Читать книгу Diane of Ville Marie - Blanche Lucile Macdonnell - Страница 8

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SUDDENLY the air was filled with yells as, leaping from their canoes and advancing through a ridge of thick forest beyond the open fields, scores of half-naked savages swarmed into the clearing. Ensconced behind the ramparts of the fort, the little band watched the proceedings in silence. Through the leafy arches of the woods, over hill and hollow, across still swamp and gurgling brook, rang the war-whoops of the new arrivals as they rushed upon their hereditary foes.

“It is now the turn of the wolves to dance, and we can assist at the festivities!” exclaimed du Chesne, hilariously. “This is a war party of Hurons and Algonquins returning from an expedition.”

The Iroquois, though taken by surprise, fought with courage and address, leaping and dodging among the trees and rocks until at last, finding themselves outnumbered and overborne, they retreated, bearing the wounded and most of their dead with them. As the tumult of the conflict died away, the young Frenchman observed in a tone of satisfaction, “It is settled. Have no apprehensions, Diane; our adversaries have fled, carrying something to remember us by as well.”

“Is it, then, quite certain, M’sieur, that they have gone, but beyond doubt,” pleaded a timorous voice from some remote depth of obscurity.

“Wretched coward! of much use thou hast been. And where hast thou hidden thy miserable carcase?” returned du Chesne in hot anger.

“Scaramouch! screech-owl! much help thou hast been in saving my demoiselle and me,” Nanon mocked one of her most constant admirers. “Oh, that I were entrusted with the wringing of thy unworthy neck.”

With an insinuating smile on his sleek, fat face the valet crept out from the dark corner which had afforded him shelter.

“Ouf! that such should exist!” the young commandant cried contemptuously. “Poltroon! art thou not ashamed to show thy face?”

“But, M’sieur du Chesne; figure to yourself—it is quite simple,” with an affectation of innocent frankness. “It is the nature of M’sieur to be courageous, to love fighting—it is well. It is the delight of Nanon to chatter. It is Bibelot’s instinct to hate the savages; you observe even the smell of one throws her into a frenzy. For me, I have an invincible repugnance to the scalping knife of the Iroquois. Had I permitted myself to be killed M’sieur would have lost a faithful servant, and these pagans would have added a fresh sin to the list of their enormities. May I ask, M’sieur, is it the duty of good Christians to tempt the heathen? Should they not rather give an example of patience and resignation?”

The new arrivals now claimed attention. Sunburned warriors they were, of tall stalwart build, limbed like statues. Success had crowned their arms, as shown in the imposing array of scalps and the necklaces of ears and fingers which many of them wore. They looked like painted spectres, grotesquely horrible in horns and tails; their faces painted red or green, with black or white spots; their ears and noses hung with ornaments of iron, and their naked bodies daubed with figures of various animals. These fierce, capricious braves smiled upon the fiery young soldier whose courage had long since won their approbation.

“What, my brother, we have arrived in time to strengthen your arm against our foes?” exclaimed the principal war chief. “The face of our white brother is welcome to the eyes of Howaha.”

The last time du Chesne had met Howaha was at the annual fair in Ville Marie, when he appeared in a picturesque attire befitting his dignity and rank. He was much less imposing now as he squatted on the grass after his triumphs, chopping rank tobacco with a scalping-knife. An astute old savage, well trained in arts of policy, he showed every disposition to render himself agreeable to the son of the influential French trader.

“But look, du Chesne! Here is a white prisoner—a woman, too. Oh, surely she is not dead!” cried Diane.

“No, not dead, Diane, but evidently overcome by fatigue and fright. Howaha tells me she is a New England girl whom they have taken. She has been given to one of the chiefs, Nitchoua, to replace a wife he lost during the winter. Had it not been for that she would have been butchered on the spot.”

“An English heretic! Take care, then, Mademoiselle; she may have the evil eye. True sorcerers are these English; it is said they devour little children, even to the bones. No doubt they are wicked, and of a wickedness truly terrible—yet this one has not the appearance of a veritable monster,” continued Nanon with wavering positiveness.

In the lethargy of utter exhaustion, her limbs relaxed and nerveless, the girl lay on the grass just as she had been thrown by the Indians. She seemed utterly unconscious of the clamor of voices or of the curious regard directed towards her, as though in the terrible numbness of despair she had grown indifferent to her fate. Her features were delicately formed, her complexion of an exquisite purity, yet so utterly devoid of color that she resembled a beautiful statue rather than a living woman.

Diane, feeling that inexplicable attraction which frequently draws together persons of entirely different natures, examined her closely. The novel sensations and sentiments so recently awakened within her endowed all existence with a new pathos as well as a new delight. She knelt down beside the captive girl, smoothing the flaxen hair which the sunlight turned to gold, clasping the cold, passive hands in her own, whispering soft words of comfort and encouragement. The stranger stared vacantly into the French girl’s face, while Diane’s brilliant eyes dimmed with the sympathetic moisture of compassion.

“There has been a violent dispute concerning the prisoner,” explained du Chesne, who understood the Indian dialects perfectly; “Nitchoua wishes to take her as his wife. Another party want to torture her when they reach their own village, and Howaha has threatened to settle the dispute by a blow with a tomahawk which will terminate at once the discussion and the existence of the captive.”

“How beautiful she is! She is already half dead with misery and fatigue; I can scarcely feel her heart beat.” A keen compassion pleaded in the intensity of Diane’s faltering accents. “You know what captivity among the Indians means. Think of this tender creature submitted to the torture. I should know no rest all the remainder of my life for thinking of it. This might have been our own case had not the Holy Virgin sent us aid. We can never desert her in her extremity—you must find some way of ransoming her, du Chesne—you can surely manage it.”

“I do not know. There is the merest pinch of hope; but I will do my best to save her, Diane.”

The same thought already had crossed the young man’s mind. The chief impression made upon him by this stranger was one of helpless beauty and innocence. He was chivalrous and tender-hearted, yet he comprehended that the rescue of the prisoner was secondary in importance to propitiating these savage allies. In the one case the fate of an individual depended upon his exertions; in the other the fate of the whole settlement might hang in the balance. In their attempts to resist the encroachments of the Iroquois the French could not do without the help of the other Indian tribes. Du Chesne thoroughly understood the art of dealing with these children of the forest. He could conform to their customs and flatter them with courteous address. He understood the uncertain, vacillating temper common to all savages. Unsteady as aspens, fierce as panthers, rent by mad jealousies, they were a wild crew who changed their intentions with the veering of the wind, and whose dancing, singing and yelling might at any moment turn into war-whoops against each other or against the French. There were many difficulties to be considered, but the young Canadian was not easily daunted, and he determined to make the effort.

Nerving every faculty for the endeavor, the youth stood forth, his full deep eyes fixed on the savages with the masterful scrutiny with which a tamer of wild beasts might regard the ferocious animals committed to his charge. His dark eyes were aflame; there was so much of quiet strength suggested in his bearing that, as she listened to his glowing words, Diane’s heart beat high with pride. The daughter of a race of soldiers, she was deeply imbued with admiration for physical courage. With bold adroitness he assured Howaha that if his captive had become a subject of dissension among the red-men, he, their white brother, ever ready to oblige his allies, was willing to relieve them of the burden. He imitated the prolonged accents of the savages and addressed them in turn by their respective tribes, bands and families, calling their men of note by name as though he had been born among them. In all he said his voice and gestures answered to the words. The chiefs, silent and attentive, with gaze riveted upon the bowls of their pipes, listened with cool, impartial interest. Plainly the impression made by the young Canadian’s eloquence was favorable; at every pause in his harangue some sign of approval could be detected.

Du Chesne did not, however, gain his object without some trouble. At one moment Nitchoua started forward, brandishing his hatchet in the air, declaring furiously that the prisoner belonged to him by right of war; rather than waive his claim he would kill her as she lay helpless before them. “Has Nitchoua killed enemies on the war-path? His arm is weary with killing, his eye with counting. The scalps of his enemies ornament the wigwam of the great chief in such number that they shelter it from rain in the stormy night,” vaunted the fierce savage, proclaiming his own deeds of valor.

The English maiden was too far spent to be greatly excited by this new menace. She understood neither the French language nor the Indian dialects, even had she been able to control herself sufficiently to listen. Occurrences had been struck off by time in such quick succession that they seemed like some terrible continuous nightmare—an awful void in which every wretchedness was conceivable, and in which there was neither comfort nor solace to be found. She was not by nature endowed with nerve or courage. Within the last few days she had become familiar with scenes of massacre and pillage; she had seen her home burned to the ground, her relatives butchered before her eyes, had witnessed the cruel torture of friends and neighbors, had endured incredible fatigue, and had realized the uncertainty concerning her own fate. Now the overstrained brain refused to receive fresh impressions, a merciful lethargy deadened sensation. When the excited savage waved his axe above her head, though she believed her last hour had come, even in this extremity she had not sufficient strength to arouse herself. Prompted by some instinct, her blue eyes turned to Diane with a mute agonized appeal. The French girl returned the gaze with a sob of excitement and agitation swelling at her throat.

“We must take care of you, it is our bounden duty—we could not fail you—trust us,” she pleaded, unconscious or careless of the fact that the stranger could not know the meaning of her words. There is, however, a language of the soul which the most distraught can comprehend in the face of a great crisis. As she met the kindly glance bent upon her, a ray of comfort penetrated the darkness which had enveloped the captive’s spirit; it was like an ethereal stimulant quickening all her powers.

Finally, on the promise of a rich ransom being given, Nitchoua allowed his wrath to be appeased. He began to dance, holding his hands upraised as though apostrophizing the sky. Suddenly he seized his tomahawk, brandished it wildly, and then flung it far from him.

“Thus I throw away my anger,” he shouted; “so I cast away my weapons of blood and war. Let the pale-face girl be led away to the wigwams of the French, since my white brother desires it to be so. We are friends forever. Candwish,^[1] we are brothers.”

A swift expression of relief, like a flash of light, crossed du Chesne’s face. Howaha arose, and with an air of great dignity said:

“My brothers, it is well. Farewell, war; farewell, tomahawk; no longer have we use for you. We have often been fools, henceforth we will learn wisdom. The French are our brothers; Onontio^[2] is our father. Brother, our covenant with you is a silver chain which can neither break nor rust. We are of the race of the Bear, and as long as there is a drop of blood in his veins the bear never yields to force; but the ear of the bear is ever open to the voice of a friend. Take the prisoner, she is yours; do with her what you will.”

“The fawn”—du Chesne pointed to Diane, who still clasped the English girl in her arms,—“will adopt the captive as a sister; she will find shelter in the lodges of the French.”

“Aye,” Howaha added gravely, “the snow-flower will know peace. Shall the bird in its nest dread the wind and tempest? shall the child in the arms of its mother know fear?”

Realizing that the whim of the savages might change like a drift of dry leaves, du Chesne had no idea of resting in false security. “We will seize the opportunity of going down the river with Howaha,” he decided promptly.

Later, as they floated down with the current, the Indians chanted their songs of victory, as an accompaniment striking the edges of their paddles against the sides of their bark canoes. First one wild voice raised itself in strange discordant tones, now dropping low, then rising again, anon swelling into shrill yelps in which all the others joined. Among them two Iroquois prisoners stood upright, shouting their own war-songs in proud defiance, like men who knew no fear of torture or death, while from seven poles raised aloft as many fresh scalps fluttered in the evening breeze. Though the vermilion dusk still lingered over Mount Royal, softly purple in the fading light, the moon, pearly and splendid, swung high in the east, accompanied by a vaguely scintillating star at the zenith.

So it came to pass that the Puritan damsel, Lydia Longloy, entered upon a new existence, protected by Diane de Monesthrol’s tender care, succored by the charity of those French papists the very sound of whose name had until now been a terror to her. The only person who appeared dissatisfied with the turn events had taken was Nanon, who grumbled as she told her beads:

“An extra rosary I must say in order to avert the evil eye. It may even be her ill-luck my little mistress is carrying with her in the shape of this English heretic. We have had sufficient of that, we others, when it has landed us among the savages; and where next—who can tell? But for our demoiselle it should be another matter; for her it must be only sunshine.”

[1]	Candwish—An Indian word signifying comrade.

[2]	Onontio—Frontenac.