The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
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