_
CHAPTER 17
"Weave we the woof. The thread is spun. The web is wove.
The work is done."--Gray
The hostile armies, which lay in the wilds of the Horican,
passed the night of the ninth of August, 1757, much in the
manner they would, had they encountered on the fairest field
of Europe. While the conquered were still, sullen, and
dejected, the victors triumphed. But there are limits alike
to grief and joy; and long before the watches of the morning
came the stillness of those boundless woods was only broken
by a gay call from some exulting young Frenchman of the
advanced pickets, or a menacing challenge from the fort,
which sternly forbade the approach of any hostile footsteps
before the stipulated moment. Even these occasional
threatening sounds ceased to be heard in that dull hour
which precedes the day, at which period a listener might
have sought in vain any evidence of the presence of those
armed powers that then slumbered on the shores of the "holy
lake."
It was during these moments of deep silence that the canvas
which concealed the entrance to a spacious marquee in the
French encampment was shoved aside, and a man issued from
beneath the drapery into the open air. He was enveloped in
a cloak that might have been intended as a protection from
the chilling damps of the woods, but which served equally
well as a mantle to conceal his person. He was permitted to
pass the grenadier, who watched over the slumbers of the
French commander, without interruption, the man making the
usual salute which betokens military deference, as the other
passed swiftly through the little city of tents, in the
direction of William Henry. Whenever this unknown
individual encountered one of the numberless sentinels who
crossed his path, his answer was prompt, and, as it
appeared, satisfactory; for he was uniformly allowed to
proceed without further interrogation.
With the exception of such repeated but brief interruptions,
he had moved silently from the center of the camp to its
most advanced outposts, when he drew nigh the soldier who
held his watch nearest to the works of the enemy. As he
approached he was received with the usual challenge:
"Qui vive?"
"France," was the reply.
"Le mot d'ordre?"
"La victorie," said the other, drawing so nigh as to be
heard in a loud whisper.
"C'est bien," returned the sentinel, throwing his musket
from the charge to his shoulder; "vous promenez bien matin,
monsieur!"
"Il est necessaire d'etre vigilant, mon enfant," the other
observed, dropping a fold of his cloak, and looking the
soldier close in the face as he passed him, still continuing
his way toward the British fortification. The man started;
his arms rattled heavily as he threw them forward in the
lowest and most respectful salute; and when he had again
recovered his piece, he turned to walk his post, muttering
between his teeth:
"Il faut etre vigilant, en verite! je crois que nous avons
la, un caporal qui ne dort jamais!"
The officer proceeded, without affecting to hear the words
which escaped the sentinel in his surprise; nor did he again
pause until he had reached the low strand, and in a somewhat
dangerous vicinity to the western water bastion of the fort.
The light of an obscure moon was just sufficient to render
objects, though dim, perceptible in their outlines. He,
therefore, took the precaution to place himself against the
trunk of a tree, where he leaned for many minutes, and
seemed to contemplate the dark and silent mounds of the
English works in profound attention. His gaze at the
ramparts was not that of a curious or idle spectator; but
his looks wandered from point to point, denoting his
knowledge of military usages, and betraying that his search
was not unaccompanied by distrust. At length he appeared
satisfied; and having cast his eyes impatiently upward
toward the summit of the eastern mountain, as if
anticipating the approach of the morning, he was in the act
of turning on his footsteps, when a light sound on the
nearest angle of the bastion caught his ear, and induced him
to remain.
Just then a figure was seen to approach the edge of the
rampart, where it stood, apparently contemplating in its
turn the distant tents of the French encampment. Its head
was then turned toward the east, as though equally anxious
for the appearance of light, when the form leaned against
the mound, and seemed to gaze upon the glassy expanse of the
waters, which, like a submarine firmament, glittered with
its thousand mimic stars. The melancholy air, the hour,
together with the vast frame of the man who thus leaned,
musing, against the English ramparts, left no doubt as to
his person in the mind of the observant spectator.
Delicacy, no less than prudence, now urged him to retire;
and he had moved cautiously round the body of the tree for
that purpose, when another sound drew his attention, and
once more arrested his footsteps. It was a low and almost
inaudible movement of the water, and was succeeded by a
grating of pebbles one against the other. In a moment he
saw a dark form rise, as it were, out of the lake, and steal
without further noise to the land, within a few feet of the
place where he himself stood. A rifle next slowly rose
between his eyes and the watery mirror; but before it could
be discharged his own hand was on the lock.
"Hugh!" exclaimed the savage, whose treacherous aim was so
singularly and so unexpectedly interrupted.
Without making any reply, the French officer laid his hand
on the shoulder of the Indian, and led him in profound
silence to a distance from the spot, where their subsequent
dialogue might have proved dangerous, and where it seemed
that one of them, at least, sought a victim. Then throwing
open his cloak, so as to expose his uniform and the cross of
St. Louis which was suspended at his breast, Montcalm
sternly demanded:
"What means this? Does not my son know that the hatchet is
buried between the English and his Canadian Father?"
"What can the Hurons do?" returned the savage, speaking
also, though imperfectly, in the French language.
"Not a warrior has a scalp, and the pale faces make
friends!"
"Ha, Le Renard Subtil! Methinks this is an excess of zeal
for a friend who was so late an enemy! How many suns have
set since Le Renard struck the war-post of the English?"
"Where is that sun?" demanded the sullen savage. "Behind
the hill; and it is dark and cold. But when he comes again,
it will be bright and warm. Le Subtil is the sun of his
tribe. There have been clouds, and many mountains between
him and his nation; but now he shines and it is a clear
sky!"
"That Le Renard has power with his people, I well know,"
said Montcalm; "for yesterday he hunted for their scalps,
and to-day they hear him at the council-fire."
"Magua is a great chief."
"Let him prove it, by teaching his nation how to conduct
themselves toward our new friends."
"Why did the chief of the Canadas bring his young men into
the woods, and fire his cannon at the earthen house?"
demanded the subtle Indian.
"To subdue it. My master owns the land, and your father was
ordered to drive off these English squatters. They have
consented to go, and now he calls them enemies no longer."
"'Tis well. Magua took the hatchet to color it with blood.
It is now bright; when it is red, it shall be buried."
"But Magua is pledged not to sully the lilies of France.
The enemies of the great king across the salt lake are his
enemies; his friends, the friends of the Hurons."
"Friends!" repeated the Indian in scorn. "Let his father
give Magua a hand."
Montcalm, who felt that his influence over the warlike
tribes he had gathered was to be maintained by concession
rather than by power, complied reluctantly with the other's
request. The savage placed the fingers of the French
commander on a deep scar in his bosom, and then exultingly
demanded:
"Does my father know that?"
"What warrior does not? 'Tis where a leaden bullet has cut."
"And this?" continued the Indian, who had turned his naked
back to the other, his body being without its usual calico
mantle.
"This! -- my son has been sadly injured here; who has done
this?"
"Magua slept hard in the English wigwams, and the sticks
have left their mark," returned the savage, with a hollow
laugh, which did not conceal the fierce temper that nearly
choked him. Then, recollecting himself, with sudden and
native dignity, he added: "Go; teach your young men it is
peace. Le Renard Subtil knows how to speak to a Huron
warrior."
Without deigning to bestow further words, or to wait for any
answer, the savage cast his rifle into the hollow of his
arm, and moved silently through the encampment toward the
woods where his own tribe was known to lie. Every few yards
as he proceeded he was challenged by the sentinels; but he
stalked sullenly onward, utterly disregarding the summons of
the soldiers, who only spared his life because they knew the
air and tread no less than the obstinate daring of an
Indian.
Montcalm lingered long and melancholy on the strand where he
had been left by his companion, brooding deeply on the
temper which his ungovernable ally had just discovered.
Already had his fair fame been tarnished by one horrid
scene, and in circumstances fearfully resembling those under
which he now found himself. As he mused he became keenly
sensible of the deep responsibility they assume who
disregard the means to attain the end, and of all the danger
of setting in motion an engine which it exceeds human power
to control. Then shaking off a train of reflections that he
accounted a weakness in such a moment of triumph, he
retraced his steps toward his tent, giving the order as he
passed to make the signal that should arouse the army from
its slumbers.
The first tap of the French drums was echoed from the bosom
of the fort, and presently the valley was filled with the
strains of martial music, rising long, thrilling and lively
above the rattling accompaniment. The horns of the victors
sounded merry and cheerful flourishes, until the last
laggard of the camp was at his post; but the instant the
British fifes had blown their shrill signal, they became
mute. In the meantime the day had dawned, and when the line
of the French army was ready to receive its general, the
rays of a brilliant sun were glancing along the glittering
array. Then that success, which was already so well known,
was officially announced; the favored band who were selected
to guard the gates of the fort were detailed, and defiled
before their chief; the signal of their approach was given,
and all the usual preparations for a change of masters were
ordered and executed directly under the guns of the
contested works.
A very different scene presented itself within the lines of
the Anglo-American army. As soon as the warning signal was
given, it exhibited all the signs of a hurried and forced
departure. The sullen soldiers shouldered their empty tubes
and fell into their places, like men whose blood had been
heated by the past contest, and who only desired the
opportunity to revenge an indignity which was still wounding
to their pride, concealed as it was under the observances of
military etiquette.
Women and children ran from place to place, some bearing the
scanty remnants of their baggage, and others searching in
the ranks for those countenances they looked up to for
protection.
Munro appeared among his silent troops firm but dejected.
It was evident that the unexpected blow had struck deep into
his heart, though he struggled to sustain his misfortune
with the port of a man.
Duncan was touched at the quiet and impressive exhibition of
his grief. He had discharged his own duty, and he now
pressed to the side of the old man, to know in what
particular he might serve him.
"My daughters," was the brief but expressive reply.
"Good heavens! are not arrangements already made for their
convenience?"
"To-day I am only a soldier, Major Heyward," said the
veteran. "All that you see here, claim alike to be my
children."
Duncan had heard enough. Without losing one of those
moments which had now become so precious, he flew toward the
quarters of Munro, in quest of the sisters. He found them
on the threshold of the low edifice, already prepared to
depart, and surrounded by a clamorous and weeping assemblage
of their own sex, that had gathered about the place, with a
sort of instinctive consciousness that it was the point most
likely to be protected. Though the cheeks of Cora were pale
and her countenance anxious, she had lost none of her
firmness; but the eyes of Alice were inflamed, and betrayed
how long and bitterly she had wept. They both, however,
received the young man with undisguised pleasure; the
former, for a novelty, being the first to speak.
"The fort is lost," she said, with a melancholy smile;
"though our good name, I trust, remains."
"'Tis brighter than ever. But, dearest Miss Munro, it is
time to think less of others, and to make some provision for
yourself. Military usage -- pride -- that pride on which
you so much value yourself, demands that your father and I
should for a little while continue with the troops. Then
where to seek a proper protector for you against the
confusion and chances of such a scene?"
"None is necessary," returned Cora; "who will dare to injure
or insult the daughter of such a father, at a time like
this?"
"I would not leave you alone," continued the youth, looking
about him in a hurried manner, "for the command of the best
regiment in the pay of the king. Remember, our Alice is not
gifted with all your firmness, and God only knows the terror
she might endure."
"You may be right," Cora replied, smiling again, but far
more sadly than before. "Listen! chance has already sent us
a friend when he is most needed."
Duncan did listen, and on the instant comprehended her
meaning. The low and serious sounds of the sacred music, so
well known to the eastern provinces, caught his ear, and
instantly drew him to an apartment in an adjacent building,
which had already been deserted by its customary tenants.
There he found David, pouring out his pious feelings through
the only medium in which he ever indulged. Duncan waited,
until, by the cessation of the movement of the hand, he
believed the strain was ended, when, by touching his
shoulder, he drew the attention of the other to himself, and
in a few words explained his wishes.
"Even so," replied the single-minded disciple of the King of
Israel, when the young man had ended; "I have found much
that is comely and melodious in the maidens, and it is
fitting that we who have consorted in so much peril, should
abide together in peace. I will attend them, when I have
completed my morning praise, to which nothing is now wanting
but the doxology. Wilt thou bear a part, friend? The meter
is common, and the tune 'Southwell'."
Then, extending the little volume, and giving the pitch of
the air anew with considerate attention, David recommenced
and finished his strains, with a fixedness of manner that it
was not easy to interrupt. Heyward was fain to wait until
the verse was ended; when, seeing David relieving himself
from the spectacles, and replacing the book, he continued.
"It will be your duty to see that none dare to approach the
ladies with any rude intention, or to offer insult or taunt
at the misfortune of their brave father. In this task you
will be seconded by the domestics of their household."
"Even so."
"It is possible that the Indians and stragglers of the enemy
may intrude, in which case you will remind them of the terms
of the capitulation, and threaten to report their conduct to
Montcalm. A word will suffice."
"If not, I have that here which shall," returned David,
exhibiting his book, with an air in which meekness and
confidence were singularly blended. Here are words which,
uttered, or rather thundered, with proper emphasis, and in
measured time, shall quiet the most unruly temper:
"'Why rage the heathen furiously'?"
"Enough," said Heyward, interrupting the burst of his
musical invocation; "we understand each other; it is time
that we should now assume our respective duties."
Gamut cheerfully assented, and together they sought the
females. Cora received her new and somewhat extraordinary
protector courteously, at least; and even the pallid
features of Alice lighted again with some of their native
archness as she thanked Heyward for his care. Duncan took
occasion to assure them he had done the best that
circumstances permitted, and, as he believed, quite enough
for the security of their feelings; of danger there was
none. He then spoke gladly of his intention to rejoin them
the moment he had led the advance a few miles toward the
Hudson, and immediately took his leave.
By this time the signal for departure had been given, and
the head of the English column was in motion. The sisters
started at the sound, and glancing their eyes around, they
saw the white uniforms of the French grenadiers, who had
already taken possession of the gates of the fort. At that
moment an enormous cloud seemed to pass suddenly above their
heads, and, looking upward, they discovered that they stood
beneath the wide folds of the standard of France.
"Let us go," said Cora; "this is no longer a fit place for
the children of an English officer."
Alice clung to the arm of her sister, and together they left
the parade, accompanied by the moving throng that surrounded
them.
As they passed the gates, the French officers, who had
learned their rank, bowed often and low, forbearing,
however, to intrude those attentions which they saw, with
peculiar tact, might not be agreeable. As every vehicle and
each beast of burden was occupied by the sick and wounded,
Cora had decided to endure the fatigues of a foot march,
rather than interfere with their comforts. Indeed, many a
maimed and feeble soldier was compelled to drag his
exhausted limbs in the rear of the columns, for the want of
the necessary means of conveyance in that wilderness. The
whole, however, was in motion; the weak and wounded,
groaning and in suffering; their comrades silent and sullen;
and the women and children in terror, they knew not of what.
As the confused and timid throng left the protecting mounds
of the fort, and issued on the open plain, the whole scene
was at once presented to their eyes. At a little distance
on the right, and somewhat in the rear, the French army
stood to their arms, Montcalm having collected his parties,
so soon as his guards had possession of the works. They
were attentive but silent observers of the proceedings of
the vanquished, failing in none of the stipulated military
honors, and offering no taunt or insult, in their success,
to their less fortunate foes. Living masses of the English,
to the amount, in the whole, of near three thousand, were
moving slowly across the plain, toward the common center,
and gradually approached each other, as they converged to
the point of their march, a vista cut through the lofty
trees, where the road to the Hudson entered the forest.
Along the sweeping borders of the woods hung a dark cloud of
savages, eyeing the passage of their enemies, and hovering
at a distance, like vultures who were only kept from
swooping on their prey by the presence and restraint of a
superior army. A few had straggled among the conquered
columns, where they stalked in sullen discontent; attentive,
though, as yet, passive observers of the moving multitude.
The advance, with Heyward at its head, had already reached
the defile, and was slowly disappearing, when the attention
of Cora was drawn to a collection of stragglers by the
sounds of contention. A truant provincial was paying the
forfeit of his disobedience, by being plundered of those
very effects which had caused him to desert his place in the
ranks. The man was of powerful frame, and too avaricious to
part with his goods without a struggle. Individuals from
either party interfered; the one side to prevent and the
other to aid in the robbery. Voices grew loud and angry,
and a hundred savages appeared, as it were, by magic, where
a dozen only had been seen a minute before. It was then
that Cora saw the form of Magua gliding among his
countrymen, and speaking with his fatal and artful
eloquence. The mass of women and children stopped, and
hovered together like alarmed and fluttering birds. But the
cupidity of the Indian was soon gratified, and the different
bodies again moved slowly onward.
The savages now fell back, and seemed content to let their
enemies advance without further molestation. But, as the
female crowd approached them, the gaudy colors of a shawl
attracted the eyes of a wild and untutored Huron. He
advanced to seize it without the least hesitation. The
woman, more in terror than through love of the ornament,
wrapped her child in the coveted article, and folded both
more closely to her bosom. Cora was in the act of speaking,
with an intent to advise the woman to abandon the trifle,
when the savage relinquished his hold of the shawl, and tore
the screaming infant from her arms. Abandoning everything
to the greedy grasp of those around her, the mother darted,
with distraction in her mien, to reclaim her child. The
Indian smiled grimly, and extended one hand, in sign of a
willingness to exchange, while, with the other, he
flourished the babe over his head, holding it by the feet as
if to enhance the value of the ransom.
"Here -- here -- there -- all -- any -- everything!"
exclaimed the breathless woman, tearing the lighter articles
of dress from her person with ill-directed and trembling
fingers; "take all, but give me my babe!"
The savage spurned the worthless rags, and perceiving that
the shawl had already become a prize to another, his
bantering but sullen smile changing to a gleam of ferocity,
he dashed the head of the infant against a rock, and cast
its quivering remains to her very feet. For an instant the
mother stood, like a statue of despair, looking wildly down
at the unseemly object, which had so lately nestled in her
bosom and smiled in her face; and then she raised her eyes
and countenance toward heaven, as if calling on God to curse
the perpetrator of the foul deed. She was spared the sin of
such a prayer for, maddened at his disappointment, and
excited at the sight of blood, the Huron mercifully drove
his tomahawk into her own brain. The mother sank under the
blow, and fell, grasping at her child, in death, with the
same engrossing love that had caused her to cherish it when
living.
At that dangerous moment, Magua placed his hands to his
mouth, and raised the fatal and appalling whoop. The
scattered Indians started at the well-known cry, as coursers
bound at the signal to quit the goal; and directly there
arose such a yell along the plain, and through the arches of
the wood, as seldom burst from human lips before. They who
heard it listened with a curdling horror at the heart,
little inferior to that dread which may be expected to
attend the blasts of the final summons.
More than two thousand raving savages broke from the forest
at the signal, and threw themselves across the fatal plain
with instinctive alacrity. We shall not dwell on the
revolting horrors that succeeded. Death was everywhere, and
in his most terrific and disgusting aspects. Resistance
only served to inflame the murderers, who inflicted their
furious blows long after their victims were beyond the power
of their resentment. The flow of blood might be likened to
the outbreaking of a torrent; and as the natives became
heated and maddened by the sight, many among them even
kneeled to the earth, and drank freely, exultingly,
hellishly, of the crimson tide.
The trained bodies of the troops threw themselves quickly
into solid masses, endeavoring to awe their assailants by
the imposing appearance of a military front. The experiment
in some measure succeeded, though far too many suffered
their unloaded muskets to be torn from their hands, in the
vain hope of appeasing the savages.
In such a scene none had leisure to note the fleeting moments.
It might have been ten minutes (it seemed an age) that the
sisters had stood riveted to one spot, horror-stricken and
nearly helpless. When the first blow was struck, their
screaming companions had pressed upon them in a body, rendering
flight impossible; and now that fear or death had scattered
most, if not all, from around them, they saw no avenue open,
but such as conducted to the tomahawks of their foes. On every
side arose shrieks, groans, exhortations and curses. At this
moment, Alice caught a glimpse of the vast form of her father,
moving rapidly across the plain, in the direction of the French
army. He was, in truth, proceeding to Montcalm, fearless of
every danger, to claim the tardy escort for which he had before
conditioned. Fifty glittering axes and barbed spears were
offered unheeded at his life, but the savages respected his
rank and calmness, even in their fury. The dangerous weapons
were brushed aside by the still nervous arm of the veteran, or
fell of themselves, after menacing an act that it would seem no
one had courage to perform. Fortunately, the vindictive Magua
was searching for his victim in the very band the veteran had
just quitted.
"Father -- father -- we are here!" shrieked Alice, as he
passed, at no great distance, without appearing to heed
them. "Come to us, father, or we die!"
The cry was repeated, and in terms and tones that might have
melted a heart of stone, but it was unanswered. Once,
indeed, the old man appeared to catch the sound, for he
paused and listened; but Alice had dropped senseless on the
earth, and Cora had sunk at her side, hovering in untiring
tenderness over her lifeless form. Munro shook his head in
disappointment, and proceeded, bent on the high duty of his
station.
"Lady," said Gamut, who, helpless and useless as he was, had
not yet dreamed of deserting his trust, "it is the jubilee
of the devils, and this is not a meet place for Christians
to tarry in. Let us up and fly."
"Go," said Cora, still gazing at her unconscious sister;
"save thyself. To me thou canst not be of further use."
David comprehended the unyielding character of her
resolution, by the simple but expressive gesture that
accompanied her words. He gazed for a moment at the dusky
forms that were acting their hellish rites on every side of
him, and his tall person grew more erect while his chest
heaved, and every feature swelled, and seemed to speak with
the power of the feelings by which he was governed.
"If the Jewish boy might tame the great spirit of Saul by
the sound of his harp, and the words of sacred song, it may
not be amiss," he said, "to try the potency of music here."
Then raising his voice to its highest tone, he poured out a
strain so powerful as to be heard even amid the din of that
bloody field. More than one savage rushed toward them,
thinking to rifle the unprotected sisters of their attire,
and bear away their scalps; but when they found this strange
and unmoved figure riveted to his post, they paused to
listen. Astonishment soon changed to admiration, and they
passed on to other and less courageous victims, openly
expressing their satisfaction at the firmness with which the
white warrior sang his death song. Encouraged and deluded
by his success, David exerted all his powers to extend what
he believed so holy an influence. The unwonted sounds
caught the ears of a distant savage, who flew raging from
group to group, like one who, scorning to touch the vulgar
herd, hunted for some victim more worthy of his renown. It
was Magua, who uttered a yell of pleasure when he beheld his
ancient prisoners again at his mercy.
"Come," he said, laying his soiled hands on the dress of
Cora, "the wigwam of the Huron is still open. Is it not
better than this place?"
"Away!" cried Cora, veiling her eyes from his revolting
aspect.
The Indian laughed tauntingly, as he held up his reeking
hand, and answered: "It is red, but it comes from white
veins!"
"Monster! there is blood, oceans of blood, upon thy soul;
thy spirit has moved this scene."
"Magua is a great chief!" returned the exulting savage,
"will the dark-hair go to his tribe?"
"Never! strike if thou wilt, and complete thy revenge." He
hesitated a moment, and then catching the light and
senseless form of Alice in his arms, the subtle Indian moved
swiftly across the plain toward the woods.
"Hold!" shrieked Cora, following wildly on his footsteps;
"release the child! wretch! what is't you do?"
But Magua was deaf to her voice; or, rather, he knew his
power, and was determined to maintain it.
"Stay -- lady -- stay," called Gamut, after the unconscious
Cora. "The holy charm is beginning to be felt, and soon
shalt thou see this horrid tumult stilled."
Perceiving that, in his turn, he was unheeded, the faithful
David followed the distracted sister, raising his voice
again in sacred song, and sweeping the air to the measure,
with his long arm, in diligent accompaniment. In this
manner they traversed the plain, through the flying, the
wounded and the dead. The fierce Huron was, at any time,
sufficient for himself and the victim that he bore; though
Cora would have fallen more than once under the blows of her
savage enemies, but for the extraordinary being who stalked
in her rear, and who now appeared to the astonished natives
gifted with the protecting spirit of madness.
Magua, who knew how to avoid the more pressing dangers, and
also to elude pursuit, entered the woods through a low
ravine, where he quickly found the Narragansetts, which the
travelers had abandoned so shortly before, awaiting his
appearance, in custody of a savage as fierce and malign in
his expression as himself. Laying Alice on one of the
horses, he made a sign to Cora to mount the other.
Notwithstanding the horror excited by the presence of her
captor, there was a present relief in escaping from the
bloody scene enacting on the plain, to which Cora could not
be altogether insensible. She took her seat, and held forth
her arms for her sister, with an air of entreaty and love
that even the Huron could not deny. Placing Alice, then, on
the same animal with Cora, he seized the bridle, and
commenced his route by plunging deeper into the forest.
David, perceiving that he was left alone, utterly
disregarded as a subject too worthless even to destroy,
threw his long limb across the saddle of the beast they had
deserted, and made such progress in the pursuit as the
difficulties of the path permitted.
They soon began to ascend; but as the motion had a tendency
to revive the dormant faculties of her sister, the attention
of Cora was too much divided between the tenderest
solicitude in her behalf, and in listening to the cries
which were still too audible on the plain, to note the
direction in which they journeyed. When, however, they
gained the flattened surface of the mountain-top, and
approached the eastern precipice, she recognized the spot to
which she had once before been led under the more friendly
auspices of the scout. Here Magua suffered them to
dismount; and notwithstanding their own captivity, the
curiosity which seems inseparable from horror, induced them
to gaze at the sickening sight below.
The cruel work was still unchecked. On every side the
captured were flying before their relentless persecutors,
while the armed columns of the Christian king stood fast in
an apathy which has never been explained, and which has left
an immovable blot on the otherwise fair escutcheon of their
leader. Nor was the sword of death stayed until cupidity
got the mastery of revenge. Then, indeed, the shrieks of
the wounded, and the yells of their murderers grew less
frequent, until, finally, the cries of horror were lost to
their ear, or were drowned in the loud, long and piercing
whoops of the triumphant savages.
Content of CHAPTER 17 [James Fenimore Cooper's novel: The Last of the Mohicans]
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