As they descended towards the valley the air became still more mild, and Gideon remembered the promise of Eoneguski, that “here he would find the game more plenty, and that the sun would shine more brightly.” Part of it he found realized, and his doubts were removed as to the remainder.

Continuing to descend, their way became less precipitous until they reached the Tennessee River, on the near side of which an Indian hut or two was scattered among fields almost level, presenting the appearance of long use, and having suffered seriously from improvident culture. Similar fields occupied the acclivity of the opposite bank, with a very narrow slip of irregular low ground running along the margin of the stream. On the farther side of these fields, about one-fourth of a mile from the river, rose the village of Eonee. “There,” said the Indian, pointing to it, with a rather melancholy smile, “is the home of Eoneguski.”

While they were preparing to cross the Tennessee, a mound of earth, about one hundred yards from its margin, in the direction they were going, attracted the attention of Gideon. It was evidently not the work of nature, but had been accumulated with great exertion of human toil. Whether the earth of which it was composed had been gathered from the ground immediately around it, or brought from a distance, could not be determined with any certainty. It was situated on the most extensive level which, in that vicinity, the low grounds of the Tennessee afforded. On one side of it flowed that river, and on the other a small swampy creek, which, so far as we have ever learned, is not honored with a name. The mound was, at the base, about four hundred feet in circumference, and that side of it which fronted the angle formed by the junction of the river and creek, in a northerly direction, rose to the height of twenty or twenty-five feet in a cone, forming an angle with the surface of the earth of about seventy or seventy-five degrees. This was probably the case with the whole circumference; but on the opposite side from the one which fronted the junction of the creek and river, a projection sloped off in a southerly direction about fifty feet in width, forming a gradual and easy ascent from the level ground to the summit, where was a smooth area about sixty-six feet in circumference, surrounded by an embankment about two feet high.—Upon it, and around it, were scattered here and there small fragments of what had evidently once been earthen vessels of great antiquity; but how they had come there, or to what purposes been applied, were matters for conjecture.

Gideon had frequently heard of what were called by those who spake, “Indian mounts,” as well as various suppositions as to how they were erected, and for what objects designed, but he had never seen hem; and as their course now lay directly past one, Eoneguski could not refuse so far to gratify his curiosity as to allow him a few moments to examine it. All that he had heard about these mounds now flashed upon his mind. One theory was, that, in compliance with a superstition among them, the Indians within a certain district of country brought, each, a spadefull of earth from the land he cultivated to an appointed place, by which Heaven was propitiated, and fertility imparted to the soil, and the seasons rendered fruitful; and that the earth thus collected, was thrown up into a regular shaped “mount.” This theory seemed to derive countenance from the fact, that the mound now before him, so far as he could discover, was entirely composed of rich soil, and that no portion of dead unfruitful matter entered into its formation. Besides, there was but little appearance of the earth immediately around it having been deprived of any of its original elevation.

Another theory was, that those “mounts” were places of sepulture for the dead. But the only circumstance which seemed to have any bearing upon this question was, that there were scattered around the one under observation, very small fragments of what were once apparently the bones of some animal, but whether they ever formed a portion of that wonderful fabric “man,” he was compelled to leave to Cuvier, or some other person better skilled than himself to decide.

He had heard, also, that these mounds were erected as trophies of victory by the successful party, on the scenes of great battles distinguished in the bloody traditionary annals of the warlike aborigines. But to the truth or falsehood of this supposition he could find no clue.

Again, it had been said they were designed as places of strength when the country was assailed by an invading foe. If any thing gave the slightest color to this supposition, it was that those spike-formed stones, supposed to have been used by the Indians to head their arrows, before they became acquainted with iron and fire-arms, and commonly called “Indian arrows,” were found there in considerable abundance; and that the position acquired strength from being flanked and fronted by the river and the creek, the remaining side communicating exclusively with the defenders, who, successively ascending in parties, as their predecessors became weary, or expended their ammunition, might, from the commanding elevation of the mount, more effectually annoy the enemy, while their own force was placed by it in comparative safety. But these circumstances were more than counterbalanced by its being evident to the eye most unpractised in military affairs, that means of defence much more simple, less costly, and incomparably better fitted for the purpose, could not have escaped the attention of the rudest warrior. Besides, the very small number of men which it was capable of receiving, and the certainty that an enemy, the least gifted with craft, by making a small circuit, might come upon their rear, or take some other route, rendered such expensive labor of little utility.

The last supposition, and probably the most plausible he called to his recollection, was, that they were erected for religious purposes. In connection with this idea, he had heard the fragments of earthen vessels spoken of as being the remains of those used on sacrificial occasions. He also observed, what had at first escaped his notice, another mound, not more than one-tenth the size of the larger, a few feet to the eastward of it, with a plain oval summit; but this furnished no additional light to the subject of his speculations.

Hastily leaving this novelty, out of deference to an impatience which he concluded Eoneguski would feel to embrace his father after so long an absence, Gideon, not without some sense of delicacy lest he might be prying into matters which, from the uncertainty attending them, he reasonably inferred were the subjects of profound secrecy among the Indians, inquired of Eoneguski the origin and design of those mounts.

“Those mounts,” said the Indian, “have filled the soul of Eoneguski with wonder no less than that of his white brother.—The Oewoehee have not always peopled these hills and valleys.—Many moons ago,” he continued, catching up a handful of sand and shaking it, as he extended his hand toward Gideon, to signify more than he could count, “before the white people came across the great waters, the fathers of my people hunted their game on the hills which lie far away yonder, (pointing towards the northeast,)—but the Great Spirit was angry with his children, and sent the angel of death to destroy them;—they fell thicker and faster than the vanquished in battle—but they saw not the warrior by whose arm they were smitten. Terror seized them—and they fled from the graves of their fathers—from the unburied bodies of their kindred—whose flesh was festering in the open air, and their bones bleaching in the sun and wind;—for they had learnt that to touch them even for burial was death. They fled from the breath of the destroyer, and, like the wandering Iroquois, they travelled in search of another home, where the wing of the angel of death might not overtake them. Long, long they wandered, and passing by numerous tribes of their red brethren, who did not offer them the pipe of peace, and crossing streams wide and deep, to which the Tennessee is but as the papoose to the full grown warrior—they came to this land, resolved to perish or make it their place of rest. But the land was not empty—no, the Great Spirit hath left no part of his beautiful creation where the eye of man is not to enjoy it, and his heart to throb with gratitude to his Creator. But they came, as I have heard come the waves of the mighty ocean, which roll on and on, each forcing another from its place;—and thus did my fathers chase from their abodes the ancient inhabitants of this land, to yield it in their turn to the pale faces.” He paused —

He resumed—“Yes, Gideon, come it will, when the Oewoehee must be swept from their homes by the children of thy people.—It may be when Gideon and Eoneguski have passed away to the land of the blessed;—but come it will.” This was uttered with an emotion which somewhat disconcerted Gideon, but he made no answer.

Eoneguski paused again, and then with more firmness continued, “The people whom my fathers found in this valley were taller and more comely than either your people or mine—they were fairer than we, but darker than you—they knew much, very much more than our people, but were far less wise than yours. They called themselves the children of the Sun, and worshipped fire as the Great Spirit. Our fathers have told us that they erected these mounts, but for what purpose they knew not. But they have passed away—far away—to the country where, it is said, they behold their god when he sinks to rest in the evening on the bosom of the great waters. They are gone.—The god whom they worshipped yet shines upon the land—but his children are not here to rejoice in his beams.—Not an echo is heard from the mountains which once rung with their voices.—You look in vain for one print of their footstep beside the mounts they erected.—They stand alone—and tell, in a voice which the ear hears not—that here they have been.”

FILIAL duty is dignified in the divine law with the first place among the relative obligations of mankind, and the voice of nature echoes the celestial proclamation. Even among the inferior animals, love towards the authors of their being exists to some extent, and in the human family its greater or less development is one of the most distinctive marks by which the advance of an individual or class in moral excellence may be known. The total absence of it characterizes the monster only, while its highest exhibitions touch the hearts of the beholders with the most delightful sense of moral beauty. It differs from parental love in being more of a sentiment and less of an instinct, although both these may partake, in some degree, of either quality. It is the first affection the heart can know, and is probably the root from whence the others spring, and in proportion to its strength so is apt to be that of all succeeding it. An affectionate son seldom fails to fulfil with propriety the subsequent relations of life.

It was with no small share of this benevolent sentiment that Eoneguski approached the hut of his father, filled at the same time with anxiety respecting his condition. The subject of the mound had beguiled the way between it and the wigwam of Eonah, where Gideon and Eoneguski found themselves ere they were aware. The aged chief did not advance to meet his son and his scarcely less welcome companion, but, bound by disease to his couch, could only in a recumbent posture express his satisfaction at beholding them. He caused Gideon to stand up before him and place himself in every light and position, while he carefully studied his form, countenance, and manner. At length, shaking his head mournfully, “The eyes of Eonah are dim,” he said, “and they look in vain for the form and features of his pale brother.—But why should I wonder?” he added, with a bitter smile, “is any thing now as it was in the days that have long passed by?—and if Aymor himself now stood before me—how unlike would he be to that Aymor, who, more than three hundred moons ago, was a captive to the bow of Eonah? Is not Eonah himself changed?—Where is the fleetness of his foot?—where the strength of his arm?—Never more will he join in the dance, either for peace or war.”

Eoneguski perceived with sorrow that the apprehensions conveyed to his mind by Mercury were the shadows of a sad reality, and that although Eonah might possibly linger for a season, he was lying on that couch from whence he was never more to rise in his own strength.

With the delicate politeness which one would scarcely have looked for in a savage, he had another wigwam arranged for Gideon, that he might not be disturbed by the infirmities of the aged chief. It was not long in being prepared, and Eoneguski, having seen Gideon comfortably fixed, according to his own ideas of comfort, returned to the wigwam of Eonah.

“The spirit of Eoneguski is sad,” he said, addressing the old chief, “to see the hand of the Great Spirit laid in anger on his father.”

“Is the Great Spirit angry with all whom he afflicts!” inquired Eonah, in a faint voice.

“Do the red men ever torture their friends?” said Eoneguski. “Is it not their enemies only, whom they have taken in battle?”

“Are all his creatures, then, the enemies of the Great Spirit?” said the old chief; “for who is there that breathes, and is a stranger to affliction?”

“The Great Spirit himself only knows,” replied the son; “yet, surely, he never afflicts his children, but when they displease him. Has the Saga visited my father?”

“No,” replied Eonah; “the chief of Eonee has seen too many moons, to believe that Susquanannacunahata is wiser than others—or that he is a favorite of the Great Spirit. Susquanannacunahata is a bad man.”

“Let not my father say so,” replied Eoneguski; “our people reverence the words of Susquanannacunahata. He is a Great Medicine, and will renew strength in the limbs of the chief of Eonee. He is a great Prophet, and will turn away from him the wrath of the Great Spirit.”

“When strength was in the bones of Eonah,” said the chief, “he listened to the words of Susquanannacunahata, and pretended to believe them; but he laughed at them in his heart, for he knew that Susquanannacunahata was a villain.”

“And why,” said Eoneguski, with a sarcastic bitterness he could not repress, “should my father listen to words he did not believe, and pretend to respect him whom he knew to be a villain?”

“Eoneguski,” said the old chief, “listen to your father. A few days more and I must follow my ancestors to that country where there is no more age nor sickness;—whose streams are clearer than the drops of dew;—whose fruits are more luscious than the melon or peach;—whose valleys rejoice at the same moment, in the sweet roasting-ear and the fully ripe corn;—and over whose hills the uncounted game is forever bounding. Then must Eoneguski become the chief of the Eonee;—and he must shew himself valiant in fight, and wise in council.—Such has been thy father, Eonah.—He knew the people of Eonee believed that the Great Spirit sometimes spoke to one of his children, and made him a Prophet and a Great Medicine. He knew that the voice of the Prophet and Medicine was louder in the ears of the people than that of their chief.—What was Eonah to do?—Must he tell the people that the Saga was an impostor, and a villian; and cause himself to be hated and despised among them?—A wiser counsel directed the course of thy father; and by the hands of the Saga he turned about the hearts of his people, according to his pleasure; and answers which they foolishly thought were sent from Heaven, were dictated by their chief. Susquanannacunahata has been to me a spy upon Chuheluh; and through him have I been able to defeat the schemes of that wily Fox. In the meantime Chuheluh has believed that the Saga was plotting with him for the accomplishment of his purposes; and has been looking forward to the moment when success should repay him for his many defeats.—But every plan he has formed has been communicated to me by the Saga, and by his assistance it has been counteracted.—Yet, think not it is because the Saga loves Eonah that he hath preferred his service to that of Chuheluh. No—it is because he knows that I know him; and he fears me.—But Chuheluh, wise as he is, hath superstition, like the rest of the Oewoehee; and although Susquanannacunahata hath presumed so far upon his credulity as to let him see too much, so that he at length begins to doubt the inspiration of the Saga, yet he hath not altogether burst those cords of superstition his mother twined around his heart, in his father's wigwam.—But time hath made Susquanannacunahata acquainted with the properties of many herbs, and he may alleviate pangs beyond his art to cure. I have, therefore, thought of sending for him—yet it is chiefly for thy sake, my son, that I wish him to come—he holds the keys of the hearts of the people of Eonee, and he must open them to Eoneguski: and the power which the father has exercised over the Saga, we must transfer to the son.”

He paused—then suddenly starting, as if some new thought had flashed upon his mind—

THE empire of this gentle passion, which the poet describes as so universal, includes even the untaught child of the forest, who doubtless experiences, in his simple wooings all those pleasing agitations of the imagination which impart to love half its zest in the most civilized condition of life. He is as sensible to the chilling influence of a frown, and the genial effect of a smile, from the chosen of his heart, as his white brethren. He feels as keenly apprehensions for her safety and her constancy, and sympathizes as deeply in all that concerns her. He is as severely tormented with fears that his conduct or motives may be misunderstood, and pants as ardently for her approbation.

Such at least was the experience of the noble savage, of whom we have had so much occasion to speak. As he approached Tesumtoe indescribable emotion caused his heart now to rise buoyantly in his bosom, like a joyful bark, freighted with objects of delight upon the gentle waves of a summer sea, and then to sink sadly down with the weight of gloomy thoughts which poured into his soul, like the same vessel, when, through some unlucky opening, the treacherous waters flow in and swamp her. Now would hope whisper to him words of comfort, and then would doubt chill him with suggestions of fearful import. He had not been unconscious from the first that the presence of Gideon must embarrass both himself and the Little Deer, and impart to their interview a coldness by no means agreeable. But he comforted himself in the conscious fulfilment of duty for the sacrifice he was making, convinced that it could not have been pleasant to Gideon to have remained at Eonee under existing circumstances.

It was evening when they reached Tesumtoe, a village near the head of one of the forks of the Tennessee River, along which their journey for the most part lay, as it meandered through a long narrow valley, from which the hills gradually sloped upon each side, terminating in numerous peaks or spurs of various heights and dimensions.

Their course from Eonee had been directly south—the mildness of the climate had increased in their progress in a ratio truly astonishing—and the full moon of a delightful spring evening was pouring down upon them a flood of light as they entered the village, where all was quiet. So still and calm did every thing appear, that any one, whose imagination suitable reading had supplied with the thought, would have been struck with a feeling similar to that of the great poet, whose name is prefixed to this chapter, when looking upon the ruins of Pompeii, he exclaimed, “The city of the dead, the city of the dead.” But to Gideon it suggested the recollection of some of those ambuscades he had heard of Indians laying for an unwary foe, where a quiet, even deeper than peace herself is wont to know, is broken in the twinkling of an eye, by noise and uproar the loudest, the wildest, the most continued and appalling, ever uttered by the grating voice of war.

Impressed with this thought he moved accordingly, and, as he followed his guide, was ready at the slightest noise, for flight, or to assume the attitude of defence, as circumstances might dictate. They had not proceeded far, however, when, from the wigwams, as they passed, the men came out to look upon them, while the women and children might be seen slyly peeping from the doors and loop holes, which answered the purposes of windows, as well as the smaller crevices of the cabins.

A THIEF, from some place of concealment, beholds an unconscious miser burying, in a secret corner of the earth, his cherished treasure, which a life of toil and successful industry have been spent in accumulating. Having made the deposite, the unsuspecting wretch turns to depart, and the heart of the thief leaps with joy and anxiety to seize the precious hoard, as he beholds the last wave of the garments of the departing owner.

Such were the feelings of Gideon, when he caught the last glimpse of Eoneguski's receding form, and he was left alone with the Little Deer. On downy pinions the hours flew past him, while opportunities numberless presented themselves of seeing and conversing with her, and even the broad wings of time brushed him not in his transit. While thus situated, there was, with him, no computation of hours, and the game, which had been one of his inducements for coming to the Indian country, was entirely forgotten. He seldom saw the melancholy of Yenacona interrupted by a smile, but frequently, when he happened to be alone with her, she seemed about to speak, and then, as if checking herself, would suddenly resume her book or needle, with both of which she was quite familiar. Nor had her niece failed so to share the benefit of her aunt's skill in these important matters, as to become likewise considerably proficient.

Gideon had been some time at Tesumtoe, when one day in a stroll around the village, he was led in his wandering towards the banks of the Tennessee. Spring had now fairly opened, and the bushes on the margin of the stream had all put forth their emerald gems, and the larger trees were fast following their example. Casting his eye along the river, he was not a little surprised at observing about equi-distant from each other, as far as the eye could reach, slender smoke-wreaths curling up towards heaven, and forming at last a continuous cloud, hanging lazily over the middle of the stream, like a canopy.

“What can this mean,” thought he, and drew near for the purpose of satisfying his curiosity. But it was still more excited when he perceived that the columns of smoke were sent up by as many small fires, over each of which some vessel, used for culinary purposes, was simmering or blubbering away, according to their respective fortune. But if it was still more excited by these things, it was in no degree lessened, when opposite to each of these little cauldrons a promiscuous group of men and women was splashing and sporting about in the river like so many “geese at play.” Presently they came out to the miniature cauldrons, and with sticks dipped up from them some boiling herbs, with which, after suffering them to cool for a moment, they rubbed rapidly their feet and legs, and, running to the river again, plunged in. This process being repeated several times, they put on their garments, and having extinguished their fires, bore off the vessels they had been using to their respective cabins.

Gideon in vain inquired of one or two Indians the meaning of what he had witnessed. All he could get out of them, was, that it was an ancient custom, but what it meant, or whether it was practised for health or religion, they could not, or would not inform him.

“If Eoneguski were here,” thought he to himself, “he would explain it to me.” But Eoneguski was not there, and his next thought was, “Perhaps I can learn it from the Little Deer.”

He returned to the dwelling of Yenacona, and would probably have thought no more about the matter, but while at dinner it accidentally occurred to him, and he mentioned what he had seen, and inquired into the meaning of it.

“It is one of the superstitious rites of the poor deluded Cherokees,” said Yenacona, crossing herself, “and I doubt whether they themselves know what it means.”

“Do all the Cherokees practise it?” said Gideon, casting at the same time an expressive glance across the table at the Little Deer.

“All, I believe,” replied Yenacona, “who have not forsaken the idolatry of their people, and become followers of the Cross;—all I mean who have not become Christians.”

“Is the Little Deer a Christian?” inquired Gideon, abruptly.

Yenacona looked at her niece—their eyes met—and the clear red skin of the Little Deer was suffused with a blush, which occupied her whole face, neck and bosom.

“I trust I am a Christian,” said she, timidly and faintly.

“If she is not now a Christian, I hope soon to see her so,” said Yenacona. “But she has not yet discarded the superstitions of her fathers, and, among others, observes the Spring bath of cold water and bitter herbs.”

“And was the Little Deer,” inquired Gideon, with some warmth, “among the damsels who this day bared themselves in the broad light of Heaven, and shamelessly flounced about in the Tennessee River?”

The Little Deer blushed again, and there was an expression of anger as well as of shame in her countenance, but she answered softly, “It is the custom of my people.”

Gideon was silent. His faith to Eoneguski was stealing in to occupy the place of love to the Little Deer, which the effusion of cold Tennessee water had partially expelled. “What!” said he internally, “marry a woman over whose person the wanton air has liberty to breathe once a year; aye, and unscreened too from the most licentious eye!”

How much further he may have pursued his reflections is uncertain, but he was here interrupted by the fascinating tones of Yenacona's voice.

“Yes!” said she, “the Little Deer considers herself the betrothed bride of an Indian chief, and he would not consent that his wife should throw off the customs of his people.”

“The Little Deer will never be a bride,” replied a low tremulous voice, almost choked with emotion.

A speedy change came over the feelings of Gideon. The simplicity of innocence, that master charm in woman, was so evident in all that was said or done by the Little Deer, and was so striking in the tone and matter of her last remark, that she was restored to his imagination in all her original purity, and had his knowledge of scripture supplied him with it, he would have been struck with the force of the expression as applicable to her, “To the pure, all things are pure;” and he felt that she was no more contaminated by her late exposure, than the infant in whose existence days only could be numbered. Her plaintive voice made an undesigned appeal to his heart, which was irresistible, and she was reinstated in its full possession.

“But can it be,” thought he, “that her purpose of marrying Eoneguski is already unsettled? What can be the cause? Is it possible that my good fortune is such, that a kind feeling for me has already shaken the firm hold my Indian friend once held upon her affections?”

He determined to probe the matter deeper. “It will make at least one heart miserable should the Little Deer keep that determination,” said he, with an affection of gaiety.

“I do not doubt it,” said the Little Deer sighing.

THERE is a native innocence and simplicity common in the female heart, but rarely found among the ruder sex. The former is characterized, besides, by a more rigid adherence to principle, when once adopted, in spite of the sacrifices to which it may lead. Women are, perhaps, more easily deceived than men, in questions of propriety, and lend a more submissive ear to any one who assumes to be a teacher; but when sound lessons are once taught, the fruits of sound practice follow with most infallible certainty. Let them once be fully satisfied that an action involves a violation of principle, and it is seldom that considerations of mere expediency can tempt them to its commission. The decisions of the moral sense are probably not more correct in them than with men, but they are more inflexible. In some atmospheres paintings are said to preserve their freshness of coloring much better and longer than in others; and there seems to be, in the female bosom, a peculiar aptitude to retain in their pristine beauty each delineation of moral excellence. The simplicity of the female character melts us into love, its virtuous firmness excites our admiration, and commands our esteem.

The storm described in our last chapter as being so opportune in the scene between Gideon and Yenacona, was an awful visitation to one of the inmates of the same dwelling. That morning the soft south breeze had early chased away the fog which, in the course of the night, had risen, like rags of silver gauze, from the bosom of the river, in the mellow moonlight, and uniting, finally, in one mass, had overspread the valley, wrapping each object in one general robe of invisibility. The rising sun had called the breeze into being, with his earliest rays, and, like a dutiful offspring, the breeze, in its turn, flew, upon cheerful wing, to chase away every thing that might obscure the glories of its parent.

The Little Deer heard the foliage of a perennial vine stirring under the gentle breath of the zephyr, and rose from her couch. “Thou incomprehensible Being,” she exclaimed, opening her casement, and falling upon her knees, in the attitude of adoration, “whom my fathers have worshipped in their simplicity, as the Great Spirit, and of whom wonderful things are told by the white men, who adore thee as the triune God, assist the feeblest of thy creatures in her search after truths, upon which rest her present and everlasting peace.—And if thy red children are lost in ignorance, which covers them as the fog did recently my native valley, let thy breath come gently, and chase away the dark shadows, as the soft breeze disperses the vapor, that the light of truth may cheer and warm their hearts.—But how shall thy will be communicated to a being such as I am?—Approach me not in thy terrors, for how should I stand before thee?—But pour into my soul, as the dew falleth upon the earth, the suggestions of thy will.—This day is one of the customs of my people to be observed, and it is denounced by some, as not only vain and unprofitable, but dangerous and wicked.—Pity my blindness, oh, August Being, and teach me (for I am in a great strait) how it behoveth me to act.—If my people are right, I should be base and recreant not to share with them the reproach of well-doing;—but if they are wrong, give me some manifestation that it is so, for I would not go with the multitude to do evil.”

Having said this, she determined to conform to the custom of the Cherokees, as she had always done, unless something should occur that she might interpret into a Divine rebuke. But the morning passed on in calmness, and not the slightest circumstance transpired unusually to affect her mind; and the arguments of Yenacona, neither few nor slackly pressed, had proven insufficient to convince her.

The appointed hour arrived, and she repaired, with the other maidens of Tesumtoe to their parent stream; but not, as had been supposed by Gideon, did she expose her person among the mingled multitude.—No, the lessons of delicacy imparted to her by her aunt, had not been thrown away, but impressed themselves deeply on her character. Like another Diana, with a few chosen friends of her own sex, she sought a sequestered spot, where a cave in a rock, making up to the very brink of the stream, enabled them to conform to the customs of their people, without violence to their modesty.

The ceremony was over, and she had returned home, and nothing had yet occurred to convince the maiden of the impropriety of the act in which she had been engaged. But at dinner the young white stranger, who had been kind and attentive to her during his stay at Tesumtoe—who had frequently addressed to her words of commendation—and for whom she entertained a sisterly affection, had evidently shrunk from her with something like horror, when he understood that she had participated in the ceremony he accidentally witnessed. This simple circumstance went farther than any thing had previously done to shake her confidence in the rectitude of her course. She retired from the dinner table self-dissatisfied, and repaired to her own apartment, full of unpleasant reflections.

Before leaving the table she had observed some symptoms of the storm, but they made no impression, until she found herself alone, and then the gloom which the gathering cloud threw over her apartment painfully added to the distress of her mind. A thought of anguish flashed upon her, with the first faint glimmer of the distant lightning. “This is the sign,”—she said to herself, “and the Terrible One is displeased with what I have done.”

She heard the hoarse rushing sound, as the cloud swept down from the mountain. “He is coming,”—she murmured,—“He is coming in anger;”—and threw herself upon her bed, with palpitating heart and labored respiration.

A blaze of intense light burst into the apartment, licking up, as it were, in an instant, its whole contents, and departing as suddenly as it came, left behind an almost impalpable gloom. Another moment, and the awful crash, apparently just above her head, as if tearing for itself a way through the very roof of the building, completed the triumph over her mind of the imposing thought that, in partial compliance with her own prayer, the Eternal himself was chiding her with His awful voice, or was coming to make, in her destruction, an example of terror to the residue of her people. In an agony of fear she hid her face in the bed-clothing, and remained, almost breathless, while the storm was expending its fury.

When, at length, it could only be heard indistinctly rumbling in the distance, she again became collected. And when the bright sun came forth anew, and laughed in joyously through the window of her apartment, she arose, and looked out upon the cheerful earth, and her heart could not withhold its sympathy. A feeling of delight, such as she had never before experienced, gushed in upon her soul, and overpowered its faculties. As in the morning, she opened the window, and threw herself on her knees before it. The air kissed her fevered cheeks with the same balmy and refreshing influence. “Thou art merciful to thy children,” she exclaimed, “oh thou Parent of the universe;—thy terrors have passed by me, and I am not consumed;—once more am I permitted to rejoice in thy smiles.—From henceforth I will know thee no more as the terrible Great Spirit of the red men, but as ‘Our Father who art in Heaven.’ ”

TO watch by the bed of the dying is one of the most solemn and affecting of relative duties, and exercises most powerfully the feelings of the heart. The various sufferings, both of mind and body, which the patient undergoes, keep sympathy continually awake; and a ray of hope occasionally breaking through the thickest gloom, prevents the lethargy despair would occasion. In the solemn stillness that pervades the chamber, busy memory is left free to wander back over the path of former intercourse, and gather up the incidents which mark the worth of the dying, and endear him to the heart—while fancy is searching in the gloom of the future for what must so soon become distressing reality.

When Eoneguski reached Eonee, he found every thing in a state of gloomy excitement, and soon learned that his father was supposed to be dying, and that the people were in that restless condition, by which a swarm of bees indicate the absence of their sovereign, and their sense of the necessity of speedily filling, with another, her vacated throne. He flew to the wigwam of the dying chief, and the crowd gathered around the door gave way at his approach. He threw himself on his knees, beside the couch, but dared not give farther vent to his feelings, in the presence of the stern countenances looking watchfully upon him.

The face of Eonah, during the short absence of his son, had become much more haggard; his eyes, before quite dim, were now entirely sightless; and the arm with which he had dealt his son the impotent blow, lay nerveless beside him. Nothing but the moving of the chest, and a snoring noise, like that of one sleeping, spoke any thing of life in the once matchless warrior. But death seemed loath to complete his triumph, and, for many hours, to pause in his advance. Meantime the dutiful savage sat by his father, and ever and anon moistened his lips with a feather, and an occasional drop of the fluid finding its way much lower, refreshed, for a brief instant, his throat and palate. The hope that he would ever again so far revive as to revoke the malediction which sat distressingly upon the feelings of Eoneguski, it seemed folly to indulge; and nothing was left to him but, with melancholy interest, to trim, according to his limited skill, the lamp of life just glimmering in the socket, and watch its progress toward final extinction. He learned that, during his absence, the Saga had visited the chief, and after having administered a few herbs, pronounced him entirely beyond his reach; and, complaining of the infirmities of age, had returned immediately, to repose himself in his wigwam at Sugar Town.

It was midnight, and Eoneguski, who had just risen from a brief nap, dismissed Mercury to repose, to take his own turn of watching by the dying chief. There was perfect silence in the hut, save the breathing of Eonah, which was growing fainter and more faint.—Dim, very dim was the light in the apartment, and the weary watcher, whose animal spirits were subdued by multiplied afflictions, had sunk into that half sleeping state, in which things real and imaginary form mingled and shifting pictures before the mind.—He was standing, in fancy, near the banks of the Homony, watching for Welch, and distinctly heard the low hissing ripple of its waters: “Humph,” said he, starting, “it is the breathing of my father.”

He again relapsed into the half unconscious state, and one of the scenes of his earliest manhood was before him;—he was hunting deer amongst his native mountains and valleys;—a stag was bounding, at no great distance, unsuspectingly towards him;—he knew it by the slow successive leaps with which the earth resounded.—The hunter prepared for the slaughter of his noble game, and in so doing, jostled his seat, and awoke himself.—It was his own heart, laboring under the accumulation of half stagnated blood, he had heard.

Yet again he was in the land of shadows;—the Little Deer was before him, as in their earliest acquaintance—when confidence was between them;—she was in the wigwam of her mother, in the heat of a summer's day, and her head had fallen back in gentle slumber against the back of the chair whereon she sat.—He softly approached, and sunk down on the ground beside her;—her head declined still lower, and, among the thick masses of her long glossy hair, he was horror stricken at beholding a venemous little serpent intertwined, fixing upon him its bright fiery eyes, and threateningly licking out its forked tongue.—He reached forth his hand to tear the serpent from the head of the beloved one, and, as he attempted to seize it by the throat, it fixed upon one of his fingers its poisonous fangs—The pain awoke him, and he found himself stretched along by the fire, in his father's wigwam, with a live coal near him. It was evident that, heavy with sleep, he had slid down from his seat, and, under the impulse of fancy, having stretched forth his arm, one of his fingers came in contact with the fire.

He resumed his position, and, for a few moments, the slight pain of the burn kept him awake. It soon, however, subsided, and again the semi-transparent veil was let down over him. He was in the wigwam of Eonah, watching the feverish slumbers of his dying father;—strength had apparently deserted forever the limbs of the aged warrior, and they lay upon his couch in more than infantile imbecility;—his eyelids were half closed, as if in their last sleep, and the mouth lay widely distended, that there might be no hindrance to the ingress and egress of the unwilling breath.—Presently there was a quivering of the heavy eyelids, and their curtains were drawn up from the dim sightless orbs they had hitherto partially shaded;—the widely opened mouth closed as by a mechanical spring;—the hitherto rigid nostrils began to play in natural respiration, and the chief arose to a sitting posture.

Eoneguski started, as he had done on former occasions, under the impression that he was awaking from the mockery of a dream. But either his senses were still the dupes of delusion, or he was witnessing nothing less than a most surprising reality. There sat before him, in the dim light, the aged chief, with open eyes, evidently striving to apply those organs to their natural use. “Where am I?”—he said, in a voice quite natural.

Eoneguski was greatly moved, but he was, as we have had occasion to shew, a man of firmness, and hastened to relieve the solicitude of the inquirer, by the answer, “You are in your own wigwam at Eonee.”

“It is the voice of Eoneguski—of my only son,” said the chief.—“They told me he was a recreant and a coward, but I knew it was false—my young warrior hath returned, and his hand is red with the blood of John Welch—dripping warm from his scalp.—But fly to the Saga at Sugar Town, and tell him that the angel of death has quitted his prey for a season—that Eonah yet lives, and calls for the aid of the Great Medicine—fly—fly I say.”

Obedient to the paternal behest, Eoneguski woke up Mercury to attend upon the chief, whilst he moved his sinewy limbs, and bent himself to outstrip in speed the fabled Apollo, when he followed the flying footsteps of the beautiful Daphne. He left behind him the shadows of night when he arrived at the door of Susquanannacunahata, and made the frail tenement shake with his impatient demand for admittance.

Wissa rose, muttering some unearthly sound of displeasure, and proceeded to reconnoitre the person of the untimely visiter; but he no sooner perceived who it was than every trace of displeasure faded from his countenance, and the door was thrown open for him to enter. The Saga opened his dim eyes, and turned them upon the visiter, who approached his couch.

“Who art thou,” said the Saga.

“I am Eoneguski,” was the reply.

“Thou comest to the Saga,” said the Prophet, “to pour flattery into his ears, that thou mayst be the chief of Eonee in the room of the deceased Eonah.”

“The Great Spirit hath spared Eonah,” replied the young Indian, “and Eoneguski is breathless with the haste in which he hath flown to bring the Saga word, that he may snatch the prey from the angel of death—Eonah says come and heal him.”

The suddenness of the information that Eonah was yet alive, deprived Susquanannacunahata of his usual self-command; for, had he learnt that one had actually arisen from the dead, his surprise could not have been in reality greater, or more unequivocally expressed in his countenance.

“Thy brain is disordered, and thou dreamest,” he said.—“The spirit of Eonah is in the land of the blessed.”

“I do not dream,” was the reply; “but come thou and stay the spirit of the aged warrior, while I fly back and tell him that thou comest.”

“It is enough,” said the Saga, “I will come.”

Eoneguski once more like the swift race horse devoured the ground between Sugar Town and Eonee, and was soon again beside the couch of his father. He was astonished to perceive him lying in seeming composure with the powers of life wonderfully renovated, and having taken, as Mercury informed him, a good deal of nourishment.

“Has he come?” said the chief, addressing Eoneguski.

“No,” replied the young man;—“the feathers of the aged eagle are few, and the strength of his wing is small—there is no speed in his flight.—The sun, now high in the Heavens, must be low ere the Saga will reach Eonee.”

“I must live to see him,” said Eonah, composedly; and, turning his face to the wall, signified that he desired silence, and soon his chest was heaving with the full deep breathing of healthy sleep.

Meantime Wissa had prepared for the Saga his travelling vehicle, which consisted of a cart drawn by two small aged oxen, which looked not as if their food had been as visionary as the prognostications of their master. It was impossible it should be so in the rich native pastures among which they were allowed to stray with a freedom as unrestrained as those of the ancient Tityrus, while their master, like him, expatiated in vaticinatory dignity. The black boy was not long in arranging the simple geer, which consisted of a yoke only, with a withe attached to it, through which the tongue of the cart protruded, and to which it was very inartificially secured. Blankets and buffalo skins formed for the Prophet a comfortable couch in the body of the car, and in this primitive style, with Wissa for his charioteer, he proceeded to Eonee.

As Eoneguski had anticipated, the sun was low when he reached his place of destination; for his slow paced cattle were left very far behind by the winged steeds of Phœbus. It was difficult to say which was the nearest death, the patient or the physician; as, exhausted by his journey, the Saga was borne in on his couch, and laid down by the side of Eonah.

“Why does not the Great Medicine heal himself?” said the latter, sarcastically.

“Age is a disease,” said the Saga, in a tone of voice scarcely beyond a whisper, “that defies the art of the greatest Medicine.”

“Thou hast done wonders for Eonah,” continued the chief;—“thou art doubtless rejoiced to have snatched him from the grave.”