The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
Her breath was, however, expended in vain; for, although distinguished in her
nation as a proficient in the art of abuse, she was permitted to work herself
into such a fury as actually to foam at the mouth, without causing a muscle to
vibrate in the motionless figure of the stranger. The effect of his
indifference began to extend itself to the other spectators; and a youngster,
who was just quitting the condition of a boy to enter the state of manhood,
attempted to assist the termagant, by flourishing his tomahawk before their
victim, and adding his empty boasts to the taunts of the women. Then, indeed,
the captive turned his face toward the light, and looked down on the stripling
with an expression that was superior to contempt. At the next moment he resumed
his quiet and reclining attitude against the post. But the change of posture
had permitted Duncan to exchange glances with the firm and piercing eyes of
Uncas.
Breathless with amazement, and heavily oppressed with the critical situation of
his friend, Heyward recoiled before the look, trembling lest its meaning might,
in some unknown manner, hasten the prisoner’s fate. There was not,
however, any instant cause for such an apprehension. Just then a warrior forced
his way into the exasperated crowd. Motioning the women and children aside with
a stern gesture, he took Uncas by the arm, and led him toward the door of the
council-lodge. Thither all the chiefs, and most of the distinguished warriors,
followed; among whom the anxious Heyward found means to enter without
attracting any dangerous attention to himself.
A few minutes were consumed in disposing of those present in a manner suitable
to their rank and influence in the tribe. An order very similar to that adopted
in the preceding interview was observed; the aged and superior chiefs occupying
the area of the spacious apartment, within the powerful light of a glaring
torch, while their juniors and inferiors were arranged in the background,
presenting a dark outline of swarthy and marked visages. In the very center of
the lodge, immediately under an opening that admitted the twinkling light of
one or two stars, stood Uncas, calm, elevated, and collected. His high and
haughty carriage was not lost on his captors, who often bent their looks on his
person, with eyes which, while they lost none of their inflexibility of
purpose, plainly betrayed their admiration of the stranger’s daring.
The case was different with the individual whom Duncan had observed to stand
forth with his friend, previously to the desperate trial of speed; and who,
instead of joining in the chase, had remained, throughout its turbulent uproar,
like a cringing statue, expressive of shame and disgrace. Though not a hand had
been extended to greet him, nor yet an eye had condescended to watch his
movements, he had also entered the lodge, as though impelled by a fate to whose
decrees he submitted, seemingly, without a struggle. Heyward profited by the
first opportunity to gaze in his face, secretly apprehensive he might find the
features of another acquaintance; but they proved to be those of a stranger,
and, what was still more inexplicable, of one who bore all the distinctive
marks of a Huron warrior. Instead of mingling with his tribe, however, he sat
apart, a solitary being in a multitude, his form shrinking into a crouching and
abject attitude, as if anxious to fill as little space as possible. When each
individual had taken his proper station, and silence reigned in the place, the
gray-haired chief already introduced to the reader, spoke aloud, in the
language of the Lenni Lenape.
“Delaware,” he said, “though one of a nation of women, you
have proved yourself a man. I would give you food; but he who eats with a Huron
should become his friend. Rest in peace till the morning sun, when our last
words shall be spoken.”
“Seven nights, and as many summer days, have I fasted on the trail of the
Hurons,” Uncas coldly replied; “the children of the Lenape know how
to travel the path of the just without lingering to eat.”
“Two of my young men are in pursuit of your companion,” resumed the
other, without appearing to regard the boast of his captive; “when they
get back, then will our wise man say to you ‘live’ or
‘die’.”
“Has a Huron no ears?” scornfully exclaimed Uncas; “twice,
since he has been your prisoner, has the Delaware heard a gun that he knows.
Your young men will never come back!”
A short and sullen pause succeeded this bold assertion. Duncan, who understood
the Mohican to allude to the fatal rifle of the scout, bent forward in earnest
observation of the effect it might produce on the conquerors; but the chief was
content with simply retorting:
“If the Lenape are so skillful, why is one of their bravest warriors
here?”
“He followed in the steps of a flying coward, and fell into a snare. The
cunning beaver may be caught.”
As Uncas thus replied, he pointed with his finger toward the solitary Huron,
but without deigning to bestow any other notice on so unworthy an object. The
words of the answer and the air of the speaker produced a strong sensation
among his auditors. Every eye rolled sullenly toward the individual indicated
by the simple gesture, and a low, threatening murmur passed through the crowd.
The ominous sounds reached the outer door, and the women and children pressing
into the throng, no gap had been left, between shoulder and shoulder, that was
not now filled with the dark lineaments of some eager and curious human
countenance.
In the meantime, the more aged chiefs, in the center, communed with each other
in short and broken sentences. Not a word was uttered that did not convey the
meaning of the speaker, in the simplest and most energetic form. Again, a long
and deeply solemn pause took place. It was known, by all present, to be the
brave precursor of a weighty and important judgment. They who composed the
outer circle of faces were on tiptoe to gaze; and even the culprit for an
instant forgot his shame in a deeper emotion, and exposed his abject features,
in order to cast an anxious and troubled glance at the dark assemblage of
chiefs. The silence was finally broken by the aged warrior so often named. He
arose from the earth, and moving past the immovable form of Uncas, placed
himself in a dignified attitude before the offender. At that moment, the
withered squaw already mentioned moved into the circle, in a slow, sidling sort
of a dance, holding the torch, and muttering the indistinct words of what might
have been a species of incantation. Though her presence was altogether an
intrusion, it was unheeded.
Approaching Uncas, she held the blazing brand in such a manner as to cast its
red glare on his person, and to expose the slightest emotion of his
countenance. The Mohican maintained his firm and haughty attitude; and his
eyes, so far from deigning to meet her inquisitive look, dwelt steadily on the
distance, as though it penetrated the obstacles which impeded the view and
looked into futurity. Satisfied with her examination, she left him, with a
slight expression of pleasure, and proceeded to practise the same trying
experiment on her delinquent countryman.
The young Huron was in his war paint, and very little of a finely molded form
was concealed by his attire. The light rendered every limb and joint
discernible, and Duncan turned away in horror when he saw they were writhing in
irrepressible agony. The woman was commencing a low and plaintive howl at the
sad and shameful spectacle, when the chief put forth his hand and gently pushed
her aside.
“Reed-that-bends,” he said, addressing the young culprit by name,
and in his proper language, “though the Great Spirit has made you
pleasant to the eyes, it would have been better that you had not been born.
Your tongue is loud in the village, but in battle it is still. None of my young
men strike the tomahawk deeper into the war-post—none of them so lightly
on the Yengeese. The enemy know the shape of your back, but they have never
seen the color of your eyes. Three times have they called on you to come, and
as often did you forget to answer. Your name will never be mentioned again in
your tribe—it is already forgotten.”
As the chief slowly uttered these words, pausing impressively between each
sentence, the culprit raised his face, in deference to the other’s rank
and years. Shame, horror, and pride struggled in its lineaments. His eye, which
was contracted with inward anguish, gleamed on the persons of those whose
breath was his fame; and the latter emotion for an instant predominated. He
arose to his feet, and baring his bosom, looked steadily on the keen,
glittering knife, that was already upheld by his inexorable judge. As the
weapon passed slowly into his heart he even smiled, as if in joy at having
found death less dreadful than he had anticipated, and fell heavily on his
face, at the feet of the rigid and unyielding form of Uncas.
The squaw gave a loud and plaintive yell, dashed the torch to the earth, and
buried everything in darkness. The whole shuddering group of spectators glided
from the lodge like troubled sprites; and Duncan thought that he and the yet
throbbing body of the victim of an Indian judgment had now become its only
tenants.
CHAPTER XXIV.
“Thus spoke the sage: the kings without delay
Dissolve the council, and their chief obey.”
—Pope’s Iliad
A single moment served to convince the youth that he was mistaken. A hand was
laid, with a powerful pressure, on his arm, and the low voice of Uncas muttered
in his ear:
“The Hurons are dogs. The sight of a coward’s blood can never make
a warrior tremble. The ‘Gray Head’ and the Sagamore are safe, and
the rifle of Hawkeye is not asleep. Go—Uncas and the ‘Open
Hand’ are now strangers. It is enough.”
Heyward would gladly have heard more, but a gentle push from his friend urged
him toward the door, and admonished him of the danger that might attend the
discovery of their intercourse. Slowly and reluctantly yielding to the
necessity, he quitted the place, and mingled with the throng that hovered nigh.
The dying fires in the clearing cast a dim and uncertain light on the dusky
figures that were silently stalking to and fro; and occasionally a brighter
gleam than common glanced into the lodge, and exhibited the figure of Uncas
still maintaining its upright attitude near the dead body of the Huron.
A knot of warriors soon entered the place again, and reissuing, they bore the
senseless remains into the adjacent woods. After this termination of the scene,
Duncan wandered among the lodges, unquestioned and unnoticed, endeavoring to
find some trace of her in whose behalf he incurred the risk he ran. In the
present temper of the tribe it would have been easy to have fled and rejoined
his companions, had such a wish crossed his mind. But, in addition to the
never-ceasing anxiety on account of Alice, a fresher though feebler interest in
the fate of Uncas assisted to chain him to the spot. He continued, therefore,
to stray from hut to hut, looking into each only to encounter additional
disappointment, until he had made the entire circuit of the village. Abandoning
a species of inquiry that proved so fruitless, he retraced his steps to the
council-lodge, resolved to seek and question David, in order to put an end to
his doubts.
On reaching the building, which had proved alike the seat of judgment and the
place of execution, the young man found that the excitement had already
subsided. The warriors had reassembled, and were now calmly smoking, while they
conversed gravely on the chief incidents of their recent expedition to the head
of the Horican. Though the return of Duncan was likely to remind them of his