Chapter XI (1)

STRAITNESS OF THE FAMINE--THE FINAL CONFLICT--FLIGHT AND
CAPTURE OF GUATIMOZIN--DESTINY FULFILLED.

~Death opens every door,
And sits in every chamber by himself.
If what might feed a sparrow should suffice
For soldiers' meals, ye have not wherewithal
To linger out three days. For corn, there's none;
A mouse, imprisoned in your granaries,
Were starved to death.~

This shameful defeat was a tremendous blow to the ardent anticipations of the conqueror. Many of the timid and the discontented in his own ranks availed themselves of the opportunity to create divisions, and withdraw from the doubtful contest. The Mexicans, strengthened by the spoils of their assailants, and yet more by the new courage which their late success infused into every heart among them, immediately commenced repairing their works, clearing their canals, and making the most vigorous preparations for maintaining the siege. Their priests, infuriated with the number of sacrifices which they had been enabled to offer to the gods, from the captives of high and low degree taken in the conflict, declared with authoritative solemnity, that the anger of the gods was now appeased, and that they had promised unequivocally, the speedy annihilation of their invading foes. This oracular declaration was, by the order of Guatimozin, published in the hearing of the Indian allies of his adversary. It was a politic stroke, and, if the oracle had not imprudently fixed too early a day for the execution of the predicted vengeance, its effect might have been such as to break for ever the bonds of that unnatural alliance, and leave the little handful of white men, with all their boasted pretensions to immortality, to perish by the hands of their own friends.

But why dwell longer upon the appalling details of this miserable siege. The day of predicted vengeance arrived, and the Spaniards survived it. Their superstitious terror-stricken allies returned to their allegiance. By a judicious administration of reward and discipline, of promise and threatening, all disaffection was hushed. New measures of offence were concerted, with a determination, on the part of the besiegers, to press into the city by degrees, securing every step, as they advanced, by levelling every building, and filling up every ditch, in their progress, till not one stone should be left upon another in Tenochtitlan. This terrible resolution was carried into effect. Every building, whether public or private, palace, temple, or Teocalli, from which they could be annoyed by the indomitable Aztec, was laid waste. The canals were filled up and levelled, so as to give free scope for the movements of the cavalry and artillery. The beautiful suburbs were reduced to a level plain, a dry arid waste, covered with the ruins of all that was dear and sacred in the eyes of the Aztec. Slowly, but surely, the Spaniard pressed on towards the heart of the city, in which the heroic monarch, with his miserable remnant of starving subjects and skeleton soldiers were pent up, dying by thousands of famine and pestilence, and yet ready to suffer a thousand deaths, rather than yield themselves up to the mercy of the foe.

There was now absolutely nothing left, in earth or air, to sustain for another day the poor remains of life in the camp of the besieged. Every foot of ground had been dug over many times, in quest of roots, and even of worms. The leaves and bark had been stripped from every tree and shrub, till there was not a green thing on all those terraces, which were once like the gardens of Elysium. The dead and the dying lay in heaps together, for there was neither life nor spirit in any that breathed, to do the last office for the departed. Pestilence was in all the air, so that many even of the besieging army snuffed it in the breeze that swept over the city, and fell victims to the very fate which their cruel rapacity was inflicting on the besieged.

Famine, cruel, gnawing famine, was in the palace of the Emperor, as well as in the hovel of his meanest subject. That noble prince quailed not before the fate that awaited himself. Had he stood alone in that citadel, with power in his single arm to keep out the foe, he would have stood till death, in whatever form, released him from his post, and spurned every suggestion of compromise or quarter. But the scenes of utter distress which every where met his eye--the haggard ghosts of his friends, flitting restlessly before him, or crawling feebly and with convulsive moans among the upturned earth, in the forlorn hope of finding another root--the dead--the dying--the more miserable living longing for death, and glaring with their horribly prominent, but glazed and expressionless eye-balls on each other--this, this was too much for the heart of Guatimozin.

"What!" he exclaimed, "shall I submit to see my last friend die before my eyes, and my own sweet wife perish of hunger, only to retain for another hour the empty name of king. No. I will endure it no longer. I will go to Malinche, alone, and unaccompanied, and offer my life for yours. He only wants our gold. Let him find that if he can. He will spare _you_, and wreak all his vengeance on my head."

A faint murmur ran through the crowd, and then a feeble expiring "No, never," burst feebly from many lips. One, a little stronger than the rest, arose and said--

"Most gracious sovereign, think not of us. We only ask to live and die with and for you. And the more cruel the death, the more glorious the martyrdom for our country and our gods. Trust not Malinche."

The speaker fainted and fell, with his fist clenched, and his teeth set, as if he felt that he held the last foe in mortal conflict.

"No, never--trust not Malinche--let us die together," was echoed by many sepulchral voices, that seemed more like the groans of the dead, than the remonstrances of the living.

"Trust not Malinche, remember my father," whispered the fond, devoted, faithful, affectionate wife, now the shadow of her former self, beautiful in her queenly sorrow, sublime in her womanly composure.

Guatimozin, the proud, the lofty chief, whose heart had never known fear, whose soul had never been subdued, bowed his head upon the bosom of his wife, and wept. The strong heart, the lion spirit melted.

"Who, who will care for Tecuichpo? Who will cherish the last daughter of Montezuma?"

"Think not of me, Guatimozin, think of yourself and your people, I am resigned to my fate. If I may but die with you, it is all I desire--for how could I live without you. But think not of trusting Malinche. Let us remain as we are. Another day, and we shall all be at rest from our sufferings. And surely it were better to die together by our altars, than to fall into the hands of the treacherous stranger."

"Trust not Malinche," added Karee. "Was it not trust in him that brought all this evil upon us? Think not of submission. You shall see that women can die as well as men. Let Malinche come, and take possession of the remains of these mutilated walls and desolated gardens, but let him not claim one living Aztec, to be his slave, or his subject."

A murmur of approbation followed, and then a long pause ensued. It was like the silence of death. The whole scene would have made an admirable picture. At length the silence was broken by the voice of the young Cacique of Tlacopan.

"My sovereign," said he, in a faint voice, but with something of the energy of despair, "there is yet hope. Let us muster what force we can, of men who are able to stand, and sally out upon the enemy. We cannot do him much harm. But, while he is occupied with us, you and your family, with a few attendants can escape by a canoe over the lake. As many of us as have life and strength to do it, will follow you, under cover of the coming night. Your old subjects will flock around you there, and we may yet, when we shall have tasted food, and become men again, make a stand somewhere against the foe, and drive him out."

"It is well! it is well!" was the feeble response on every side.

"I cannot leave you," replied the monarch. "What! shall your king fly, like a coward, while his people rush upon the enemy only to cover his retreat? No, that were worse than death--worse than captivity!"

"It is not flight, my beloved sovereign," responded the Cacique, "it is an honorable stratagem of war, for the good of the nation, not less than your own. When _you_ are gone, we have no head, and we fall at once into the captivity we so much dread. Leave us but the name and person of Guatimozin to rally around, and it will be a tower of strength, which can never fail us."

"Yes, yes, it is right," was whispered on every side--"Go, noble monarch, go at once. It is a voice from heaven to save us."

To this counsel the priests added their earnest advice, and even Tecuichpo ventured to say, "it whispered of hope to her heart." Guatimozin suffered himself to be overruled. The canoes were made ready in the grand canal, which yet remained open on the eastern side. All that could be safely taken of treasure, and of convenient apparel, was carefully stowed. The Queen and other ladies of the court, with her faithful Karee, all wasted to skeletons, and moving painfully, like phantoms of beauty in a sickly dream, were conveyed to the barges. The Emperor and his attendants followed, and all was in readiness for the departure. At that moment the martial horn was sounded from the great Teocalli, and the shadowy host of the Aztec army staggered forth to offer battle to the enemy. It was a fearful sight. It seemed as if the armies of the dead, the mighty warriors of the past, had risen from their graves, to fight for their desecrated altars, and to defend those very graves from profanation. Feebly, but fearfully, with glaring eyes and hideous grin, they rushed upon the serried ranks of the besiegers. A kind of superstitious terror seized them, as if these shapes were something more than mortal. For a moment they gave way to panic, and fell back without striking a blow. Roused by the stentorian voice of Cortez, they rallied instantly, and discharging their heavy fire arms, swept away whole ranks of their frenzied assailants. It was a brief conflict. Many of the Aztecs fell by the swords of the Spaniards, and the spears of their merciless allies. Some fell, faint with their own exertions, and died without a wound. Some grappled desperately with the foe, content to die by his hand, if they could first quench their burning thirst with one drop of his blood.

At length, a long blast from the horn sounded a retreat. The poor remnant turned towards the city, and were suffered to escape unmolested to their desolate homes.

Meanwhile, the little fleet of Guatimozin had put forth upon the lake. The canoes separated, as they left the basin of the canal, taking different directions, the better to escape the observation of the brigantines. The precaution was a wise one, but unavailing. The watchful eye of the besieging general was there. The brigantines gave chase to the fugitives. Bending to their paddles with the utmost strength of their feeble emaciated arms, they found their pursuers gaining upon them. Casting their gold into the lake, Guatimozin directed them to cease their exertions, and wait the approach of the enemy.

"Not without one little effort more, I beseech you," exclaimed Karee. "See, my chinampa is close at hand. Let us try to gain that. It has food on its trees for many days, and I have there a place of concealment, curiously contrived beneath the water, where you and the queen may remain without fear of detection, till we can effect your escape to the shore."

In an instant the paddles were in the water, and the canoe shot ahead with unusual speed. The combined energy of hope and despair nerved every arm, and fired every heart. They neared the beautiful chinampa. Their eyes feasted on its fresh and cooling verdure, and its ripe fruits hanging luxuriantly on every bough. Their ears were ravished with the music of the birds, who had long since deserted their wonted haunts in the capital.

While the chase was gaining rapidly upon them, another of those fearful brigantines, which had hitherto been concealed by the thick foliage of the chinampa, rounded its little promontory, and appeared suddenly before them. Instantly, every paddle dropped, every arm was paralyzed. Not a word was spoken. In passive silence each one waited for his doom, which was now inevitable. When the Spaniard had approached within hailing distance, the Emperor rose in his little shallop, and, waving his hand proudly, said, "I am Guatimozin."

The royal prisoners were treated with the utmost deference and respect. Being brought into the presence of Cortez, the monarch, pale, emaciated, the shadow of what he had been, approached with an air of imperial dignity, and said--

"Malinche, I have done what I could to defend myself and protect my people. Now I am your prisoner. Do what you will with me, but spare my poor people, who have shown a fidelity and an endurance worthy of a better fate."

Cortez, filled with admiration at the proud bearing of the young monarch, assured him that not only his family and his people, but himself should be treated with all respect and tenderness. "Better," said Guatimozin, laying his hand on the hilt of the general's poignard, "better rid me of life at once, and put an end to my cares and sufferings together."

"No," replied Cortez, "you have defended your capital like a brave warrior. I respect your patriotism, I honor you valor, and your firm endurance of suffering. You shall be my friend and the friend of my sovereign, and live in honor among your own people."

The keen eye of the monarch flashed with something like indignation, when allusion was made to the king of Castile, and to himself as his vassal.

"In honor I _cannot_ live," he said proudly, "for I am defeated. A king I _cannot_ be, for he is no king who is subject to another. I am your prisoner. The gods have willed it, and I submit."

Renewing his politic assurances of friendship and favor, the conqueror sent for the wife and family of his captive, first ordering a royal banquet to be prepared for them. Supported by Karee, leaning on the arm of the devoted Nahuitla, the lord of Tlacopan, the queen was ushered into the presence of the conqueror. Her appearance struck the general and his officers with admiration. Timid as she was by nature, she had the air and port of inborn royalty; and, in deference to her husband, she would not have allowed herself to quail before the assembled host of Castile, dreaded as they were, and had long been. With a becoming courtesy, she returned the respectful salutations of Malinche and his cavaliers, and asked no other favor than to share the fate of her lord.

What that fate was, and how the Castilian knight redeemed his pledges to his unfortunate and noble captives, is matter of historical record. It is the darkest page in the memoir of that wonderful chief--a foul blot upon the name even of _that_ man, who was capable of requiting the superstitious reverence and confidence of a Montezuma, with a treacherous and inglorious captivity in his own palace, and a yet more inglorious death at the hands of his own subjects. History must needs record it, dark and painful as it is. Romance would throw a veil over it.

* * * * *

Years of intense suffering, of harrowing bereavement, of insult, humiliation, and every species of mental and social distress, were yet appointed to the daughter of Montezuma, the bride of Guatimozin. Her predicted destiny was fulfilled to the letter. She bowed meekly to her fate, sustaining every reverse with a fortitude and composure of soul, that indicated a mind of uncommon resources. It was a long, dark, stormy day, "but in the evening time there was light." It was the light of faith. She abandoned the false gods of her fathers, and found true and lasting peace in the cross of Jesus Christ.

THE FLIGHT

OF

THE KATAHBA CHIEF.

Go now to Greece,
Or Rome--to Albion's sea-girt isle--to Gaul,
Ancient or modern--to the fiery realm
Of Turk or Arab--to the ice-bound holds
Of Alaric and Attila--and find,
If find thou canst, a nobler race of men--
More firm, more brave, more true--swifter of foot,
Or readier in action.

THE FLIGHT OF THE KATAHBA CHIEF.

Go not to the chase, my brave hunter, to-day,
There's a mist o'er the sun--there's a snare in the way;
Manitto revealed last night in my dream
A deep dark shadow o'erhanging the stream;
The deer, from his thicket, sprung out in thy path--
Then he changed to a tiger, and roared in his wrath--
Then the warrior hunter, so fearless and brave,
Was driven away, like a captive slave;
Then the smoke rolled up, and the flames curled high,
And the forest rung with the foeman's cry;
Then the wind swept by with a desolate wail--
The avenger of blood was on thy trail;--
Minaree looked out at the cabin door,
But her bold brave hunter returned no more.
Go not to the chase, my brave hunter, to-day,
There's a mist o'er the sun--there's a snare in the way.

So, in sweetly plaintive strains, chanted the beautiful young bride of a Katahba chief, as she prepared his frugal morning meal, while he was busying himself in examining the string of his bow, replenishing his quiver with straight polished shafts, and renewing the edge of his trusty hatchet.

In all the forest homes of the native tribes, there was not a fairer flower than Minaree, the loved and devoted wife of the brave Ash-te-o-lah. The only daughter of a chief of the Wateree tribe, which was one branch of the great family of the Katahbas, she inherited the spirit and pride of her father, with all the simple beauty, and unsophisticated womanly tenderness of her mother. She was the idol of Ash-te-o-lah's heart; for, savage as the world would call him, and ignorant of the codes of chivalry and of the courtly phrase of love, he was as true to all the warmer and purer affections, which constitute the bliss of domestic life, as to the lofty sentiments of heroic virtue, which made him early conspicuous in the councils of his people. Though fearless as the lion, fleet as the roe, and adventurous, sagacious and powerful as any that ever sounded the war-whoop, or startled the deer, in those interminable wilds--he was noble, generous, warm-hearted, and devotedly tender to the objects of his love.

The winning tones, and the affectionate glances of Minaree, as she chanted her simple prophetic lay, had almost won Ash-te-o-lah from his purpose. But, half doubting whether her oracular dream was any thing more than a little artifice of affection, and always superior to that prevailing superstition of his people, which gave to dreams all the sanctity and force of divine revelation, and excited by the preparations he had been making, he flung his rattling quiver to his back, whispered a gentle intimation that Ash-te-o-lah feared neither tiger nor foeman, and returning the affectionate glance of his bride, left the wigwam.

It was a clear bright summer morning. There was a balmy sweetness in the air, and melody in all the groves; but they won not the ear, they regaled not the sense of Minaree, whose heart sunk within her, as she saw her beloved Ash-te-o-lah launch his canoe into the stream, and dash away over its glassy surface, like a swallow on the wing. Ere he dipped his paddle in the water, he turned and gracefully waved her a parting salute, the affectionate desire to stay and soothe the troubled spirit of her dream, still struggling with that lofty pride which told him that he had never yet shrunk from any form of danger, or known the name of fear.

The lands bordering on the Katahba, were covered, for many a league, with a dense and thriving population. More than twenty tribes were clustered there into one powerful fraternity, capable of bringing two thousand warriors into the field. Their grounds were extensively cultivated, their forests abounded with the choicest game, and their rivers with fish, and they regarded themselves as the most prosperous of the nations.

Nothing could exceed the romantic beauty and loveliness of some of their villages. Stretching along the banks of the rivers, and embowered deeply in the luxurious forests of that favored clime, the numerous wigwams, simple enough in their construction, but adorned here and there with the trophies of war or the chase, and often alive with the athletic sports of the young Indians, formed a scene as animated and picturesque as ever glowed on the bosom of the earth--a scene of patriarchal life, such as cannot now be found among all the families of men.

Conspicuous among them all was the wigwam of Ash-te-o-lah. The hand of Minaree was visible in the tasteful arrangement of a few simple ornaments about the door, and the trailing of a white flowering vine over its walls, which fell in luxuriant festoons, or floated in feathery pensiles on every side.

Minaree stood in the door of the wigwam, watching the retreating form of her lord, as his light canoe swept down with the current of the river, till it was lost in the distance, and then pensively, and as if unconsciously to herself, resumed her solemn chant, weaving the while a wreath of her wild flowering vine.

He has gone to the chase, my brave hunter has gone--
He will not return in the moonlight, or morn;
Minaree shall look out at the cabin door,
But her bold brave hunter shall come no more;
There's a cloud in her wigwam--a fire in her brain,
For her warrior hunter shall ne'er come again.

Gently and placidly flowed the Katahba--every tree and shrub mirrored in its beautiful waters. Not a sound disturbed the perfect stillness; not even the hum of the cricket, or the song of the bird. It seemed an utter solitude. Then a light canoe was seen slowly gliding down the stream. A noble looking Indian was standing in it, erect and tall, with his paddle poised, as if wrapped in meditation, or unwilling to disturb the quiet and charm of the silence. It was a scene to awaken a sense of poetic beauty, even in the mind of an untutored savage. It thrilled the soul of Ash-te-o-lah, and held him some moments in admiring contemplation. Suddenly starting from his unwonted reverie, he rounded a jutting promontory, and moored his skiff, carefully concealing it amid the overhanging shrubs.

There was something surpassingly graceful and majestic in the figure of this noble son of the forest. Formed by nature in her most perfect mould, tall, sinewy, athletic, yet with every feature and every limb rounded to absolute grace, he was a fine subject for a painter or sculptor. His dress consisted of a beautiful robe, gracefully flung over one shoulder, and confined at the waist by a richly ornamented belt. His hair was wrought into a kind of crown, and ornamented with a tuft of feathers. Equipped with bow and quiver, he seemed intent on game; and yet one might have imagined, from his keen glance and cautious manner, that he expected a foe in ambush.

Ash-te-o-lah was soon on the track of the deer, which, starting from the thicket, bounded away with the speed of the wind. Pursuing with equal pace, the bold hunter dashed into the depths of the forest, watching for a favorable moment to take the deadly aim. The arrow was on the string, and about to be raised to fly at his panting victim, when the shrill war-whoop burst suddenly on his ear. It arrested his step, for a moment, but not his arm; for the arrow sped as if nothing had occurred to divert its course, and buried itself in the heart of the flying deer.

Perceiving, at a glance, that a party of the Senecas, the old and deadly enemies of the Katahbas, were down upon him, and had cut off his retreat to the river, he held on his course, as before, but with redoubled speed, intending, if possible, to secure a refuge from his pursuers, in a cavern about five miles distant. Fleet as the wind, he would have gained his purpose, if the course had been direct, for there was not a red man in the wide forests of America, who could outrun Ash-te-o-lah. Dividing themselves into several parties, and taking different courses to intercept his flight, his enemies gave instant chase to the fugitive. One party followed close on his trail, but he was soon lost to their view. Another struck off northwardly, towards a bend in the West Branch, where the rapids afforded an opportunity for crossing the stream without impeding his flight. A third made for a deep cut, or ravine, about a mile further down, where a fallen tree, extending from bank to bank, served the purpose of a bridge.

Ash-te-o-lah soon perceived that his enemies were divided, and resolved that, if they _did_ intercept or overtake him, it should cost them dear. Halting a little in his flight, and taking to the covert of a tree, he drew upon the foremost of his pursuers, and laid him dead in the path. The next in the pursuit, pausing a moment over his fallen brother, shared the same fate. Knowing, as by instinct, that the other parties would endeavor to cut him off at the rapids and the bridge, he dashed forward, in a straight line for the stream, plunged into the water, and holding his bow aloft, struggled with a powerful arm to reach the other side. He gained the bank, just as his pursuers made their appearance on the opposite shore. Turning suddenly upon them, he levelled another shaft with such unerring aim, that one of their number fell bleeding into the stream. Another and another, in the act of leaping over the bank, received the fatal shaft into his heart. Hearing the distant whoop, which indicated that the other party had reached the bridge, Ash-te-o-lah waited not for another victim, but bounded away for his mountain fastness. The little delay which had been necessary to cut off five of his pursuers, had given an advantage to the other parties, who were now on the same side of the stream with himself, and gaining upon his steps. No sooner was this perceived, than the heroic fugitive turned upon the nearest of them, and, with the same infallible aim, laid him dead in the path. Still another had fallen before his sure aim, and his bow was strained for another shot, when one of the other party, who had made a circuit, and come up behind him unperceived, leaped upon, and held him pinioned in his powerful grasp. His struggles were terrible; but he was immediately surrounded, overpowered and disarmed.

Though seven of their number had fallen in this brief chase, the brave Senecas were so struck with admiration at the wonderful skill and noble bearing of their captive, that they did not, as usual, instantly avenge the slain, by taking the life of the slayer; but resolved to take him along with them, and to lead him in triumph into the midst of the council of their nation, there to be disposed of by the united voices of their chiefs.

It was a sad triumph, for they were filled with grief and mortification for the loss of so many of their brave kindred, all fallen by the hand of one of the hated Katahbas, and he now completely in their power. Though stung with shame, and thirsting for a worthy revenge, yet such was their love of martial virtue, that, during all their long journey homeward, they treated their haughty captive with far greater respect and kindness than if he had acted the part of a coward, and suffered himself to fall into their hands without any attempt at resistance. As for him, with an unsubdued spirit, and an air of proud superiority, he marched in the midst of his enemies, as if defying their power, and scorning the vengeance from which it was impossible to escape. To one unaccustomed to the modes of Indian warfare, and the code of Indian etiquette, who might have witnessed that triumphant procession, Ash-te-o-lah would have appeared the proud and absolute prince, surrounded by his admiring and subservient life-guard, rather than the subdued and helpless captive, escorted by his enemies to an ignominious execution.

Arrived within the territories of their own tribe, the triumph of the captors began. The whole nation was roused to revenge the death of their lost heroes. In every village, as they passed along, the women and children were permitted to beat and insult the unresisting captive, who bore every indignity with stoical indifference, and proud disdain, never indicating by word or look, the slightest sense of mortification or pain, nor bating one jot of his lofty and scornful bearing.

Before the great council of assembled chiefs, he maintained the same tone of fearless dignity and self-respect. His very look was defiance, that quailed not before the proudest glance of his enemy, nor showed the slightest symptom of disquietude, when the decision of the council was announced, condemning him to die by the fiery torture. It might reasonably be imagined that his past sufferings, his tedious marches, his scanty fare, lying at night on the bare ground, exposed to the changes of the weather, with his arms and legs extended and cramped in a pair of rough stocks, the insulting treatment, and cruel scourgings of the exasperated women and children, who were taught to consider it a virtue to torment an enemy, along with the anticipation of those more bitter sufferings which he was yet to endure, would have impaired his health, and subdued his hitherto proud and unyielding spirit. Such would have been the effect of similar circumstances upon the physical frame, and stout-hearted fortitude of the great majority of the heroes of that pale-faced race, who boast of a proud superiority over the unlettered children of the forest. There are few so hardy, that they could endure, not only without a murmur, but without shrinking, what Ash-te-o-lah had already suffered--few so courageous, that they could hear, with an unmoved countenance, the terrible doom which his enemies had prepared for him, or witness undisturbed the fearful arrangements, and horrid ceremonies, that were designed to give intensity and effect to its infliction.

Ash-te-o-lah was insensible to fear, and would sooner have undergone a thousand torturing deaths, than permit his enemies to see that he was conscious even of suffering. So nobly did he sustain his courage amid the trial, so well did he act his heroic part, that his enemies, who admired and inculcated the same unflinching fortitude, were surprised and vexed at his lofty superiority, and resolved, by every possible aggravation of his sufferings, to break down and subdue his proud indomitable spirit.

The hour of execution had arrived. The pile was ready for its victim. Every engine of torture, which savage ingenuity could invent, was exhibited in dreadful array, within the area selected for the trying scene. The whole nation was assembled to witness, and take part in the ceremony, which had, in their view, all the solemnity and sacredness of a religious rite. Ash-te-o-lah was led forth, unpinioned, into the midst--for the red man would scorn the weakness of leading a victim in chains to the altar.

The place of sacrifice was an open space near the bank of the river, the dark forest frowning over it on every side, the entire foreground being filled and crowded with an eager, angry multitude, to whom a sacrifice was a feast, and revenge the sweetest luxury that could be offered to their taste. Their wild parade, their savage dances, their hideous yells and demoniacal looks and gestures, designed to terrify, only fired the soul of Ash-te-o-lah to a yet prouder and more majestic bearing. His firm step, his unblenching eye, his fearless and lofty port, touched even his executioners with admiration, and struck his guards with a momentary awe.

Suddenly, as with a bolt from the cloud, he dashed down those who stood in his way, sprung out, and plunged into the water, swimming underneath, like an otter, only rising occasionally to take breath, till he reached the opposite shore. He ascended the steep bank at a bound; and then, though the arrows had been flying thick as hail about him from the time that he took to the water, and though many of the fleetest of his enemies were, like very blood-hounds, close in pursuit of him, he turned deliberately around, and with a graceful and becoming dignity, took a formal leave of them, as if he would acknowledge the extraordinary favors they had shown him. Then, raising the shrill war-whoop of defiance, as his last salute, till some more convenient opportunity should be afforded him to do them a warrior's homage, he darted off, like a beast broke loose from its torturing enemies. Inspired with new strength by his sudden release, and the returning hope of life, he flew with a winged speed, so as entirely to distance the fleetest of his eager pursuers. Confident in his speed, and assured that his enemies could neither overtake nor surprise him, he rested nearly a whole day, to recruit his wasted strength, and watch an opportunity to gain, if possible, some further advantage over those who were scenting his track, and thirsting for his blood.

Passing a considerable distance beyond a spot, which his well-trained sagacity told him would be the natural resting place of his pursuers, he retraced his steps, walking carefully backwards, and planting each step with great precision, in the very tracks he had just made, so as effectually to conceal the artifice of his return. In this way, he came to a high rock, in which there was a considerable fissure, very narrow at the top, but widening toward the ground, and so concealed by the dense shrubbery that grew around, that it could only be discovered by the most careful scrutiny. Into this fissure he thrust himself, scrupulously replacing every leaf that had been disturbed by his entrance, and adjusting the whole so as not to excite the slightest suspicion in his keen-sighted enemies. Here he awaited their approach.

It was near night of the second day, when the Senecas reached the spring where Ash-te-o-lah lay concealed, and where he had already rested nearly a whole day. Following his track some distance beyond, and not doubting he was yet in advance, they returned without suspicion to the spring, lighted their fires, partook hastily of their simple meal, and laid themselves down to sleep, in perfect security. They were five in number, powerful men, and thoroughly armed, after their own peculiar fashion. Ash-te-o-lah, from his narrow cavern, had watched all their movements. He well knew that they slept soundly, for they had satisfied themselves that no danger was near. But he also knew equally well how wakeful is the sleep of an Indian, and how almost impossible it is to surprise him, even in his soundest sleep. Every circumstance of his situation occurred to him, to inspire him with heroism, and urge him to attempt an impossibility, though his life was the certain forfeit of a failure. He was naked, torn, and hungry. His enraged enemies, who had so recently held him in their toils, and made him ready for a sacrifice, were now come up with him. In their little camp was every thing to relieve his wants. He would not only save his own life, but get great honor and sweet revenge, if he should succeed in cutting them off.

Resolution, a convenient spot, and a sudden surprise, might effect this main object of all his wishes and hopes. Creeping cautiously out from his covert, and approaching the sleepers with the noiseless and stealthy cunning of a fox, he seized one of their tomahawks, and wielding it with inconceivable power and rapidity, left four of them in an eternal sleep, before the fifth had time to awake and spring to his feet. The struggle that ensued was terrible; but Ash-te-o-lah had the advantage in every respect, and the conflict ended in a very few minutes, by leaving him alone in the camp of his enemies.

Selecting from the spoils of the fallen a suitable dress for himself, with the choicest of their bows, a well-stored quiver, a tomahawk, and an ample pouch of provisions, and securing to his belt the scalps of his yet breathing victims, Ash-te-o-lah set off afresh, with a light heart, and a bounding step, for the sunny vales of the Katahba. Resolved not to hazard any of the advantage he had gained, he did not allow himself any sleep, for several successive nights, only as he reclined, for a few moments, a little before day, with his back to a tree, and a clear space about him, where he could not be taken by surprise. Growing more secure, as he approached his home, and discovered no sign of his pursuing enemy, he sought out the spot where he had killed seven of the chase, in the first day of his flight, opened their yet fresh graves, added their scalps to the five then hanging to his belt, burnt their bodies to ashes, and returned in safety, laden with his hard earned trophies, to gladden his humble wigwam, and thrill the council of his people with the story of his singular adventures.

Her prophetic dream had made so deep an impression upon the mind of Minaree, that, from the first, she did not expect "the bold hunter's return." His lengthened absence troubled, but did not surprise her. She yielded him to a stern fate, from which there was no escape; and with a calmness which we, of another race, too often regard as coldness and insensibility, prepared to follow him to the spirit land. His return was to her soul like a visit from that land--a gift from the Great Spirit--and ever after, to the deep devotion of her early love, was added that peculiar reverence, that tender, holy affection, which the Indians every where cherish for the departed.

When the second party of the Senecas, in the course of the third day of the pursuit, arrived at the camp of their slaughtered people, the sight gave them a greater shock than they had ever known before. In their chilled war council they concluded, that he who had performed such surprising feats in his defence, before he was captured, and since that in his naked and unarmed condition, would, now that he was well armed and free, be a match for them all, if they should continue the pursuit. They regarded him as a wizard enemy, whose charmed life it was vain and wicked to attempt. They, accordingly, buried their comrades, and returned, with heavy hearts, to their homes.

MONICA,

OR

THE ITEAN CAPTIVE.

What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears
Have sunk beneath time's noiseless tide!--
The red man at his horrid rite,
Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,--
His bark canoe, its track of light
Left on the wave beneath the moon;--
His dance, his yell, his council fire,
The altar where his victim lay,
His death song, and his funeral pyre,
That still, strong tide hath borne away.

MONICA.

~"Speak not, but fly--
There are a thousand winged deaths behind,
Thirsting for blood. Hope, life, and liberty
Are all before; and this good arm is pledged
To guide thee."~

The grave of the Indian is a temple, a sort of gateway to heaven. Around it linger the tenderest affection, the purest devotion of the surviving friend. The grass and flowers that grow over it are never suffered to wither. The snow and the rain are not permitted to remain upon it. The least profanation of that sacred place would be visited with a more terrible vengeance than an affront to the living. Nothing illustrates more clearly the cruel injustice we have done to our red brethren of the forest, by regarding and treating them only as savages, and delineating them always and every where, as destitute of all the refined sympathies of humanity--than this prevailing national characteristic, an affectionate reverence for the dead, and a religious regard for the sepulchres and bones of their ancestors. It touches one of the deepest cords in the human heart. It springs from the very fountain head of social and moral refinement. It links the visible and material, with the unseen and spiritual world; blending all that is tender, and pure, and subduing, in the one, with all that is bright, hopeful, and inviting, in the other. Its existence in any heart, or its prevalence among any people, is proof sufficient that that heart is not wholly hardened in selfishness, and that people not wholly given over to barbarism.

The infant child of an Itean mother lay dead in her tent. He was a beautiful boy, and already the fond mother had read in his brilliant eye, and the vigorous movements of his tiny limbs, the heroic deeds of the future chieftain. But her darling hope was nipped in the very germ. Her only son was shrouded for the grave, and the hour of burial had come. His shroud was a blanket, in which the head, as well as the body, was completely enveloped. His bier was a train, or Indian sled, in the form of a common snow-shoe, on which the body was laid, without a coffin, and secured by bandages from side to side. Into this train was harnessed a favorite dog of the family, when it was drawn with slow and solemn step, to the grave, preceded by the priest or medicine man of the village, in his gorgeous robes of office, and followed by the parents and sister of the child, with all the inmates of the neighboring wigwams.

Arriving at the grave, the procession stopped, and gathered round the bier, the women and children seating or prostrating themselves on the ground, the men standing in a grave and solemn circle around them. The dog, still remaining in his harness, was then shot, and the medicine man, standing over it, addressed it in the following strain, "Go on your journey to the Spirit land. Long and weary is the way you have to go. Linger not on the journey, for precious is the burden you carry. Swim swiftly over the river, lest the little one be lost in the stream, and never visit the camp of its fathers. When you come to the camp of the White-headed Eagle, bark, that they may know who it is you bring, and come out and welcome the little one among its kindred band."

The body was then laid in the grave, on its little train. The dog was placed by its side, with a kettle of food at its head, to supply it on the journey. A cup, containing a portion of the mother's milk, freshly drawn, was also put into the grave for the use of the child. The earth was laid gently over it, and covered with the fresh sod, the mother, and her female friends, chanting, the while, a plaintive dirge, designed to encourage the spirit of the departed on its dark and perilous journey. The mother held in her hand a roll of bark, elaborately decorated with feathers and bead-work, encompassed with a scarf of broadcloth, highly embroidered. This was intended as a memento of the deceased, to be sacredly preserved in the family lodge. Such mementoes are always seen there, after the death of a friend, and one may always know, by their number, how many of that household have gone to the spirit-land. It is usually placed upright in the spot where the departed was accustomed to sit, dressed in the same ornaments and bands that he wore while living. At every family meal, a portion of food is set before it. If it be a child who has died, the mother offers it a cup of milk, wraps it in the cradle bands of her lost infant, and bears it about with her wherever she goes.

An Indian grave is a protected spot. That which is described above, was surrounded by a small enclosure of logs, and covered with a roof of bark, to shield it from the rain. At its head, a small round post was set, painted with vermilion. Other decorations were displayed upon the wall of the enclosure, which were carefully guarded, and frequently replaced, as they were soiled by the rains, or torn and defaced by the violence of the winds. Day after day, the bereaved mother and sister visited that grave, taking their work with them, and sitting down by its side, chanted their plaintive lullaby to that sleeping infant, and cheered on that faithful dog in his wearisome journey, charging him not to lag or go astray in traversing the plain, nor suffer his precious burden to fall into the water, in crossing the deep dark rapid river to the spirit land.

Weeks and months had passed since that humble grave was made, and that precious treasure confided to its bosom. It was a calm glorious evening in mid-summer. The moon shone brightly on the Itean encampment. There was not, in the whole valley of the west, a more beautiful spot for a settlement. The smooth open green-sward was closely surrounded with trees on three sides. On the other, the land gradually sloped towards the river, which flowed quietly by, ever and anon sparkling in the moonbeams, or reflecting the dark forest and flowery banks in its azure depths.

The wigwams in the opening were all closed. Their inmates were at rest. Presently, the buffalo-skin, that served as a door to the principal cabin, was drawn aside, and the beautiful daughter of the chief emerged into the light, and passed swiftly on to the river. Following its course a short distance, by the narrow path that threaded the woods on its bank, she came to the little grave, threw herself on the earth by its side, and wept. It was Monica, the sister of that buried infant, the same whom we saw at his grave when it was first opened, and who had daily, since that time, sung over it her simple song.

The grief and disappointment of the mother, in the loss of her only son, was not more deep or sincere, or enduring, than that of this affectionate and devoted sister. From the moment of his birth, he was the idol of her soul. She looked forward to the time, in her ardent imagination very near at hand, when, emulating the virtues and deeds of his father, he should become the noblest chief of his tribe. She had pictured to herself the many wonderful exploits he should achieve, and the love and veneration with which he would be regarded throughout the nation. But now, those hopes were blasted, those visions had all faded into darkness. Time had not soothed her disappointment, or softened the poignancy of her grief. Waking or sleeping, the image of her lost brother was before her. She longed to follow him, that she might overtake him on the way, and help him in his passage over that fearful stream.

She had laid down that night, as usual, and slept by the side of her mother. Her dreams were troubled. She thought that arid plain and dark river were before her. The faithful dog was struggling with the waves. The little ark which held that precious treasure, was buffeted about by the winds. Chilled with the cold, and terrified by the dark howling storm, the lone child sobbed bitterly, and looked imploringly round for his mother. In her distress and agitation, she awoke. Unable to sleep, or even to rest, she rose, and ran to the grave.

"I come, I come, my precious one,
I am ever by your side--
Fear not, your voyage is almost done
Over that dismal tide;
The winds shall hush, the storm pass o'er,
And a friendly band shall come
To meet you on the spirit shore,
And bid you welcome home.
Fear not, for love that never sleeps
Shall guard you o'er that wave;
And mother her constant vigil keep
Beside your quiet grave."

Having chanted her simple lay of love, Monica turned from the grave, stepped into a canoe, and paddled down the stream. Overcome with grief, she dropped her paddle, sat pensively down in her shallop, and left it to follow its course down the current. For several hours it glided silently on. She gave no heed to the hours, till morning broke in the east. Suddenly starting up from her long dream, she looked for her paddle. It was gone. Seeing a bough floating on the water near her, she leaned out to catch it, as the canoe passed on. It was decayed, and broke in her hand. Throwing it from her, she looked eagerly about for some other means of reaching the shore. At length, passing under the shadow of an immense tree, that overhung the stream, she seized a branch that almost dipped into the water, and drawing herself in to the bank, sprang on shore.

Slowly and doubtfully the timid girl threaded the thick forest, scarcely knowing which way to turn. Hoping to find some friendly wigwam near, she sounded the shrill call of her tribe. The call was instantly answered, but not by a friendly voice. Two stern and stalwart warriors of the Pawnee tribe, who were deadly enemies to the Iteans, chanced to be passing that way, and, recognizing the call as that of an enemy, sprang from the thicket, seized the trembling maiden, and bore her away in triumph. Many a weary league she travelled on by the side of her merciless captors, ere she reached their distant encampment. Worn, exhausted in strength and desponding in heart, she fell to the earth in the midst of the throng that gathered around her, and besought them to kill her at once, and let her go to her poor infant brother.

The Pawnees were not only hostile to the Iteans, but were, in some respects, the most savage tribe in the great valley. They alone, of the North American Indians, continued, down the present century, and far within it, to practice the savage rite of sacrificing human victims on the altar of their gods. With them it was a propitiatory sacrifice, offered to the _Great Star_, or the planet Venus. This dreadful ceremony annually preceded the preparations for planting corn, and was supposed to be necessary to secure a fruitful season. The victim was always some prisoner, who had been captured in war, or otherwise; and there was never wanting an individual who coveted the honor of making a captive from some hostile tribe, and dedicating the spoils of his prowess to the national benefit.

The captors of Monica were in quest of a victim for this sacrifice, when they wandered away alone, and prowled for several days, about the encampment of her tribe. With this view, they bore her away in triumph, deaf to all her entreaties and tears, and gave her in charge to the priests, to be made ready against the return of the season.

The best wigwam in the village was assigned for her accommodation. Cheerful companions of her own age were given her. The most sedulous attention was paid to her wants. She was dressed in gay apparel, continually feasted on the choicest luxuries which their fields and hunting grounds afforded, and treated with the utmost tenderness by all about her. Every possible means was employed to allay her grief, and promote that cheerfulness of spirit, which is essential to health and comeliness, in order that she might thus be made a more suitable and acceptable offering.

The personal charms of Monica required no such system of treatment, in order to their full development. She was a rare specimen of native grace and loveliness, and would have been a fitting model, in every feature and limb, for a Phidias or a Praxitiles. The exceeding beauty and gentleness of their captive, while it won the admiration and regard of all her young companions, only made her, in the view of the priests and chiefs of the tribe, a more desirable victim for the altar.