragansetts browsing the herbage of the bushes, and
having mounted, they followed the movements of a guide, who, in the most
deadly straits, had so often proved himself their friend. The journey was,
however, short. Hawkeye, leaving the blind path that the Hurons had
followed, turned short to his right, and entering the thicket, he crossed a
babbling brook, and halted in a narrow dell, under the shade of a few water
elms. Their distance from the base of the fatal hill was but a few rods, and
the steeds had been serviceable only in crossing the shallow stream.
The scout and the Indians appeared to be familiar with the sequestered
place where they now were; for, leaning their rifle against the trees, they
commenced throwing aside the dried leaves, and opening the blue clay, out
of which a clear and sparkling spring of bright, glancing water, quickly
bubbled. The white man then looked about him, as though seeking for some
object, which was not to be found as readily as he expected.
“Them careless imps, the Mohawks, with their Tuscarora and Onondaga
brethren, have been here slaking their thirst,” he muttered, “and the
vagabonds have thrown away the gourd! This is the way with benefits,
when they are bestowed on such disremembering hounds! Here has the
Lord laid his hand, in the midst of the howling wilderness, for their good,
and raised a fountain of water from the bowels of the ’arth, that might laugh
at the richest shop of apothecary’s ware in all the colonies; and see! the
knaves have trodden in the clay, and deformed the cleanliness of the place,
as though they were brute beasts, instead of human men.”
Uncas silently extended toward him the desired gourd, which the spleen
of Hawkeye had hitherto prevented him from observing on a branch of an
elm. Filling it with water, he retired a short distance, to a place where the
ground was more firm and dry; here he coolly seated himself, and after

taking a long, and, apparently, a grateful draught, he commenced a very
strict examination of the fragments of food left by the Hurons, which had
hung in a wallet on his arm.
“Thank you, lad!” he continued, returning the empty gourd to Uncas;
“now we will see how these rampaging Hurons lived, when outlying in
ambushments. Look at this! The varlets know the better pieces of the deer;
and one would think they might carve and roast a saddle, equal to the best
cook in the land! But everything is raw, for the Iroquois are thorough
savages. Uncas, take my steel and kindle a fire; a mouthful of a tender broil
will give natur’ a helping hand, after so long a trail.”
Heyward, perceiving that their guides now set about their repast in sober
earnest, assisted the ladies to alight, and placed himself at their side, not
unwilling to enjoy a few moments of grateful rest, after the bloody scene he
had just gone through. While the culinary process was in hand, curiosity
induced him to inquire into the circumstances which had led to their timely
and unexpected rescue:
“How is it that we see you so soon, my generous friend,” he asked, “and
without aid from the garrison of Edward?”
“Had we gone to the bend in the river, we might have been in time to
rake the leaves over your bodies, but too late to have saved your scalps,”
coolly answered the scout. “No, no; instead of throwing away strength and
opportunity by crossing to the fort, we lay by, under the bank of the
Hudson, waiting to watch the movements of the Hurons.”
“You were, then, witnesses of all that passed?”
“Not of all; for Indian sight is too keen to be easily cheated, and we kept
close. A difficult matter it was, too, to keep this Mohican boy snug in the
ambushment. Ah! Uncas, Uncas, your behavior was more like that of a
curious woman than of a warrior on his scent.”
Uncas permitted his eyes to turn for an instant on the sturdy countenance
of the speaker, but he neither spoke nor gave any indication of repentance.
On the contrary, Heyward thought the manner of the young Mohican was
disdainful, if not a little fierce, and that he suppressed passions that were
ready to explode, as much in compliment to the listeners, as from the
deference he usually paid to his white associate.
“You saw our capture?” Heyward next demanded.

“We heard it,” was the significant answer. “An Indian yell is plain
language to men who have passed their days in the woods. But when you
landed, we were driven to crawl like sarpents, beneath the leaves; and then
we lost sight of you entirely, until we placed eyes on you again trussed to
the trees, and ready bound for an Indian massacre.”
“Our rescue was the deed of Providence. It was nearly a miracle that you
did not mistake the path, for the Hurons divided, and each band had its
horses.”
“Ay! there we were thrown off the scent, and might, indeed, have lost the
trail, had it not been for Uncas; we took the path, however, that led into the
wilderness; for we judged, and judged rightly, that the savages would hold
that course with their prisoners. But when we had followed it for many
miles, without finding a single twig broken, as I had advised, my mind
misgave me; especially as all the footsteps had the prints of moccasins.”
“Our captors had the precaution to see us shod like themselves,” said
Duncan, raising a foot, and exhibiting the buckskin he wore.
“Aye, ’twas judgmatical and like themselves; though we were too expart
to be thrown from a trail by so common an invention.”
“To what, then, are we indebted for our safety?”
“To what, as a white man who has no taint of Indian blood, I should be
ashamed to own; to the judgment of the young Mohican, in matters which I
should know better than he, but which I can now hardly believe to be true,
though my own eyes tell me it is so.”
“’Tis extraordinary! will you not name the reason?”
“Uncas was bold enough to say, that the beasts ridden by the gentle
ones,” continued Hawkeye, glancing his eyes, not without curious interest,
on the fillies of the ladies, “planted the legs of one side on the ground at the
same time, which is contrary to the movements of all trotting four-footed
animals of my knowledge, except the bear. And yet here are horses that
always journey in this manner, as my own eyes have seen, and as their trail
has shown for twenty long miles.”
“’Tis the merit of the animal! They come from the shores of
Narrangansett Bay, in the small province of Providence Plantations, and are
celebrated for their hardihood, and the ease of this peculiar movement;
though other horses are not unfrequently trained to the same.”

“It may be—it may be,” said Hawkeye, who had listened with singular
attention to this explanation; “though I am a man who has the full blood of
the whites, my judgment in deer and beaver is greater than in beasts of
burden. Major Effingham has many noble chargers, but I have never seen
one travel after such a sidling gait.”
“True; for he would value the animals for very different properties. Still
is this a breed highly esteemed and, as you witness, much honored with the
burdens it is often destined to bear.”
The Mohicans had suspended their operations about the glimmering fire
to listen; and, when Duncan had done, they looked at each other
significantly, the father uttering the never-failing exclamation of surprise.
The scout ruminated, like a man digesting his newly-acquired knowledge,
and once more stole a glance at the horses.
“I dare to say there are even stranger sights to be seen in the
settlements!” he said, at length. “Natur’ is sadly abused by man, when he
once gets the mastery. But, go sidling or go straight, Uncas had seen the
movement, and their trail led us on to the broken bush. The outer branch,
near the prints of one of the horses, was bent upward, as a lady breaks a
flower from its stem, but all the rest were ragged and broken down, as if the
strong hand of a man had been tearing them! So I concluded that the
cunning varments had seen the twig bent, and had torn the rest, to make us
believe a buck had been feeling the boughs with his antlers.”
“I do believe your sagacity did not deceive you; for some such thing
occurred!”
“That was easy to see,” added the scout, in no degree conscious of having
exhibited any extraordinary sagacity; “and a very different matter it was
from a waddling horse! It then struck me the Mingoes would push for this
spring, for the knaves well know the vartue of its waters!”
“Is it, then, so famous?” demanded Heyward, examining, with a more
curious eye, the secluded dell, with its bubbling fountain, surrounded, as it
was, by earth of a deep, dingy brown.
“Few red-skins, who travel south and east of the great lakes but have
heard of its qualities. Will you taste for yourself?”
Heyward took the gourd, and after swallowing a little of the water, threw
it aside with grimaces of discontent. The scout laughed in his silent but

heartfelt manner, and shook his head with vast satisfaction.
“Ah! you want the flavor that one gets by habit; the time was when I
liked it as little as yourself; but I have come to my taste, and I now crave it,
as a deer does the licks[1]. Your high-spiced wines are not better liked than a
red-skin relishes this water; especially when his natur’ is ailing. But Uncas
has made his fire, and it is time we think of eating, for our journey is long,
and all before us.”
[1] Many of the animals of the American forests resort to those spots where salt
springs are found. These are called “licks” or “salt licks,” in the language of the
country, from the circumstance that the quadruped is often obliged to lick the
earth, in order to obtain the saline particles. These licks are great places of resort
with the hunters, who waylay their game near the paths that lead to them.

Interrupting the dialogue by this abrupt transition, the scout had instant
recourse to the fragments of food which had escaped the voracity of the
Hurons. A very summary process completed the simple cookery, when he
and the Mohicans commenced their humble meal, with the silence and
characteristic diligence of men who ate in order to enable themselves to
endure great and unremitting toil.
When this necessary, and, happily, grateful duty had been performed,
each of the foresters stooped and took a long and parting draught at that
solitary and silent spring[2], around which and its sister fountains, within
fifty years, the wealth, beauty and talents of a hemisphere were to assemble
in throngs, in pursuit of health and pleasure. Then Hawkeye announced his
determination to proceed. The sisters resumed their saddles; Duncan and
David grapsed their rifles, and followed on footsteps; the scout leading the
advance, and the Mohicans bringing up the rear. The whole party moved
swiftly through the narrow path, toward the north, leaving the healing
waters to mingle unheeded with the adjacent brooks and the bodies of the
dead to fester on the neighboring mount, without the rites of sepulture; a
fate but too common to the warriors of the woods to excite either
commiseration or comment.
[2] The scene of the foregoing incidents is on the spot where the village of
Ballston now stands; one of the two principal watering places of America.

CHAPTER XIII.
“I’ll seek a readier path.”
—Parnell

The route taken by Hawkeye lay across those sandy plains, relived by
occasional valleys and swells of land, which had been traversed by their
party on the morning of the same day, with the baffled Magua for their
guide. The sun had now fallen low toward the distant mountains; and as
their journey lay through the interminable forest, the heat was no longer
oppressive. Their progress, in consequence, was proportionate; and long
before the twilight gathered about them, they had made good many
toilsome miles on their return.
The hunter, like the savage whose place he filled, seemed to select among
the blind signs of their wild route, with a species of instinct, seldom abating
his speed, and never pausing to deliberate. A rapid and oblique glance at the
moss on the trees, with an occasional upward gaze toward the setting sun,
or a steady but passing look at the direction of the numerous water courses,
through which he waded, were sufficient to determine his path, and remove
his greatest difficulties. In the meantime, the forest began to change its
hues, losing that lively green which had embellished its arches, in the
graver light which is the usual precursor of the close of day.
While the eyes of the sisters were endeavoring to catch glimpses through
the trees, of the flood of golden glory which formed a glittering halo around
the sun, tinging here and there with ruby streaks, or bordering with narrow
edgings of shining yellow, a mass of clouds that lay piled at no great
distance above the western hills, Hawkeye turned suddenly and pointing
upward toward the gorgeous heavens, he spoke:
“Yonder is the signal given to man to seek his food and natural rest,” he
said; “better and wiser would it be, if he could understand the signs of
nature, and take a lesson from the fowls of the air and the beasts of the

field! Our night, however, will soon be over, for with the moon we must be
up and moving again. I remember to have fou’t the Maquas, hereaways, in
the first war in which I ever drew blood from man; and we threw up a work
of blocks, to keep the ravenous varmints from handling our scalps. If my
marks do not fail me, we shall find the place a few rods further to our left.”
Without waiting for an assent, or, indeed, for any reply, the sturdy hunter
moved boldly into a dense thicket of young chestnuts, shoving aside the
branches of the exuberant shoots which nearly covered the ground, like a
man who expected, at each step, to discover some object he had formerly
known. The recollection of the scout did not deceive him. After penetrating
through the brush, matted as it was with briars, for a few hundred feet, he
entered an open space, that surrounded a low, green hillock, which was
crowned by the decayed blockhouse in question. This rude and neglected
building was one of those deserted works, which, having been thrown up on
an emergency, had been abandoned with the disappearance of danger, and
was now quietly crumbling in the solitude of the forest, neglected and
nearly forgotten, like the circumstances which had caused it to be reared.
Such memorials of the passage and struggles of man are yet frequent
throughout the broad barrier of wilderness which once separated the hostile
provinces, and form a species of ruins that are intimately associated with
the recollections of colonial history, and which are in appropriate keeping
with the gloomy character of the surrounding scenery. The roof of bark had
long since fallen, and mingled with the soil, but the huge logs of pine,
which had been hastily thrown together, still preserved their relative
positions, though one angle of the work had given way under the pressure,
and threatened a speedy downfall to the remainder of the rustic edifice.
While Heyward and his companions hesitated to approach a building so
decayed, Hawkeye and the Indians entered within the low walls, not only
without fear, but with obvious interest. While the former surveyed the ruins,
both internally and externally, with the curiosity of one whose recollections
were reviving at each moment, Chingachgook related to his son, in the
language of the Delawares, and with the pride of a conqueror, the brief
history of the skirmish which had been fought, in his youth, in that secluded
spot. A strain of melancholy, however, blended with his triumph, rendering
his voice, as usual, soft and musical.
In the meantime, the sisters gladly dismounted, and prepared to enjoy
their halt in the coolness of the evening, and in a security which they

believed nothing but the beasts of the forest could invade.
“Would not our resting-place have been more retired, my worthy friend,”
demanded the more vigilant Duncan, perceiving that the scout had already
finished his short survey, “had we chosen a spot less known, and one more
rarely visited than this?”
“Few live who know the blockhouse was ever raised,” was the slow and
musing answer; “’tis not often that books are made, and narratives written
of such a scrimmage as was here fou’t atween the Mohicans and the
Mohawks, in a war of their own waging. I was then a younker, and went out
with the Delawares, because I know’d they were a scandalized and wronged
race. Forty days and forty nights did the imps crave our blood around this
pile of logs, which I designed and partly reared, being, as you’ll remember,
no Indian myself, but a man without a cross. The Delawares lent themselves
to the work, and we made it good, ten to twenty, until our numbers were
nearly equal, and then we sallied out upon the hounds, and not a man of
them ever got back to tell the fate of his party. Yes, yes; I was then young,
and new to the sight of blood; and not relishing the thought that creatures
who had spirits like myself should lay on the naked ground, to be torn
asunder by beasts, or to bleach in the rains, I buried the dead with my own
hands, under that very little hillock where you have placed yourselves; and
no bad seat does it make neither, though it be raised by the bones of mortal
men.”
Heyward and the sisters arose, on the instant, from the grassy sepulcher;
nor could the two latter, notwithstanding the terrific scenes they had so
recently passed through, entirely suppress an emotion of natural horror,
when they found themselves in such familiar contact with the grave of the
dead Mohawks. The gray light, the gloomy little area of dark grass,
surrounded by its border of brush, beyond which the pines rose, in
breathing silence, apparently into the very clouds, and the deathlike stillness
of the vast forest, were all in unison to deepen such a sensation. “They are
gone, and they are harmless,” continued Hawkeye, waving his hand, with a
melancholy smile at their manifest alarm; “they’ll never shout the war-
whoop nor strike a blow with the tomahawk again! And of all those who
aided in placing them where they lie, Chingachgook and I only are living!
The brothers and family of the Mohican formed our war party; and you see
before you all that are now left of his race.”

The eyes of the listeners involuntarily sought the forms of the Indians,
with a compassionate interest in their desolate fortune. Their dark persons
were still to be seen within the shadows of the blockhouse, the son listening
to the relation of his father with that sort of intenseness which would be
created by a narrative that redounded so much to the honor of those whose
names he had long revered for their courage and savage virtues.
“I had thought the Delawares a pacific people,” said Duncan, “and that
they never waged war in person; trusting the defense of their hands to those
very Mohawks that you slew!”
“’Tis true in part,” returned the scout, “and yet, at the bottom, ’tis a
wicked lie. Such a treaty was made in ages gone by, through the deviltries
of the Dutchers, who wished to disarm the natives that had the best right to
the country, where they had settled themselves. The Mohicans, though a
part of the same nation, having to deal with the English, never entered into
the silly bargain, but kept to their manhood; as in truth did the Delawares,
when their eyes were open to their folly. You see before you a chief of the
great Mohican Sagamores! Once his family could chase their deer over
tracts of country wider than that which belongs to the Albany Patteroon,
without crossing brook or hill that was not their own; but what is left of
their descendant? He may find his six feet of earth when God chooses, and
keep it in peace, perhaps, if he has a friend who will take the pains to sink
his head so low that the plowshares cannot reach it!”
“Enough!” said Heyward, apprehensive that the subject might lead to a
discussion that would interrupt the harmony so necessary to the
preservation of his fair companions; “we have journeyed far, and few
among us are blessed with forms like that of yours, which seems to know
neither fatigue nor weakness.”
“The sinews and bones of a man carry me through it all,” said the hunter,
surveying his muscular limbs with a simplicity that betrayed the honest
pleasure the compliment afforded him; “there are larger and heavier men to
be found in the settlements, but you might travel many days in a city before
you could meet one able to walk fifty miles without stopping to take breath,
or who has kept the hounds within hearing during a chase of hours.
However, as flesh and blood are not always the same, it is quite reasonable
to suppose that the gentle ones are willing to rest, after all they have seen
and done this day. Uncas, clear out the spring, while your father and I make

a cover for their tender heads of these chestnut shoots, and a bed of grass
and leaves.”
The dialogue ceased, while the hunter and his companions busied
themselves in preparations for the comfort and protection of those they
guided. A spring, which many long years before had induced the natives to
select the place for their temporary fortification, was soon cleared of leaves,
and a fountain of crystal gushed from the bed, diffusing its waters over the
verdant hillock. A corner of the building was then roofed in such a manner
as to exclude the heavy dew of the climate, and piles of sweet shrubs and
dried leaves were laid beneath it for the sisters to repose on.
While the diligent woodsmen were employed in this manner, Cora and
Alice partook of that refreshment which duty required much more than
inclination prompted them to accept. They then retired within the walls, and
first offering up their thanksgivings for past mercies, and petitioning for a
continuance of the Divine favor throughout the coming night, they laid their
tender forms on the fragrant couch, and in spite of recollections and
forebodings, soon sank into those slumbers which nature so imperiously
demanded, and which were sweetened by hopes for the morrow. Duncan
had prepared himself to pass the night in watchfulness near them, just
without the ruin, but the scout, perceiving his intention, pointed toward
Chingachgook, as he coolly disposed his own person on the grass, and said:
“The eyes of a white man are too heavy and too blind for such a watch as
this! The Mohican will be our sentinel, therefore let us sleep.”
“I proved myself a sluggard on my post during the past night,” said
Heyward, “and have less need of repose than you, who did more credit to
the character of a soldier. Let all the party seek their rest, then, while I hold
the guard.”
“If we lay among the white tents of the Sixtieth, and in front of an enemy
like the French, I could not ask for a better watchman,” returned the scout;
“but in the darkness and among the signs of the wilderness your judgment
would be like the folly of a child, and your vigilance thrown away. Do then,
like Uncas and myself, sleep, and sleep in safety.”
Heyward perceived, in truth, that the younger Indian had thrown his form
on the side of the hillock while they were talking, like one who sought to
make the most of the time allotted to rest, and that his example had been
followed by David, whose voice literally “clove to his jaws,” with the fever

of his wound, heightened, as it was, by their toilsome march. Unwilling to
prolong a useless discussion, the young man affected to comply, by posting
his back against the logs of the blockhouse, in a half recumbent posture,
though resolutely determined, in his own mind, not to close an eye until he
had delivered his precious charge into the arms of Munro himself.
Hawkeye, believing he had prevailed, soon fell asleep, and a silence as deep
as the solitude in which they had found it, pervaded the retired spot.
For many minutes Duncan succeeded in keeping his senses on the alert,
and alive to every moaning sound that arose from the forest. His vision
became more acute as the shades of evening settled on the place; and even
after the stars were glimmering above his head, he was able to distinguish
the recumbent forms of his companions, as they lay stretched on the grass,
and to note the person of Chingachgook, who sat upright and motionless as
one of the trees which formed the dark barrier on every side. He still heard
the gentle breathings of the sisters, who lay within a few feet of him, and
not a leaf was ruffled by the passing air of which his ear did not detect the
whispering sound. At length, however, the mournful notes of a whip-poor-
will became blended with the moanings of an owl; his heavy eyes
occasionally sought the bright rays of the stars, and he then fancied he saw
them through the fallen lids. At instants of momentary wakefulness he
mistook a bush for his associate sentinel; his head next sank upon his
shoulder, which, in its turn, sought the support of the ground; and, finally,
his whole person became relaxed and pliant, and the young man sank into a
deep sleep, dreaming that he was a knight of ancient chivalry, holding his
midnight vigils before the tent of a recaptured princess, whose favor he did
not despair of gaining, by such a proof of devotion and watchfulness.
How long the tired Duncan lay in this insensible state he never knew
himself, but his slumbering visions had been long lost in total forgetfulness,
when he was awakened by a light tap on the shoulder. Aroused by this
signal, slight as it was, he sprang upon his feet with a confused recollection
of the self-imposed duty he had assumed with the commencement of the
night.
“Who comes?” he demanded, feeling for his sword, at the place where it
was usually suspended. “Speak! friend or enemy?”
“Friend,” replied the low voice of Chingachgook; who, pointing upward
at the luminary which was shedding its mild light through the opening in

the trees, directly in their bivouac, immediately added, in his rude English:
“Moon comes and white man’s fort far—far off; time to move, when sleep
shuts both eyes of the Frenchman!”
“You say true! Call up your friends, and bridle the horses while I prepare
my own companions for the march!”
“We are awake, Duncan,” said the soft, silvery tones of Alice within the
building, “and ready to travel very fast after so refreshing a sleep; but you
have watched through the tedious night in our behalf, after having endured
so much fatigue the livelong day!”
“Say, rather, I would have watched, but my treacherous eyes betrayed
me; twice have I proved myself unfit for the trust I bear.”
“Nay, Duncan, deny it not,” interrupted the smiling Alice, issuing from
the shadows of the building into the light of the moon, in all the loveliness
of her freshened beauty; “I know you to be a heedless one, when self is the
object of your care, and but too vigilant in favor of others. Can we not tarry
here a little longer while you find the rest you need? Cheerfully, most
cheerfully, will Cora and I keep the vigils, while you and all these brave
men endeavor to snatch a little sleep!”
“If shame could cure me of my drowsiness, I should never close an eye
again,” said the uneasy youth, gazing at the ingenuous countenance of
Alice, where, however, in its sweet solicitude, he read nothing to confirm
his half-awakened suspicion. “It is but too true, that after leading you into
danger by my heedlessness, I have not even the merit of guarding your
pillows as should become a soldier.”
“No one but Duncan himself should accuse Duncan of such a weakness.
Go, then, and sleep; believe me, neither of us, weak girls as we are, will
betray our watch.”
The young man was relieved from the awkwardness of making any
further protestations of his own demerits, by an exclamation from
Chingachgook, and the attitude of riveted attention assumed by his son.
“The Mohicans hear an enemy!” whispered Hawkeye, who, by this time,
in common with the whole party, was awake and stirring. “They scent
danger in the wind!”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Heyward. “Surely we have had enough of
bloodshed!”

While he spoke, however, the young soldier seized his rifle, and
advancing toward the front, prepared to atone for his venial remissness, by
freely exposing his life in defense of those he attended.
“’Tis some creature of the forest prowling around us in quest of food,” he
said, in a whisper, as soon as the low, and apparently distant sounds, which
had startled the Mohicans, reached his own ears.
“Hist!” returned the attentive scout; “’tis man; even I can now tell his
tread, poor as my senses are when compared to an Indian’s! That
Scampering Huron has fallen in with one of Montcalm’s outlying parties,
and they have struck upon our trail. I shouldn’t like, myself, to spill more
human blood in this spot,” he added, looking around with anxiety in his
features, at the dim objects by which he was surrounded; “but what must be,
must! Lead the horses into the blockhouse, Uncas; and, friends, do you
follow to the same shelter. Poor and old as it is, it offers a cover, and has
rung with the crack of a rifle afore to-night!”
He was instantly obeyed, the Mohicans leading the Narrangansetts within
the ruin, whither the whole party repaired with the most guarded silence.
The sound of approaching footsteps were now too distinctly audible to
leave any doubts as to the nature of the interruption. They were soon
mingled with voices calling to each other in an Indian dialect, which the
hunter, in a whisper, affirmed to Heyward was the language of the Hurons.
When the party reached the point where the horses had entered the thicket
which surrounded the blockhouse, they were evidently at fault, having lost
those marks which, until that moment, had directed their pursuit.
It would seem by the voices that twenty men were soon collected at that
one spot, mingling their different opinions and advice in noisy clamor.
“The knaves know our weakness,” whispered Hawkeye, who stood by
the side of Heyward, in deep shade, looking through an opening in the logs,
“or they wouldn’t indulge their idleness in such a squaw’s march. Listen to
the reptiles! each man among them seems to have two tongues, and but a
single leg.”
Duncan, brave as he was in the combat, could not, in such a moment of
painful suspense, make any reply to the cool and characteristic remark of
the scout. He only grasped his rifle more firmly, and fastened his eyes upon
the narrow opening, through which he gazed upon the moonlight view with
increasing anxiety. The deeper tones of one who spoke as having authority

were next heard, amid a silence that denoted the respect with which his
orders, or rather advice, was received. After which, by the rustling of
leaves, and crackling of dried twigs, it was apparent the savages were
separating in pursuit of the lost trail. Fortunately for the pursued, the light
of the moon, while it shed a flood of mild luster upon the little area around
the ruin, was not sufficiently strong to penetrate the deep arches of the
forest, where the objects still lay in deceptive shadow. The search proved
fruitless; for so short and sudden had been the passage from the faint path
the travelers had journeyed into the thicket, that every trace of their
footsteps was lost in the obscurity of the woods.
It was not long, however, before the restless savages were heard beating
the brush, and gradually approaching the inner edge of that dense border of
young chestnuts which encircled the little area.
“They are coming,” muttered Heyward, endeavoring to thrust his rifle
through the chink in the logs; “let us fire on their approach.”
“Keep everything in the shade,” returned the scout; “the snapping of a
flint, or even the smell of a single karnel of the brimstone, would bring the
hungry varlets upon us in a body. Should it please God that we must give
battle for the scalps, trust to the experience of men who know the ways of
the savages, and who are not often backward when the war-whoop is
howled.”
Duncan cast his eyes behind him, and saw that the trembling sisters were
cowering in the far corner of the building, while the Mohicans stood in the
shadow, like two upright posts, ready, and apparently willing, to strike when
the blow should be needed. Curbing his impatience, he again looked out
upon the area, and awaited the result in silence. At that instant the thicket
opened, and a tall and armed Huron advanced a few paces into the open
space. As he gazed upon the silent blockhouse, the moon fell upon his
swarthy countenance, and betrayed its surprise and curiosity. He made the
exclamation which usually accompanies the former emotion in an Indian,
and, calling in a low voice, soon drew a companion to his side.
These children of the woods stood together for several moments pointing
at the crumbling edifice, and conversing in the unintelligible language of
their tribe. They then approached, though with slow and cautious steps,
pausing every instant to look at the building, like startled deer whose
curiosity struggled powerfully with their awakened apprehensions for the

mastery. The foot of one of them suddenly rested on the mound, and he
stopped to examine its nature. At this moment, Heyward observed that the
scout loosened his knife in its sheath, and lowered the muzzle of his rifle.
Imitating these movements, the young man prepared himself for the
struggle which now seemed inevitable.
The savages were so near, that the least motion in one of the horses, or
even a breath louder than common, would have betrayed the fugitives. But
in discovering the character of the mound, the attention of the Hurons
appeared directed to a different object. They spoke together, and the sounds
of their voices were low and solemn, as if influenced by a reverence that
was deeply blended with awe. Then they drew warily back, keeping their
eyes riveted on the ruin, as if they expected to see the apparitions of the
dead issue from its silent walls, until, having reached the boundary of the
area, they moved slowly into the thicket and disappeared.
Hawkeye dropped the breech of his rifle to the earth, and drawing a long,
free breath, exclaimed, in an audible whisper:
“Ay! they respect the dead, and it has this time saved their own lives,
and, it may be, the lives of better men too.”
Heyward lent his attention for a single moment to his companion, but
without replying, he again turned toward those who just then interested him
more. He heard the two Hurons leave the bushes, and it was soon plain that
all the pursuers were gathered about them, in deep attention to their report.
After a few minutes of earnest and solemn dialogue, altogether different
from the noisy clamor with which they had first collected about the spot,
the sounds grew fainter and more distant, and finally were lost in the depths
of the forest.
Hawkeye waited until a signal from the listening Chingachgook assured
him that every sound from the retiring party was completely swallowed by
the distance, when he motioned to Heyward to lead forth the horses, and to
assist the sisters into their saddles. The instant this was done they issued
through the broken gateway, and stealing out by a direction opposite to the
one by which they entered, they quitted the spot, the sisters casting furtive
glances at the silent, grave and crumbling ruin, as they left the soft light of
the moon, to bury themselves in the gloom of the woods.

CHAPTER XIV.
“Guard.—Qui est la?
Puc. —Paisans, pauvres gens de France.”
—King Henry VI

The scout resumed his post in the advance

During the rapid movement from the blockhouse, and until the party was
deeply buried in the forest, each individual was too much interested in the
escape to hazard a word even in whispers. The scout resumed his post in
advance, though his steps, after he had thrown a safe distance between
himself and his enemies, were more deliberate than in their previous march,
in consequence of his utter ignorance of the localities of the surrounding
woods. More than once he halted to consult with his confederates, the
Mohicans, pointing upward at the moon, and examining the barks of the
trees with care. In these brief pauses, Heyward and the sisters listened, with
senses rendered doubly acute by the danger, to detect any symptoms which
might announce the proximity of their foes. At such moments, it seemed as
if a vast range of country lay buried in eternal sleep; not the least sound
arising from the forest, unless it was the distant and scarcely audible
rippling of a water-course. Birds, beasts, and man, appeared to slumber
alike, if, indeed, any of the latter were to be found in that wide tract of
wilderness. But the sounds of the rivulet, feeble and murmuring as they
were, relieved the guides at once from no trifling embarrassment, and
toward it they immediately held their way.
When the banks of the little stream were gained, Hawkeye made another
halt; and taking the moccasins from his feet, he invited Heyward and Gamut
to follow his example. He then entered the water, and for near an hour they
traveled in the bed of the brook, leaving no trail. The moon had already
sunk into an immense pile of black clouds, which lay impending above the
western horizon, when they issued from the low and devious water-course
to rise again to the light and level of the sandy but wooded plain. Here the
scout seemed to be once more at home, for he held on this way with the
certainty and diligence of a man who moved in the security of his own
knowledge. The path soon became more uneven, and the travelers could
plainly perceive that the mountains drew nigher to them on each hand, and
that they were, in truth, about entering one of their gorges. Suddenly,
Hawkeye made a pause, and, waiting until he was joined by the whole
party, he spoke, though in tones so low and cautious, that they added to the
solemnity of his words, in the quiet and darkness of the place.
“It is easy to know the pathways, and to find the licks and water-courses
of the wilderness,” he said; “but who that saw this spot could venture to say,
that a mighty army was at rest among yonder silent trees and barren
mountains?”

“We are, then, at no great distance from William Henry?” said Heyward,
advancing nigher to the scout.
“It is yet a long and weary path, and when and where to strike it is now
our greatest difficulty. See,” he said, pointing through the trees toward a
spot where a little basin of water reflected the stars from its placid bosom,
“here is the ‘bloody pond’; and I am on ground that I have not only often
traveled, but over which I have fou’t the enemy, from the rising to the
setting sun.”
“Ha! that sheet of dull and dreary water, then, is the sepulcher of the
brave men who fell in the contest. I have heard it named, but never have I
stood on its banks before.”
“Three battles did we make with the Dutch-Frenchman[1] in a day,”
continued Hawkeye, pursuing the train of his own thoughts, rather than
replying to the remark of Duncan. “He met us hard by, in our outward
march to ambush his advance, and scattered us, like driven deer, through the
defile, to the shores of Horican. Then we rallied behind our fallen trees, and
made head against him, under Sir William—who was made Sir William for
that very deed; and well did we pay him for the disgrace of the morning!
Hundreds of Frenchmen saw the sun that day for the last time; and even
their leader, Dieskau himself, fell into our hands, so cut and torn with the
lead, that he has gone back to his own country, unfit for further acts in war.”
[1] Baron Dieskau, a German, in the service of France. A few years previously to
the period of the tale, this officer was defeated by Sir William Johnson, of
Johnstown, New York, on the shores of Lake George.

“’Twas a noble repulse!” exclaimed Heyward, in the heat of his youthful
ardor; “the fame of it reached us early, in our southern army.”
“Ay! but it did not end there. I was sent by Major Effingham, at Sir
William’s own bidding, to outflank the French, and carry the tidings of their
disaster across the portage, to the fort on the Hudson. Just hereaway, where
you see the trees rise into a mountain swell, I met a party coming down to
our aid, and I led them where the enemy were taking their meal, little
dreaming that they had not finished the bloody work of the day.”
“And you surprised them?”
“If death can be a surprise to men who are thinking only of the cravings
of their appetites. We gave them but little breathing time, for they had borne

hard upon us in the fight of the morning, and there were few in our party
who had not lost friend or relative by their hands.”
“When all was over, the dead, and some say the dying, were cast into that
little pond. These eyes have seen its waters colored with blood, as natural
water never yet flowed from the bowels of the ’arth.”
“It was a convenient, and, I trust, will prove a peaceful grave for a
soldier. You have then seen much service on this frontier?”
“Ay!” said the scout, erecting his tall person with an air of military pride;
“there are not many echoes among these hills that haven’t rung with the
crack of my rifle, nor is there the space of a square mile atwixt Horican and
the river, that ‘killdeer’ hasn’t dropped a living body on, be it an enemy or
be it a brute beast. As for the grave there being as quiet as you mention, it is
another matter. There are them in the camp who say and think, man, to lie
still, should not be buried while the breath is in the body; and certain it is
that in the hurry of that evening, the doctors had but little time to say who
was living and who was dead. Hist! see you nothing walking on the shore of
the pond?”
“’Tis not probable that any are as houseless as ourselves in this dreary
forest.”
“Such as he may care but little for house or shelter, and night dew can
never wet a body that passes its days in the water,” returned the scout,
grasping the shoulder of Heyward with such convulsive strength as to make
the young soldier painfully sensible how much superstitious terror had got
the mastery of a man usually so dauntless.
“By heaven, there is a human form, and it approaches! Stand to your
arms, my friends; for we know not whom we encounter.”
“Qui vive?” demanded a stern, quick voice, which sounded like a
challenge from another world, issuing out of that solitary and solemn place.
“What says it?” whispered the scout; “it speaks neither Indian nor
English.”
“Qui vive?” repeated the same voice, which was quickly followed by the
rattling of arms, and a menacing attitude.
“France!” cried Heyward, advancing from the shadow of the trees to the
shore of the pond, within a few yards of the sentinel.

“D’ou venez-vous—ou allez-vous, d’aussi bonne heure?” demanded the
grenadier, in the language and with the accent of a man from old France.
“Je viens de la découverte, et je vais me coucher.”
“Etes-vous officier du roi?”
“Sans doute, mon camarade; me prends-tu pour un provincial! Je suis
capitaine de chasseurs (Heyward well knew that the other was of a regiment
in the line); j’ai ici, avec moi, les filles du commandant de la fortification.
Aha! tu en as entendu parler! je les ai fait prisonnières près de l’autre fort,
et je les conduis au général.”
“Ma foi! mesdames; j’en suis faché pour vous,” exclaimed the young
soldier, touching his cap with grace; “mais—fortune de guerre! vous
trouverez notre général un brave homme, et bien poli avec les dames.”
“C’est le caractere des gens de guerre,” said Cora, with admirable self-
possession. “Adieu, mon ami; je vous souhaiterais un devoir plus agréable a
remplir.”
The soldier made a low and humble acknowledgment for her civility; and
Heyward adding a “Bonne nuit, mon camarade,” they moved deliberately
forward, leaving the sentinel pacing the banks of the silent pond, little
suspecting an enemy of so much effrontery, and humming to himself those
words which were recalled to his mind by the sight of women, and, perhaps,
by recollections of his own distant and beautiful France:
“Vive le vin, vive l’amour,” &c., &c.

“’Tis well you understood the knave!” whispered the scout, when they
had gained a little distance from the place, and letting his rifle fall into the
hollow of his arm again; “I soon saw that he was one of them uneasy
Frenchers; and well for him it was that his speech was friendly and his
wishes kind, or a place might have been found for his bones among those of
his countrymen.”
He was interrupted by a long and heavy groan which arose from the little
basin, as though, in truth, the spirits of the departed lingered about their
watery sepulcher.
“Surely it was of flesh,” continued the scout; “no spirit could handle its
arms so steadily.”

“It was of flesh; but whether the poor fellow still belongs to this world
may well be doubted,” said Heyward, glancing his eyes around him, and
missing Chingachgook from their little band. Another groan more faint than
the former was succeeded by a heavy and sullen plunge into the water, and
all was still again as if the borders of the dreary pool had never been
awakened from the silence of creation. While they yet hesitated in
uncertainty, the form of the Indian was seen gliding out of the thicket. As
the chief rejoined them, with one hand he attached the reeking scalp of the
unfortunate young Frenchman to his girdle, and with the other he replaced
the knife and tomahawk that had drunk his blood. He then took his wonted
station, with the air of a man who believed he had done a deed of merit.
The scout dropped one end of his rifle to the earth, and leaning his hands
on the other, he stood musing in profound silence. Then, shaking his head in
a mournful manner, he muttered:
“’Twould have been a cruel and an unhuman act for a white-skin; but ’tis
the gift and natur’ of an Indian, and I suppose it should not be denied. I
could wish, though, it had befallen an accursed Mingo, rather than that gay
young boy from the old countries.”
“Enough!” said Heyward, apprehensive the unconscious sisters might
comprehend the nature of the detention, and conquering his disgust by a
train of reflections very much like that of the hunter; “’tis done; and though
better it were left undone, cannot be amended. You see, we are, too
obviously within the sentinels of the enemy; what course do you propose to
follow?”
“Yes,” said Hawkeye, rousing himself again; “’tis as you say, too late to
harbor further thoughts about it. Ay, the French have gathered around the
fort in good earnest and we have a delicate needle to thread in passing
them.”
“And but little time to do it in,” added Heyward, glancing his eyes
upwards, toward the bank of vapor that concealed the setting moon.
“And little time to do it in!” repeated the scout. “The thing may be done
in two fashions, by the help of Providence, without which it may not be
done at all.”
“Name them quickly for time presses.”

“One would be to dismount the gentle ones, and let their beasts range the
plain, by sending the Mohicans in front, we might then cut a lane through
their sentries, and enter the fort over the dead bodies.”
“It will not do—it will not do!” interrupted the generous Heyward; “a
soldier might force his way in this manner, but never with such a convoy.”
“’Twould be, indeed, a bloody path for such tender feet to wade in,”
returned the equally reluctant scout; “but I thought it befitting my manhood
to name it. We must, then, turn in our trail and get without the line of their
lookouts, when we will bend short to the west, and enter the mountains;
where I can hide you, so that all the devil’s hounds in Montcalm’s pay
would be thrown off the scent for months to come.”
“Let it be done, and that instantly.”
Further words were unnecessary; for Hawkeye, merely uttering the
mandate to “follow,” moved along the route by which they had just entered
their present critical and even dangerous situation. Their progress, like their
late dialogue, was guarded, and without noise; for none knew at what
moment a passing patrol, or a crouching picket of the enemy, might rise
upon their path. As they held their silent way along the margin of the pond,
again Heyward and the scout stole furtive glances at its appalling
dreariness. They looked in vain for the form they had so recently seen
stalking along in silent shores, while a low and regular wash of the little
waves, by announcing that the waters were not yet subsided, furnished a
frightful memorial of the deed of blood they had just witnessed. Like all
that passing and gloomy scene, the low basin, however, quickly melted in
the darkness, and became blended with the mass of black objects in the rear
of the travelers.
Hawkeye soon deviated from the line of their retreat, and striking off
towards the mountains which form the western boundary of the narrow
plain, he led his followers, with swift steps, deep within the shadows that
were cast from their high and broken summits. The route was now painful;
lying over ground ragged with rocks, and intersected with ravines, and their
progress proportionately slow. Bleak and black hills lay on every side of
them, compensating in some degree for the additional toil of the march by
the sense of security they imparted. At length the party began slowly to rise
a steep and rugged ascent, by a path that curiously wound among rocks and
trees, avoiding the one and supported by the other, in a manner that showed

it had been devised by men long practised in the arts of the wilderness. As
they gradually rose from the level of the valleys, the thick darkness which
usually precedes the approach of day began to disperse, and objects were
seen in the plain and palpable colors with which they had been gifted by
nature. When they issued from the stunted woods which clung to the barren
sides of the mountain, upon a flat and mossy rock that formed its summit,
they met the morning, as it came blushing above the green pines of a hill
that lay on the opposite side of the valley of the Horican.
The scout now told the sisters to dismount; and taking the bridles from
the mouths, and the saddles off the backs of the jaded beasts, he turned
them loose, to glean a scanty subsistence among the shrubs and meager
herbage of that elevated region.
“Go,” he said, “and seek your food where natur’ gives it to you; and
beware that you become not food to ravenous wolves yourselves, among
these hills.”
“Have we no further need of them?” demanded Heyward.
“See, and judge with your own eyes,” said the scout, advancing toward
the eastern brow of the mountain, whither he beckoned for the whole party
to follow; “if it was as easy to look into the heart of man as it is to spy out
the nakedness of Montcalm’s camp from this spot, hypocrites would grow
scarce, and the cunning of a Mingo might prove a losing game, compared to
the honesty of a Delaware.”
When the travelers reached the verge of the precipices they saw, at a
glance, the truth of the scout’s declaration, and the admirable foresight with
which he had led them to their commanding station.
The mountain on which they stood, elevated perhaps a thousand feet in
the air, was a high cone that rose a little in advance of that range which
stretches for miles along the western shores of the lake, until meeting its
sisters miles beyond the water, it ran off toward the Canadas, in confused
and broken masses of rock, thinly sprinkled with evergreens. Immediately
at the feet of the party, the southern shore of the Horican swept in a broad
semicircle from mountain to mountain, marking a wide strand, that soon
rose into an uneven and somewhat elevated plain. To the north stretched the
limpid, and, as it appeared from that dizzy height, the narrow sheet of the
“holy lake,” indented with numberless bays, embellished by fantastic
headlands, and dotted with countless islands. At the distance of a few

leagues, the bed of the water became lost among mountains, or was
wrapped in the masses of vapor that came slowly rolling along their bosom,
before a light morning air. But a narrow opening between the crests of the
hills pointed out the passage by which they found their way still further
north, to spread their pure and ample sheets again, before pouring out their
tribute into the distant Champlain. To the south stretched the defile, or
rather broken plain, so often mentioned. For several miles in this direction,
the mountains appeared reluctant to yield their dominion, but within reach
of the eye they diverged, and finally melted into the level and sandy lands,
across which we have accompanied our adventurers in their double journey.
Along both ranges of hills, which bounded the opposite sides of the lake
and valley, clouds of light vapor were rising in spiral wreaths from the
uninhabited woods, looking like the smoke of hidden cottages; or rolled
lazily down the declivities, to mingle with the fogs of the lower land. A
single, solitary, snow-white cloud floated above the valley, and marked the
spot beneath which lay the silent pool of the “bloody pond.”
Directly on the shore of the lake, and nearer to its western than to its
eastern margin, lay the extensive earthen ramparts and low buildings of
William Henry. Two of the sweeping bastions appeared to rest on the water
which washed their bases, while a deep ditch and extensive morasses
guarded its other sides and angles. The land had been cleared of wood for a
reasonable distance around the work, but every other part of the scene lay in
the green livery of nature, except where the limpid water mellowed the
view, or the bold rocks thrust their black and naked heads above the
undulating outline of the mountain ranges. In its front might be seen the
scattered sentinels, who held a weary watch against their numerous foes;
and within the walls themselves, the travelers looked down upon men still
drowsy with a night of vigilance. Toward the southeast, but in immediate
contact with the fort, was an entrenched camp, posted on a rocky eminence,
that would have been far more eligible for the work itself, in which
Hawkeye pointed out the presence of those auxiliary regiments that had so
recently left the Hudson in their company. From the woods, a little further
to the south, rose numerous dark and lurid smokes, that were easily to be
distinguished from the purer exhalations of the springs, and which the scout
also showed to Heyward, as evidences that the enemy lay in force in that
direction.

But the spectacle which most concerned the young soldier was on the
western bank of the lake, though quite near to its southern termination. On a
strip of land, which appeared from his stand too narrow to contain such an
army, but which, in truth, extended many hundreds of yards from the shores
of the Horican to the base of the mountain, were to be seen the white tents
and military engines of an encampment of ten thousand men. Batteries were
already thrown up in their front, and even while the spectators above them
were looking down, with such different emotions, on a scene which lay like
a map beneath their feet, the roar of artillery rose from the valley, and
passed off in thundering echoes along the eastern hills.
“Morning is just touching them below,” said the deliberate and musing
scout, “and the watchers have a mind to wake up the sleepers by the sound
of cannon. We are a few hours too late! Montcalm has already filled the
woods with his accursed Iroquois.”
“The place is, indeed, invested,” returned Duncan; “but is there no
expedient by which we may enter? capture in the works would be far
preferable to falling again into the hands of roving Indians.”
“See!” exclaimed the scout, unconsciously directing the attention of Cora
to the quarters of her own father, “how that shot has made the stones fly
from the side of the commandant’s house! Ay! these Frenchers will pull it to
pieces faster than it was put together, solid and thick though it be!”
“Heyward, I sicken at the sight of danger that I cannot share,” said the
undaunted but anxious daughter. “Let us go to Montcalm, and demand
admission: he dare not deny a child the boon.”
“You would scarce find the tent of the Frenchman with the hair on your
head”; said the blunt scout. “If I had but one of the thousand boats which lie
empty along that shore, it might be done! Ha! here will soon be an end of
the firing, for yonder comes a fog that will turn day to night, and make an
Indian arrow more dangerous than a molded cannon. Now, if you are equal
to the work, and will follow, I will make a push; for I long to get down into
that camp, if it be only to scatter some Mingo dogs that I see lurking in the
skirts of yonder thicket of birch.”
“We are equal,” said Cora, firmly; “on such an errand we will follow to
any danger.”
The scout turned to her with a smile of honest and cordial approbation, as
he answered:

“I would I had a thousand men, of brawny limbs and quick eyes, that
feared death as little as you! I’d send them jabbering Frenchers back into
their den again, afore the week was ended, howling like so many fettered
hounds or hungry wolves. But, stir,” he added, turning from her to the rest
of the party, “the fog comes rolling down so fast, we shall have but just the
time to meet it on the plain, and use it as a cover. Remember, if any accident
should befall me, to keep the air blowing on your left cheeks—or, rather,
follow the Mohicans; they’d scent their way, be it in day or be it at night.”
He then waved his hand for them to follow, and threw himself down the
steep declivity, with free, but careful footsteps. Heyward assisted the sisters
to descend, and in a few minutes they were all far down a mountain whose
sides they had climbed with so much toil and pain.
The direction taken by Hawkeye soon brought the travelers to the level of
the plain, nearly opposite to a sally-port in the western curtain of the fort,
which lay itself at the distance of about half a mile from the point where he
halted to allow Duncan to come up with his charge. In their eagerness, and
favored by the nature of the ground, they had anticipated the fog, which was
rolling heavily down the lake, and it became necessary to pause, until the
mists had wrapped the camp of the enemy in their fleecy mantle. The
Mohicans profited by the delay, to steal out of the woods, and to make a
survey of surrounding objects. They were followed at a little distance by the
scout, with a view to profit early by their report, and to obtain some faint
knowledge for himself of the more immediate localities.
In a very few moments he returned, his face reddened with vexation,
while he muttered his disappointment in words of no very gentle import.
“Here has the cunning Frenchman been posting a picket directly in our
path,” he said; “red-skins and whites; and we shall be as likely to fall into
their midst as to pass them in the fog!”
“Cannot we make a circuit to avoid the danger,” asked Heyward, “and
come into our path again when it is passed?”
“Who that once bends from the line of his march in a fog can tell when or
how to find it again! The mists of Horican are not like the curls from a
peace-pipe, or the smoke which settles above a mosquito fire.”
He was yet speaking, when a crashing sound was heard, and a cannon-
ball entered the thicket, striking the body of a sapling, and rebounding to
the earth, its force being much expended by previous resistance. The

Indians followed instantly like busy attendants on the terrible messenger,
and Uncas commenced speaking earnestly and with much action, in the
Delaware tongue.
“It may be so, lad,” muttered the scout, when he had ended; “for
desperate fevers are not to be treated like a toothache. Come, then, the fog
is shutting in.”
“Stop!” cried Heyward; “first explain your expectations.”
“’Tis soon done, and a small hope it is; but it is better than nothing. This
shot that you see,” added the scout, kicking the harmless iron with his foot,
“has plowed the ’arth in its road from the fort, and we shall hunt for the
furrow it has made, when all other signs may fail. No more words, but
follow, or the fog may leave us in the middle of our path, a mark for both
armies to shoot at.”
Heyward perceiving that, in fact, a crisis had arrived, when acts were
more required than words, placed himself between the sisters, and drew
them swiftly forward, keeping the dim figure of their leader in his eye. It
was soon apparent that Hawkeye had not magnified the power of the fog,
for before they had proceeded twenty yards, it was difficult for the different
individuals of the party to distinguish each other in the vapor.
They had made their little circuit to the left, and were already inclining
again toward the right, having, as Heyward thought, got over nearly half the
distance to the friendly works, when his ears were saluted with the fierce
summons, apparently within twenty feet of them, of:
“Qui va là?”
“Push on!” whispered the scout, once more bending to the left.
“Push on!” repeated Heyward; when the summons was renewed by a
dozen voices, each of which seemed charged with menace.
“C’est moi,” cried Duncan, dragging rather than leading those he
supported swiftly onward.
“Bête!—qui?—moi!”
“Ami de la France.”
“Tu m’as plus l’air d’un ennemi de la France; arrete ou pardieu je te ferai
ami du diable. Non! feu, camarades, feu!”

The order was instantly obeyed, and the fog was stirred by the explosion
of fifty muskets. Happily, the aim was bad, and the bullets cut the air in a
direction a little different from that taken by the fugitives; though still so
nigh them, that to the unpractised ears of David and the two females, it
appeared as if they whistled within a few inches of the organs. The outcry
was renewed, and the order, not only to fire again, but to pursue, was too
plainly audible. When Heyward briefly explained the meaning of the words
they heard, Hawkeye halted and spoke with quick decision and great
firmness.
“Let us deliver our fire,” he said; “they will believe it a sortie, and give
way, or they will wait for reinforcements.”
The scheme was well conceived, but failed in its effects. The instant the
French heard the pieces, it seemed as if the plain was alive with men,
muskets rattling along its whole extent, from the shores of the lake to the
furthest boundary of the woods.
“We shall draw their entire army upon us, and bring on a general
assault,” said Duncan: “lead on, my friend, for your own life and ours.”
The scout seemed willing to comply; but, in the hurry of the moment, and
in the change of position, he had lost the direction. In vain he turned either
cheek toward the light air; they felt equally cool. In this dilemma, Uncas
lighted on the furrow of the cannon ball, where it had cut the ground in
three adjacent ant-hills.
“Give me the range!” said Hawkeye, bending to catch a glimpse of the
direction, and then instantly moving onward.
Cries, oaths, voices calling to each other, and the reports of muskets,
were now quick and incessant, and, apparently, on every side of them.
Suddenly a strong glare of light flashed across the scene, the fog rolled
upward in thick wreaths, and several cannons belched across the plain, and
the roar was thrown heavily back from the bellowing echoes of the
mountain.
“’Tis from the fort!” exclaimed Hawkeye, turning short on his tracks;
“and we, like stricken fools, were rushing to the woods, under the very
knives of the Maquas.”
The instant their mistake was rectified, the whole party retraced the error
with the utmost diligence. Duncan willingly relinquished the support of

Cora to the arm of Uncas and Cora as readily accepted the welcome
assistance. Men, hot and angry in pursuit, were evidently on their footsteps,
and each instant threatened their capture, if not their destruction.
“Point de quartier aux coquins!” cried an eager pursuer, who seemed to
direct the operations of the enemy.
“Stand firm, and be ready, my gallant Sixtieths!” suddenly exclaimed a
voice above them; “wait to see the enemy, fire low and sweep the glacis.”
“Father! father!” exclaimed a piercing cry from out the mist: “it is I!
Alice! thy own Elsie! Spare, oh! save your daughters!”
“Hold!” shouted the former speaker, in the awful tones of parental agony,
the sound reaching even to the woods, and rolling back in solemn echo.
“’Tis she! God has restored me to my children! Throw open the sally-port;
to the field, Sixtieths, to the field; pull not a trigger, lest ye kill my lambs!
Drive off these dogs of France with your steel.”
Duncan heard the grating of the rusty hinges, and darting to the spot,
directed by the sound, he met a long line of dark red warriors, passing
swiftly toward the glacis. He knew them for his own battalion of the Royal
Americans, and flying to their head, soon swept every trace of his pursuers
from before the works.
For an instant, Cora and Alice had stood trembling and bewildered by
this unexpected desertion; but before either had leisure for speech, or even
thought, an officer of gigantic frame, whose locks were bleached with years
and service, but whose air of military grandeur had been rather softened
than destroyed by time, rushed out of the body of mist, and folded them to
his bosom, while large scalding tears rolled down his pale and wrinkled
cheeks, and he exclaimed, in the peculiar accent of Scotland:
“For this I thank thee, Lord! Let danger come as it will, thy servant is
now prepared!”

CHAPTER XV.
“Then go we in, to know his embassy;
Which I could, with ready guess, declare,
Before the Frenchmen speak a word of it.”
—King Henry V

A few succeeding days were passed amid the privations, the uproar, and
the dangers of the siege, which was vigorously pressed by a power, against
whose approaches Munro possessed no competent means of resistance. It
appeared as if Webb, with his army, which lay slumbering on the banks of
the Hudson, had utterly forgotten the strait to which his countrymen were
reduced. Montcalm had filled the woods of the portage with his savages,
every yell and whoop from whom rang through the British encampment,
chilling the hearts of men who were already but too much disposed to
magnify the danger.
Not so, however, with the besieged. Animated by the words, and
stimulated by the examples of their leaders, they had found their courage,
and maintained their ancient reputation, with a zeal that did justice to the
stern character of their commander. As if satisfied with the toil of marching
through the wilderness to encounter his enemy, the French general, though
of approved skill, had neglected to seize the adjacent mountains; whence
the besieged might have been exterminated with impunity, and which, in the
more modern warfare of the country, would not have been neglected for a
single hour. This sort of contempt for eminences, or rather dread of the
labor of ascending them, might have been termed the besetting weakness of
the warfare of the period. It originated in the simplicity of the Indian
contests, in which, from the nature of the combats, and the density of the
forests, fortresses were rare, and artillery next to useless. The carelessness
engendered by these usages descended even to the war of the Revolution
and lost the States the important fortress of Ticonderoga opening a way for
the army of Burgoyne into what was then the bosom of the country. We

look back at this ignorance, or infatuation, whichever it may be called, with
wonder, knowing that the neglect of an eminence, whose difficulties, like
those of Mount Defiance, have been so greatly exaggerated, would, at the
present time, prove fatal to the reputation of the engineer who had planned
the works at their base, or to that of the general whose lot it was to defend
them.
The tourist, the valetudinarian, or the amateur of the beauties of nature,
who, in the train of his four-in-hand, now rolls through the scenes we have
attempted to describe, in quest of information, health, or pleasure, or floats
steadily toward his object on those artificial waters which have sprung up
under the administration of a statesman[1] who has dared to stake his
political character on the hazardous issue, is not to suppose that his
ancestors traversed those hills, or struggled with the same currents with
equal facility. The transportation of a single heavy gun was often considered
equal to a victory gained; if happily, the difficulties of the passage had not
so far separated it from its necessary concomitant, the ammunition, as to
render it no more than a useless tube of unwieldy iron.
[1] Evidently the late De Witt Clinton, who died governor of New York in 1828.

The evils of this state of things pressed heavily on the fortunes of the
resolute Scotsman who now defended William Henry. Though his adversary
neglected the hills, he had planted his batteries with judgment on the plain,
and caused them to be served with vigor and skill. Against this assault, the
besieged could only oppose the imperfect and hasty preparations of a
fortress in the wilderness.
It was in the afternoon of the fifth day of the siege, and the fourth of his
own service in it, that Major Heyward profited by a parley that had just
been beaten, by repairing to the ramparts of one of the water bastions, to
breathe the cool air from the lake, and to take a survey of the progress of the
siege. He was alone, if the solitary sentinel who paced the mound be
excepted; for the artillerists had hastened also to profit by the temporary
suspension of their arduous duties. The evening was delightfully calm, and
the light air from the limpid water fresh and soothing. It seemed as if, with
the termination of the roar of artillery and the plunging of shot, nature had
also seized the moment to assume her mildest and most captivating form.
The sun poured down his parting glory on the scene, without the oppression
of those fierce rays that belong to the climate and the season. The

mountains looked green, and fresh, and lovely, tempered with the milder
light, or softened in shadow, as thin vapors floated between them and the
sun. The numerous islands rested on the bosom of the Horican, some low
and sunken, as if embedded in the waters, and others appearing to hover
about the element, in little hillocks of green velvet; among which the
fishermen of the beleaguering army peacefully rowed their skiffs, or floated
at rest on the glassy mirror in quiet pursuit of their employment.
The scene was at once animated and still. All that pertained to nature was
sweet, or simply grand; while those parts which depended on the temper
and movements of man were lively and playful.
Two little spotless flags were abroad, the one on a salient angle of the
fort, and the other on the advanced battery of the besiegers; emblems of the
truth which existed, not only to the acts, but it would seem, also, to the
enmity of the combatants.
Behind these again swung, heavily opening and closing in silken folds,
the rival standards of England and France.
A hundred gay and thoughtless young Frenchmen were drawing a net to
the pebbly beach, within dangerous proximity to the sullen but silent
cannon of the fort, while the eastern mountain was sending back the loud
shouts and gay merriment that attended their sport. Some were rushing
eagerly to enjoy the aquatic games of the lake, and others were already
toiling their way up the neighboring hills, with the restless curiosity of their
nation. To all these sports and pursuits, those of the enemy who watched the
besieged, and the besieged themselves, were, however, merely the idle
though sympathizing spectators. Here and there a picket had, indeed, raised
a song, or mingled in a dance, which had drawn the dusky savages around
them, from their lairs in the forest. In short, everything wore rather the
appearance of a day of pleasure, than of an hour stolen from the dangers
and toil of a bloody and vindictive warfare.
Duncan had stood in a musing attitude, contemplating this scene a few
minutes, when his eyes were directed to the glacis in front of the sally-port
already mentioned, by the sounds of approaching footsteps. He walked to
an angle of the bastion, and beheld the scout advancing, under the custody
of a French officer, to the body of the fort. The countenance of Hawkeye
was haggard and careworn, and his air dejected, as though he felt the
deepest degradation at having fallen into the power of his enemies. He was

without his favorite weapon, and his arms were even bound behind him
with thongs, made of the skin of a deer. The arrival of flags to cover the
messengers of summons, had occurred so often of late, that when Heyward
first threw his careless glance on this group, he expected to see another of
the officers of the enemy, charged with a similar office but the instant he
recognized the tall person and still sturdy though downcast features of his
friend, the woodsman, he started with surprise, and turned to descend from
the bastion into the bosom of the work.
The sounds of other voices, however, caught his attention, and for a
moment caused him to forget his purpose. At the inner angle of the mound
he met the sisters, walking along the parapet, in search, like himself, of air
and relief from confinement. They had not met from that painful moment
when he deserted them on the plain, only to assure their safety. He had
parted from them worn with care, and jaded with fatigue; he now saw them
refreshed and blooming, though timid and anxious. Under such an
inducement it will cause no surprise that the young man lost sight for a
time, of other objects in order to address them. He was, however,
anticipated by the voice of the ingenuous and youthful Alice.
“Ah! thou tyrant! thou recreant knight! he who abandons his damsels in
the very lists,” she cried; “here have we been days, nay, ages, expecting you
at our feet, imploring mercy and forgetfulness of your craven backsliding,
or I should rather say, backrunning—for verily you fled in the manner that
no stricken deer, as our worthy friend the scout would say, could equal!”
“You know that Alice means our thanks and our blessings,” added the
graver and more thoughtful Cora. “In truth, we have a little wonder why
you should so rigidly absent yourself from a place where the gratitude of
the daughters might receive the support of a parent’s thanks.”
“Your father himself could tell you, that, though absent from your
presence, I have not been altogether forgetful of your safety,” returned the
young man; “the mastery of yonder village of huts,” pointing to the
neighboring entrenched camp, “has been keenly disputed; and he who holds
it is sure to be possessed of this fort, and that which it contains. My days
and nights have all been passed there since we separated, because I thought
that duty called me thither. But,” he added, with an air of chagrin, which he
endeavored, though unsuccessfully, to conceal, “had I been aware that what

I then believed a soldier’s conduct could be so construed, shame would
have been added to the list of reasons.”
“Heyward! Duncan!” exclaimed Alice, bending forward to read his half-
averted countenance, until a lock of her golden hair rested on her flushed
cheek, and nearly concealed the tear that had started to her eye; “did I think
this idle tongue of mine had pained you, I would silence it forever. Cora can
say, if Cora would, how justly we have prized your services, and how deep
—I had almost said, how fervent—is our gratitude.”
“And will Cora attest the truth of this?” cried Duncan, suffering the cloud
to be chased from his countenance by a smile of open pleasure. “What says
our graver sister? Will she find an excuse for the neglect of the knight in the
duty of a soldier?”
Cora made no immediate answer, but turned her face toward the water, as
if looking on the sheet of the Horican. When she did bend her dark eyes on
the young man, they were yet filled with an expression of anguish that at
once drove every thought but that of kind solicitude from his mind.
“You are not well, dearest Miss Munro!” he exclaimed; “we have trifled
while you are in suffering!”
“’Tis nothing,” she answered, refusing his support with feminine reserve.
“That I cannot see the sunny side of the picture of life, like this artless but
ardent enthusiast,” she added, laying her hand lightly, but affectionately, on
the arm of her sister, “is the penalty of experience, and, perhaps, the
misfortune of my nature. See,” she continued, as if determined to shake off
infirmity, in a sense of duty; “look around you, Major Heyward, and tell me
what a prospect is this for the daughter of a soldier whose greatest
happiness is his honor and his military renown.”
“Neither ought nor shall be tarnished by circumstances over which he has
had no control,” Duncan warmly replied. “But your words recall me to my
own duty. I go now to your gallant father, to hear his determination in
matters of the last moment to the defense. God bless you in every fortune,
noble—Cora—I may and must call you.” She frankly gave him her hand,
though her lip quivered, and her cheeks gradually became of ashly paleness.
“In every fortune, I know you will be an ornament and honor to your sex.
Alice, adieu”—his voice changed from admiration to tenderness—“adieu,
Alice; we shall soon meet again; as conquerors, I trust, and amid
rejoicings!”

Without waiting for an answer from either, the young man threw himself
down the grassy steps of the bastion, and moving rapidly across the parade,
he was quickly in the presence of their father. Munro was pacing his narrow
apartment with a disturbed air and gigantic strides as Duncan entered.
“You have anticipated my wishes, Major Heyward,” he said; “I was about
to request this favor.”
“I am sorry to see, sir, that the messenger I so warmly recommended has
returned in custody of the French! I hope there is no reason to distrust his
fidelity?”
“The fidelity of ‘The Long Rifle’ is well known to me,” returned Munro,
“and is above suspicion; though his usual good fortune seems, at last, to
have failed. Montcalm has got him, and with the accursed politeness of his
nation, he has sent him in with a doleful tale, of ‘knowing how I valued the
fellow, he could not think of retaining him.’ A Jesuitical way that, Major
Duncan Heyward, of telling a man of his misfortunes!”
“But the general and his succor?”
“Did ye look to the south as ye entered, and could ye not see them?” said
the old soldier, laughing bitterly. “Hoot! hoot! you’re an impatient boy, sir,
and cannot give the gentlemen leisure for their march!”
“They are coming, then? The scout has said as much?”
“When? and by what path? for the dunce has omitted to tell me this.
There is a letter, it would seem, too; and that is the only agreeable part of
the matter. For the customary attentions of your Marquis of Montcalm—I
warrant me, Duncan, that he of Lothian would buy a dozen such
marquisates—but if the news of the letter were bad, the gentility of this
French monsieur would certainly compel him to let us know it.”
“He keeps the letter, then, while he releases the messenger?”
“Ay, that does he, and all for the sake of what you call your
‘bonhommie.’ I would venture, if the truth was known, the fellow’s
grandfather taught the noble science of dancing.”
“But what says the scout? he has eyes and ears, and a tongue. What
verbal report does he make?”
“Oh! sir, he is not wanting in natural organs, and he is free to tell all that
he has seen and heard. The whole amount is this; there is a fort of his
majesty’s on the banks of the Hudson, called Edward, in honor of his

gracious highness of York, you’ll know; and it is well filled with armed
men, as such a work should be.”
“But was there no movement, no signs of any intention to advance to our
relief?”
“There were the morning and evening parades; and when one of the
provincial loons—you’ll know, Duncan, you’re half a Scotsman yourself—
when one of them dropped his powder over his porretch, if it touched the
coals, it just burned!” Then, suddenly changing his bitter, ironical manner,
to one more grave and thoughtful, he continued: “and yet there might, and
must be, something in that letter which it would be well to know!”
“Our decision should be speedy,” said Duncan, gladly availing himself of
this change of humor, to press the more important objects of their interview;
“I cannot conceal from you, sir, that the camp will not be much longer
tenable; and I am sorry to add, that things appear no better in the fort; more
than half the guns are bursted.”
“And how should it be otherwise? Some were fished from the bottom of
the lake; some have been rusting in woods since the discovery of the
country; and some were never guns at all—mere privateersmen’s
playthings! Do you think, sir, you can have Woolwich Warren in the midst
of a wilderness, three thousand miles from Great Britain?”
“The walls are crumbling about our ears, and provisions begin to fail us,”
continued Heyward, without regarding the new burst of indignation; “even
the men show signs of discontent and alarm.”
“Major Heyward,” said Munro, turning to his youthful associate with the
dignity of his years and superior rank; “I should have served his majesty for
half a century, and earned these gray hairs in vain, were I ignorant of all you
say, and of the pressing nature of our circumstances; still, there is
everything due to the honor of the king’s arms, and something to ourselves.
While there is hope of succor, this fortress will I defend, though it be to be
done with pebbles gathered on the lake shore. It is a sight of the letter,
therefore, that we want, that we may know the intentions of the man the earl
of Loudon has left among us as his substitute.”
“And can I be of service in the matter?”
“Sir, you can; the marquis of Montcalm has, in addition to his other
civilities, invited me to a personal interview between the works and his own

camp; in order, as he says, to impart some additional information. Now, I
think it would not be wise to show any undue solicitude to meet him, and I
would employ you, an officer of rank, as my substitute; for it would but ill
comport with the honor of Scotland to let it be said one of her gentlemen
was outdone in civility by a native of any other country on earth.”
Without assuming the supererogatory task of entering into a discussion of
the comparative merits of national courtesy, Duncan cheerfully assented to
supply the place of the veteran in the approaching interview. A long and
confidential communication now succeeded, during which the young man
received some additional insight into his duty, from the experience and
native acuteness of his commander, and then the former took his leave.
As Duncan could only act as the representative of the commandant of the
fort, the ceremonies which should have accompanied a meeting between the
heads of the adverse forces were, of course, dispensed with. The truce still
existed, and with a roll and beat of the drum, and covered by a little white
flag, Duncan left the sally-port, within ten minutes after his instructions
were ended. He was received by the French officer in advance with the
usual formalities, and immediately accompanied to a distant marquee of the
renowned soldier who led the forces of France.
The general of the enemy received the youthful messenger, surrounded
by his principal officers, and by a swarthy band of the native chiefs, who
had followed him to the field, with the warriors of their several tribes.
Heyward paused short, when, in glancing his eyes rapidly over the dark
group of the latter, he beheld the malignant countenance of Magua,
regarding him with the calm but sullen attention which marked the
expression of that subtle savage. A slight exclamation of surprise even burst
from the lips of the young man, but instantly, recollecting his errand, and
the presence in which he stood, he suppressed every appearance of emotion,
and turned to the hostile leader, who had already advanced a step to receive
him.
The marquis of Montcalm was, at the period of which we write, in the
flower of his age, and, it may be added, in the zenith of his fortunes. But
even in that enviable situation, he was affable, and distinguished as much
for his attention to the forms of courtesy, as for that chivalrous courage
which, only two short years afterward, induced him to throw away his life
on the plains of Abraham. Duncan, in turning his eyes from the malign

expression of Magua, suffered them to rest with pleasure on the smiling and
polished features, and the noble military air, of the French general.
“Monsieur,” said the latter, “j’ai beaucoup de plaisir à—bah!—où est cet
interpréte?”
“Je crois, monsieur, qu’il ne sear pas nécessaire,” Heyward modestly
replied; “je parle un peu Français.”
“Ah! j’en suis bien aise,” said Montcalm, taking Duncan familiarly by
the arm, and leading him deep into the marquee, a little out of earshot; “je
déteste ces fripons-là; on ne sait jamais sur quel piè on est avec eux. Eh,
bien! monsieur,” he continued still speaking in French; “though I should
have been proud of receiving your commandant, I am very happy that he
has seen proper to employ an officer so distinguished, and who, I am sure,
is so amiable, as yourself.”
Duncan bowed low, pleased with the compliment, in spite of a most
heroic determination to suffer no artifice to allure him into forgetfulness of
the interest of his prince; and Montcalm, after a pause of a moment, as if to
collect his thoughts, proceeded:
“Your commandant is a brave man, and well qualified to repel my
assault. Mais, monsieur, is it not time to begin to take more counsel of
humanity, and less of your courage? The one as strongly characterizes the
hero as the other.”
“We consider the qualities as inseparable,” returned Duncan, smiling;
“but while we find in the vigor of your excellency every motive to stimulate
the one, we can, as yet, see no particular call for the exercise of the other.”
Montcalm, in his turn, slightly bowed, but it was with the air of a man
too practised to remember the language of flattery. After musing a moment,
he added:
“It is possible my glasses have deceived me, and that your works resist
our cannon better than I had supposed. You know our force?”
“Our accounts vary,” said Duncan, carelessly; “the highest, however, has
not exceeded twenty thousand men.”
The Frenchman bit his lip, and fastened his eyes keenly on the other as if
to read his thoughts; then, with a readiness peculiar to himself, he
continued, as if assenting to the truth of an enumeration which quite
doubled his army:

“It is a poor compliment to the vigilance of us soldiers, monsieur, that, do
what we will, we never can conceal our numbers. If it were to be done at
all, one would believe it might succeed in these woods. Though you think it
too soon to listen to the calls of humanity,” he added, smiling archly, “I may
be permitted to believe that gallantry is not forgotten by one so young as
yourself. The daughters of the commandant, I learn, have passed into the
fort since it was invested?”
“It is true, monsieur; but, so far from weakening our efforts, they set us
an example of courage in their own fortitude. Were nothing but resolution
necessary to repel so accomplished a soldier as M. de Montcalm, I would
gladly trust the defense of William Henry to the elder of those ladies.”
“We have a wise ordinance in our Salique laws, which says, ‘The crown
of France shall never degrade the lance to the distaff’,” said Montcalm,
dryly, and with a little hauteur; but instantly adding, with his former frank
and easy air: “as all the nobler qualities are hereditary, I can easily credit
you; though, as I said before, courage has its limits, and humanity must not
be forgotten. I trust, monsieur, you come authorized to treat for the
surrender of the place?”
“Has your excellency found our defense so feeble as to believe the
measure necessary?”
“I should be sorry to have the defense protracted in such a manner as to
irritate my red friends there,” continued Montcalm, glancing his eyes at the
group of grave and attentive Indians, without attending to the other’s
questions; “I find it difficult, even now, to limit them to the usages of war.”
Heyward was silent; for a painful recollection of the dangers he had so
recently escaped came over his mind, and recalled the images of those
defenseless beings who had shared in all his sufferings.
“Ces messieurs-là,” said Montcalm, following up the advantage which he
conceived he had gained, “are most formidable when baffled; and it is
unnecessary to tell you with what difficulty they are restrained in their
anger. Eh bien, monsieur! shall we speak of the terms?”
“I fear your excellency has been deceived as to the strength of William
Henry, and the resources of its garrison!”
“I have not sat down before Quebec, but an earthen work, that is
defended by twenty-three hundred gallant men,” was the laconic reply.

“Our mounds are earthen, certainly—nor are they seated on the rocks of
Cape Diamond; but they stand on that shore which proved so destructive to
Dieskau and his army. There is also a powerful force within a few hours’
march of us, which we account upon as a part of our means.”
“Some six or eight thousand men,” returned Montcalm, with much
apparent indifference, “whom their leader wisely judges to be safer in their
works than in the field.”
It was now Heyward’s turn to bite his lip with vexation as the other so
coolly alluded to a force which the young man knew to be overrated. Both
mused a little while in silence, when Montcalm renewed the conversation,
in a way that showed he believed the visit of his guest was solely to propose
terms of capitulation. On the other hand, Heyward began to throw sundry
inducements in the way of the French general, to betray the discoveries he
had made through the intercepted letter. The artifice of neither, however,
succeeded; and after a protracted and fruitless interview, Duncan took his
leave, favorably impressed with an opinion of the courtesy and talents of
the enemy’s captain, but as ignorant of what he came to learn as when he
arrived. Montcalm followed him as far as the entrance of the marquee,
renewing his invitations to the commandant of the fort to give him an
immediate meeting in the open ground between the two armies.
There they separated, and Duncan returned to the advanced post of the
French, accompanied as before; whence he instantly proceeded to the fort,
and to the quarters of his own commander.

CHAPTER XVI.
“EDG.—Before you fight the battle ope this letter.”
—Lear

Major Heyward found Munro attended only by his daughters. Alice sat
upon his knee, parting the gray hairs on the forehead of the old man with
her delicate fingers; and whenever he affected to frown on her trifling,
appeasing his assumed anger by pressing her ruby lips fondly on his
wrinkled brow. Cora was seated nigh them, a calm and amused looker-on;
regarding the wayward movements of her more youthful sister with that
species of maternal fondness which characterized her love for Alice. Not
only the dangers through which they had passed, but those which still
impended above them, appeared to be momentarily forgotten, in the
soothing indulgence of such a family meeting. It seemed as if they had
profited by the short truce, to devote an instant to the purest and best
affection; the daughters forgetting their fears, and the veteran his cares, in
the security of the moment. Of this scene, Duncan, who, in his eagerness to
report his arrival, had entered unannounced, stood many moments an
unobserved and a delighted spectator. But the quick and dancing eyes of
Alice soon caught a glimpse of his figure reflected from a glass, and she
sprang blushing from her father’s knee, exclaiming aloud:
“Major Heyward!”
“What of the lad?” demanded her father; “I have sent him to crack a little
with the Frenchman. Ha, sir, you are young, and you’re nimble! Away with
you, ye baggage; as if there were not troubles enough for a soldier, without
having his camp filled with such prattling hussies as yourself!”
Alice laughingly followed her sister, who instantly led the way from an
apartment where she perceived their presence was no longer desirable.
Munro, instead of demanding the result of the young man’s mission, paced
the room for a few moments, with his hands behind his back, and his head

inclined toward the floor, like a man lost in thought. At length he raised his
eyes, glistening with a father’s fondness, and exclaimed:
“They are a pair of excellent girls, Heyward, and such as any one may
boast of.”
“You are not now to learn my opinion of your daughters, Colonel
Munro.”
“True, lad, true,” interrupted the impatient old man; “you were about
opening your mind more fully on that matter the day you got in, but I did
not think it becoming in an old soldier to be talking of nuptial blessings and
wedding jokes when the enemies of his king were likely to be unbidden
guests at the feast. But I was wrong, Duncan, boy, I was wrong there; and I
am now ready to hear what you have to say.”
“Notwithstanding the pleasure your assurance gives me, dear sir, I have
just now, a message from Montcalm—”
“Let the Frenchman and all his host go to the devil, sir!” exclaimed the
hasty veteran. “He is not yet master of William Henry, nor shall he ever be,
provided Webb proves himself the man he should. No, sir, thank Heaven we
are not yet in such a strait that it can be said Munro is too much pressed to
discharge the little domestic duties of his own family. Your mother was the
only child of my bosom friend, Duncan; and I’ll just give you a hearing,
though all the knights of St. Louis were in a body at the sally-port, with the
French saint at their head, crying to speak a word under favor. A pretty
degree of knighthood, sir, is that which can be bought with sugar
hogsheads! and then your twopenny marquisates. The thistle is the order for
dignity and antiquity; the veritable ‘nemo me impune lacessit’ of chivalry.
Ye had ancestors in that degree, Duncan, and they were an ornament to the
nobles of Scotland.”
Heyward, who perceived that his superior took a malicious pleasure in
exhibiting his contempt for the message of the French general, was fain to
humor a spleen that he knew would be short-lived; he therefore, replied
with as much indifference as he could assume on such a subject:
“My request, as you know, sir, went so far as to presume to the honor of
being your son.”
“Ay, boy, you found words to make yourself very plainly comprehended.
But, let me ask ye, sir, have you been as intelligible to the girl?”

“On my honor, no,” exclaimed Duncan, warmly; “there would have been
an abuse of a confided trust, had I taken advantage of my situation for such
a purpose.”
“Your notions are those of a gentleman, Major Heyward, and well
enough in their place. But Cora Munro is a maiden too discreet, and of a
mind too elevated and improved, to need the guardianship even of a father.”
“Cora!”
“Ay—Cora! we are talking of your pretensions to Miss Munro, are we
not, sir?”
“I—I—I was not conscious of having mentioned her name,” said
Duncan, stammering.
“And to marry whom, then, did you wish my consent, Major Heyward?”
demanded the old soldier, erecting himself in the dignity of offended
feeling.
“You have another, and not less lovely child.”
“Alice!” exclaimed the father, in an astonishment equal to that with
which Duncan had just repeated the name of her sister.
“Such was the direction of my wishes, sir.”
The young man awaited in silence the result of the extraordinary effect
produced by a communication, which, as it now appeared, was so
unexpected. For several minutes Munro paced the chamber with long and
rapid strides, his rigid features working convulsively, and every faculty
seemingly absorbed in the musings of his own mind. At length, he paused
directly in front of Heyward, and riveting his eyes upon those of the other,
he said, with a lip that quivered violently:
“Duncan Heyward, I have loved you for the sake of him whose blood is
in your veins; I have loved you for your own good qualities; and I have
loved you, because I thought you would contribute to the happiness of my
child. But all this love would turn to hatred, were I assured that what I so
much apprehend is true.”
“God forbid that any act or thought of mine should lead to such a
change!” exclaimed the young man, whose eye never quailed under the
penetrating look it encountered. Without adverting to the impossibility of
the other’s comprehending those feelings which were hid in his own bosom,

Munro suffered himself to be appeased by the unaltered countenance he
met, and with a voice sensibly softened, he continued:
“You would be my son, Duncan, and you’re ignorant of the history of the
man you wish to call your father. Sit ye down, young man, and I will open
to you the wounds of a seared heart, in as few words as may be suitable.”
By this time, the message of Montcalm was as much forgotten by him
who bore it as by the man for whose ears it was intended. Each drew a
chair, and while the veteran communed a few moments with his own
thoughts, apparently in sadness, the youth suppressed his impatience in a
look and attitude of respectful attention. At length, the former spoke:
“You’ll know, already, Major Heyward, that my family was both ancient
and honorable,” commenced the Scotsman; “though it might not altogether
be endowed with that amount of wealth that should correspond with its
degree. I was, maybe, such an one as yourself when I plighted my faith to
Alice Graham, the only child of a neighboring laird of some estate. But the
connection was disagreeable to her father, on more accounts than my
poverty. I did, therefore, what an honest man should—restored the maiden
her troth, and departed the country in the service of my king. I had seen
many regions, and had shed much blood in different lands, before duty
called me to the islands of the West Indies. There it was my lot to form a
connection with one who in time became my wife, and the mother of Cora.
She was the daughter of a gentleman of those isles, by a lady whose
misfortune it was, if you will,” said the old man, proudly, “to be descended,
remotely, from that unfortunate class who are so basely enslaved to
administer to the wants of a luxurious people. Ay, sir, that is a curse,
entailed on Scotland by her unnatural union with a foreign and trading
people. But could I find a man among them who would dare to reflect on
my child, he should feel the weight of a father’s anger! Ha! Major
Heyward, you are yourself born at the south, where these unfortunate
beings are considered of a race inferior to your own.”
“’Tis most unfortunately true, sir,” said Duncan, unable any longer to
prevent his eyes from sinking to the floor in embarrassment.
“And you cast it on my child as a reproach! You scorn to mingle the
blood of the Heywards with one so degraded—lovely and virtuous though
she be?” fiercely demanded the jealous parent.

“Heaven protect me from a prejudice so unworthy of my reason!”
returned Duncan, at the same time conscious of such a feeling, and that as
deeply rooted as if it had been ingrafted in his nature. “The sweetness, the
beauty, the witchery of your younger daughter, Colonel Munro, might
explain my motives without imputing to me this injustice.”
“Ye are right, sir,” returned the old man, again changing his tones to
those of gentleness, or rather softness; “the girl is the image of what her
mother was at her years, and before she had become acquainted with grief.
When death deprived me of my wife I returned to Scotland, enriched by the
marriage; and, would you think it, Duncan! the suffering angel had
remained in the heartless state of celibacy twenty long years, and that for
the sake of a man who could forget her! She did more, sir; she overlooked
my want of faith, and, all difficulties being now removed, she took me for
her husband.”
“And became the mother of Alice?” exclaimed Duncan, with an
eagerness that might have proved dangerous at a moment when the thoughts
of Munro were less occupied that at present.
“She did, indeed,” said the old man, “and dearly did she pay for the
blessing she bestowed. But she is a saint in heaven, sir; and it ill becomes
one whose foot rests on the grave to mourn a lot so blessed. I had her but a
single year, though; a short term of happiness for one who had seen her
youth fade in hopeless pining.”
There was something so commanding in the distress of the old man, that
Heyward did not dare to venture a syllable of consolation. Munro sat utterly
unconscious of the other’s presence, his features exposed and working with
the anguish of his regrets, while heavy tears fell from his eyes, and rolled
unheeded from his cheeks to the floor. At length he moved, and as if
suddenly recovering his recollection; when he arose, and taking a single
turn across the room, he approached his companion with an air of military
grandeur, and demanded:
“Have you not, Major Heyward, some communication that I should hear
from the marquis de Montcalm?”
Duncan started in his turn, and immediately commenced in an
embarrassed voice, the half-forgotten message. It is unnecessary to dwell
upon the evasive though polite manner with which the French general had
eluded every attempt of Heyward to worm from him the purport of the

communication he had proposed making, or on the decided, though still
polished message, by which he now gave his enemy to understand, that,
unless he chose to receive it in person, he should not receive it at all. As
Munro listened to the detail of Duncan, the excited feelings of the father
gradually gave way before the obligations of his station, and when the other
was done, he saw before him nothing but the veteran, swelling with the
wounded feelings of a soldier.
“You have said enough, Major Heyward,” exclaimed the angry old man;
“enough to make a volume of commentary on French civility. Here has this
gentleman invited me to a conference, and when I send him a capable
substitute, for ye’re all that, Duncan, though your years are but few, he
answers me with a riddle.”
“He may have thought less favorably of the substitute, my dear sir; and
you will remember that the invitation, which he now repeats, was to the
commandant of the works, and not to his second.”
“Well, sir, is not a substitute clothed with all the power and dignity of
him who grants the commission? He wishes to confer with Munro! Faith,
sir, I have much inclination to indulge the man, if it should only be to let
him behold the firm countenance we maintain in spite of his numbers and
his summons. There might be not bad policy in such a stroke, young man.”
Duncan, who believed it of the last importance that they should speedily
come to the contents of the letter borne by the scout, gladly encouraged this
idea.
“Without doubt, he could gather no confidence by witnessing our
indifference,” he said.
“You never said truer word. I could wish, sir, that he would visit the
works in open day, and in the form of a storming party; that is the least
failing method of proving the countenance of an enemy, and would be far
preferable to the battering system he has chosen. The beauty and manliness
of warfare has been much deformed, Major Heyward, by the arts of your
Monsieur Vauban. Our ancestors were far above such scientific cowardice!”
“It may be very true, sir; but we are now obliged to repel art by art. What
is your pleasure in the matter of the interview?”
“I will meet the Frenchman, and that without fear or delay; promptly, sir,
as becomes a servant of my royal master. Go, Major Heyward, and give

them a flourish of the music; and send out a messenger to let them know
who is coming. We will follow with a small guard, for such respect is due to
one who holds the honor of his king in keeping; and hark’ee, Duncan,” he
added, in a half whisper, though they were alone, “it may be prudent to have
some aid at hand, in case there should be treachery at the bottom of it all.”
The young man availed himself of this order to quit the apartment; and,
as the day was fast coming to a close, he hastened without delay, to make
the necessary arrangements. A very few minutes only were necessary to
parade a few files, and to dispatch an orderly with a flag to announce the
approach of the commandant of the fort. When Duncan had done both
these, he led the guard to the sally-port, near which he found his superior
ready, waiting his appearance. As soon as the usual ceremonials of a
military departure were observed, the veteran and his more youthful
companion left the fortress, attended by the escort.
They had proceeded only a hundred yards from the works, when the little
array which attended the French general to the conference was seen issuing
from the hollow way which formed the bed of a brook that ran between the
batteries of the besiegers and the fort. From the moment that Munro left his
own works to appear in front of his enemy’s, his air had been grand, and his
step and countenance highly military. The instant he caught a glimpse of the
white plume that waved in the hat of Montcalm, his eye lighted, and age no
longer appeared to possess any influence over his vast and still muscular
person.
“Speak to the boys to be watchful, sir,” he said, in an undertone, to
Duncan; “and to look well to their flints and steel, for one is never safe with
a servant of these Louis’s; at the same time, we shall show them the front of
men in deep security. Ye’ll understand me, Major Heyward!”

He was interrupted by the clamor of a drum from the approaching
Frenchmen, which was immediately answered, when each party pushed an
orderly in advance, bearing a white flag, and the wary Scotsman halted with
his guard close at his back. As soon as this slight salutation had passed,
Montcalm moved toward them with a quick but graceful step, baring his
head to the veteran, and dropping his spotless plume nearly to the earth in
courtesy. If the air of Munro was more commanding and manly, it wanted
both the ease and insinuating polish of that of the Frenchman. Neither spoke
for a few moments, each regarding the other with curious and interested
eyes. Then, as became his superior rank and the nature of the interview,
Montcalm broke the silence. After uttering the usual words of greeting, he

turned to Duncan, and continued, with a smile of recognition, speaking
always in French:
“I am rejoiced, monsieur, that you have given us the pleasure of your
company on this occasion. There will be no necessity to employ an ordinary
interpreter; for, in your hands, I feel the same security as if I spoke your
language myself.”
Duncan acknowledged the compliment, when Montcalm, turning to his
guard, which in imitation of that of their enemies, pressed close upon him,
continued:
“En arriere, mes enfants—il fait chaud—-retirez-vous un peu.”
Before Major Heyward would imitate this proof of confidence, he
glanced his eyes around the plain, and beheld with uneasiness the numerous
dusky groups of savages, who looked out from the margin of the
surrounding woods, curious spectators of the interview.
“Monsieur de Montcalm will readily acknowledge the difference in our
situation,” he said, with some embarrassment, pointing at the same time
toward those dangerous foes, who were to be seen in almost every
direction. “Were we to dismiss our guard, we should stand here at the mercy
of our enemies.”
“Monsieur, you have the plighted faith of ‘un gentilhomme Français’, for
your safety,” returned Montcalm, laying his hand impressively on his heart;
“it should suffice.”
“It shall. Fall back,” Duncan added to the officer who led the escort; “fall
back, sir, beyond hearing, and wait for orders.”
Munro witnessed this movement with manifest uneasiness; nor did he fail
to demand an instant explanation.
“Is it not our interest, sir, to betray no distrust?” retorted Duncan.
“Monsieur de Montcalm pledges his word for our safety, and I have ordered
the men to withdraw a little, in order to prove how much we depend on his
assurance.”
“It may be all right, sir, but I have no overweening reliance on the faith of
these marquesses, or marquis, as they call themselves. Their patents of
nobility are too common to be certain that they bear the seal of true honor.”
“You forget, dear sir, that we confer with an officer, distinguished alike in
Europe and America for his deeds. From a soldier of his reputation we can

have nothing to apprehend.”
The old man made a gesture of resignation, though his rigid features still
betrayed his obstinate adherence to a distrust, which he derived from a sort
of hereditary contempt of his enemy, rather than from any present signs
which might warrant so uncharitable a feeling. Montcalm waited patiently
until this little dialogue in demi-voice was ended, when he drew nigher, and
opened the subject of their conference.
“I have solicited this interview from your superior, monsieur,” he said,
“because I believe he will allow himself to be persuaded that he has already
done everything which is necessary for the honor of his prince, and will
now listen to the admonitions of humanity. I will forever bear testimony
that his resistance has been gallant, and was continued as long as there was
hope.”
When this opening was translated to Munro, he answered with dignity,
but with sufficient courtesy:
“However I may prize such testimony from Monsieur Montcalm, it will
be more valuable when it shall be better merited.”
The French general smiled, as Duncan gave him the purport of this reply,
and observed:
“What is now so freely accorded to approved courage, may be refused to
useless obstinacy. Monsieur would wish to see my camp, and witness for
himself our numbers, and the impossibility of his resisting them with
success?”
“I know that the king of France is well served,” returned the unmoved
Scotsman, as soon as Duncan ended his translation; “but my own royal
master has as many and as faithful troops.”
“Though not at hand, fortunately for us,” said Montcalm, without
waiting, in his ardor, for the interpreter. “There is a destiny in war, to which
a brave man knows how to submit with the same courage that he faces his
foes.”
“Had I been conscious that Monsieur Montcalm was master of the
English, I should have spared myself the trouble of so awkward a
translation,” said the vexed Duncan, dryly; remembering instantly his recent
by-play with Munro.

“Your pardon, monsieur,” rejoined the Frenchman, suffering a slight
color to appear on his dark cheek. “There is a vast difference between
understanding and speaking a foreign tongue; you will, therefore, please to
assist me still.” Then, after a short pause, he added: “These hills afford us
every opportunity of reconnoitering your works, messieurs, and I am
possibly as well acquainted with their weak condition as you can be
yourselves.”
“Ask the French general if his glasses can reach to the Hudson,” said
Munro, proudly; “and if he knows when and where to expect the army of
Webb.”
“Let General Webb be his own interpreter,” returned the politic
Montcalm, suddenly extending an open letter toward Munro as he spoke;
“you will there learn, monsieur, that his movements are not likely to prove
embarrassing to my army.”
The veteran seized the offered paper, without waiting for Duncan to
translate the speech, and with an eagerness that betrayed how important he
deemed its contents. As his eye passed hastily over the words, his
countenance changed from its look of military pride to one of deep chagrin;
his lip began to quiver; and suffering the paper to fall from his hand, his
head dropped upon his chest, like that of a man whose hopes were withered
at a single blow. Duncan caught the letter from the ground, and without
apology for the liberty he took, he read at a glance its cruel purport. Their
common superior, so far from encouraging them to resist, advised a speedy
surrender, urging in the plainest language, as a reason, the utter
impossibility of his sending a single man to their rescue.
“Here is no deception!” exclaimed Duncan, examining the billet both
inside and out; “this is the signature of Webb, and must be the captured
letter.”
“The man has betrayed me!” Munro at length bitterly exclaimed; “he has
brought dishonor to the door of one where disgrace was never before
known to dwell, and shame has he heaped heavily on my gray hairs.”
“Say not so,” cried Duncan; “we are yet masters of the fort, and of our
honor. Let us, then, sell our lives at such a rate as shall make our enemies
believe the purchase too dear.”
“Boy, I thank thee,” exclaimed the old man, rousing himself from his
stupor; “you have, for once, reminded Munro of his duty. We will go back,

and dig our graves behind those ramparts.”
“Messieurs,” said Montcalm, advancing toward them a step, in generous
interest, “you little know Louis de St. Veran if you believe him capable of
profiting by this letter to humble brave men, or to build up a dishonest
reputation for himself. Listen to my terms before you leave me.”
“What says the Frenchman?” demanded the veteran, sternly; “does he
make a merit of having captured a scout, with a note from headquarters?
Sir, he had better raise this siege, to go and sit down before Edward if he
wishes to frighten his enemy with words.”
Duncan explained the other’s meaning.
“Monsieur de Montcalm, we will hear you,” the veteran added, more
calmly, as Duncan ended.
“To retain the fort is now impossible,” said his liberal enemy; “it is
necessary to the interests of my master that it should be destroyed; but as
for yourselves and your brave comrades, there is no privilege dear to a
soldier that shall be denied.”
“Our colors?” demanded Heyward.
“Carry them to England, and show them to your king.”
“Our arms?”
“Keep them; none can use them better.”
“Our march; the surrender of the place?”
“Shall all be done in a way most honorable to yourselves.”
Duncan now turned to explain these proposals to his commander, who
heard him with amazement, and a sensibility that was deeply touched by so
unusual and unexpected generosity.
“Go you, Duncan,” he said; “go with this marquess, as, indeed, marquess
he should be; go to his marquee and arrange it all. I have lived to see two
things in my old age that never did I expect to behold. An Englishman
afraid to support a friend, and a Frenchman too honest to profit by his
advantage.”
So saying, the veteran again dropped his head to his chest, and returned
slowly toward the fort, exhibiting, by the dejection of his air, to the anxious
garrison, a harbinger of evil tidings.

From the shock of this unexpected blow the haughty feelings of Munro
never recovered; but from that moment there commenced a change in his
determined character, which accompanied him to a speedy grave. Duncan
remained to settle the terms of the capitulation. He was seen to re-enter the
works during the first watches of the night, and immediately after a private
conference with the commandant, to leave them again. It was then openly
announced that hostilities must cease—Munro having signed a treaty by
which the place was to be yielded to the enemy, with the morning; the
garrison to retain their arms, the colors and their baggage, and,
consequently, according to military opinion, their honor.

CHAPTER XVII.
“Weave we the woof.
The thread is spun.
The web is wove.
The work is done.”—Gray

The hostile armies, which lay in the wilds of the Horican, passed the
night of the ninth of August, 1757, much in the manner they would, had
they encountered on the fairest field of Europe. While the conquered were
still, sullen, and dejected, the victors triumphed. But there are limits alike to
grief and joy; and long before the watches of the morning came the stillness
of those boundless woods was only broken by a gay call from some
exulting young Frenchman of the advanced pickets, or a menacing
challenge from the fort, which sternly forbade the approach of any hostile
footsteps before the stipulated moment. Even these occasional threatening
sounds ceased to be heard in that dull hour which precedes the day, at which
period a listener might have sought in vain any evidence of the presence of
those armed powers that then slumbered on the shores of the “holy lake.”
It was during these moments of deep silence that the canvas which
concealed the entrance to a spacious marquee in the French encampment
was shoved aside, and a man issued from beneath the drapery into the open
air. He was enveloped in a cloak that might have been intended as a
protection from the chilling damps of the woods, but which served equally
well as a mantle to conceal his person. He was permitted to pass the
grenadier, who watched over the slumbers of the French commander,
without interruption, the man making the usual salute which betokens
military deference, as the other passed swiftly through the little city of tents,
in the direction of William Henry. Whenever this unknown individual
encountered one of the numberless sentinels who crossed his path, his
answer was prompt, and, as it appeared, satisfactory; for he was uniformly
allowed to proceed without further interrogation.

With the exception of such repeated but brief interruptions, he had moved
silently from the center of the camp to its most advanced outposts, when he
drew nigh the soldier who held his watch nearest to the works of the enemy.
As he approached he was received with the usual challenge:
“Qui vive?”
“France,” was the reply.
“Le mot d’ordre?”
“La victorie,” said the other, drawing so nigh as to be heard in a loud
whisper.
“C’est bien,” returned the sentinel, throwing his musket from the charge
to his shoulder; “vous promenez bien matin, monsieur!”
“Il est necessaire d’être vigilant, mon enfant,” the other observed,
dropping a fold of his cloak, and looking the soldier close in the face as he
passed him, still continuing his way toward the British fortification. The
man started; his arms rattled heavily as he threw them forward in the lowest
and most respectful salute; and when he had again recovered his piece, he
turned to walk his post, muttering between his teeth:
“Il faut être vigilant, en vérité! je crois que nous avons là, un caporal qui
ne dort jamais!”
The officer proceeded, without affecting to hear the words which escaped
the sentinel in his surprise; nor did he again pause until he had reached the
low strand, and in a somewhat dangerous vicinity to the western water
bastion of the fort. The light of an obscure moon was just sufficient to
render objects, though dim, perceptible in their outlines. He, therefore, took
the precaution to place himself against the trunk of a tree, where he leaned
for many minutes, and seemed to contemplate the dark and silent mounds of
the English works in profound attention. His gaze at the ramparts was not
that of a curious or idle spectator; but his looks wandered from point to
point, denoting his knowledge of military usages, and betraying that his
search was not unaccompanied by distrust. At length he appeared satisfied;
and having cast his eyes impatiently upward toward the summit of the
eastern mountain, as if anticipating the approach of the morning, he was in
the act of turning on his footsteps, when a light sound on the nearest angle
of the bastion caught his ear, and induced him to remain.

Just then a figure was seen to approach the edge of the rampart, where it
stood, apparently contemplating in its turn the distant tents of the French
encampment. Its head was then turned toward the east, as though equally
anxious for the appearance of light, when the form leaned against the
mound, and seemed to gaze upon the glassy expanse of the waters, which,
like a submarine firmament, glittered with its thousand mimic stars. The
melancholy air, the hour, together with the vast frame of the man who thus
leaned, musing, against the English ramparts, left no doubt as to his person
in the mind of the observant spectator. Delicacy, no less than prudence, now
urged him to retire; and he had moved cautiously round the body of the tree
for that purpose, when another sound drew his attention, and once more
arrested his footsteps. It was a low and almost inaudible movement of the
water, and was succeeded by a grating of pebbles one against the other. In a
moment he saw a dark form rise, as it were, out of the lake, and steal
without further noise to the land, within a few feet of the place where he
himself stood. A rifle next slowly rose between his eyes and the watery
mirror; but before it could be discharged his own hand was on the lock.
“Hugh!” exclaimed the savage, whose treacherous aim was so singularly
and so unexpectedly interrupted.
Without making any reply, the French officer laid his hand on the
shoulder of the Indian, and led him in profound silence to a distance from
the spot, where their subsequent dialogue might have proved dangerous,
and where it seemed that one of them, at least, sought a victim. Then
throwing open his cloak, so as to expose his uniform and the cross of St.
Louis which was suspended at his breast, Montcalm sternly demanded:
“What means this? Does not my son know that the hatchet is buried
between the English and his Canadian Father?”
“What can the Hurons do?” returned the savage, speaking also, though
imperfectly, in the French language.
“Not a warrior has a scalp, and the pale faces make friends!”
“Ha, Le Renard Subtil! Methinks this is an excess of zeal for a friend
who was so late an enemy! How many suns have set since Le Renard struck
the war-post of the English?”
“Where is that sun?” demanded the sullen savage. “Behind the hill; and it
is dark and cold. But when he comes again, it will be bright and warm. Le

Subtil is the sun of his tribe. There have been clouds, and many mountains
between him and his nation; but now he shines and it is a clear sky!”
“That Le Renard has power with his people, I well know,” said
Montcalm; “for yesterday he hunted for their scalps, and to-day they hear
him at the council-fire.”
“Magua is a great chief.”
“Let him prove it, by teaching his nation how to conduct themselves
toward our new friends.”
“Why did the chief of the Canadas bring his young men into the woods,
and fire his cannon at the earthen house?” demanded the subtle Indian.
“To subdue it. My master owns the land, and your father was ordered to
drive off these English squatters. They have consented to go, and now he
calls them enemies no longer.”
“’Tis well. Magua took the hatchet to color it with blood. It is now bright;
when it is red, it shall be buried.”
“But Magua is pledged not to sully the lilies of France. The enemies of
the great king across the salt lake are his enemies; his friends, the friends of
the Hurons.”
“Friends!” repeated the Indian in scorn. “Let his father give Magua a
hand.”
Montcalm, who felt that his influence over the warlike tribes he had
gathered was to be maintained by concession rather than by power,
complied reluctantly with the other’s request. The savage placed the fingers
of the French commander on a deep scar in his bosom, and then exultingly
demanded:
“Does my father know that?”
“What warrior does not? ’Tis where a leaden bullet has cut.”
“And this?” continued the Indian, who had turned his naked back to the
other, his body being without its usual calico mantle.
“This!—my son has been sadly injured here; who has done this?”
“Magua slept hard in the English wigwams, and the sticks have left their
mark,” returned the savage, with a hollow laugh, which did not conceal the
fierce temper that nearly choked him. Then, recollecting himself, with

sudden and native dignity, he added: “Go; teach your young men it is peace.
Le Renard Subtil knows how to speak to a Huron warrior.”
Without deigning to bestow further words, or to wait for any answer, the
savage cast his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and moved silently through
the encampment toward the woods where his own tribe was known to lie.
Every few yards as he proceeded he was challenged by the sentinels; but he
stalked sullenly onward, utterly disregarding the summons of the soldiers,
who only spared his life because they knew the air and tread no less than
the obstinate daring of an Indian.
Montcalm lingered long and melancholy on the strand where he had been
left by his companion, brooding deeply on the temper which his
ungovernable ally had just discovered. Already had his fair fame been
tarnished by one horrid scene, and in circumstances fearfully resembling
those under which he now found himself. As he mused he became keenly
sensible of the deep responsibility they assume who disregard the means to
attain the end, and of all the danger of setting in motion an engine which it
exceeds human power to control. Then shaking off a train of reflections that
he accounted a weakness in such a moment of triumph, he retraced his steps
toward his tent, giving the order as he passed to make the signal that should
arouse the army from its slumbers.
The first tap of the French drums was echoed from the bosom of the fort,
and presently the valley was filled with the strains of martial music, rising
long, thrilling and lively above the rattling accompaniment. The horns of
the victors sounded merry and cheerful flourishes, until the last laggard of
the camp was at his post; but the instant the British fifes had blown their
shrill signal, they became mute. In the meantime the day had dawned, and
when the line of the French army was ready to receive its general, the rays
of a brilliant sun were glancing along the glittering array. Then that success,
which was already so well known, was officially announced; the favored
band who were selected to guard the gates of the fort were detailed, and
defiled before their chief; the signal of their approach was given, and all the
usual preparations for a change of masters were ordered and executed
directly under the guns of the contested works.
A very different scene presented itself within the lines of the Anglo-
American army. As soon as the warning signal was given, it exhibited all
the signs of a hurried and forced departure. The sullen soldiers shouldered

their empty tubes and fell into their places, like men whose blood had been
heated by the past contest, and who only desired the opportunity to revenge
an indignity which was still wounding to their pride, concealed as it was
under the observances of military etiquette.
Women and children ran from place to place, some bearing the scanty
remnants of their baggage, and others searching in the ranks for those
countenances they looked up to for protection.
Munro appeared among his silent troops firm but dejected. It was evident
that the unexpected blow had struck deep into his heart, though he struggled
to sustain his misfortune with the port of a man.
Duncan was touched at the quiet and impressive exhibition of his grief.
He had discharged his own duty, and he now pressed to the side of the old
man, to know in what particular he might serve him.
“My daughters,” was the brief but expressive reply.
“Good heavens! are not arrangements already made for their
convenience?”
“To-day I am only a soldier, Major Heyward,” said the veteran. “All that
you see here, claim alike to be my children.”
Duncan had heard enough. Without losing one of those moments which
had now become so precious, he flew toward the quarters of Munro, in
quest of the sisters. He found them on the threshold of the low edifice,
already prepared to depart, and surrounded by a clamorous and weeping
assemblage of their own sex, that had gathered about the place, with a sort
of instinctive consciousness that it was the point most likely to be protected.
Though the cheeks of Cora were pale and her countenance anxious, she had
lost none of her firmness; but the eyes of Alice were inflamed, and betrayed
how long and bitterly she had wept. They both, however, received the
young man with undisguised pleasure; the former, for a novelty, being the
first to speak.
“The fort is lost,” she said, with a melancholy smile; “though our good
name, I trust, remains.”
“’Tis brighter than ever. But, dearest Miss Munro, it is time to think less
of others, and to make some provision for yourself. Military usage—pride
—that pride on which you so much value yourself, demands that your father
and I should for a little while continue with the troops. Then where to seek a

proper protector for you against the confusion and chances of such a
scene?”
“None is necessary,” returned Cora; “who will dare to injure or insult the
daughter of such a father, at a time like this?”
“I would not leave you alone,” continued the youth, looking about him in
a hurried manner, “for the command of the best regiment in the pay of the
king. Remember, our Alice is not gifted with all your firmness, and God
only knows the terror she might endure.”
“You may be right,” Cora replied, smiling again, but far more sadly than
before. “Listen! chance has already sent us a friend when he is most
needed.”
Duncan did listen, and on the instant comprehended her meaning. The
low and serious sounds of the sacred music, so well known to the eastern
provinces, caught his ear, and instantly drew him to an apartment in an
adjacent building, which had already been deserted by its customary
tenants. There he found David, pouring out his pious feelings through the
only medium in which he ever indulged. Duncan waited, until, by the
cessation of the movement of the hand, he believed the strain was ended,
when, by touching his shoulder, he drew the attention of the other to
himself, and in a few words explained his wishes.
“Even so,” replied the single-minded disciple of the King of Israel, when
the young man had ended; “I have found much that is comely and
melodious in the maidens, and it is fitting that we who have consorted in so
much peril, should abide together in peace. I will attend them, when I have
completed my morning praise, to which nothing is now wanting but the
doxology. Wilt thou bear a part, friend? The meter is common, and the tune
‘Southwell’.”
Then, extending the little volume, and giving the pitch of the air anew
with considerate attention, David recommenced and finished his strains,
with a fixedness of manner that it was not easy to interrupt. Heyward was
fain to wait until the verse was ended; when, seeing David relieving himself
from the spectacles, and replacing the book, he continued.
“It will be your duty to see that none dare to approach the ladies with any
rude intention, or to offer insult or taunt at the misfortune of their brave
father. In this task you will be seconded by the domestics of their
household.”

“Even so.”
“It is possible that the Indians and stragglers of the enemy may intrude,
in which case you will remind them of the terms of the capitulation, and
threaten to report their conduct to Montcalm. A word will suffice.”
“If not, I have that here which shall,” returned David, exhibiting his
book, with an air in which meekness and confidence were singularly
blended. Here are words which, uttered, or rather thundered, with proper
emphasis, and in measured time, shall quiet the most unruly temper:
“‘Why rage the heathen furiously’?”
“Enough,” said Heyward, interrupting the burst of his musical
invocation; “we understand each other; it is time that we should now
assume our respective duties.”
Gamut cheerfully assented, and together they sought the females. Cora
received her new and somewhat extraordinary protector courteously, at
least; and even the pallid features of Alice lighted again with some of their
native archness as she thanked Heyward for his care. Duncan took occasion
to assure them he had done the best that circumstances permitted, and, as he
believed, quite enough for the security of their feelings; of danger there was
none. He then spoke gladly of his intention to rejoin them the moment he
had led the advance a few miles toward the Hudson, and immediately took
his leave.
By this time the signal for departure had been given, and the head of the
English column was in motion. The sisters started at the sound, and
glancing their eyes around, they saw the white uniforms of the French
grenadiers, who had already taken possession of the gates of the fort. At that
moment an enormous cloud seemed to pass suddenly above their heads,
and, looking upward, they discovered that they stood beneath the wide folds
of the standard of France.
“Let us go,” said Cora; “this is no longer a fit place for the children of an
English officer.”
Alice clung to the arm of her sister, and together they left the parade,
accompanied by the moving throng that surrounded them.
As they passed the gates, the French officers, who had learned their rank,
bowed often and low, forbearing, however, to intrude those attentions which
they saw, with peculiar tact, might not be agreeable. As every vehicle and

each beast of burden was occupied by the sick and wounded, Cora had
decided to endure the fatigues of a foot march, rather than interfere with
their comforts. Indeed, many a maimed and feeble soldier was compelled to
drag his exhausted limbs in the rear of the columns, for the want of the
necessary means of conveyance in that wilderness. The whole, however,
was in motion; the weak and wounded, groaning and in suffering; their
comrades silent and sullen; and the women and children in terror, they knew
not of what.
As the confused and timid throng left the protecting mounds of the fort,
and issued on the open plain, the whole scene was at once presented to their
eyes. At a little distance on the right, and somewhat in the rear, the French
army stood to their arms, Montcalm having collected his parties, so soon as
his guards had possession of the works. They were attentive but silent
observers of the proceedings of the vanquished, failing in none of the
stipulated military honors, and offering no taunt or insult, in their success,
to their less fortunate foes. Living masses of the English, to the amount, in
the whole, of near three thousand, were moving slowly across the plain,
toward the common center, and gradually approached each other, as they
converged to the point of their march, a vista cut through the lofty trees,
where the road to the Hudson entered the forest. Along the sweeping
borders of the woods hung a dark cloud of savages, eyeing the passage of
their enemies, and hovering at a distance, like vultures who were only kept
from swooping on their prey by the presence and restraint of a superior
army. A few had straggled among the conquered columns, where they
stalked in sullen discontent; attentive, though, as yet, passive observers of
the moving multitude.
The advance, with Heyward at its head, had already reached the defile,
and was slowly disappearing, when the attention of Cora was drawn to a
collection of stragglers by the sounds of contention. A truant provincial was
paying the forfeit of his disobedience, by being plundered of those very
effects which had caused him to desert his place in the ranks. The man was
of powerful frame, and too avaricious to part with his goods without a
struggle. Individuals from either party interfered; the one side to prevent
and the other to aid in the robbery. Voices grew loud and angry, and a
hundred savages appeared, as it were, by magic, where a dozen only had
been seen a minute before. It was then that Cora saw the form of Magua
gliding among his countrymen, and speaking with his fatal and artful

eloquence. The mass of women and children stopped, and hovered together
like alarmed and fluttering birds. But the cupidity of the Indian was soon
gratified, and the different bodies again moved slowly onward.
The savages now fell back, and seemed content to let their enemies
advance without further molestation. But, as the female crowd approached
them, the gaudy colors of a shawl attracted the eyes of a wild and untutored
Huron. He advanced to seize it without the least hesitation. The woman,
more in terror than through love of the ornament, wrapped her child in the
coveted article, and folded both more closely to her bosom. Cora was in the
act of speaking, with an intent to advise the woman to abandon the trifle,
when the savage relinquished his hold of the shawl, and tore the screaming
infant from her arms. Abandoning everything to the greedy grasp of those
around her, the mother darted, with distraction in her mien, to reclaim her
child. The Indian smiled grimly, and extended one hand, in sign of a
willingness to exchange, while, with the other, he flourished the babe over
his head, holding it by the feet as if to enhance the value of the ransom.
“Here—here—there—all—any—everything!” exclaimed the breathless
woman, tearing the lighter articles of dress from her person with ill-directed
and trembling fingers; “take all, but give me my babe!”
The savage spurned the worthless rags, and perceiving that the shawl had
already become a prize to another, his bantering but sullen smile changing
to a gleam of ferocity, he dashed the head of the infant against a rock, and
cast its quivering remains to her very feet. For an instant the mother stood,
like a statue of despair, looking wildly down at the unseemly object, which
had so lately nestled in her bosom and smiled in her face; and then she
raised her eyes and countenance toward heaven, as if calling on God to
curse the perpetrator of the foul deed. She was spared the sin of such a
prayer for, maddened at his disappointment, and excited at the sight of
blood, the Huron mercifully drove his tomahawk into her own brain. The
mother sank under the blow, and fell, grasping at her child, in death, with
the same engrossing love that had caused her to cherish it when living.
At that dangerous moment, Magua placed his hands to his mouth, and
raised the fatal and appalling whoop. The scattered Indians started at the
well-known cry, as coursers bound at the signal to quit the goal; and
directly there arose such a yell along the plain, and through the arches of the
wood, as seldom burst from human lips before. They who heard it listened

with a curdling horror at the heart, little inferior to that dread which may be
expected to attend the blasts of the final summons.
More than two thousand raving savages broke from the forest at the
signal, and threw themselves across the fatal plain with instinctive alacrity.
We shall not dwell on the revolting horrors that succeeded. Death was
everywhere, and in his most terrific and disgusting aspects. Resistance only
served to inflame the murderers, who inflicted their furious blows long after
their victims were beyond the power of their resentment. The flow of blood
might be likened to the outbreaking of a torrent; and as the natives became
heated and maddened by the sight, many among them even kneeled to the
earth, and drank freely, exultingly, hellishly, of the crimson tide.
The trained bodies of the troops threw themselves quickly into solid
masses, endeavoring to awe their assailants by the imposing appearance of
a military front. The experiment in some measure succeeded, though far too
many suffered their unloaded muskets to be torn from their hands, in the
vain hope of appeasing the savages.
In such a scene none had leisure to note the fleeting moments. It might
have been ten minutes (it seemed an age) that the sisters had stood riveted
to one spot, horror-stricken and nearly helpless. When the first blow was
struck, their screaming companions had pressed upon them in a body,
rendering flight impossible; and now that fear or death had scattered most,
if not all, from around them, they saw no avenue open, but such as
conducted to the tomahawks of their foes. On every side arose shrieks,
groans, exhortations and curses. At this moment, Alice caught a glimpse of
the vast form of her father, moving rapidly across the plain, in the direction
of the French army. He was, in truth, proceeding to Montcalm, fearless of
every danger, to claim the tardy escort for which he had before conditioned.
Fifty glittering axes and barbed spears were offered unheeded at his life, but
the savages respected his rank and calmness, even in their fury. The
dangerous weapons were brushed aside by the still nervous arm of the
veteran, or fell of themselves, after menacing an act that it would seem no
one had courage to perform. Fortunately, the vindictive Magua was
searching for his victim in the very band the veteran had just quitted.
“Father—father—we are here!” shrieked Alice, as he passed, at no great
distance, without appearing to heed them. “Come to us, father, or we die!”

The cry was repeated, and in terms and tones that might have melted a
heart of stone, but it was unanswered. Once, indeed, the old man appeared
to catch the sound, for he paused and listened; but Alice had dropped
senseless on the earth, and Cora had sunk at her side, hovering in untiring
tenderness over her lifeless form. Munro shook his head in disappointment,
and proceeded, bent on the high duty of his station.
“Lady,” said Gamut, who, helpless and useless as he was, had not yet
dreamed of deserting his trust, “it is the jubilee of the devils, and this is not
a meet place for Christians to tarry in. Let us up and fly.”
“Go,” said Cora, still gazing at her unconscious sister; “save thyself. To
me thou canst not be of further use.”
David comprehended the unyielding character of her resolution, by the
simple but expressive gesture that accompanied her words. He gazed for a
moment at the dusky forms that were acting their hellish rites on every side
of him, and his tall person grew more erect while his chest heaved, and
every feature swelled, and seemed to speak with the power of the feelings
by which he was governed.
“If the Jewish boy might tame the great spirit of Saul by the sound of his
harp, and the words of sacred song, it may not be amiss,” he said, “to try the
potency of music here.”
Then raising his voice to its highest tone, he poured out a strain so
powerful as to be heard even amid the din of that bloody field. More than
one savage rushed toward them, thinking to rifle the unprotected sisters of
their attire, and bear away their scalps; but when they found this strange and
unmoved figure riveted to his post, they paused to listen. Astonishment
soon changed to admiration, and they passed on to other and less
courageous victims, openly expressing their satisfaction at the firmness
with which the white warrior sang his death song. Encouraged and deluded
by his success, David exerted all his powers to extend what he believed so
holy an influence. The unwonted sounds caught the ears of a distant savage,
who flew raging from group to group, like one who, scorning to touch the
vulgar herd, hunted for some victim more worthy of his renown. It was
Magua, who uttered a yell of pleasure when he beheld his ancient prisoners
again at his mercy.
“Come,” he said, laying his soiled hands on the dress of Cora, “the
wigwam of the Huron is still open. Is it not better than this place?”

“Away!” cried Cora, veiling her eyes from his revolting aspect.
The Indian laughed tauntingly, as he held up his reeking hand, and
answered: “It is red, but it comes from white veins!”
“Monster! there is blood, oceans of blood, upon thy soul; thy spirit has
moved this scene.”
“Magua is a great chief!” returned the exulting savage, “will the dark-
hair go to his tribe?”

“Never! strike if thou wilt, and complete thy revenge.” He hesitated a
moment, and then catching the light and senseless form of Alice in his arms,
the subtle Indian moved swiftly across the plain toward the woods.

“Hold!” shrieked Cora, following wildly on his footsteps; “release the
child! wretch! what is’t you do?”
But Magua was deaf to her voice; or, rather, he knew his power, and was
determined to maintain it.
“Stay—lady—stay,” called Gamut, after the unconscious Cora. “The holy
charm is beginning to be felt, and soon shalt thou see this horrid tumult
stilled.”
Perceiving that, in his turn, he was unheeded, the faithful David followed
the distracted sister, raising his voice again in sacred song, and sweeping
the air to the measure, with his long arm, in diligent accompaniment. In this
manner they traversed the plain, through the flying, the wounded and the
dead. The fierce Huron was, at any time, sufficient for himself and the
victim that he bore; though Cora would have fallen more than once under
the blows of her savage enemies, but for the extraordinary being who
stalked in her rear, and who now appeared to the astonished natives gifted
with the protecting spirit of madness.
Magua, who knew how to avoid the more pressing dangers, and also to
elude pursuit, entered the woods through a low ravine, where he quickly
found the Narragansetts, which the travelers had abandoned so shortly
before, awaiting his appearance, in custody of a savage as fierce and malign
in his expression as himself. Laying Alice on one of the horses, he made a
sign to Cora to mount the other.
Notwithstanding the horror excited by the presence of her captor, there
was a present relief in escaping from the bloody scene enacting on the
plain, to which Cora could not be altogether insensible. She took her seat,
and held forth her arms for her sister, with an air of entreaty and love that
even the Huron could not deny. Placing Alice, then, on the same animal
with Cora, he seized the bridle, and commenced his route by plunging
deeper into the forest. David, perceiving that he was left alone, utterly
disregarded as a subject too worthless even to destroy, threw his long limb
across the saddle of the beast they had deserted, and made such progress in
the pursuit as the difficulties of the path permitted.
They soon began to ascend; but as the motion had a tendency to revive
the dormant faculties of her sister, the attention of Cora was too much
divided between the tenderest solicitude in her behalf, and in listening to the
cries which were still too audible on the plain, to note the direction in which

they journeyed. When, however, they gained the flattened surface of the
mountain-top, and approached the eastern precipice, she recognized the spot
to which she had once before been led under the more friendly auspices of
the scout. Here Magua suffered them to dismount; and notwithstanding
their own captivity, the curiosity which seems inseparable from horror,
induced them to gaze at the sickening sight below.
The cruel work was still unchecked. On every side the captured were
flying before their relentless persecutors, while the armed columns of the
Christian king stood fast in an apathy which has never been explained, and
which has left an immovable blot on the otherwise fair escutcheon of their
leader. Nor was the sword of death stayed until cupidity got the mastery of
revenge. Then, indeed, the shrieks of the wounded, and the yells of their
murderers grew less frequent, until, finally, the cries of horror were lost to
their ear, or were drowned in the loud, long and piercing whoops of the
triumphant savages.

CHAPTER XVIII.
“Why, anything;
An honorable murderer, if you will;
For naught I did in hate, but all in honor.”
—Othello

The bloody and inhuman scene rather incidentally mentioned than
described in the preceding chapter, is conspicuous in the pages of colonial
history by the merited title of “The Massacre of William Henry.” It so far
deepened the stain which a previous and very similar event had left upon
the reputation of the French commander that it was not entirely erased by
his early and glorious death. It is now becoming obscured by time; and
thousands, who know that Montcalm died like a hero on the plains of
Abraham, have yet to learn how much he was deficient in that moral
courage without which no man can be truly great. Pages might yet be
written to prove, from this illustrious example, the defects of human
excellence; to show how easy it is for generous sentiments, high courtesy,
and chivalrous courage to lose their influence beneath the chilling blight of
selfishness, and to exhibit to the world a man who was great in all the minor
attributes of character, but who was found wanting when it became
necessary to prove how much principle is superior to policy. But the task
would exceed our prerogatives; and, as history, like love, is so apt to
surround her heroes with an atmosphere of imaginary brightness, it is
probable that Louis de Saint Veran will be viewed by posterity only as the
gallant defender of his country, while his cruel apathy on the shores of the
Oswego and of the Horican will be forgotten. Deeply regretting this
weakness on the part of a sister muse, we shall at once retire from her
sacred precincts, within the proper limits of our own humble vocation.
The third day from the capture of the fort was drawing to a close, but the
business of the narrative must still detain the reader on the shores of the
“holy lake.” When last seen, the environs of the works were filled with

violence and uproar. They were now possessed by stillness and death. The
blood-stained conquerors had departed; and their camp, which had so lately
rung with the merry rejoicings of a victorious army, lay a silent and
deserted city of huts. The fortress was a smoldering ruin; charred rafters,
fragments of exploded artillery, and rent mason-work covering its earthen
mounds in confused disorder.
A frightful change had also occurred in the season. The sun had hid its
warmth behind an impenetrable mass of vapor, and hundreds of human
forms, which had blackened beneath the fierce heats of August, were
stiffening in their deformity before the blasts of a premature November. The
curling and spotless mists, which had been seen sailing above the hills
toward the north, were now returning in an interminable dusky sheet, that
was urged along by the fury of a tempest. The crowded mirror of the
Horican was gone; and, in its place, the green and angry waters lashed the
shores, as if indignantly casting back its impurities to the polluted strand.
Still the clear fountain retained a portion of its charmed influence, but it
reflected only the somber gloom that fell from the impending heavens. That
humid and congenial atmosphere which commonly adorned the view,
veiling its harshness, and softening its asperities, had disappeared, the
northern air poured across the waste of water so harsh and unmingled, that
nothing was left to be conjectured by the eye, or fashioned by the fancy.
The fiercer element had cropped the verdure of the plain, which looked
as though it were scathed by the consuming lightning. But, here and there, a
dark green tuft rose in the midst of the desolation; the earliest fruits of a soil
that had been fattened with human blood. The whole landscape, which, seen
by a favoring light, and in a genial temperature, had been found so lovely,
appeared now like some pictured allegory of life, in which objects were
arrayed in their harshest but truest colors, and without the relief of any
shadowing.
The solitary and arid blades of grass arose from the passing gusts
fearfully perceptible; the bold and rocky mountains were too distinct in
their barrenness, and the eye even sought relief, in vain, by attempting to
pierce the illimitable void of heaven, which was shut to its gaze by the
dusky sheet of ragged and driving vapor.
The wind blew unequally; sometimes sweeping heavily along the ground,
seeming to whisper its moanings in the cold ears of the dead, then rising in

a shrill and mournful whistling, it entered the forest with a rush that filled
the air with the leaves and branches it scattered in its path. Amid the
unnatural shower, a few hungry ravens struggled with the gale; but no
sooner was the green ocean of woods which stretched beneath them, passed,
than they gladly stopped, at random, to their hideous banquet.
In short, it was a scene of wildness and desolation; and it appeared as if
all who had profanely entered it had been stricken, at a blow, by the
relentless arm of death. But the prohibition had ceased; and for the first
time since the perpetrators of those foul deeds which had assisted to
disfigure the scene were gone, living human beings had now presumed to
approach the place.
About an hour before the setting of the sun, on the day already
mentioned, the forms of five men might have been seen issuing from the
narrow vista of trees, where the path to the Hudson entered the forest, and
advancing in the direction of the ruined works. At first their progress was
slow and guarded, as though they entered with reluctance amid the horrors
of the post, or dreaded the renewal of its frightful incidents. A light figure
preceded the rest of the party, with the caution and activity of a native;
ascending every hillock to reconnoiter, and indicating by gestures, to his
companions, the route he deemed it most prudent to pursue. Nor were those
in the rear wanting in every caution and foresight known to forest warfare.
One among them, he also was an Indian, moved a little on one flank, and
watched the margin of the woods, with eyes long accustomed to read the
smallest sign of danger. The remaining three were white, though clad in
vestments adapted, both in quality and color, to their present hazardous
pursuit—that of hanging on the skirts of a retiring army in the wilderness.
The effects produced by the appalling sights that constantly arose in their
path to the lake shore, were as different as the characters of the respective
individuals who composed the party. The youth in front threw serious but
furtive glances at the mangled victims, as he stepped lightly across the
plain, afraid to exhibit his feelings, and yet too inexperienced to quell
entirely their sudden and powerful influence. His red associate, however,
was superior to such a weakness. He passed the groups of dead with a
steadiness of purpose, and an eye so calm, that nothing but long and
inveterate practise could enable him to maintain. The sensations produced
in the minds of even the white men were different, though uniformly

sorrowful. One, whose gray locks and furrowed lineaments, blending with a
martial air and tread, betrayed, in spite of the disguise of a woodsman’s
dress, a man long experienced in scenes of war, was not ashamed to groan
aloud, whenever a spectacle of more than usual horror came under his view.
The young man at his elbow shuddered, but seemed to suppress his feelings
in tenderness to his companion. Of them all, the straggler who brought up
the rear appeared alone to betray his real thoughts, without fear of
observation or dread of consequences. He gazed at the most appalling sight
with eyes and muscles that knew not how to waver, but with execrations so
bitter and deep as to denote how much he denounced the crime of his
enemies.
The reader will perceive at once, in these respective characters, the
Mohicans, and their white friend, the scout; together with Munro and
Heyward. It was, in truth, the father in quest of his children, attended by the
youth who felt so deep a stake in their happiness, and those brave and trusty
foresters, who had already proved their skill and fidelity through the trying
scenes related.
When Uncas, who moved in front, had reached the center of the plain, he
raised a cry that drew his companions in a body to the spot. The young
warrior had halted over a group of females who lay in a cluster, a confused
mass of dead. Notwithstanding the revolting horror of the exhibition,
Munro and Heyward flew toward the festering heap, endeavoring, with a
love that no unseemliness could extinguish, to discover whether any
vestiges of those they sought were to be seen among the tattered and many-
colored garments. The father and the lover found instant relief in the search;
though each was condemned again to experience the misery of an
uncertainty that was hardly less insupportable than the most revolting truth.
They were standing, silent and thoughtful, around the melancholy pile,
when the scout approached. Eyeing the sad spectacle with an angry
countenance, the sturdy woodsman, for the first time since his entering the
plain, spoke intelligibly and aloud:
“I have been on many a shocking field, and have followed a trail of blood
for weary miles,” he said, “but never have I found the hand of the devil so
plain as it is here to be seen! Revenge is an Indian feeling, and all who
know me know that there is no cross in my veins; but this much will I say—
here, in the face of heaven, and with the power of the Lord so manifest in

this howling wilderness—that should these Frenchers ever trust themselves
again within the range of a ragged bullet, there is one rifle which shall play
its part so long as flint will fire or powder burn! I leave the tomahawk and
knife to such as have a natural gift to use them. What say you,
Chingachgook,” he added, in Delaware; “shall the Hurons boast of this to
their women when the deep snows come?”
A gleam of resentment flashed across the dark lineaments of the Mohican
chief; he loosened his knife in his sheath; and then turning calmly from the
sight, his countenance settled into a repose as deep as if he knew the
instigation of passion.
“Montcalm! Montcalm!” continued the deeply resentful and less self-
restrained scout; “they say a time must come when all the deeds done in the
flesh will be seen at a single look; and that by eyes cleared from mortal
infirmities. Woe betide the wretch who is born to behold this plain, with the
judgment hanging about his soul! Ha—as I am a man of white blood,
yonder lies a red-skin, without the hair of his head where nature rooted it!
Look to him, Delaware; it may be one of your missing people; and he
should have burial like a stout warrior. I see it in your eye, Sagamore; a
Huron pays for this, afore the fall winds have blown away the scent of the
blood!”
Chingachgook approached the mutilated form, and, turning it over, he
found the distinguishing marks of one of those six allied tribes, or nations,
as they were called, who, while they fought in the English ranks, were so
deadly hostile to his own people. Spurning the loathsome object with his
foot, he turned from it with the same indifference he would have quitted a
brute carcass. The scout comprehended the action, and very deliberately
pursued his own way, continuing, however, his denunciations against the
French commander in the same resentful strain.
“Nothing but vast wisdom and unlimited power should dare to sweep off
men in multitudes,” he added; “for it is only the one that can know the
necessity of the judgment; and what is there, short of the other, that can
replace the creatures of the Lord? I hold it a sin to kill the second buck
afore the first is eaten, unless a march in front, or an ambushment, be
contemplated. It is a different matter with a few warriors in open and
rugged fight, for ’tis their gift to die with the rifle or the tomahawk in hand;
according as their natures may happen to be, white or red. Uncas, come this

way, lad, and let the ravens settle upon the Mingo. I know, from often
seeing it, that they have a craving for the flesh of an Oneida; and it is as
well to let the bird follow the gift of its natural appetite.”
“Hugh!” exclaimed the young Mohican, rising on the extremities of his
feet, and gazing intently in his front, frightening the ravens to some other
prey by the sound and the action.
“What is it, boy?” whispered the scout, lowering his tall form into a
crouching attitude, like a panther about to take his leap; “God send it be a
tardy Frencher, skulking for plunder. I do believe ‘killdeer’ would take an
uncommon range today!”
Uncas, without making any reply, bounded away from the spot, and in
the next instant he was seen tearing from a bush, and waving in triumph, a
fragment of the green riding-veil of Cora. The movement, the exhibition,
and the cry which again burst from the lips of the young Mohican, instantly
drew the whole party about him.
“My child!” said Munro, speaking quickly and wildly; “give me my
child!”
“Uncas will try,” was the short and touching answer.
The simple but meaning assurance was lost on the father, who seized the
piece of gauze, and crushed it in his hand, while his eyes roamed fearfully
among the bushes, as if he equally dreaded and hoped for the secrets they
might reveal.
“Here are no dead,” said Heyward; “the storm seems not to have passed
this way.”
“That’s manifest; and clearer than the heavens above our heads,” returned
the undisturbed scout; “but either she, or they that have robbed her, have
passed the bush; for I remember the rag she wore to hide a face that all did
love to look upon. Uncas, you are right; the dark-hair has been here, and she
has fled like a frightened fawn, to the wood; none who could fly would
remain to be murdered. Let us search for the marks she left; for, to Indian
eyes, I sometimes think a humming-bird leaves his trail in the air.”
The young Mohican darted away at the suggestion, and the scout had
hardly done speaking, before the former raised a cry of success from the
margin of the forest. On reaching the spot, the anxious party perceived
another portion of the veil fluttering on the lower branch of a beech.

“Softly, softly,” said the scout, extending his long rifle in front of the
eager Heyward; “we now know our work, but the beauty of the trail must
not be deformed. A step too soon may give us hours of trouble. We have
them, though; that much is beyond denial.”
“Bless ye, bless ye, worthy man!” exclaimed Munro; “whither then, have
they fled, and where are my babes?”
“The path they have taken depends on many chances. If they have gone
alone, they are quite as likely to move in a circle as straight, and they may
be within a dozen miles of us; but if the Hurons, or any of the French
Indians, have laid hands on them, ’tis probably they are now near the
borders of the Canadas. But what matters that?” continued the deliberate
scout, observing the powerful anxiety and disappointment the listeners
exhibited; “here are the Mohicans and I on one end of the trail, and, rely on
it, we find the other, though they should be a hundred leagues asunder!
Gently, gently, Uncas, you are as impatient as a man in the settlements; you
forget that light feet leave but faint marks!”
“Hugh!” exclaimed Chingachgook, who had been occupied in examining
an opening that had been evidently made through the low underbrush which
skirted the forest; and who now stood erect, as he pointed downward, in the
attitude and with the air of a man who beheld a disgusting serpent.
“Here is the palpable impression of the footstep of a man,” cried
Heyward, bending over the indicated spot; “he has trod in the margin of this
pool, and the mark cannot be mistaken. They are captives.”
“Better so than left to starve in the wilderness,” returned the scout; “and
they will leave a wider trail. I would wager fifty beaver skins against as
many flints, that the Mohicans and I enter their wigwams within the month!
Stoop to it, Uncas, and try what you can make of the moccasin; for
moccasin it plainly is, and no shoe.”
The young Mohican bent over the track, and removing the scattered
leaves from around the place, he examined it with much of that sort of
scrutiny that a money dealer, in these days of pecuniary doubts, would
bestow on a suspected due-bill. At length he arose from his knees, satisfied
with the result of the examination.
“Well, boy,” demanded the attentive scout; “what does it say? Can you
make anything of the tell-tale?”

“Well, boy,” demanded the attentive scout; “what does it say? Can
you make anything of the tell-tale?”

“Le Renard Subtil!”
“Ha! that rampaging devil again! there will never be an end of his loping
till ‘killdeer’ has said a friendly word to him.”
Heyward reluctantly admitted the truth of this intelligence, and now
expressed rather his hopes than his doubts by saying:
“One moccasin is so much like another, it is probable there is some
mistake.”
“One moccasin like another! you may as well say that one foot is like
another; though we all know that some are long, and others short; some

broad and others narrow; some with high, and some with low insteps; some
intoed, and some out. One moccasin is no more like another than one book
is like another: though they who can read in one are seldom able to tell the
marks of the other. Which is all ordered for the best, giving to every man
his natural advantages. Let me get down to it, Uncas; neither book nor
moccasin is the worse for having two opinions, instead of one.” The scout
stooped to the task, and instantly added:
“You are right, boy; here is the patch we saw so often in the other chase.
And the fellow will drink when he can get an opportunity; your drinking
Indian always learns to walk with a wider toe than the natural savage, it
being the gift of a drunkard to straddle, whether of white or red skin. ’Tis
just the length and breadth, too! look at it, Sagamore; you measured the
prints more than once, when we hunted the varmints from Glenn’s to the
health springs.”
Chingachgook complied; and after finishing his short examination, he
arose, and with a quiet demeanor, he merely pronounced the word:
“Magua!”
“Ay, ’tis a settled thing; here, then, have passed the dark-hair and
Magua.”
“And not Alice?” demanded Heyward.
“Of her we have not yet seen the signs,” returned the scout, looking
closely around at the trees, the bushes and the ground. “What have we
there? Uncas, bring hither the thing you see dangling from yonder thorn-
bush.”
When the Indian had complied, the scout received the prize, and holding
it on high, he laughed in his silent but heartfelt manner.
“’Tis the tooting we’pon of the singer! now we shall have a trail a priest
might travel,” he said. “Uncas, look for the marks of a shoe that is long
enough to uphold six feet two of tottering human flesh. I begin to have
some hopes of the fellow, since he has given up squalling to follow some
better trade.”
“At least he has been faithful to his trust,” said Heyward. “And Cora and
Alice are not without a friend.”
“Yes,” said Hawkeye, dropping his rifle, and leaning on it with an air of
visible contempt, “he will do their singing. Can he slay a buck for their

dinner; journey by the moss on the beeches, or cut the throat of a Huron? If
not, the first catbird[1] he meets is the cleverer of the two. Well, boy, any
signs of such a foundation?”
[1] The powers of the American mocking-bird are generally known. But the true
mocking-bird is not found so far north as the state of New York, where it has,
however, two substitutes of inferior excellence, the catbird, so often named by
the scout, and the bird vulgarly called ground- thresher. Either of these last two
birds is superior to the nightingale or the lark, though, in general, the American
birds are less musical than those of Europe.

“Here is something like the footstep of one who has worn a shoe; can it
be that of our friend?”
“Touch the leaves lightly or you’ll disconsart the formation. That! that is
the print of a foot, but ’tis the dark-hair’s; and small it is, too, for one of
such a noble height and grand appearance. The singer would cover it with
his heel.”
“Where! let me look on the footsteps of my child,” said Munro, shoving
the bushes aside, and bending fondly over the nearly obliterated impression.
Though the tread which had left the mark had been light and rapid, it was
still plainly visible. The aged soldier examined it with eyes that grew dim as
he gazed; nor did he rise from this stooping posture until Heyward saw that
he had watered the trace of his daughter’s passage with a scalding tear.
Willing to divert a distress which threatened each moment to break through
the restraint of appearances, by giving the veteran something to do, the
young man said to the scout:
“As we now possess these infallible signs, let us commence our march. A
moment, at such a time, will appear an age to the captives.”
“It is not the swiftest leaping deer that gives the longest chase,” returned
Hawkeye, without moving his eyes from the different marks that had come
under his view; “we know that the rampaging Huron has passed, and the
dark-hair, and the singer, but where is she of the yellow locks and blue
eyes? Though little, and far from being as bold as her sister, she is fair to
the view, and pleasant in discourse. Has she no friend, that none care for
her?”
“God forbid she should ever want hundreds! Are we not now in her
pursuit? For one, I will never cease the search till she be found.”

“In that case we may have to journey by different paths; for here she has
not passed, light and little as her footsteps would be.”
Heyward drew back, all his ardor to proceed seeming to vanish on the
instant. Without attending to this sudden change in the other’s humor, the
scout after musing a moment continued:
“There is no woman in this wilderness could leave such a print as that,
but the dark-hair or her sister. We know that the first has been here, but
where are the signs of the other? Let us push deeper on the trail, and if
nothing offers, we must go back to the plain and strike another scent. Move
on, Uncas, and keep your eyes on the dried leaves. I will watch the bushes,
while your father shall run with a low nose to the ground. Move on, friends;
the sun is getting behind the hills.”
“Is there nothing that I can do?” demanded the anxious Heyward.
“You?” repeated the scout, who, with his red friends, was already
advancing in the order he had prescribed; “yes, you can keep in our rear and
be careful not to cross the trail.”
Before they had proceeded many rods, the Indians stopped, and appeared
to gaze at some signs on the earth with more than their usual keenness. Both
father and son spoke quick and loud, now looking at the object of their
mutual admiration, and now regarding each other with the most
unequivocal pleasure.
“They have found the little foot!” exclaimed the scout, moving forward,
without attending further to his own portion of the duty. “What have we
here? An ambushment has been planted in the spot! No, by the truest rifle
on the frontiers, here have been them one-sided horses again! Now the
whole secret is out, and all is plain as the north star at midnight. Yes, here
they have mounted. There the beasts have been bound to a sapling, in
waiting; and yonder runs the broad path away to the north, in full sweep for
the Canadas.”
“But still there are no signs of Alice, of the younger Miss Munro,” said
Duncan.
“Unless the shining bauble Uncas has just lifted from the ground should
prove one. Pass it this way, lad, that we may look at it.”
Heyward instantly knew it for a trinket that Alice was fond of wearing,
and which he recollected, with the tenacious memory of a lover, to have

seen, on the fatal morning of the massacre, dangling from the fair neck of
his mistress. He seized the highly prized jewel; and as he proclaimed the
fact, it vanished from the eyes of the wondering scout, who in vain looked
for it on the ground, long after it was warmly pressed against the beating
heart of Duncan.
“Pshaw!” said the disappointed Hawkeye, ceasing to rake the leaves with
the breech of his rifle; “’tis a certain sign of age, when the sight begins to
weaken. Such a glittering gewgaw, and not to be seen! Well, well, I can
squint along a clouded barrel yet, and that is enough to settle all disputes
between me and the Mingoes. I should like to find the thing, too, if it were
only to carry it to the right owner, and that would be bringing the two ends
of what I call a long trail together, for by this time the broad St. Lawrence,
or perhaps, the Great Lakes themselves, are between us.”
“So much the more reason why we should not delay our march,” returned
Heyward; “let us proceed.”
“Young blood and hot blood, they say, are much the same thing. We are
not about to start on a squirrel hunt, or to drive a deer into the Horican, but
to outlie for days and nights, and to stretch across a wilderness where the
feet of men seldom go, and where no bookish knowledge would carry you
through harmless. An Indian never starts on such an expedition without
smoking over his council-fire; and, though a man of white blood, I honor
their customs in this particular, seeing that they are deliberate and wise. We
will, therefore, go back, and light our fire to-night in the ruins of the old
fort, and in the morning we shall be fresh, and ready to undertake our work
like men, and not like babbling women or eager boys.”
Heyward saw, by the manner of the scout, that altercation would be
useless. Munro had again sunk into that sort of apathy which had beset him
since his late overwhelming misfortunes, and from which he was apparently
to be roused only by some new and powerful excitement. Making a merit of
necessity, the young man took the veteran by the arm, and followed in the
footsteps of the Indians and the scout, who had already begun to retrace the
path which conducted them to the plain.

CHAPTER XIX.
“Salar.—Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh; what’s that good for?
Shy.—To bait fish withal; if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.”
—Merchant of Venice

The shades of evening had come to increase the dreariness of the place,
when the party entered the ruins of William Henry. The scout and his
companions immediately made their preparations to pass the night there;
but with an earnestness and sobriety of demeanor that betrayed how much
the unusual horrors they had just witnessed worked on even their practised
feelings. A few fragments of rafters were reared against a blackened wall;
and when Uncas had covered them slightly with brush, the temporary
accommodations were deemed sufficient. The young Indian pointed toward
his rude hut when his labor was ended; and Heyward, who understood the
meaning of the silent gestures, gently urged Munro to enter. Leaving the
bereaved old man alone with his sorrows, Duncan immediately returned
into the open air, too much excited himself to seek the repose he had
recommended to his veteran friend.
While Hawkeye and the Indians lighted their fire and took their evening’s
repast, a frugal meal of dried bear’s meat, the young man paid a visit to that
curtain of the dilapidated fort which looked out on the sheet of the Horican.
The wind had fallen, and the waves were already rolling on the sandy beach
beneath him, in a more regular and tempered succession. The clouds, as if
tired of their furious chase, were breaking asunder; the heavier volumes,
gathering in black masses about the horizon, while the lighter scud still
hurried above the water, or eddied among the tops of the mountains, like
broken flights of birds, hovering around their roosts. Here and there, a red
and fiery star struggled through the drifting vapor, furnishing a lurid gleam
of brightness to the dull aspect of the heavens. Within the bosom of the
encircling hills, an impenetrable darkness had already settled; and the plain

lay like a vast and deserted charnel-house, without omen or whisper to
disturb the slumbers of its numerous and hapless tenants.
Of this scene, so chillingly in accordance with the past, Duncan stood for
many minutes a rapt observer. His eyes wandered from the bosom of the
mound, where the foresters were seated around their glimmering fire, to the
fainter light which still lingered in the skies, and then rested long and
anxiously on the embodied gloom, which lay like a dreary void on that side
of him where the dead reposed. He soon fancied that inexplicable sounds
arose from the place, though so indistinct and stolen, as to render not only
their nature but even their existence uncertain. Ashamed of his
apprehensions, the young man turned toward the water, and strove to divert
his attention to the mimic stars that dimly glimmered on its moving surface.
Still, his too-conscious ears performed their ungrateful duty, as if to warn
him of some lurking danger. At length, a swift trampling seemed, quite
audibly, to rush athwart the darkness. Unable any longer to quiet his
uneasiness, Duncan spoke in a low voice to the scout, requesting him to
ascend the mound to the place where he stood. Hawkeye threw his rifle
across an arm and complied, but with an air so unmoved and calm, as to
prove how much he counted on the security of their position.
“Listen!” said Duncan, when the other placed himself deliberately at his
elbow; “there are suppressed noises on the plain which may show
Montcalm has not yet entirely deserted his conquest.”
“Then ears are better than eyes,” said the undisturbed scout, who, having
just deposited a portion of a bear between his grinders, spoke thick and
slow, like one whose mouth was doubly occupied. “I myself saw him caged
in Ty, with all his host; for your Frenchers, when they have done a clever
thing, like to get back, and have a dance, or a merry-making, with the
women over their success.”
“I know not. An Indian seldom sleeps in war, and plunder may keep a
Huron here after his tribe has departed. It would be well to extinguish the
fire, and have a watch—listen! you hear the noise I mean!”
“An Indian more rarely lurks about the graves. Though ready to slay, and
not over regardful of the means, he is commonly content with the scalp,
unless when blood is hot, and temper up; but after spirit is once fairly gone,
he forgets his enmity, and is willing to let the dead find their natural rest.

Speaking of spirits, major, are you of opinion that the heaven of a red-skin
and of us whites will be of one and the same?”
“No doubt—no doubt. I thought I heard it again! or was it the rustling of
the leaves in the top of the beech?”
“For my own part,” continued Hawkeye, turning his face for a moment in
the direction indicated by Heyward, but with a vacant and careless manner,
“I believe that paradise is ordained for happiness; and that men will be
indulged in it according to their dispositions and gifts. I, therefore, judge
that a red-skin is not far from the truth when he believes he is to find them
glorious hunting grounds of which his traditions tell; nor, for that matter, do
I think it would be any disparagement to a man without a cross to pass his
time—”
“You hear it again?” interrupted Duncan.
“Ay, ay; when food is scarce, and when food is plenty, a wolf grows
bold,” said the unmoved scout. “There would be picking, too, among the
skins of the devils, if there was light and time for the sport. But, concerning
the life that is to come, major; I have heard preachers say, in the
settlements, that heaven was a place of rest. Now, men’s minds differ as to
their ideas of enjoyment. For myself, and I say it with reverence to the
ordering of Providence, it would be no great indulgence to be kept shut up
in those mansions of which they preach, having a natural longing for
motion and the chase.”
Duncan, who was now made to understand the nature of the noise he had
heard, answered, with more attention to the subject which the humor of the
scout had chosen for discussion, by saying:
“It is difficult to account for the feelings that may attend the last great
change.”
“It would be a change, indeed, for a man who has passed his days in the
open air,” returned the single-minded scout; “and who has so often broken
his fast on the head waters of the Hudson, to sleep within sound of the
roaring Mohawk. But it is a comfort to know we serve a merciful Master,
though we do it each after his fashion, and with great tracts of wilderness
atween us—what goes there?”
“Is it not the rushing of the wolves you have mentioned?”

Hawkeye slowly shook his head, and beckoned for Duncan to follow him
to a spot to which the glare from the fire did not extend. When he had taken
this precaution, the scout placed himself in an attitude of intense attention
and listened long and keenly for a repetition of the low sound that had so
unexpectedly startled him. His vigilance, however, seemed exercised in
vain; for after a fruitless pause, he whispered to Duncan:
“We must give a call to Uncas. The boy has Indian senses, and he may
hear what is hid from us; for, being a white-skin, I will not deny my
nature.”
The young Mohican, who was conversing in a low voice with his father,
started as he heard the moaning of an owl, and, springing on his feet, he
looked toward the black mounds, as if seeking the place whence the sounds
proceeded. The scout repeated the call, and in a few moments, Duncan saw
the figure of Uncas stealing cautiously along the rampart, to the spot where
they stood.
Hawkeye explained his wishes in a very few words, which were spoken
in the Delaware tongue. So soon as Uncas was in possession of the reason
why he was summoned, he threw himself flat on the turf; where, to the eyes
of Duncan, he appeared to lie quiet and motionless. Surprised at the
immovable attitude of the young warrior, and curious to observe the manner
in which he employed his faculties to obtain the desired information,
Heyward advanced a few steps, and bent over the dark object on which he
had kept his eye riveted. Then it was he discovered that the form of Uncas
vanished, and that he beheld only the dark outline of an inequality in the
embankment.
“What has become of the Mohican?” he demanded of the scout, stepping
back in amazement; “it was here that I saw him fall, and could have sworn
that here he yet remained.”
“Hist! speak lower; for we know not what ears are open, and the Mingoes
are a quick-witted breed. As for Uncas, he is out on the plain, and the
Maquas, if any such are about us, will find their equal.”
“You think that Montcalm has not called off all his Indians? Let us give
the alarm to our companions, that we may stand to our arms. Here are five
of us, who are not unused to meet an enemy.”
“Not a word to either, as you value your life. Look at the Sagamore, how
like a grand Indian chief he sits by the fire. If there are any skulkers out in

the darkness, they will never discover, by his countenance, that we suspect
danger at hand.”
“But they may discover him, and it will prove his death. His person can
be too plainly seen by the light of that fire, and he will become the first and
most certain victim.”
“It is undeniable that now you speak the truth,” returned the scout,
betraying more anxiety than was usual; “yet what can be done? A single
suspicious look might bring on an attack before we are ready to receive it.
He knows, by the call I gave to Uncas, that we have struck a scent; I will
tell him that we are on the trail of the Mingoes; his Indian nature will teach
him how to act.”
The scout applied his fingers to his mouth, and raised a low hissing
sound, that caused Duncan at first to start aside, believing that he heard a
serpent. The head of Chingachgook was resting on a hand, as he sat musing
by himself but the moment he had heard the warning of the animal whose
name he bore, he arose to an upright position, and his dark eyes glanced
swiftly and keenly on every side of him. With his sudden and, perhaps,
involuntary movement, every appearance of surprise or alarm ended. His
rifle lay untouched, and apparently unnoticed, within reach of his hand. The
tomahawk that he had loosened in his belt for the sake of ease, was even
suffered to fall from its usual situation to the ground, and his form seemed
to sink, like that of a man whose nerves and sinews were suffered to relax
for the purpose of rest. Cunningly resuming his former position, though
with a change of hands, as if the movement had been made merely to
relieve the limb, the native awaited the result with a calmness and fortitude
that none but an Indian warrior would have known how to exercise.
But Heyward saw that while to a less instructed eye the Mohican chief
appeared to slumber, his nostrils were expanded, his head was turned a little
to one side, as if to assist the organs of hearing, and that his quick and rapid
glances ran incessantly over every object within the power of his vision.
“See the noble fellow!” whispered Hawkeye, pressing the arm of
Heyward; “he knows that a look or a motion might disconsart our schemes,
and put us at the mercy of them imps—”
He was interrupted by the flash and report of a rifle. The air was filled
with sparks of fire, around that spot where the eyes of Heyward were still
fastened, with admiration and wonder. A second look told him that

Chingachgook had disappeared in the confusion. In the meantime, the scout
had thrown forward his rifle, like one prepared for service, and awaited
impatiently the moment when an enemy might rise to view. But with the
solitary and fruitless attempt made on the life of Chingachgook, the attack
appeared to have terminated. Once or twice the listeners thought they could
distinguish the distant rustling of bushes, as bodies of some unknown
description rushed through them; nor was it long before Hawkeye pointed
out the “scampering of the wolves,” as they fled precipitately before the
passage of some intruder on their proper domains. After an impatient and
breathless pause, a plunge was heard in the water, and it was immediately
followed by the report of another rifle.
“There goes Uncas!” said the scout; “the boy bears a smart piece! I know
its crack, as well as a father knows the language of his child, for I carried
the gun myself until a better offered.”
“What can this mean?” demanded Duncan, “we are watched, and, as it
would seem, marked for destruction.”
“Yonder scattered brand can witness that no good was intended, and this
Indian will testify that no harm has been done,” returned the scout,
dropping his rifle across his arm again, and following Chingachgook, who
just then reappeared within the circle of light, into the bosom of the work.
“How is it, Sagamore? Are the Mingoes upon us in earnest, or is it only one
of those reptiles who hang upon the skirts of a war-party, to scalp the dead,
go in, and make their boast among the squaws of the valiant deeds done on
the pale faces?”
Chingachgook very quietly resumed his seat; nor did he make any reply,
until after he had examined the firebrand which had been struck by the
bullet that had nearly proved fatal to himself. After which he was content to
reply, holding a single finger up to view, with the English monosyllable:
“One.”
“I thought as much,” returned Hawkeye, seating himself; “and as he had
got the cover of the lake afore Uncas pulled upon him, it is more than
probable the knave will sing his lies about some great ambushment, in
which he was outlying on the trail of two Mohicans and a white hunter—for
the officers can be considered as little better than idlers in such a
scrimmage. Well, let him—let him. There are always some honest men in
every nation, though heaven knows, too, that they are scarce among the

Maquas, to look down an upstart when he brags ag’in the face of reason.
The varlet sent his lead within whistle of your ears, Sagamore.”
Chingachgook turned a calm and incurious eye toward the place where
the ball had struck, and then resumed his former attitude, with a composure
that could not be disturbed by so trifling an incident. Just then Uncas glided
into the circle, and seated himself at the fire, with the same appearance of
indifference as was maintained by his father.
Of these several moments Heyward was a deeply interested and
wondering observer. It appeared to him as though the foresters had some
secret means of intelligence, which had escaped the vigilance of his own
faculties. In place of that eager and garrulous narration with which a white
youth would have endeavored to communicate, and perhaps exaggerate,
that which had passed out in the darkness of the plain, the young warrior
was seemingly content to let his deeds speak for themselves. It was, in fact,
neither the moment nor the occasion for an Indian to boast of his exploits;
and it is probably that, had Heyward neglected to inquire, not another
syllable would, just then, have been uttered on the subject.
“What has become of our enemy, Uncas?” demanded Duncan; “we heard
your rifle, and hoped you had not fired in vain.”
The young chief removed a fold of his hunting skirt, and quietly exposed
the fatal tuft of hair, which he bore as the symbol of victory. Chingachgook
laid his hand on the scalp, and considered it for a moment with deep
attention. Then dropping it, with disgust depicted in his strong features, he
ejaculated:
“Oneida!”
“Oneida!” repeated the scout, who was fast losing his interest in the
scene, in an apathy nearly assimilated to that of his red associates, but who
now advanced in uncommon earnestness to regard the bloody badge. “By
the Lord, if the Oneidas are outlying upon the trail, we shall by flanked by
devils on every side of us! Now, to white eyes there is no difference
between this bit of skin and that of any other Indian, and yet the Sagamore
declares it came from the poll of a Mingo; nay, he even names the tribe of
the poor devil, with as much ease as if the scalp was the leaf of a book, and
each hair a letter. What right have Christian whites to boast of their
learning, when a savage can read a language that would prove too much for
the wisest of them all! What say you, lad, of what people was the knave?”

Uncas raised his eyes to the face of the scout, and answered, in his soft
voice:
“Oneida.”
“Oneida, again! when one Indian makes a declaration it is commonly
true; but when he is supported by his people, set it down as gospel!”
“The poor fellow has mistaken us for French,” said Heyward; “or he
would not have attempted the life of a friend.”
“He mistake a Mohican in his paint for a Huron! You would be as likely
to mistake the white-coated grenadiers of Montcalm for the scarlet jackets
of the Royal Americans,” returned the scout. “No, no, the sarpent knew his
errand; nor was there any great mistake in the matter, for there is but little
love atween a Delaware and a Mingo, let their tribes go out to fight for
whom they may, in a white quarrel. For that matter, though the Oneidas do
serve his sacred majesty, who is my sovereign lord and master, I should not
have deliberated long about letting off ‘killdeer’ at the imp myself, had luck
thrown him in my way.”
“That would have been an abuse of our treaties, and unworthy of your
character.”
“When a man consort much with a people,” continued Hawkeye, “if they
were honest and he no knave, love will grow up atwixt them. It is true that
white cunning has managed to throw the tribes into great confusion, as
respects friends and enemies; so that the Hurons and the Oneidas, who
speak the same tongue, or what may be called the same, take each other’s
scalps, and the Delawares are divided among themselves; a few hanging
about their great council-fire on their own river, and fighting on the same
side with the Mingoes while the greater part are in the Canadas, out of
natural enmity to the Maquas—thus throwing everything into disorder, and
destroying all the harmony of warfare. Yet a red natur’ is not likely to alter
with every shift of policy; so that the love atwixt a Mohican and a Mingo is
much like the regard between a white man and a sarpent.”
“I regret to hear it; for I had believed those natives who dwelt within our
boundaries had found us too just and liberal, not to identify themselves fully
with our quarrels.”
“Why, I believe it is natur’ to give a preference to one’s own quarrels
before those of strangers. Now, for myself, I do love justice; and, therefore,

I will not say I hate a Mingo, for that may be unsuitable to my color and my
religion, though I will just repeat, it may have been owing to the night that
‘killdeer’ had no hand in the death of this skulking Oneida.”
Then, as if satisfied with the force of his own reasons, whatever might be
their effect on the opinions of the other disputant, the honest but implacable
woodsman turned from the fire, content to let the controversy slumber.
Heyward withdrew to the rampart, too uneasy and too little accustomed to
the warfare of the woods to remain at ease under the possibility of such
insidious attacks. Not so, however, with the scout and the Mohicans. Those
acute and long-practised senses, whose powers so often exceed the limits of
all ordinary credulity, after having detected the danger, had enabled them to
ascertain its magnitude and duration. Not one of the three appeared in the
least to doubt their perfect security, as was indicated by the preparations
that were soon made to sit in council over their future proceedings.
The confusion of nations, and even of tribes, to which Hawkeye alluded,
existed at that period in the fullest force. The great tie of language, and, of
course, of a common origin, was severed in many places; and it was one of
its consequences, that the Delaware and the Mingo (as the people of the Six
Nations were called) were found fighting in the same ranks, while the latter
sought the scalp of the Huron, though believed to be the root of his own
stock. The Delawares were even divided among themselves. Though love
for the soil which had belonged to his ancestors kept the Sagamore of the
Mohicans with a small band of followers who were serving at Edward,
under the banners of the English king, by far the largest portion of his
nation were known to be in the field as allies of Montcalm. The reader
probably knows, if enough has not already been gleaned form this narrative,
that the Delaware, or Lenape, claimed to be the progenitors of that
numerous people, who once were masters of most of the eastern and
northern states of America, of whom the community of the Mohicans was
an ancient and highly honored member.
It was, of course, with a perfect understanding of the minute and intricate
interests which had armed friend against friend, and brought natural
enemies to combat by each other’s side, that the scout and his companions
now disposed themselves to deliberate on the measures that were to govern
their future movements, amid so many jarring and savage races of men.
Duncan knew enough of Indian customs to understand the reason that the

fire was replenished, and why the warriors, not excepting Hawkeye, took
their seats within the curl of its smoke with so much gravity and decorum.
Placing himself at an angle of the works, where he might be a spectator of
the scene without, he awaited the result with as much patience as he could
summon.
After a short and impressive pause, Chingachgook lighted a pipe whose
bowl was curiously carved in one of the soft stones of the country, and
whose stem was a tube of wood, and commenced smoking. When he had
inhaled enough of the fragrance of the soothing weed, he passed the
instrument into the hands of the scout. In this manner the pipe had made its
rounds three several times, amid the most profound silence, before either of
the party opened his lips. Then the Sagamore, as the oldest and highest in
rank, in a few calm and dignified words, proposed the subject for
deliberation. He was answered by the scout; and Chingachgook rejoined,
when the other objected to his opinions. But the youthful Uncas continued a
silent and respectful listener, until Hawkeye, in complaisance, demanded
his opinion. Heyward gathered from the manners of the different speakers,
that the father and son espoused one side of a disputed question, while the
white man maintained the other. The contest gradually grew warmer, until it
was quite evident the feelings of the speakers began to be somewhat
enlisted in the debate.
Notwithstanding the increasing warmth of the amicable contest, the most
decorous Christian assembly, not even excepting those in which its reverend
ministers are collected, might have learned a wholesome lesson of
moderation from the forbearance and courtesy of the disputants. The words
of Uncas were received with the same deep attention as those which fell
from the maturer wisdom of his father; and so far from manifesting any
impatience, neither spoke in reply, until a few moments of silent meditation
were, seemingly, bestowed in deliberating on what had already been said.
The language of the Mohicans was accompanied by gestures so direct
and natural that Heyward had but little difficulty in following the thread of
their argument. On the other hand, the scout was obscure; because from the
lingering pride of color, he rather affected the cold and artificial manner
which characterizes all classes of Anglo-Americans when unexcited. By the
frequency with which the Indians described the marks of a forest trial, it
was evident they urged a pursuit by land, while the repeated sweep of

Hawkeye’s arm toward the Horican denoted that he was for a passage
across its waters.
The latter was to every appearance fast losing ground, and the point was
about to be decided against him, when he arose to his feet, and shaking off
his apathy, he suddenly assumed the manner of an Indian, and adopted all
the arts of native eloquence. Elevating an arm, he pointed out the track of
the sun, repeating the gesture for every day that was necessary to
accomplish their objects. Then he delineated a long and painful path, amid
rocks and water-courses. The age and weakness of the slumbering and
unconscious Munro were indicated by signs too palpable to be mistaken.
Duncan perceived that even his own powers were spoken lightly of, as the
scout extended his palm, and mentioned him by the appellation of the
“Open Hand”—a name his liberality had purchased of all the friendly
tribes. Then came a representation of the light and graceful movements of a
canoe, set in forcible contrast to the tottering steps of one enfeebled and
tired. He concluded by pointing to the scalp of the Oneida, and apparently
urging the necessity of their departing speedily, and in a manner that should
leave no trail.

The Mohicans listened gravely, and with countenances that reflected
the sentiments of the speaker.

The Mohicans listened gravely, and with countenances that reflected the
sentiments of the speaker. Conviction gradually wrought its influence, and
toward the close of Hawkeye’s speech, his sentences were accompanied by
the customary exclamation of commendation. In short, Uncas and his father
became converts to his way of thinking, abandoning their own previously
expressed opinions with a liberality and candor that, had they been the
representatives of some great and civilized people, would have infallibly
worked their political ruin, by destroying forever their reputation for
consistency.

The instant the matter in discussion was decided, the debate, and
everything connected with it, except the result appeared to be forgotten.
Hawkeye, without looking round to read his triumph in applauding eyes,
very composedly stretched his tall frame before the dying embers, and
closed his own organs in sleep.
Left now in a measure to themselves, the Mohicans, whose time had been
so much devoted to the interests of others, seized the moment to devote
some attention to themselves. Casting off at once the grave and austere
demeanor of an Indian chief, Chingachgook commenced speaking to his
son in the soft and playful tones of affection. Uncas gladly met the familiar
air of his father; and before the hard breathing of the scout announced that
he slept, a complete change was effected in the manner of his two
associates.
It is impossible to describe the music of their language, while thus
engaged in laughter and endearments, in such a way as to render it
intelligible to those whose ears have never listened to its melody. The
compass of their voices, particularly that of the youth, was wonderful—
extending from the deepest bass to tones that were even feminine in
softness. The eyes of the father followed the plastic and ingenious
movements of the son with open delight, and he never failed to smile in
reply to the other’s contagious but low laughter. While under the influence
of these gentle and natural feelings, no trace of ferocity was to be seen in
the softened features of the Sagamore. His figured panoply of death looked
more like a disguise assumed in mockery than a fierce annunciation of a
desire to carry destruction in his footsteps.
After an hour had passed in the indulgence of their better feelings,
Chingachgook abruptly announced his desire to sleep, by wrapping his head
in his blanket and stretching his form on the naked earth. The merriment of
Uncas instantly ceased; and carefully raking the coals in such a manner that
they should impart their warmth to his father’s feet, the youth sought his
own pillow among the ruins of the place.
Imbibing renewed confidence from the security of these experienced
foresters, Heyward soon imitated their example; and long before the night
had turned, they who lay in the bosom of the ruined work, seemed to
slumber as heavily as the unconscious multitude whose bones were already
beginning to bleach on the surrounding plain.

CHAPTER XX.
“Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes
On thee; thou rugged nurse of savage men!”
—Childe Harold

The heavens were still studded with stars, when Hawkeye came to arouse
the sleepers. Casting aside their cloaks Munro and Heyward were on their
feet while the woodsman was still making his low calls, at the entrance of
the rude shelter where they had passed the night. When they issued from
beneath its concealment, they found the scout awaiting their appearance
nigh by, and the only salutation between them was the significant gesture
for silence, made by their sagacious leader.
“Think over your prayers,” he whispered, as they approached him; “for
He to whom you make them, knows all tongues; that of the heart, as well as
those of the mouth. But speak not a syllable; it is rare for a white voice to
pitch itself properly in the woods, as we have seen by the example of that
miserable devil, the singer. Come,” he continued, turning toward a curtain
of the works; “let us get into the ditch on this side, and be regardful to step
on the stones and fragments of wood as you go.”
His companions complied, though to two of them the reasons of this
extraordinary precaution were yet a mystery. When they were in the low
cavity that surrounded the earthen fort on three sides, they found that
passage nearly choked by the ruins. With care and patience, however, they
succeeded in clambering after the scout, until they reached the sandy shore
of the Horican.
“That’s a trail that nothing but a nose can follow,” said the satisfied scout,
looking back along their difficult way; “grass is a treacherous carpet for a
flying party to tread on, but wood and stone take no print from a moccasin.
Had you worn your armed boots, there might, indeed, have been something
to fear; but with the deer-skin suitably prepared, a man may trust himself,
generally, on rocks with safety. Shove in the canoe nigher to the land,

Uncas; this sand will take a stamp as easily as the butter of the Jarmans on
the Mohawk. Softly, lad, softly; it must not touch the beach, or the knaves
will know by what road we have left the place.”
The young man observed the precaution; and the scout, laying a board
from the ruins to the canoe, made a sign for the two officers to enter. When
this was done, everything was studiously restored to its former disorder;
and then Hawkeye succeeded in reaching his little birchen vessel, without
leaving behind him any of those marks which he appeared so much to
dread. Heyward was silent until the Indians had cautiously paddled the
canoe some distance from the fort, and within the broad and dark shadows
that fell from the eastern mountain on the glassy surface of the lake; then he
demanded:
“What need have we for this stolen and hurried departure?”
“If the blood of an Oneida could stain such a sheet of pure water as this
we float on,” returned the scout, “your two eyes would answer your own
question. Have you forgotten the skulking reptile Uncas slew?”
“By no means. But he was said to be alone, and dead men give no cause
for fear.”
“Ay, he was alone in his deviltry! but an Indian whose tribe counts so
many warriors, need seldom fear his blood will run without the death shriek
coming speedily from some of his enemies.”
“But our presence—the authority of Colonel Munro—would prove
sufficient protection against the anger of our allies, especially in a case
where the wretch so well merited his fate. I trust in Heaven you have not
deviated a single foot from the direct line of our course with so slight a
reason!”
“Do you think the bullet of that varlet’s rifle would have turned aside,
though his sacred majesty the king had stood in its path?” returned the
stubborn scout. “Why did not the grand Frencher, he who is captain-general
of the Canadas, bury the tomahawks of the Hurons, if a word from a white
can work so strongly on the natur’ of an Indian?”
The reply of Heyward was interrupted by a groan from Munro; but after
he had paused a moment, in deference to the sorrow of his aged friend he
resumed the subject.

“The marquis of Montcalm can only settle that error with his God,” said
the young man solemnly.
“Ay, ay, now there is reason in your words, for they are bottomed on
religion and honesty. There is a vast difference between throwing a
regiment of white coats atwixt the tribes and the prisoners, and coaxing an
angry savage to forget he carries a knife and rifle, with words that must
begin with calling him your son. No, no,” continued the scout, looking back
at the dim shore of William Henry, which was now fast receding, and
laughing in his own silent but heartfelt manner; “I have put a trail of water
atween us; and unless the imps can make friends with the fishes, and hear
who has paddled across their basin this fine morning, we shall throw the
length of the Horican behind us before they have made up their minds
which path to take.”
“With foes in front, and foes in our rear, our journey is like to be one of
danger.”
“Danger!” repeated Hawkeye, calmly; “no, not absolutely of danger; for,
with vigilant ears and quick eyes, we can manage to keep a few hours ahead
of the knaves; or, if we must try the rifle, there are three of us who
understand its gifts as well as any you can name on the borders. No, not of
danger; but that we shall have what you may call a brisk push of it, is
probable; and it may happen, a brush, a scrimmage, or some such divarsion,
but always where covers are good, and ammunition abundant.”
It is possible that Heyward’s estimate of danger differed in some degree
from that of the scout, for, instead of replying, he now sat in silence, while
the canoe glided over several miles of water. Just as the day dawned, they
entered the narrows of the lake[1], and stole swiftly and cautiously among
their numberless little islands. It was by this road that Montcalm had retired
with his army, and the adventurers knew not but he had left some of his
Indians in ambush, to protect the rear of his forces, and collect the
stragglers. They, therefore, approached the passage with the customary
silence of their guarded habits.
[1] The beauties of Lake George are well known to every American tourist. In
the height of the mountains which surround it, and in artificial accessories, it is
inferior to the finest of the Swiss and Italian lakes, while in outline and purity of
water it is fully their equal; and in the number and disposition of its isles and
islets much superior to them all together. There are said to be some hundreds of
islands in a sheet of water less than thirty miles long. The narrows, which

connect what may be called, in truth, two lakes, are crowded with islands to such
a degree as to leave passages between them frequently of only a few feet in
width. The lake itself varies in breadth from one to three miles.

Chingachgook laid aside his paddle; while Uncas and the scout urged the
light vessel through crooked and intricate channels, where every foot that
they advanced exposed them to the danger of some sudden rising on their
progress. The eyes of the Sagamore moved warily from islet to islet, and
copse to copse, as the canoe proceeded; and, when a clearer sheet of water
permitted, his keen vision was bent along the bald rocks and impending
forests that frowned upon the narrow strait.
Heyward, who was a doubly interested spectator, as well from the
beauties of the place as from the apprehension natural to his situation, was
just believing that he had permitted the latter to be excited without
sufficient reason, when the paddle ceased moving, in obedience to a signal
from Chingachgook.
“Hugh!” exclaimed Uncas, nearly at the moment that the light tap his
father had made on the side of the canoe notified them of the vicinity of
danger.
“What now?” asked the scout; “the lake is as smooth as if the winds had
never blown, and I can see along its sheet for miles; there is not so much as
the black head of a loon dotting the water.”
The Indian gravely raised his paddle, and pointed in the direction in
which his own steady look was riveted. Duncan’s eyes followed the motion.
A few rods in their front lay another of the wooded islets, but it appeared as
calm and peaceful as if its solitude had never been disturbed by the foot of
man.
“I see nothing,” he said, “but land and water; and a lovely scene it is.”
“Hist!” interrupted the scout. “Ay, Sagamore, there is always a reason for
what you do. ’Tis but a shade, and yet it is not natural. You see the mist,
major, that is rising above the island; you can’t call it a fog, for it is more
like a streak of thin cloud—”
“It is vapor from the water.”
“That a child could tell. But what is the edging of blacker smoke that
hangs along its lower side, and which you may trace down into the thicket

of hazel? ’Tis from a fire; but one that, in my judgment, has been suffered
to burn low.”
“Let us, then, push for the place, and relieve our doubts,” said the
impatient Duncan; “the party must be small that can lie on such a bit of
land.”
“If you judge of Indian cunning by the rules you find in books, or by
white sagacity, they will lead you astray, if not to your death,” returned
Hawkeye, examining the signs of the place with that acuteness which
distinguished him. “If I may be permitted to speak in this matter, it will be
to say, that we have but two things to choose between: the one is, to return,
and give up all thoughts of following the Hurons—”
“Never!” exclaimed Heyward, in a voice far too loud for their
circumstances.
“Well, well,” continued Hawkeye, making a hasty sign to repress his
impatience; “I am much of your mind myself; though I thought it becoming
my experience to tell the whole. We must, then, make a push, and if the
Indians or Frenchers are in the narrows, run the gauntlet through these
toppling mountains. Is there reason in my words, Sagamore?”
The Indian made no other answer than by dropping his paddle into the
water, and urging forward the canoe. As he held the office of directing its
course, his resolution was sufficiently indicated by the movement. The
whole party now plied their paddles vigorously, and in a very few moments
they had reached a point whence they might command an entire view of the
northern shore of the island, the side that had hitherto been concealed.
“There they are, by all the truth of signs,” whispered the scout, “two
canoes and a smoke. The knaves haven’t yet got their eyes out of the mist,
or we should hear the accursed whoop. Together, friends! we are leaving
them, and are already nearly out of whistle of a bullet.”
The well-known crack of a rifle, whose ball came skipping along the
placid surface of the strait, and a shrill yell from the island, interrupted his
speech, and announced that their passage was discovered. In another instant
several savages were seen rushing into canoes, which were soon dancing
over the water in pursuit. These fearful precursors of a coming struggle
produced no change in the countenances and movements of his three
guides, so far as Duncan could discover, except that the strokes of their

paddles were longer and more in unison, and caused the little bark to spring
forward like a creature possessing life and volition.
“Hold them there, Sagamore,” said Hawkeye, looking coolly backward
over this left shoulder, while he still plied his paddle; “keep them just there.
Them Hurons have never a piece in their nation that will execute at this
distance; but ‘killdeer’ has a barrel on which a man may calculate.”

The scout having ascertained that the Mohicans were sufficient of
themselves to maintain the requisite distance, deliberately laid aside his
paddle, and raised the fatal rifle. Three several times he brought the piece to
his shoulder, and when his companions were expecting its report, he as
often lowered it to request the Indians would permit their enemies to

approach a little nigher. At length his accurate and fastidious eye seemed
satisfied, and, throwing out his left arm on the barrel, he was slowly
elevating the muzzle, when an exclamation from Uncas, who sat in the bow,
once more caused him to suspend the shot.
“What, now, lad?” demanded Hawkeye; “you save a Huron from the
death-shriek by that word; have you reason for what you do?”
Uncas pointed toward a rocky shore a little in their front, whence another
war canoe was darting directly across their course. It was too obvious now
that their situation was imminently perilous to need the aid of language to
confirm it. The scout laid aside his rifle, and resumed the paddle, while
Chingachgook inclined the bows of the canoe a little toward the western
shore, in order to increase the distance between them and this new enemy.
In the meantime they were reminded of the presence of those who pressed
upon their rear, by wild and exulting shouts. The stirring scene awakened
even Munro from his apathy.
“Let us make for the rocks on the main,” he said, with the mien of a tired
soldier, “and give battle to the savages. God forbid that I, or those attached
to me and mine, should ever trust again to the faith of any servant of the
Louis’s!”
“He who wishes to prosper in Indian warfare,” returned the scout, “must
not be too proud to learn from the wit of a native. Lay her more along the
land, Sagamore; we are doubling on the varlets, and perhaps they may try to
strike our trail on the long calculation.”
Hawkeye was not mistaken; for when the Hurons found their course was
likely to throw them behind their chase they rendered it less direct, until, by
gradually bearing more and more obliquely, the two canoes were, ere long,
gliding on parallel lines, within two hundred yards of each other. It now
became entirely a trial of speed. So rapid was the progress of the light
vessels, that the lake curled in their front, in miniature waves, and their
motion became undulating by its own velocity. It was, perhaps, owing to
this circumstance, in addition to the necessity of keeping every hand
employed at the paddles, that the Hurons had not immediate recourse to
their firearms. The exertions of the fugitives were too severe to continue
long, and the pursuers had the advantage of numbers. Duncan observed
with uneasiness, that the scout began to look anxiously about him, as if
searching for some further means of assisting their flight.

“Edge her a little more from the sun, Sagamore,” said the stubborn
woodsman; “I see the knaves are sparing a man to the rifle. A single broken
bone might lose us our scalps. Edge more from the sun and we will put the
island between us.”
The expedient was not without its use. A long, low island lay at a little
distance before them, and, as they closed with it, the chasing canoe was
compelled to take a side opposite to that on which the pursued passed. The
scout and his companions did not neglect this advantage, but the instant
they were hid from observation by the bushes, they redoubled efforts that
before had seemed prodigious. The two canoes came round the last low
point, like two coursers at the top of their speed, the fugitives taking the
lead. This change had brought them nigher to each other, however, while it
altered their relative positions.
“You showed knowledge in the shaping of a birchen bark, Uncas, when
you chose this from among the Huron canoes,” said the scout, smiling,
apparently more in satisfaction at their superiority in the race than from that
prospect of final escape which now began to open a little upon them. “The
imps have put all their strength again at the paddles, and we are to struggle
for our scalps with bits of flattened wood, instead of clouded barrels and
true eyes. A long stroke, and together, friends.”
“They are preparing for a shot,” said Heyward; “and as we are in a line
with them, it can scarcely fail.”
“Get you, then, into the bottom of the canoe,” returned the scout; “you
and the colonel; it will be so much taken from the size of the mark.”
Heyward smiled, as he answered:
“It would be but an ill example for the highest in rank to dodge, while the
warriors were under fire.”
“Lord! Lord! That is now a white man’s courage!” exclaimed the scout;
“and like to many of his notions, not to be maintained by reason. Do you
think the Sagamore, or Uncas, or even I, who am a man without a cross,
would deliberate about finding a cover in the scrimmage, when an open
body would do no good? For what have the Frenchers reared up their
Quebec, if fighting is always to be done in the clearings?”
“All that you say is very true, my friend,” replied Heyward; “still, our
customs must prevent us from doing as you wish.”

A volley from the Hurons interrupted the discourse, and as the bullets
whistled about them, Duncan saw the head of Uncas turned, looking back at
himself and Munro. Notwithstanding the nearness of the enemy, and his
own great personal danger, the countenance of the young warrior expressed
no other emotion, as the former was compelled to think, than amazement at
finding men willing to encounter so useless an exposure. Chingachgook
was probably better acquainted with the notions of white men, for he did
not even cast a glance aside from the riveted look his eye maintained on the
object by which he governed their course. A ball soon struck the light and
polished paddle from the hands of the chief, and drove it through the air, far
in the advance. A shout arose from the Hurons, who seized the opportunity
to fire another volley. Uncas described an arc in the water with his own
blade, and as the canoe passed swiftly on, Chingachgook recovered his
paddle, and flourishing it on high, he gave the war-whoop of the Mohicans,
and then lent his strength and skill again to the important task.
The clamorous sounds of “Le Gros Serpent!” “La Longue Carabine!”
“Le Cerf Agile!” burst at once from the canoes behind, and seemed to give
new zeal to the pursuers. The scout seized “killdeer” in his left hand, and
elevating it about his head, he shook it in triumph at his enemies. The
savages answered the insult with a yell, and immediately another volley
succeeded. The bullets pattered along the lake, and one even pierced the
bark of their little vessel. No perceptible emotion could be discovered in the
Mohicans during this critical moment, their rigid features expressing neither
hope nor alarm; but the scout again turned his head, and, laughing in his
own silent manner, he said to Heyward:
“The knaves love to hear the sounds of their pieces; but the eye is not to
be found among the Mingoes that can calculate a true range in a dancing
canoe! You see the dumb devils have taken off a man to charge, and by the
smallest measurement that can be allowed, we move three feet to their
two!”
Duncan, who was not altogether as easy under this nice estimate of
distances as his companions, was glad to find, however, that owing to their
superior dexterity, and the diversion among their enemies, they were very
sensibly obtaining the advantage. The Hurons soon fired again, and a bullet
struck the blade of Hawkeye’s paddle without injury.