Chapter XII

"No tear relieved the burden of her heart;
Stunned with the heavy woe, she felt like one
Half-wakened from a midnight dream of blood."
SOUTHEY.

We shall be compelled to return upon the course of our narrative, for the purpose of giving a relation of the manner in which Ruth had fallen into the hands of the savages. Guthrie, who was supposed by Eagle's-Wing to have been slain, was really but little injured. The Tuscarora had followed him down the stairway unnoticed, and guided more by sound than by sight, in the darkness of the room below, he glided after the Tory until the latter had reached the door. He heard the attempt to remove the bar which secured it, when, with a silent but rapid blow of his tomahawk, he had, as he supposed, cloven the head of Guthrie to the brain; but owing to the darkness, in which the form of the latter could with difficulty be distinguished, the blow fell upon his left shoulder. The pain as well as the surprise of Guthrie, had caused him to give the shriek which attracted the attention of those above, and which was followed by his fall upon the floor. As no further attack was made upon him by the Tuscarora, he rightly concluded that Eagle's-Wing thought the blow already given to have been fatal. With this impression he remained motionless, until the ill-advised _sortie_ of the defenders of the cottage offered him the opportunity to escape, when he sprung to his feet, and although suffering severely from his wound, rushed up the stairway with the intention of leaping from the window--a distance of ten or twelve feet, to the ground. But as he reached the upper floor, he saw Ruth, who had fallen upon her knees in the act of prayer for the assistance of Heaven towards the brave but few defenders of the cottage. Instantly, Guthrie planned a scheme of vengeance, which was at once carried into effect. Advancing rapidly towards Ruth he said:

"Come, Miss Ruth; the Indians will take the cottage; and your father has directed me to take charge of you and lead you to a place selected by him and his companions for a _rendezvous_. There is no time for thought: come instantly."

Ruth arose, astonished by this sudden intelligence.

"My father," she exclaimed, "is he safe?"

"Yes," replied Guthrie, "they are all safe; but they have been compelled to retreat towards the forest. Come instantly, or you are lost."

Deceived by the earnestness of Guthrie, Ruth immediately followed him to the window. In a moment a small ladder which had been constructed for exit by the windows, in any emergency similar to the present, was let down upon the ground, and Ruth descended, followed by Guthrie. Taking her by the hand, and partly leading and partly carrying her, they proceeded rapidly towards the south-east into the forest. When they arrived at the base of the hill, near the shore of the pond, instead of meeting her father and his companions, she found herself in the midst of a small party of Senecas. She saw at once that she was betrayed, and shrieked for help.

"None of that, Miss Ruth," cried Guthrie, roughly; "it won't do you any good. Them Colony men at the cottage, have got as much as they can do, just now, to save their own scalps."

"Wretch--villain!" cried Ruth, and she fell fainting upon the ground.

By this time, it was apparent that the contest at the cottage had terminated; and a rough frame-work of light saplings and boughs was constructed, upon which Ruth was placed, and conveyed in the direction of the temporary lodges of the Senecas. Before arriving there, she had recovered from her swoon, when she realized the dangerous situation in which she was placed. Arming herself with the fortitude which was not uncommon among the women of the period, she commended herself to the protection of that Divine Being, upon whom she was wont to rely for aid and consolation.

When they reached the huts of the Senecas, and the Indians ascertained who was their prisoner, their exultation was announced in the shouts of triumph which Ichabod had heard. Ruth, however, without suffering any rudeness or ill-usage such as might have been expected, perhaps, in the present excited state of mind of the savages, was conveyed, by the direction of Panther, to the lodge occupied by Singing-Bird. She was not bound or confined in any manner, the savages relying upon their watchfulness to prevent her escape; and also upon the apparent fidelity of Singing-Bird.

When Ruth saw the entire absence of restraint in which Singing-Bird lived, and her apparent friendliness towards the savages, her mind recurred to the imaginative picture she had formerly drawn of the young squaw, separated by force from a husband she loved, and restrained by captivity, among enemies who were thirsting for his blood, she could not reconcile the present conduct of Singing-Bird with her own ideas of what should have been her conduct; and she felt a degree of disgust towards the young Indian beauty, who could so soon forget a husband so worthy of her affection as the Tuscarora.

"Can this be Singing-Bird, of whom I have heard so much?" asked Ruth.

"Who heard it from?" inquired Singing-Bird.

"I heard it at the cottage, of a Tuscarora chief who had lost his squaw by the treachery of the Senecas, and who were now seeking his life."

"Yes, Eagle's-Wing kill Seneca--and Panther must have Eagle's-Wing's scalp. Bad for Eagle's-Wing to kill Seneca."

"Can it be possible?" asked Ruth, "--no, it cannot be--that you are the Singing-Bird of whom I have heard."

The young Indian placed her hands upon her breast, as struggling with a violent emotion, and then looked at Ruth with an expression of entreaty which was not lost upon her.

"Hush!" faintly whispered Singing-Bird, "Seneca comes."

Ruth saw at once that Singing-Bird was acting a part, and appreciated that she did so from a feeling of necessity for the safety of herself, and perhaps of her husband. Scarcely had Ruth caught the whisper, ere the Indians who had stood by the door of the lodge departed, when Singing-Bird advanced towards Ruth, and said--

"Pale-face girl does not know Singing-Bird. She loves Eagle's-Wing. Hates Panther ever so much. _Do_ tell me 'bout Eagle's-Wing."

Ruth related what she knew of the Tuscarora, and of the attack upon the cottage. Singing-Bird listened intently; and when Ruth had concluded, she placed her arm gently about her neck, and said--

"We sisters now; but look out for Seneca. They think me friend; but I want Eagle's-Wing to get all their scalp."

She then informed Ruth that another party of the Senecas had also brought in a prisoner, and from the description which she gave of the appearance of the captive, Ruth concluded that the unfortunate prisoner could be none other than Ichabod. She conjectured, also, that the Senecas had made no other prisoners, and that her father, together with Ralph and the Tuscarora, still remained in possession of the cottage. This fact at once gave relief to her mind; and she regained a serenity and composure which she had not before been able to feel since her capture.

"What are these Indians going to do with us?" asked she of Singing-Bird.

"Don't know what they do want with pale-face girl. P'raps want to trade for Eagle's-Wing. But Panther wants _me_ for his squaw--wants me to go beyond the lakes, in the Seneca country, to live in his wigwam. Won't do it, though; I kill myself first."

"I never shall consent to be exchanged for Eagle's-Wing," said Ruth. "I shall rely upon some other means of deliverance."

Singing-Bird thanked her by a grateful smile. "O, I _do_ want to get away," replied she. "Oneida and Tuscarora warriors come pretty soon, I hope. When they come, then I get away; p'raps before, if Eagle's-Wing know how. He great warrior."

"I have friends, too, who will assist; and I hope they will find means to deliver us," said Ruth.

"_What_ friend?" asked Singing-Bird, suddenly. "Have you got husband, too?"

Ruth smiled and shook her head.

"Got friend, then," asked Singing-Bird, "who like to look at you--who give you his heart?"

Ruth blushed, and this time she did not smile.

Singing-Bird continued, "If you got lover, then, why don't marry?"

"Perhaps I may, sometime," answered Ruth, still blushing; "but I cannot, you know, until these troubles are all over."

"It's pleasant to live in wigwam with husband. When he gone on war-path, or gone hunting, then you work in field--that good way to live."

"We pale-face women do not work in the field. We make the men do that."

"That squaw's business; men hunt deer, catch fish, take scalp--that warrior's business. I don't want to stay in wigwam and do not'ing, Eagle's-Wing wouldn't like that."

"You do not mean to say that Eagle's-Wing would make _you_ do labor in the field?" asked Ruth, in astonishment.

"No--Eagle's-Wing wouldn't _make_ me do that; but if I didn't, he t'ink me lazy, good for not'ing squaw--then he get another squaw, p'raps. _I_ shouldn't like that."

Ruth was not acquainted with this custom of the Indians; and her astonishment was unfeigned. She could scarcely believe that one so seemingly delicate as Singing-Bird, could accustom herself to a species of labor, that was severe enough for the stronger muscles of the manly portion of creation. Yet, it is true, that while the Indian warrior undergoes the fatigues of war, or of the chase, with uncomplaining fortitude, when idle he never compromises his dignity by any servile employment. The cultivation of the field, and all of the severer domestic duties, are performed by the squaws, with as much patience and fortitude as the warrior displays on the war-path.

"But," asked Singing-Bird, "what pale-face women _do_? sit still and do not'ing?"

"O, no; we have plenty of employment in attending to household matters. We shouldn't think ourselves able to do labor out-of-doors, in tilling land."

It was now Singing-Bird's turn to be surprised; and while she was expressing her wonderment at this want of love for their husbands on the part of the women of the pale-faces, Panther was seen approaching the lodge. At the suggestion of Singing-Bird, Ruth immediately assumed an appearance of extreme sorrow, while the former took that of the careless indifference which she had first exhibited to Ruth.

Panther entered the lodge, and without seeming to notice the presence of Ruth, approached Singing-Bird and said:

"The pale-face prisoner does not believe that Singing-Bird loves to live in the lodges of the Senecas. Will my sister go and tell him whether she does or not?"

Singing-Bird obeyed without reply; and followed by Panther, she proceeded to the interview we have already described between her and Ichabod.

Ruth had been left alone but for a few moments, when she heard a slow but heavy step approaching the lodge. With a look of uneasiness, she gazed in the direction of the sound, and beheld Guthrie about entering the doorway.

"Good morning, Miss," said he with a rude and familiar voice, that grated harshly on her ears. "I thought I'd just see how you get along. How do you like living with the Senecas?"

"Guthrie," answered Ruth, "in what manner has my father or have I, injured you, that you should commit the act you have, to-day?"

The villain chuckled for a moment. "That's neither here nor there, Miss. There never was any great love atween us, any way; and, you see, a wound like this, ain't apt to increase it," pointing to his shoulder, which had been bandaged. "It's enough for me to know that Squire Barton has given shelter up at the cottage to them as has injured me; and no man ever offends Ben Guthrie without getting his pay for't."

"There has been no time, Guthrie," said Ruth with a shudder, "since we have lived in this valley, but you have been welcomed at the cottage as a friend."

"Yes, yes; I know what kind of a welcome I've generally had:--such as you Colony folks give a Tory, as you call me--a scornful eye--a curling lip--and a hand that is never offered in friendship. But I'll let these interlopers into this territory know that if King George's men have all died in the settlements, there are some of 'em alive round here. But _that's_ neither here nor there. I've done you a kindness, after all; for that cottage will yet be taken--burnt down, p'raps--and then you'd better be here than there."

"Guthrie, you have been guilty of a great wrong, in placing me in the hands of these Senecas; and you may yet live to suffer for it. I never knew a wicked act, that was not followed by its punishment."

"Not so fast, Miss Ruth--not so fast," said Guthrie, "I want you to understand that you're _my_ prisoner; and that these Senecas only hold you for me; and that they are answerable to me for your safety."

"If you have the power, O, take me back to my father! Guthrie," said she imploringly, "and this act of yours to-day shall be forgotten and forgiven; and you will find in me a friend ever more. You know the agony my father must suffer. O, take pity on his gray hairs."

Guthrie gave a peculiar chuckle. "Can't do that, any way," said he, "or not if----You see. Miss, the matter's here. Now your father and I _can_ be friends. There's _one_ way we can make this matter up. Let him give up that Tuscarora to these Indians, and take me for a son-in-law, and the thing's done at once."

Ruth, for a moment, was astounded at this infamous proposal. She looked at him, as if doubting the evidence of her senses; but disdained to reply.

"You see, Miss," continued Guthrie, "it wouldn't be so bad an affair, after all. I ain't much of a woman's man, it's true; but I've got a snug piece of land down here; and then, in these times, it isn't a bad thing to have a friend among these wild savages; and, you see, I could protect all of you."

Ruth answered indignantly, "I did not think, Guthrie, you could do me a worse wrong, than you committed in treacherously making me a prisoner; but you _have_ committed a worse one. Leave this hut, or I will appeal to these savages to protect me; not one of them but has more courtesy, and a better heart than you."

Guthrie looked fiercely angry at this reply; but walked deliberately towards Ruth, and seated himself upon a bench near her. "We'll see about that, Miss. I ain't accustomed to child's play. Now I've made up my mind that I want you for a wife, and my wife you shall be, any way. Now, there ain't no use in screaming, or them sort of things; but you might just as well make up your mind to it, first as last."

Ruth, shuddering with horror, rushed from the hut: Guthrie sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "That won't do, Miss, any way. Them tantrums will answer in the settlements; but out here in the woods, we do things on squares. You can say, whether you will or you won't, and make an end of it, just to show your freedom in the matter; but whichever way you fix it, it don't make any difference to me; the thing has got to be done."

During this speech of Guthrie's, Ruth had been dragged back into the hut. She shrieked with fear and disgust, and cried aloud for help. Guthrie rudely endeavored to place his hand over her mouth, when Singing-Bird came running into the lodge, followed by two or three Indians. Guthrie, ashamed of his violence, retreated towards the door.

"I've had _my_ say, Miss, and you can make up your mind to it, and save the folks at the cottage; or you can go into these tantrums, and let the other thing happen, just as you've a mind."

With this threat, he slowly departed, followed by the savages, while Ruth threw herself into the arms of Singing-Bird, weeping bitterly at this new addition to her misery.