Amochol

By daybreak we had salted our parched corn, soaked, and eaten it, and my Indians were already freshening their paint. The Sagamore, stripped for battle, barring clout and sporran, stood tall and powerfully magnificent in his white and vermilion hue of war. On his broad chest the scarlet Ghost Bear reared; on his crest the scarlet feathers slanted low. The Yellow Moth was unbelievably hideous in the poisonous hue of a toad-stool; his crest and all his skin glistened yellow, shining like the sulphurous belly of a snake. But the Grey-Feather was ghastly; his bony features were painted like a skull, spine, ribs, and limb-bones traced out heavily in yellowish white so that he seemed a stalking and articulated skeleton as he moved in the dim twilight of the trees. And I could see that he was very proud of the effect.
As for the young and ambitious Night Hawk, he had simply made one murderous symbol of himself-- a single and terrific emblem of his entire body, for he was painted black from head to foot like an Iroquois executioner, and his skin glistened as the plumage of a sleek crow shines in the sunlight of a field. Every scalp-lock was neatly braided and oiled; every crown shaven; every knife and war-axe and rifle-barrel glimmered silver bright under the industrious rubbing; flints had been renewed; with finest priming powder pans reprimed; and now all my Indians squatted amiably together in perfect accord, very loquacious in their guarded voices, Iroquois, Mohican, and Stockbridge, foregathering as though there had never been a feud in all the world.
Through the early dusk of morning, Lois had stolen away, having discovered a spring pool to bathe in, the creek water being dark and bitter; and I had freshened myself, too, when she returned, her soft cheeks abloom, and the crisp curls still wet with spray.
When we had eaten, the Sagamore rose and moved noiselessly down the height of land to the trail level, where our path entered the ghostly gloom of the evergreens. I followed; Lois followed me, springing lightly from tussock to rotting log, from root to bunchy swale, swift, silent footed, dainty as a lithe and graceful panther crossing a morass dry-footed.
Behind her trotted in order the Yellow Moth, Tohoontowhee, and lastly the Grey-Feather-- "Like Father Death herding us all to destruction," whispered Lois in my ear, as I halted while the Sagamore surveyed the trail ahead with cautious eyes.
As we moved forward once more, I glanced around at Lois and thought I never had seen such fresh and splendid vigor in any woman. Nor had I ever seen her in such a bright and happy spirit, as though the nearness to the long sought goal was changing her every moment, under my very eyes, into a lovelier and more radiant being than ever had trod this war-scarred world.
While we had eaten our hasty morning meal, I had told her what I had learned of the Vale Yndaia; and this had excited her more than anything I ever saw to happen to her, so that her grey eyes sparkled with brilliant azure lights, and the soft colour flew from throat to brow, waxing and waning with every quick-drawn breath.
She wore also, and for the first time, the "moccasins for flying feet"-- and ere she put them on she showed them to me with eager and tender pride, kissing each soft and beaded shoe before she drew it over her slender foot. Around her throat, lying against her heart, nestled her father's faded picture. And as we sped I could hear her murmuring to herself:
"Jean Coeur! Jean Coeur! Enfin! Me voici en chemin!"
North, always north we journeyed, moving swiftly on a level runway, or, at fault, checked until the Sagamore found the path, sometimes picking our dangerous ways over the glistening bog, from swale to log, now leaping for some solid root or bunch of weed, now swinging across quicksands, hanging to tested branches by our hands.
Duller grew the light as the foliage overhead became denser, until we could scarce see the warning glimmer of the bog. Closer, taller, more unkempt grew the hemlocks on very hand. In the ghostly twilight we could not distinguish their separate spectral trunks, so close they grew together. And it seemed like two solid walls through which wound a dusky corridor of mud and bitter tasting water.
Then, far ahead a level gleam caught my eye. Nearer it grew and brighter; and presently out of the grewsome darkness of the swamp we stepped into a lovely oval intervale of green ferns and grasses, set with oak trees, and a clear, sweet thread of water dashing through it, and spraying the tall ferns along its banks so that they quivered and glistened with the sparkling drops. And here we saw a little bird flitting-- the first we had seen that day.
At the western end of the oval glade a path ran straight away as far as we could see, seeming to pierce the western wall of the hills. The little brook followed at.
As Lois knelt to drink, the Sagamore whispered to me:
"This is the pass to the Vale Yndaia! You shall not tell her yet-- not till we have dealt with Amochol."
"Not till we have dealt with Amochol," I repeated, staring at the narrow opening which crossed this black and desolate region like a streak of sunshine across burnt land.
Tahoontowhee examined the trail; nothing had passed since the last rain, save deer and fox.
So I went over to where Lois was bathing her flushed face in the tiny stream, and lay down to drink beside her.
"The water is cold and sweet," she said, "not like that bitter water in the swamp." She held her cupped hands for me to drink from. And I kissed the fragrant cup.
As we rose and I shouldered my rifle, the Grey-Feather began to sing in a low, musical, chanting voice; and all the Indians turned merry faces toward Lois and me as they nodded time to the refrain:
"Continue to listen and hear the truth, Maiden Hidden and Hidden Youth. The song of those who are 'more than men'! *Thi-ya-en-sa-y-e-ken!"
[* "They will (live to) see it again!"]
"It is the chant of the Stone Throwers-- the Little People!" said Mayaro, laughing. "Ye two are fit to hear it."
"They are singing the Song of the Hidden Children," I whispered to Lois. "Is it not strangely pretty?"
"It is wild music, but sweet," she murmured, "-- the music of the Little People-- che-kah-a-hen-wah."
"Can you catch the words?"
"Aye, but do not understand them every one."
"Some day I will make them into an English song for you. Listen! 'The Voices' are beginning! Listen attentively to the Chant of *Ta-neh-u-weh-too!"
[* "Hidden in the Husks."]
The Night Hawk was singing now, as he walked through the sunlit glade, hip-deep in scented ferns and jewel-weed. Two brilliant humming-birds whirled around him as he strode.
A VOICE
"Who shall find my Hidden Maid Where the tasselled corn is growing? Let them seek her in Kandaia, Let them seek her in Oswaya, Where the giant pines are growing, Let them seek and be afraid! Where the Adriutha flowing Splashes through the forest glade, Where the Kennyetto flowing Thunders through the hemlock shade, Let them seek and be afraid, From Oswaya To Yndaia, All the way to Carenay!"
ANOTHER VOICE
"Who shall find my Hidden Son Where the tasselled corn is growing? Let them seek my Hidden One From the Silver Horicon North along the Saguenay, Where the Huron cocks are crowing, Where the Huron maids are mowing Hay along the Saguenay; Where the Mohawk maids are hoeing Corn along the Carenay, Let them seek my Hidden Son, West across the inland seas, South to where the cypress trees Quench the flaming scarlet flora Of the painted Esaurora, Drenched in rivers to their knees! *Honowehto! Like Thendara! [* "They have vanished."] Let them hunt to Danascara Back along the Saguenay, On the trail to Carenay, Through the Silver Horicon Till the night and day are one! Where the Adriutha flowing Sings below Oswaya glowing. Where the sunset of Kandaia Paints the meadows of Yndaia, Let them seek my Hidden Son 'Till the sun and moon are one!"
*TE-KI-E-HO-KEN [* "Two Voices (together)."]
*"Nai Shehawa! She lies sleeping, [* "Behold thy children!"] Where the green leaves closely fold her! He shall wake first and behold her Who is given to his keeping; He shall strip her of her leaves Where she sleeps amid the sheaves, Snowy white, without a stain, Nothing marred of wind or rain. So from slumber she shall waken, And behold the green robe shaken From his shoulders to her own! *Ye-ji-se-way-ad-kerone!" [*"So ye two are laid together."]
The pretty song of the Hidden Children softened to a murmur and died out as our trail entered the swamp once more, north of the oval glade. And into its sombre twilight we passed out of the brief gleam of sunshine. Once more the dark and bitter water coiled its tortuous channel through the slime; huge, gray evergreens, shaggy and forbidding, towered above, closing in closer and closer on every side, crowding us into an ever-narrowing trail.
But this trail, since we had left the sunny glade, had become harder under foot, and far more easy to travel; and we made fast time along it, so that early in the afternoon we suddenly came out into that vast belt of firm ground and rocky, set with tremendous oaks and pines and hemlocks, on the northern edge of which lies Catharines-town, on both banks of the stream.
And here the stream rushed out through this country as though frightened, running with a mournful sound into the northern forest; and the pines were never still, sighing and moaning high above us, so that the never ceasing plaint of wind and water filled the place.
And here, on a low, bushy ridge, we lay all day, seeing in the forest not one living thing, nor any movement in that dim solitude, save where the grey and wraith-like water tossed a flat crest against some fallen tree, or its dull and sullen surface gleamed like lead athwart the valley far ahead.
My Indians squatted, or sprawled prone along the ridge; Lois lay flat on her stomach beside me, her chin resting on her clasped hands. We talked of many things that afternoon-- of life as we had found it, and what it promised us-- of death, if we must find it here in these woods before I made her mine. And of how long was the spirit's trail to God-- if truly it were but a swift, upward flight like to the rushing of an arrow already flashing out of sight ere the twanging buzz of the bow-string died on the air. Or if it were perhaps a long, slow, painful journey through thick night, toilsome, blindly groping, wings adroop trailing against bruised heels. Or if we two must pass by hell, within sight and hearing of the thunderous darkness, and feel the rushing wind of the pit hot on one's face.
Sometimes, like a very child, she prattled of happiness, which she had never experienced, but meant to savour, wedded or not-- talked to me there of all she had never known and would now know and realize within her mother's tender arms.
"And sometimes, Euan, dreaming of her I scarce see how, within my heart, I can find room for you also. Yet, I know well there is room for both of you, and that one without the other would leave my happiness but half complete.... I wonder if I resemble her? Will she know me-- and I her? How shall we meet, Euan-- after more than a score of years? She will see my moccasins, and cry out! She will see my face and know me, calling me by name! Oh, happiness! Oh, miracle! Will the night never come!"
"Dear maid and tender! You should not build your hopes too high, so that they crush you utterly if they must fall to earth again."
"I know. Amochol may have slain her. We will learn all when you take Amochol-- when God delivers him into your hands this night.... How will you do it, Euan?"
"Take him, you mean?"
"Aye."
"We lie south, just outside the fire-ring's edge. Boyd watches them from the north. His signal to us begins the business. We leap straight for the altar and take Amochol at its very foot, the while Boyd's heavy rifles deal death on every side, keeping the others busy while we are securing Amochol. Then we all start south for the army, God willing, and meet our own people on the high-ridge east of us."
"But Yndaia!"
"That we will scour the instant we have Amochol."
"You promise?"
"Dearest, I promise solemnly. Yet-- I think-- if your mother lives-- she may be here in Catharines-town tonight. This is the Dream Feast, Lois. I and my Indians believe that she has bought her life of Amochol by dreaming for them. And if this be true, and she has indeed become their Prophetess and Interpreter of Dreams, then this night she will be surely here to read their dreams for them,"
"Will we see her before you begin the attack?"
"Little Lois, how can I tell you such things? We are to creep up close to the central fire-- as close as we dare."
"Will there be crowds of people there?"
"Many people."
"Warriors?"
"Not many. They are with Hiokatoo and Brant. There will be hunters and Sachems, and the Cat-People, and the Andastes pack, and many women. The False Faces will not be there, nor the Wyoming Witch, nor the Toad Woman, because all these are now with Hiokatoo and Walter Butler. For which I thank God and am very grateful."
"How shall I know her in this fire-lit throng?" murmured Lois, staring ahead of her where the evening dusk had now veiled the nearer trees with purple.
Before I could reply, the Sagamore rose from his place on my left, and we all sprang lightly to our feet, looked to our priming, covered our pans, and trailed arms.
"Now!" he muttered, passing in front of me and taking the lead; and we all filed after him through the open forest, moving rapidly, almost on a run, for half a mile, then swung sharply out to the right, where the trees grew slimmer and thinner, and plunged into a thicket of hazel and osier.
"I smell smoke," whispered Lois, keeping close to me.
I nodded. Presently we halted and stood in silence, minute after minute, while the purple dusk deepened swiftly around us, and overhead a few stars came out palely, as though frightened.
Then Mayaro dropped noiselessly to the ground and began to crawl forward over the velvet moss; and we followed his example, feeling our way with our right hands to avoid dry branches and rocks. From time to time we paused to regain our strength and breathe; and the last time we did so the aromatic smell of birch-smoke blew strong in our nostrils, and there came to our ears a subdued murmur like the stirring of pine-tops in a steady breeze. But there were no pines around us now, only osier, hazel, and grey-birch, and the deep moss under foot.
"A house!" whispered the Yellow Moth, pointing.
There it stood, dark and shadowy against the north. Another loomed dimly beyond it; a haystack rose to the left.
We were in Catharines-town.
And now, as we crawled forward, we could see open country on our left, and many unlighted houses and fields of corn, dim and level against the encircling forest. The murmur on our right had become a sustained and distinct sound, now swelling in the volume of many voices, now subsiding, then waxing to a dull tumult. And against the borders of the woods, like a shining crimson curtain shifting, we could see the red reflection of a fire sweeping across the solid foliage.
With infinite precautions, we moved through the thicket toward it, the glare growing yellower and more brilliant as we advanced. And now we remained motionless and very still.
Massed against the flare of light were crowded many people in a vast, uneven circle ringing a great central fire, except at the southern end. And here, where the ring was open so that we could see the huge fire itself, stood a great, stone slab on end, between two round mounds of earth. It was the altar of Amochol, and we knew it instantly, where it stood between the ancient mounds raised by the Alligewi.
The drums had not yet begun while we were still creeping up, but they began now, muttering like summer thunder, the painted drummers marching into the circle and around it twice before they took their places to the left of the altar, squatting there and ceaselessly beating their hollow sounding drums. Then, in file, the eight Sachems of the dishonoured Senecas filed into the fiery circle, chanting and timing their slow steps to the mournful measure of their chant. All wore the Sachem's crest painted white; their bodies were most barbarously striped with black and white, and their blankets were pure white, crossed by a single blood-red band.
What they chanted I could not make out, but that it was some blasphemy which silently enraged my Indians was plain enough; and I laid a quieting hand on the Sagamore's shaking arm, cautioning him; and he touched the Oneidas and the Stockbridge, one by one, in warning.
Opposite us, the ruddy firelight played over the massed savages, women, children, and old men mostly, gleaming on glistening eyes, sparkling on wampum and metal ornaments. To the right and left of us a few knives and hatchets caught the firelight, and many multi-coloured plumes and blankets glowed in its shifting brilliancy.
The eight Sachems stood, tall and motionless, behind the altar; the drumming never ceased, and from around the massed circle rose a low sing-song chant, keeping time to the hollow rhythm of the drums:
*"Onenh are oya Egh-des-ho-ti-ya-do-re-don Nene ronenh 'Ken-ki-ne ne-nya-wenne!"
[* "Now again they decided and said: 'This shall be done!'"]
Above this rumbling undertone sounded the distant howling of dogs in Catharines-town; and presently the great forest owls woke up, yelping like goblins across the misty intervale. Strangely enough, the dulled pandemonium, joined in by dog and owl and drum and chanting savages, made but a single wild and melancholy monotone seeming to suit the time and place as though it were the voice of this fierce wilderness itself.
Now into the circle, one by one, came those who had dreamed and must be answered-- not as in the old-time and merry Feast of Dreams, where the rites were harmless and the mirth and jollity innocent, if rough-- for Amochol had perverted the ancient and innocent ceremony, making of a fourteen-day feast a sinister rite which ended in a single night.
I understood this more clearly now, as I lay watching the proceedings, for I had seen this feast in company with Guy Johnson on the Kennyetto, and found in it nothing offensive and no revolting license or blasphemy, though others may say this is not true.
Yet, how can a rite which begins with three days religious services, including confession of sins on wampum, be otherwise than decent? As for the rest of the feast, the horse-play, skylarking, dancing, guessing contests-- the little children's dance on the tenth day, the Dance for Four on the eleventh, the Dance for the Eight Thunders on the thirteenth-- the noisy, violent, but innocent romping of the False Faces-- all this I had seen in the East, and found no evil in it and no debauchery.
But what was now already going on I had never seen at any Iroquois feast or rite, and what Amochol had made of this festival I dared not conjecture as I gazed at the Dreamers now advancing into the circle with an abandon and an effrontery scarcely decent.
Six young girls came first, naked except for a breadth of fawn-skin falling from waist to instep. Their bodies were painted vermilion from brow to ankle; they carried in their hands red harvest apples, which they tossed one to another as they move lightly across the open space in a slow, springy, yet not ungraceful dance.
Behind them came a slim maid, wearing only a black fox-head, and the soft pelt dangling from her belt, and the tail behind. She was painted a ruddy yellow everywhere except a broad line of white in front, like a fox's belly; and, like a fox, too, her feet and hands were painted black.
Following her came eight girls plumed in spotless white and clothed only in white feathers-- aping the Thunders, doubtless; but even to me, a white man and a Christian, it was a sinister and evil sight to see this mockery as they danced forward, arms entwined, and the snowy plumes floating out in the firelight, disclosing the white painted bodies which the firelight tinted with rose and amber lights.
Then came dancing other girls, dressed in most offensive mockery of the harmless and ancient rite-- first the Fire Keeper, crowned with oak leaves instead of wild cherry, and wearing a sewed garment made of oak twigs and tufted leaves, from which the acorns hung. Followed two girls in cloaks of shimmering pine-needles, and wearing wooden masks, dragging after them the carcasses of two white dogs, to "Clothe the Moon Witch!" they cried to the burly Erie acolyte who followed them, his heavy knife shining in his hand.
Then the Erie disemboweled the strangled dogs, cast their entrails into the fire, and kicked aside the carcasses, shouting:
"Atensi stands naked upon the Moon! What shall she wear to cover her?"
"The soft hide of a Hidden Child!" answered a Sachem from behind the altar. "We have so dreamed it."
"It shall be done!" cried the Erie; and, lifting himself on tip toe, he threw back his brutal head and gave the Panther Cry so that his voice rang hideously through the night.
Instantly into the circle came scurrying the Andastes, some wearing the heads of bulls, some of wolves, foxes, bears, their bodies painted horribly in raw reds and yellows, and running about like a pack of loosened hounds. All their movements were wild and aimless, and like animals, and they seemed to smell their way as they ran about hither and thither, sniffing, listening, but seldom looking long or directly at any one thing.
I was sorely afraid that some among them might come roving and muzzling into the bushes where we lay; but they did not, gradually gathering into an uneasy pack and settling on their haunches near the dancing girls, who played with them, and tormented them with branches of hazel, samphire and green osier.
Suddenly a young girl, jewelled with multi-coloured diamonds of paint, and jingling all over with little bells, came dancing into the ring, beating a tiny, painted drum as she advanced. She wore only a narrow sporran of blue-birds' feathers to her knees, glistening blue moccasins of the same plumage, and a feathered head dress of the scarlet fire-bird. Behind her filed the Cat-People, Amochol's hideous acolytes, each wearing the Nez Perce ridge of porcupine-like hair, the lynx-skin cloak and necklace of claws; and all howling to the measure of the little painted drum. I could feel Mayaro beside me, quivering with eagerness and fury; but the time was not yet, and he knew it, as did his enraged comrades.
For behind the Eries, moving slowly, came a slender shape, shrouded in white. Her head was bent in the shadow of her cowl; her white wool vestments trailed behind her. Both hands were clasped together under her loose robe. On her cowl was a wreath of nightshade, with its dull purple fruit and blossoms clustering around her shadowed brow.
"Who is that?" whispered Lois, beginning to tremble, "God knows," I said. "Wait!"
The shrouded shape moved straight to the great stone altar and stood there a moment facing it; then, veiling her face with her robe, she turned, mounted the left hand mound, and seated herself, head bowed.
Toward her, advancing all alone, was now approaching a figure, painted, clothed, and plumed in scarlet. Everything was scarlet about him, his moccasins, his naked skin, the fantastic cloak and blanket, girdle, knife-hilt, axe shaft, and the rattling quiver on his back-- nay, the very arrows in it were set with scarlet feathers, and the looped bowstring was whipped with crimson sinew.
The Andastes came moaning, cringing, fawning, and leaping about his knees; he noticed them not at all; the Cat-People, seated in a semicircle, looked up humbly as he passed; he ignored them.
Slowly he moved to the altar and laid first his hand upon it, then unslung his bow and quiver and laid them there. A great silence fell upon the throng. And we knew we were looking at last upon the Scarlet Priest.
Yes, this was Amochol, the Red Sachem, the vile, blaspheming, murderous, and degraded chief who had made of a pure religion a horror, and of a whole people a nation of unspeakable assassins.
As the firelight flashed full in his face, I saw that his features were not painted; that they were delicate and regular, and that the skin was pale, betraying his French ancestry.
And good God! What a brood of demons had that madman, Frontenac, begot to turn loose upon this Western World! For there appeared to be a Montour in every bit of devil's work we ever heard of-- and it seemed as though there was no end to their number. One, praise God, had been slain before Wyoming-- which some said enraged the Witch, his mother, to the fearsome deeds she did there-- and one was this man's sister, Lyn Montour-- a sleek, lithe girl of the forest, beautiful and depraved. But the Toad Woman, mother of Amochol, was absent, and of all the Montours only this strange priest had remained at Catharines-town. And him we were now about to take or slay.
"Amochol!" whispered the Sagamore in my ear.
"I know," I said. "It is strange. He is not like a monster, after all."
"He is beautiful," whispered Lois.
I stared at the pale, calm face over which the firelight played. The features seemed almost perfect, scarcely cruel, yet there was in the eyes a haunting beauty that was almost terrible when they became fixed.
To his scarlet moccasins crept the Andastes, one by one, and squatted there in silence.
Then a single warrior entered the ring. He was clad in the ancient arrow-proof armour of the Iroquois, woven of sinew and wood. His face was painted jet black, and he wore black plumes. He mounted the eastern mound, strung his bow, set an arrow to the string, and seated himself.
The red acolytes came forward, and the slim Prophetess bent her head till the long, dark hair uncoiled and fell down, clouding her to the waist in shadow.
"Hereckenes!" cried Amochol in a clear voice; and at the sound of their ancient name the Cat-People began a miauling chant.
"Antauhonorans!" cried Amochol.
Every Seneca took up the chant, and the drums timed it softly and steadily.
"Prophetess!" said Amochol in a ringing voice. "I have dreamed that the Moon Witch and her grandson Iuskeha shall be clothed. With what, then, shall they be clothed, O Woman of the Night Sky? Explain to my people this dream that I have dreamed."
The slim, white-cowled figure answered slowly, with bowed head, brooding motionless in the shadow of her hair:
"Two dogs lie yonder for Atensi and her grandson. Let them be painted with the sun and moon. So shall the dream of Amochol come true!"
"Sorceress!" he retorted fiercely. "Shall I not offer to Atensi and Iuskeha two Hidden Children, that white robes may be made of their unblemished skins to clothe the Sun and Moon?"
"Into the eternal wampum it is woven that the soft, white skins shall clothe their bodies till the husks fall from the silken corn."
"And then, Witch of the East? Shall I not offer them when the husks are stripped?"
"I see no further than you dream, O Amochol!"
He stretched out his arm toward her, menacingly:
"Yet they shall both be strangled here upon this stone!" he said. "Look, Witch! Can you not see them lying there together? I have dreamed it."
She silently pointed at the two dead dogs.
"Look again!" he cried in a loud voice. "What do you see?"
She made no reply.
"Answer!" he said sharply.
"I have looked. And I see only the eternal wampum lying at my feet-- lacking a single belt."
With a furious gesture the Red Priest turned and stared at the dancing girls who raised their bare arms, crying:
"We have dreamed, O Amochol! Let your Sorceress explain our dreams to us!"
And one after another, as their turns came, they leaped up from the ground and sprang forward. The first, a tawny, slender, mocking thing, flung wide her arms.
"Look, Sorceress! I dreamed of a felled sapling and a wolverine! What means my dream?"
And the slim, white figure, head bowed in her dark hair, answered quietly:
"O dancer of the Na-usin, who wears okwencha at the Onon-hou-aroria, yet is no Seneca, the felled sapling is thou thyself. Heed lest the wolverine shall scent a human touch upon thy breast!" And she pointed at the Andastes.
A dead silence followed, then the girl, horror struck, shrank back, her hands covering her face.
Another sprang forward and cried:
"Sorceress! I dreamed of falling water and a red cloud at sunset hanging like a plume!"
"Water falls, daughter of Mountain Snakes. Every drop you saw was a dead man falling. And the red cloud was red by reason of blood; and the plume was the crest of a war chief."
"What chief!" said Amochol, turning his deadly eyes on her.
"A Gate-Keeper of the West."
The shuddering silence was broken by the eager voice of another girl, bounding from her place-- a flash of azure and jewelled paint.
"And I, O Sorceress! I dreamed of night, and a love song under the million stars. And of a great stag standing in the water."
"Had the stag no antlers, little daughter?"
"None, for it was spring time."
"You dreamed of night. It shall be night for a long while-- for ages and ages, ere the stag's wide antlers crown his head again. For the antlers were lying upon a new made grave. And the million stars were the lights of camp-fires. And the love-song was the Karenna. And the water you beheld was the river culled Chemung."
The girl seemed stunned, standing there plucking at her fingers, scarlet lips parted, and her startled eyes fixed upon the white-draped sibyl.
"Executioner! Bend your bow!" cried Amochol, with a terrible stare at the Sorceress.
The man in woven armour raised his bow, bent it, drawing the arrow to the tip. At the same instant the Prophetess rose to her feet, flung back her cowl, and looked Amochol steadily in the eyes from the shadow of her hair.
So, for a full minute in utter silence, they stared at each other; then Amochol said between his teeth:
"Have a care that you read truly what my people dream!"
"Shall I lie?" she asked in even tones. And, quivering with impotent rage and superstition, the Red Priest found no word to answer.
"O Amochol," she said, "let the armoured executioner loose his shaft. It is poisoned. Never since the Cat-People were overthrown has a poisoned arrow been used within the Long House. Never since the Atotarho covered his face from Hiawatha-- never since the snakes were combed from his hair-- has a Priest of the Long House dared to doubt the Prophetess of the Seneca nation. Doubt-- and die!"
Amochol's face was like pale brown marble; twice he half turned toward the executioner, but gave no signal. Finally, he laid his hand flat on the altar; the executioner unbent his bow and the arrow drooped from the painted haft and dangled there, its hammered iron war-head glinting in the firelight.
Then the Prophetess turned and stood looking out over the throng through the thick, aromatic smoke from the birch-fire, and presently her clear voice rang through the deathly silence:
"O People of the Evening Sky! Far on the Chemung lie many dead men. I see them lying there in green coats and in red, in feathers and in paint! Through forests, through mountains, through darkness, have my eyes beheld this thing. There is a new thunder in the hills, and red fire flowers high in the pines, and a hail falls, driving earthward in iron drops that slay all living things.
"New clouds hang low along the river; and they are not of the water mist that comes at twilight and ascends with the sun. Nor is this new thunder in the hills the voice of the Eight White Plumed Ones; nor is the boiling of the waters the stirring of the Serpent Bride.
"Red run the riffles, yet the sun is high; and those who would cross at the ford have laid them down to dam the waters with their bodies.
"And I see fires along the flats; I see flames everywhere, towns on fire, corn burning, hay kindling to ashes under a white ocean of smoke-- the Three Sisters scorched, trampled, and defiled!" She lifted one arm; her spellbound audience never stirred.
"Listen!" she cried, "I hear the crashing of many feet in northward flight! I hear horses galloping, and the rattle of swords. Many who run are stumbling, falling, lying still and crushed and wet with blood. I, Sorceress of the Senecas, see and hear these things; and as I see and hear, so must I speak my warning to you all!"
She whirled on Amochol, flinging back her hair. Her skin was as white us my own!
With a stifled cry Lois sprang to her feet; but I caught her and held her fast.
"Good God!" I whispered to the Sagamore. "Where is Boyd?"
The executioner had risen, and was bending his bow; the Sorceress turned deathly pale but her blue eyes flashed, never swerving from the cruel stare of Amochol.
"Where is Boyd?" I whispered helplessly. "They mean to murder her!"
"Kill that executioner!" panted Lois, struggling in my arms. "In God's name, slay him where he stands!"
"It means our death," said the Sagamore.
The Night Hawk came crouching close to my shoulder. He had unslung and strung his little painted bow of an adolescent, and was fitting the nock of a slim arrow to the string.
He looked up at me; I nodded; and as the executioner clapped his heels together, straightened himself, and drew the arrow to his ear, we heard a low twang! And saw the black hand of the Seneca pinned to his own bow by the Night Hawk's shaft.
So noiselessly was it done that the fascinated throng could not at first understand what had happened to the executioner, who sprang into the air, screamed, and stood clawing and plucking at the arrow while his bow hung dripping with blood, yet nailed to his shrinking palm.
Amochol, frozen to a scarlet statue, stared at the contortions of the executioner for a moment, then, livid, wheeled on the Prophetess, shaking from head to foot.
"Is this your accursed magic?" he shouted. "Is this your witchcraft, Sorceress of Biskoonah? Is it thus you strike when threatened? Then you shall burn! Take her, Andastes!"
But the Andastes, astounded and terrified, only cowered together in a swaying pack.
Restraining Lois with all my strength, I said to the Mohican:
"If Boyd comes not before they take her, concentrate your fire on Amochol, for we can not hope to make him prisoner----"
"Hark!" motioned the Sagamore, grasping my arm. I heard also, and so did the others. The woods on our left were full of noises, the trample of people running, the noise of crackling underbrush.
We all thought the same thing, and stood waiting to see Boyd's onset break from the forest. The Red Priest also heard it, for he had turned where he stood, his rigid arm still menacing the White Sorceress.
Suddenly, into the firelit circle staggered a British soldier, hatless, dishevelled, his scarlet uniform in rags.
For a moment he stood staring about him, swaying where he stood, then with a hopeless gesture he flung his musket from him and passed a shaking hand across his eyes.
"O Amochol!" cried the Sorceress, pointing a slim and steady finger at the bloody soldier. "Have I dreamed lies or have I dreamed the truth? Hearken! The woods are full of people running! Do you hear? And have I lied to you, O Amochol?"
"From whence do you come?" cried Amochol, striding toward the soldier.
"From the Chemung. Except for the dead we all are coming-- Butler and Brant and all. Bring out your corn, Seneca! The army starves."
Amochol stared at the soldier, at the executioner still writhing and struggling to loose his hand from the bloody arrow, at the Sorceress who had veiled her face.
"Witch!" he cried, "get you to Yndaia. If you stir elsewhere you shall burn!"
He had meant to say more, I think, but at that moment, from the southern woods men came reeling out into the fire-circle-- ghastly, bloody, ragged creatures in shreds of uniforms, green, red, and brown-- men and officers of Sir John's regiment, men of Butler's Rangers, British regulars. On their heels glided the Seneca warriors, warriors of the Cayugas, Onondagas, Caniengas, Esauroras, and here and there a traitorous Oneida, and even a few Hurons.
Pell-mell this mob of fighting men came surging through the fire-circle, and straight into Catharines-town, while I and my Indians crouched there, appalled and astounded.
I saw Sir John Johnson come up with the officers of his two battalions and a captain, a sergeant, a corporal, and fifteen British regulars.
"Clear me out this ring of mummers!" he said in his cold, penetrating voice. "And thou, Amochol, if this damned town of thine be stocked, bring out the provisions and set these Eries a-roasting corn!"
I saw McDonald storming and cursing at his irregulars, where the poor brutes had gathered into a wavering rank; I saw young Walter Butler haranguing his Rangers and Senecas; I saw Brant, calm, noble, stately, standing supported by two Caniengas while a third examined his wounded leg.
The whole place was a tumult of swarming savages and white men; already the Seneca women, crowding among the men, were raising the death wail. The dancing girls huddled together in a frightened and half-naked group; the Andastes cowered apart; the servile Eries were staggering out of the corn fields laden with ripe ears; and the famished soldiers were shouting and cursing at them and tearing the corn from their arms to gnaw the raw and milky grains.
How we were to withdraw and escape destruction I did not clearly see, for our path must cross the eastern belt of forest, and it was still swarming with fugitives arriving, limping, dragging themselves in from the disaster of the Chemung.
Hopeless to dream of taking or slaying Amochol now; hopeless to think of warning Boyd or even of finding him. Somewhere in the North he had met with obstacles which delayed him. He must scout for himself, now, for the entire Tory army was between him and us.
"There is but one way now," whispered the Mohican.
"By Yndaia," I said.
My Indians were of the same opinion.
"I should have gone there anyway," said Lois, still all a-quiver, and shivering close to my shoulder. I put my arm around her; every muscle of her body was rigid, taut, yet trembling, as a smooth and finely turned pointer trembles with eagerness and powerful self-control.
"Amochol has driven her thither," she whispered. "Shall we not be on our way?"
"Can you lead, Mayaro?" I whispered.
The Mohican turned and crawled southward on his hands and knees, moving slowly.
"For God's sake let them hear no sound in this belt of bush," I whispered to Lois.
"I am calm, Euan. I am not afraid."
"Then fallow the Sagamore."
One by one we turned and crept away southward; and I was ever fearful that some gleam from the fire, catching our rifle-barrels or axe-heads, might betray us. But we gained the denser growth undiscovered, then rose to our feet in the open forest and hurried forward in file, crowding close to keep in touch.
Once Lois turned and called back in a low, breathless voice;
"I thank Tahoontowhee from my heart for his true eye and his avenging arrow."
The young warrior laughed; but I knew he was the proudest youth in all the West that night.
The great cat-owls were shrieking and yelping through the forest as we sped southward. My Indians, silent and morose, their vengeance unslaked and now indefinitely deferred, moved at a dog trot through the forest, led by the Sagamore, whose eyes saw as clearly in the dark as my own by day.
And after a little while we noticed the stars above us, and felt ferns and grass under our feet, and came out into that same glade from whence runs the trail to Yndaia through the western hill cleft.
"People ahead!" whispered the Sagamore. "Their Sorceress and six Eries!"
"Are you certain?" I breathed, loosening my hatchet.
"Certain, Loskiel. Yonder they are halted within the ferns. They are at the stream, drinking."
I caught Lois by the wrist.
"Come with me-- hurry!" I said, as the Indians darted away and began to creep out and around the vague and moving group of shadows. And as we sped forward I whispered brokenly my instructions, conjuring her to obey.
We were right among them before they dreamed of our coming; not a war-cry was uttered; there was no sound save the crashing blows of hatchets, the heavy, panting breathing of those locked in a death struggle, the deep groan and coughing as a knife slipped home.
I flung a clawing Erie from me ere his blood drenched me, and he fell floundering, knifed through and through, and tearing a hole in my rifle-cape with his teeth as he fell. Two others lay under foot; my Oneidas were slaying another in the ferns, and the Sagamore's hatchet, swinging like lightning, dashed another into eternity.
The last one ran, but stumbled, with three arrows in his burly neck and spine; and the Night Hawk's hatchet flew, severing the thread of life far him and hurling him on his face. Instantly the young Oneida leaped upon the dead man's shoulders, pulled back his heavy head, and tore the scalp off with a stifled cry of triumph.
"The Black-Snake!" said the Sagamore at my side, breathing heavily from his bloody combat, and dashing the red drops from the scalp he swung. "Look yonder, Loskiel! Our little Rosy Pigeon has returned at last!"
I had seen it already, but I turned to look. And I saw the White Sorceress and my sweetheart close locked in each other's arms-- so close and motionless that they seemed but a single snowy shape there under the lustre of the stars.