Back Aa

Wild Huntress

Close

<h3>Chapter Twenty Nine.</h3> <h4>A red-skinned Sibyl.</h4> Not a sound came from the forest to disturb my sweet musings. Silent was the sky of the Indian summer—soft and balm-laden its breeze. The trees stirred not; the branches seemed extended in the stillness of repose; even the leaves of the tremuloides, hanging on their compressed petioles, were scarcely seen to quiver. The rustling heard at intervals, was but the fluttering of bright wings amid the foliage; or the rushing of some mountebank squirrel in reckless evolution among the branches—sounds harmonising with the scene. Not till I had entered the glade was I aroused from my reverie—at first gently, by the sudden emergence from shade into light; but afterwards in a more sensible manner on sight of a human form—at a glance recognised as that of the Indian maiden. She was seated, or rather reclining, against the blanched log; her brown arm embracing an outstretched limb; half supported on one leg—the other crossed carelessly over it in an attitude of repose. Beside her on the log lay a wicker pannier, filled with odds and ends of Indian manufacture. Though I had risen close up to the girl, she vouchsafed no acknowledgment of my presence. I observed no motion—not even of the eyes; which, directed downwards, seemed fixed in steadfast gaze upon the ground. Nothing about her appeared to move—save the coruscation of metallic ornaments that glittered in the sun, as though her body were enveloped in scale-armour. Otherwise, she might have been mistaken for a statue in bronze. And one, too, of noble proportions. The attitude was in every way graceful; and displayed to perfection the full bold contour of the maiden’s form. Her well-rounded arm entwining the branch, with her large body and limbs outlined in alto-relievo against the entablature of the white trunk, presented a picture that a sculptor would have loved to copy; and that even the inartistic eye could not look upon without admiration. Instinctively I checked my horse, and halted in front of this singular apparition. I can scarcely tell why I did so; since neither by look nor gesture was I invited to take such a liberty. On the contrary, I could perceive that my movement was regarded with displeasure. There was no change in the statuesque attitude: even the eyes were not raised from the earth; but a frown was distinctly traceable on the features of the girl. Thus repulsed, I should have ridden on; and would have done so, but for that sense of awkwardness, which one feels in similar situations. By pausing in the marked manner I had done, and gazing so pointedly at the girl, I had committed an act of ill-breeding—of which I now felt sensible. Indian though she was, she was evidently no common squaw; but gifted with certain noble traits, of which many a maiden with white skin might have envied her the possession. Beyond that, I knew she was the victim of a passion—all-absorbing as it was hopeless—and this in my eyes, ennobled and sanctified her. Just then, I had myself no cause to fear an unrequited love—no need to be ungenerous or selfish—and could, therefore, afford to extend my sympathy to the sufferings of another. It was some vague prompting of this kind, that had caused me to draw up—some idea of offering consolation. The repelling reception was altogether unexpected, and placed me in a predicament. How was I to escape from it? By holding my tongue, and riding on? No; this would be an acknowledgment of having committed an act of gaucherie—to which man’s vanity rarely accedes, or only with extreme reluctance. I had rushed inconsiderately into the mire, and must plunge deeper to get through. “We must become worse to make our title good.” So reflecting, or rather without reflecting at all, I resolved to “become worse”—with the risk of making a worse of it. “Perhaps,” thought I, “she does not recognise me?” She had not looked at me as yet. “If she would only raise her eyes, she would remember me as the friend of the White Eagle. That might initiate a conversation; and cause her to interpret more kindly my apparent rudeness. I shall speak to her at all hazards. Su-wa-nee!” The dark Indian eye was raised upon me with an angry flash; but no other reply was vouchsafed. “Su-wa-nee!” I repeated in the most conciliatory tone. “Do you not remember me? I am the friend of the White Eagle.” “And what is that to Su-wa-nee? She has no words for you—you may go on!” This decided repulse, instead of bettering my position, rendered it still more complicated. Somewhat confusedly, I rejoined: “I am on the way to visit the White Eagle. I thought—perhaps—you might—that possibly you might have some message for him.” “Su-wa-nee has no message for the White Eagle!” replied she, interrupting me, in the indignant tone, and with a contemptuous toss of her head. “If she had, she would not choose a false pale-face, like himself, to be its bearer. You fancy, white man, you can insult the Indian maiden at your pleasure? You dare not take such liberty with one of your own colour?” “I assure you I had no such intention: my object was very different. I was prompted to speak to you, knowing something of your affair of the other night with my friend Wingrove—which you remember I was witness of. I could not help overhearing—” I was interrupted by another quick contemptuous exclamation, that accompanied a glance of mingled vexation and scorn:—“You may know too much, and too little, my brave slayer of red panthers! Su-wa-nee does not thank you for interfering in her affairs. She can promise you sufficient occupation with your own. Go! See to them!” “How? What mean you?” I hurriedly asked, perceiving a certain significance in her looks, as well as words, that produced within me a sudden feeling of inquietude. “What mean you?” I repeated, too anxious to wait her reply; “has anything happened?” “Go, see yourself! You lose time in talking to a squaw, as you call us. Haste! or your bell-flower will be plucked and crushed, like that which you wear so proudly upon your breast. The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer: the yellow fawn will be his victim! Su-wa-nee joys at it: ha, ha, ha! Hers will not be the only heart wrung by the villainy of the false pale-face. Ha, ha, ha! Go, brave slayer of red panthers! Ah! you may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late—too late—too late!” Finishing her speech with another peal of half-maniac laughter, she snatched her pannier from the log, flung it over her shoulder, and hurried away from the spot! Her words, though ill understood, were full of fearful significance, and acted upon me like a shock—for a moment paralysing my powers both of speech and action. In my anxiety to ascertain their full meaning, I would have intercepted her retreat; but before I could recover from my unpleasant surprise, she had glided in among the shrubbery, and disappeared from my sight. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2