Part 2 — WAWHILLOWA.

A LEGEND OF THE QUONNECTICUT.

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BY D. M. ELWOOD.

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Whoever has once stood upon the summit of Mount Holyoke, will never forget the rich scene spread out before him. For miles—as far as the eye can reach on every side—may be seen Nature in her most imposing forms. Vales clad in their rich vesture of green, watered by the limpid streams, cool, pure, and refreshing; gently sloping hills, crowned with fields of waving grain, and spotted here and there with the fleecy herds; and yet farther on, rising peak upon peak, and summit upon summit, the “huge pillars” which “prop the heavens” rear their craggy heads on high, bidding defiance to storm and tempest, and scarcely trembling even at the peals of “living thunder” which “leap” from crag to crag. Occasionally, peering above the tall trees that surround them, the spires of numerous churches point out the villages, and form agreeable pictures on which the delighted eye may rest. Sweeping the very base of Holyoke the broad Connecticut rolls its calm tide along, and winding away into the distance far to the south, may be traced on a clear day, circling its way through the verdant meadows almost to its very mouth. Directly across the river from Holyoke, Mount Tom rises in sullen majesty, as if disdaining to hold fellowship with the humble yet beautiful objects around. Northampton—with its snow-white dwellings, its spires and turrets, its hill—the sides of which are occupied with delightful mansions—and its top surmounted with a lovely grove, forms a panorama, the beauty of which must be seen to be realized. Between it and the river is a broad valley, chequered with fields of various colors, spotted with trees, and giving rich promise of the harvest. Nearly at the foot of the mountain—a little to the northward, rising not far above the surface of the river—is a small and fertile island, of a diamond form, like an emerald set in silver. This island we will call Hockanum, a name given to it years and years ago. Still further north, on a broad peninsula formed by a bend of the river, stands the town of Hadley, with the history of which is associated many a thrilling tradition. One of these it will be our object now to present to the reader.

The town of Hadley was settled in the year 1659, by emigrants from the Colony of Connecticut, who removed on account of differences in religious opinions. The principal man of these emigrants was Mr. John Webster, accompanied by the Rev. John Russell, formerly minister of Wethersfield. Although Whites and Indians were mingled in close contact here, it is believed that there was no disturbance of any kind until after the breaking out of King Philip’s war in 1675. A perfectly amicable disposition was manifested on either side, and danger and fear of the aborigines were scarcely entertained.

At the southern extremity of the beautiful street on which the town is principally built, close upon the bank of the majestic Connecticut, or as it was formerly, and perhaps more properly called, the Quonnecticut, stood, at the period of our tale, the residence of the Rev. John Russell—mentioned above as one of the first settlers of the town. A few rods lower down, and on the opposite side of the street, lived Mr. Webster, his friend and companion in emigration. William, the oldest son of Mr. Russell, was a young man about twenty-three years of age, of a bold and fearless disposition, with a heart generally open and confiding. Yet there was enough of cautiousness in his disposition, to render him capable of keeping secret his designs, and of acting silently yet effectually. He was finely formed, and remarkably well gifted by nature. There was, indeed, but one trait that marred the general harmony of his natural constitution, and that was, at times, a slight want of amiability, a haughtiness of spirit that could not brook restraint or opposition. As it was, he was the pride of his father’s family, and the object of admiration to the blooming maidens round. But there was one whom he esteemed far above all others—the daughter of his father’s friend. Eliza Webster was one of those beings whom one would love without exactly knowing why. Not really beautiful—indeed, rather ordinary looking than otherwise—it was impossible for any sensible young man to enjoy her society for any length of time, without finding himself fast yielding to the impression which he could not prevent her from making on his heart. Always lively and cheerful, with a rich fund of humor, and a shrewd and penetrating mind, she determined to enjoy, and to make the most of life, and to render all about her as happy as herself. She was the simple and unaffected, the true child of nature, and yet nature’s adorer. Never was she happier than when rambling along the course of the river on whose banks she had always lived, or climbing the craggy heights which towered at a short distance below.

On the little island of Hockanum lived an old man who had formerly been a chief at Nonotuck, now Northampton. His name was Shaomet. He subsisted on the fish he drew from the clear waters, and the deer and other game which he found in the fastnesses of Holyoke. The solace of his declining years was his daughter, Tahattawa, a sprightly lass of eighteen summers. Her step was light as that of the young fawn, and her merry laugh rang out upon the clear air, and danced like music over the broad bosom of the river.

With this girl, Eliza Webster had formed an intimate attachment. Often had Tahattawa paddled her across in her light canoe to the little island on which was her home. For hours had they sat under the shade of its green trees, and laughed and conversed together, instructing each other the while in many of the little arts with which each was familiar.

Now, Tahattawa had a lover—a young warrior belonging to the fort which the whites had allowed the natives to build within a few rods of the most populous street of Nonotuck. Eliza had often met him at the tent of Shaomet, and frequently accompanied him and Tahattawa in his fishing excursions down the river. The thought of danger to herself never entered her mind; she reposed perfect confidence in the integrity of her friends—even though their skins were tawny; and the youth appeared to be almost as fond of the society of his pale-faced friend as he was of that of Tahattawa herself.

One fine morning in the month of May, 1676, a deer was seen swimming swiftly down the Quonnecticut. William Russell snatched his rifle, and, springing into a light canoe, started in pursuit. At length, as they neared the little island of Hockanum, the huntsman had gained so far on his game that he was just raising his gun to his shoulder to fire upon him, when suddenly the deer sprang more than a foot clear of the water—and the sharp crack of a rifle came ringing on the ear.

A canoe immediately shot out from a small cove on the shore of the island, and a young Indian, paddling up to the deer, seized him by the horns and lifted him into the boat. By this time William had come up. Whether the Indian had seen him in chase of the deer before he fired or not, he certainly laid claim to it as his own. The other was no less strenuous in asserting his own right to the game; and, drawing up his canoe along side of the Indian, was about to place it in his own boat. The other also seized it, and declared he would not surrender it but with life.

The fiery spirit of young Russell now began to chafe, and the flash of his eyes told plainly that he would not tamely brook such a wrong. The blood rose to his face, and his heart beat quick and violently with anger. He stood for a moment hesitating what course to pursue. Give up the deer he would not—yet he shuddered at what might be the consequences of an open rupture, at a time when Philip was in arms, and the name of that mighty chieftain was inspiring many of the Indians with courage, and striking terror to the hearts of the whites.

Wawhillowa—for it was he, the lover of Tahattawa—with an air which seemed to challenge his antagonist to its removal, placed his foot on the game, and rising to his full height regarded the other with a look of calm defiance. Not a muscle moved, but his teeth were firmly clenched, and the heavy frown that slowly settled on his brow, told of the storm that was gathering within his breast.

We know not what might have been the result of this controversy—for there was equal resolution and courage, and perhaps strength on both sides—had it not been for a third person. At the instant that William grasped his rifle, and the other his tomahawk, Shaomet, the old man of the island, sprang between them and called on both to desist from their useless strife. He had watched the whole proceeding from the door of his tent, and, fearful of a dispute, had launched his canoe and approached them without their perceiving him, so absorbed were both the young men in the feelings of the moment. They seemed at first somewhat angry at his interference; but when Wawhillowa remembered that Shaomet was the father of his intended bride; and William, that he had often manifested his friendship for Eliza, their resentment towards the old man instantly began to cool.

Their animosity towards each other, however, was not at all diminished. They stood over the game like two young lions; and each of them, perhaps, exercising about as much reason. The old man quietly proceeded to skin the deer, and to cut it into equal parts. This was quickly done. He then tried to induce them to accept each a part. It would have been, perhaps, a difficult matter to decide which was the rightful owner of the game—but each of the two opponents was resolved to have it all or none—William threw into the river the half which Shaomet had placed in his canoe, while the young Indian dropped his tomahawk and hastily paddled towards the island. The old chief having secured the game in his own boat, slowly followed him, and the Englishman sullenly worked his way up the current, muttering revenge.

It was the morning of the 12th of June, 1676. Day had hardly dawned. The bright star of morning had not yet melted away; but the dark clouds that had obscured the sky broke in pieces, and rolled away in huge masses far into the distance, disclosing the bright full moon—her radiance not yet dimmed by the presence of the king of brightness. Under cover of the night a powerful body of Indians had advanced near to the town of Hadley, and at the southern extremity of the street on which it was—and still is—principally built, had proceeded to dispose among the thick trees and underwood, a strong band of faithful warriors as an ambuscade. There they lay, still and motionless as the trees that concealed them. There was many a stout heart beating eagerly for the fray that would soon cease to beat for ever. Many a strong arm firmly grasped the rifle or the tomahawk, soon itself to be in the grasp of an all-powerful foe. Many a fiery eye rolled round in its socket which was soon to be covered with the film of death.

How calmly and soundly slept the inhabitants of that village, even whilst the chafed savage was prowling for his prey. All, unsuspecting, their slumbers were deep and unbroken, while the hungry lions about them were awaiting, impatiently, the moment of attack. How often while we sleep are our destinies decided for us! Wealth—fame—happiness—the rewards of toil—the requiters of virtue—good and evil—little circumstances and great—are all hovering above and about us, while we are unconscious of their presence. Life and death may hang upon a single hair, while we cannot raise a hand or bend a thought to avert or secure either.

The eastern sky had just begun to be tinged with red, and a few straggling rays of the sun, still far below the horizon, were dancing in fairy shapes towards the zenith, when the work of death and of cruelty began. Stealthily and silently the savages crept on. Yet let us not call them savages: they were but redressing their wrongs—but avenging the life blood of their race; and though blood was that morning poured out like water; and though the tomahawk and scalping knife were the instruments of death, and the sleeping and the helpless were the victims;—yet their destroyers were but doing with their enemies as they did with each other: they were not doing violence to their own natures: they were even exercising far more humanity than those who, with the Gospel of Peace in their hand, and the light of civilization around them, had sapped the very foundations of the Red Man’s race. Swiftly the work went on. A stifled groan—a scream of anguish occasionally broke the stillness of the hour. Save that, all was wrapped in deep, dread, ominous silence. At length, by accident, a rifle was discharged. On that little circumstance hung the life of hundreds. The sound echoes through the long street—a window is raised—a door is opened—the alarm is given—and armed men pour forth, and prepare to resist the foe.

All was confusion and dismay. Rifles were fired—loaded, and discharged again. Tomahawks gleamed—swords flashed—occasionally a small piece of ordnance rolled its infant thunder over the plain, and the smoke and din of the contest rose up together to the heavens. Men ran hither and thither. Some commanded, and none obeyed.

Suddenly, “a man of venerable aspect” appeared among the scattered and nearly discomfited inhabitants. He collected them in a body, and, assuming the command, arrayed them in the best manner for defence. He seemed experienced and skilful in the art of war. And now the tide was changed; the Indians in their turn were routed and fled in confusion. In vain the chiefs attempted to rally them. A sudden panic seized the savages; and they, precipitately, fled. After the danger was over, all eyes were looking for the man who had so wonderfully assisted them, but in vain—he had gone, none knew whither. Many conjectures were formed as to who the stranger could be; some supposed it was the guardian angel of the town—but no; it was Goffe, the Regicide!

His seemingly miraculous appearance at that time may be easily accounted for. Goffe and Whalley, two of the Judges of Charles the First, were then both secreted in the house of the Rev. Mr. Russell. Seeing the inhabitants in danger, Goffe determined to hazard his life for those who had so generously afforded him refuge at the risk of their own.

Amongst those of the Indians who had lain in ambush, the most eager of all was Wawhillowa, the young chief of Nonotuck. With a disposition naturally fierce, his intercourse with the whites had done little to soften it, or to influence him in their favor; and since the dispute with William Russell, over the carcass of the deer, he had been burning with indignation and resentment. He had joined the expedition against Hadley with his warriors, partly in the hope of meeting Russell in the fray, and thus gratifying his revenge; and partly because his spirit could not bear to be inactive, whilst the name of Philip was spreading terror through New England. Emulous of the rising fame and fortunes of the Narragansett King, he hoped, ere long, to raise for himself a name among the tribes that should eclipse the reputation of all before him. The English, he thought, were fit objects on which to exercise his ambition; and, having lately conceived a strong aversion to the whole race, he had determined to embrace the present opportunity of signalizing himself, and venting on his enemies his hearty dislike.

The ambuscade laid for the purpose of cutting off the expected retreat of the English, of course, utterly failed of its object; and when those who formed it saw the ill success of their coadjutors, they began to seek safety—each for himself as best he might. Wawhillowa disdained to leave the field without some trophy of his valor; and, while his associates were fleeing in every direction, he was bent on executing a plan which would at once satisfy his animosity, and establish his celebrity among the warriors of his tribe.

Just back of the house in which Mr. Webster resided was a small eminence, from the top of which could be obtained a fine view of the whole plain of Hadley. The sides of this little hill were thickly covered with bushes, through which a narrow foot path led from the house to its summit. To this hill had Eliza Webster repaired to witness the contest that was raging on the plain. Wawhillowa having cautiously approached the house, at length caught the flutter of Eliza’s white garments through the bushes, and hastily but silently approached her. Suddenly she was grasped by a strong and unseen hand, and her handkerchief being pressed into her mouth effectually prevented her screaming. The strength of the young chief was that of a giant, and scarcely hindered by the slender form of the fair girl he bore, he bounded like a tiger after his comrades.

Swiftly they fled, nor paused till the sun was within an hour or two of high noon. And still Wawhillowa pressed on, bearing his fair charge, not left far behind even by his unencumbered associates. When he considered that there was no longer danger of pursuit, he set the poor girl on her feet, and, removing the handkerchief from her mouth, ordered her to walk on before him. In vain she asked him why he treated her thus—why he had torn her from her friends and was bringing her to a cruel death—or to a captivity worse than death. In vain she pleaded her friendship with Tahattawa—her former intimacy even with himself; he walked on in stern silence, and now and then by an impatient gesture, gave her to understand that he wished her to be as taciturn as himself. With the eye of one accustomed to the forest, the chief bent his course directly towards the place of their encampment. Bushes and thorns often obstructed their way; and although Eliza was wearied and sadly torn by the briars, she even dared to threaten her foe. Not aware of the difficulty that existed between them, and which had been the cause of her own seizure, she warned Wawhillowa to beware of the vengeance of her lover.

At the mention of the name of his deadly foe, the fiery savage sprang to the side of his victim and was about to plunge his knife to her heart, but calming the transport of his passion he spared her for a more perfect revenge. His eye glared fiercely on her, and triumph shone in every lineament of his features as he replied,

“I hate him! I will have his blood; his scalp shall hang up and dry in the smoke of Wawhillowa’s wigwam. The fair Flower that loves him shall never again see his face except it be in death. She shall never be his wife; she shall be the Red Man’s slave—aye, a captive to the Red Man’s bride.

In the mean time, all was consternation at the house of Mr. Webster. No one had seen Eliza when she left the house, and her absence could be accounted for only by the supposition that she had been slain, or carried away captive by the Indians. The alarm spread from house to house. The whole village was ready to pursue the enemy, and to recover the lost one, or to revenge her death. Ah! revenge! as if the lives of ten or of fifty of the foe could bring back one spirit that had gone!

A small but ardent band was soon organized, and ready for pursuit, with Young Russell at its head. They struck at once upon the trail of the Indians, and kept it without difficulty till they came to the bank of the river at the foot of Mount Holyoke. Here all traces of their course vanished. They had evidently entered the river; but whether they had crossed it, or only proceeded along its margin and left it again on the same side at a distance below could not be determined. The company here separated, and one party crossed the river to search for the trail on the other side, while the remaining party scoured the eastern shores, but all in vain—no traces of the enemy could be discovered. It was finally conjectured that they had concealed their canoes in the bushes and trees on the side and at the foot of the mountain—and that after their defeat they had hastened thither and embarked on the river, and were by this time at such a distance as to defy pursuit or discovery. Hour after hour did that little band search the country round. Some climbed to the summit of the mountain—some went far down the broad river—here—there—and everywhere the closest search was made—but still without success. William now began to despair of the safety or rescue of his betrothed. His heart grew sick—his cheek paled—and he felt that it would be a boon to sit down and die, if he could but be buried by the side of his lost bride. And then, as he remembered the dispute with Wawhillowa, and the truth flashed upon him, his face flushed with anger, his teeth became firmly set, and his breathing hard and laborious. Again he started on—retraced the steps he had taken, and hurried towards the island on which stood Shaomet’s tent. When he arrived opposite the spot, not seeing a canoe at hand, he threw himself into the river, and soon found himself, breathless and exhausted, at the door of the old man’s wigwam. He entered abruptly—Shaomet sat alone, quietly smoking his pipe.

“Your daughter—where is she? Where is Tahattawa?” cried William.

“I know not,” answered the old chief; “when I awoke this morning, roused by the firing on the plain, she had already left the wigwam, and I have not seen her since.”

“Where is Wawhillowa, the Nonotuck prince?”

“I have not seen him these many days; and yet I think he has been about here, for Tahattawa has seen him and had a long talk with him not longer ago than yesterday.”

“Have you heard that the Fair Flower, who used so often to visit your tent, is lost?” asked William.

“Yes—some of your people came here to search for her,” replied the Chief, shrugging his shoulders, “but they might have known better than that. Shaomet is old now—his hair has turned white—his step is no longer light and swift, or he would help you to find your poor lost one. She was a beautiful Flower, and she and Tahattawa were the delight of Shaomet’s old heart; but she is stolen now, and love has proved stronger too in Tahattawa’s heart, than her affection for her poor old father. She has left me, I fear, to follow the young chief. But he is a brave warrior, and worthy of her love. Many of his enemies shall fall before his eye. He has a strong arm and a steady hand, and—but here is Tahattawa! She has not forsaken me”—and a flash of joy for a moment kindled his sunken eye, as the light form of his daughter bounded into the tent.

She stood for a moment panting from the effect of recent and violent exercise. Oh! she was beautiful! The rich, red blood could clearly be seen through the dark skin,—her eye beamed, and her swelling breast heaved with the excitement.

“Have you seen Eliza?” eagerly asked Russell.

“Ay, she is a captive to the Nonotuck chief. I saw him seize her, and bear her away in his arms. How bravely it was done! But she was my sister. I would not have her die. I followed them—my step was light—he saw me not—heard me not; I followed them to the encampment, and now I am come to tell you where you may find her.”

“But why did you not give the alarm when you saw him seize her?” impatiently demanded William.

The girl turned her rich dark eye full upon the speaker, as she said,

“Wawhillowa is the betrothed of Tahattawa, and should she betray the life of her lover? No! my sister shall be safe, but the brave chief must not die! And now promise me that you will not seek his life, and I will lead you to your bride.”

“I promise you,” said William.

“Nay, but the promise of a pale-face is easily broken; you must swear it!”

William did as he was required, and the two immediately started to recover the captive.

Let us return to Wawhillowa and his companions. Some six or eight miles down the river from Hockanum island, on the east side of the range of hills abruptly terminated by Mount Tom, and renewed again on the other side of the Quonnecticut by Holyoke and the peaks with which it is connected, is a sort of natural amphitheatre, enclosed on three sides by steep and precipitous hills, and on the other, towards the river, closely shut in by a belt of dense forest. This was the spot selected by the Indians as a place of retreat should retreat be necessary; and thither they had fled after the defeat at Hadley. The spot was admirably calculated for the purpose of concealment and security. The huge grey rocks lifting their shaggy crests far above the little plain at their base, seemed to bid defiance to all the world around. The only way of access to the Indian encampment was by striking through the forest that separated it from the river.

The sun had already gone down behind those rough peaks, and the twinkling stars, one by one appearing in the blue vault above, told that the night had come. The pale moon was not looking on—yet it was a bright and lovely night; too bright—oh! far too beautiful for the many scenes of wickedness and crime that were, all over the earth, about to be transacted under its shades!

In the amphitheatre which we have described sat the chiefs, who had that day been in the action, in grave and solemn council. The causes of their defeat were discussed, and it was determined that a conciliatory offering must be made to the Great Spirit, and that the captive maid must be the sacrifice. Wawhillowa arose, and long, and earnestly, and even eloquently pleaded for her life. He claimed her as his own; he wished not for her death, but chose to keep her for his slave. His suit was unsuccessful; and when he sat down, a murmur of disapprobation was all that he heard. The voice was unanimous against him, and he was at last obliged to acquiesce.

New fagots were thrown upon the council fire. The dance began with slow and measured tread. The fires blazed, and glared on the painted and hideous countenances of the revellers, giving them an unearthly and demon-like appearance. The march quickened, and the wild song rose up in deep and deadly tones, and was echoed back from those high rocky hills. The stake was driven, and Wawhillowa ordered the guard to bring forth the victim. The man stirred not—answered not; and the chief himself flew to the spot, burning with rage. He soon came back with inflamed countenance, and muttering curses deep and loud. The prisoner had fled—the savage that had been left to guard her lay weltering in his own gore! A wild, unearthly shout of fury rent the air as the maddened savages learned their disappointment.

We left William Russell and the Indian maid, Tahattawa, just leaving the wigwam of her father for the rescue of Eliza Webster. They entered a light canoe and glided swiftly down with the current of the river. As they approached the place where the Indians were encamped, the two travellers kept close under the western bank, to be more secure against the observation of any one who might have been stationed as a look-out. By six o’clock they were within a mile of the encampment, and here, by the advice of the girl, Russell moored the canoe, and they struck into the woods. Tahattawa, taking the lead, glided through the dense bushes with surprising facility—so swiftly indeed, that her companion found some difficulty in keeping her in sight, although his heart was continually prompting him to put forth every effort. At length, just as the shades of night began to appear, they caught a glimpse of the council fire. They now proceeded with the utmost caution till they came in sight of the wigwam in which the prisoner was bound. Fortunately, it was placed on that side of the opening which was nearest them, just in the edge of the forest. Tahattawa crept along—keeping the tent between herself and the Indians, till she could look through a small hole in the rear. She now motioned Russell to approach. He did so, and looking through the opening, he saw, sitting, his lost bride, her face buried in her hands. At the door of the tent sat a brawny Indian, who, confident of the security of his prisoner, was gazing towards the fire and quietly smoking his pipe.

Tahattawa quickly drew William’s knife from his belt, and, without the least noise, cut a large piece from the thin bark-covering of the hut; then placing the knife in Russell’s hand, she directed him by signs, to enter, and despatch the savage. As he was passing Eliza, she raised her head, and would have screamed, had not Tahattawa been already at her side, and covered her mouth with her hand. At that moment the Indian turned his head; he grasped his tomahawk, but before he could give a blow the hot blood spurted from his heart, and he fell back and died without a groan.

The fugitives now began, as rapidly as possible, to retrace their steps towards the canoe, which had been left concealed about a mile up the river. Their progress, however, was slow, and the underwood was very thick, and all three of the party were already wearied with the toils of the day. Still they struggled on, and, at length, succeeded in reaching the spot where the canoe had been left, before the hideous yell that came sweeping up the river warned them but too surely that the escape of the prisoner, and the death of the Indian in the wigwam, had been discovered.

Notwithstanding the fatigue of its occupants, the light bark swiftly stemmed the broad current, its sharp prow gracefully cutting the tiny waves as it darted on, curling the water from its path as if it disdained to touch them. And well might it be! for that light craft held a bold heart and a strong arm—and one too, that, had it not already been worn out by exercise, would have laughed at pursuit. About one half the distance between Hockanum Island, and the place from which they started, had been gained, when they heard anew the shouts of the Indians, and looking round they saw two canoes about a quarter of a mile below them in active pursuit. This was but an incentive to fresh effort, for they well knew that if they should be overtaken, instant death or cruel tortures would be the fate awaiting two at least, perhaps all three of the party. The Indian girl seized a paddle and applied her strength in assisting the young man, whose own was well nigh exhausted. This aid was not inconsiderable, for though the girl was not near as muscular as her companion, yet her skill in managing the canoe was but little inferior to his. They were now enabled to keep on without losing ground, though safety was far from certain, as several miles yet remained to be passed over, before they could hope to find assistance.

Directly in the gorge between Mount Holyoke and Mount Tom is a short bend in the river, forming a peninsula, now familiarly called “The Bellows,” from its supposed resemblance to that article. The distance around this peninsula is perhaps two or three miles, while the direct course of the river is only about fifty rods. The isthmus, connecting the bellows with the main land, does not now exist as it did then; for, a year or two since, the ice collecting in the river just below, the water swept over the narrow barrier, and washing away the earth, formed for itself a new channel many feet in depth. When the fugitives reached this isthmus they turned the canoe towards the shore, and William, springing out, directed the two girls to walk across the narrow strip of land, while he should drag the light boat over to the other bank. This was but an easy task, compared with that of impelling it against the current, for two or three miles—while the whole distance was as effectually gained as if they had kept the river. Fortunate was it for them that they adopted this stratagem, and fortunate, too, that there was no moon, and that the bushes from the foot of Holyoke here swept to the very shore; for they had hardly crossed half way over the isthmus before their pursuers were opposite to them, close under the western shore. As it was they were not discovered, and the canoes in chase went sweeping round the whole length of the stream.

Again the little party embarked, and hope began to beat strong in their breasts. They pushed on with renewed energy, and at length their eyes rested on the little island of Hockanum. It is always a sweet spot to look upon, but never did it appear so beautiful to any eye as it did to them on that night when they could just discern its dim outline.

“You are safe, Eliza, you are safe!” cried William.

But the savages below, growing fearful of being baffled in their pursuit, were pressing on with all their strength; and the furious Wawhillowa, in the foremost canoe, was continually urging on his men, while he stood in the prow with his eyes eagerly strained into the dim distance beyond.

“We are safe!” cried William; but at the moment a bullet whistled close by his head and gave the lie to his exclamation.

As soon as the canoe touched the southern extremity of the island, William sprang on shore, and hurrying out the females, all three hastened to the tent of Shaomet. The old man had been in waiting for them, and, as soon as they entered, pointed to a corner of the wigwam, where lay a heap of fagots and a number of skins which he had prepared as a means of concealment should concealment become necessary. William quickly led Eliza to the spot, and placing her behind the fagots threw the skins over the top. While he was doing this, the yells of the Indians grew louder and more terrific, for they had now gained the island, and were certain of their prey. William had scarcely turned away from the corner where Eliza was concealed, when the door was thrown violently open, and the savage features of the Nonotuck chief glared full upon his face. Quick as thought the rifle of Shaomet was in Russell’s hand and levelled full at the Indian’s breast.

“Hold, hold!” cried Tahattawa, “your promise—your oath!” and she snatched at the rifle. It was too late. William had already fired, and the tall form of Wawhillowa fell heavily to the ground. The poor girl turned mournfully away, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a flood of tears.

By this time the other canoe had come up, and six or eight stout Indians were surrounding the wigwam. They immediately drew away the body of their chief; and, as it fell outwards, those within were uncertain whether or not the wound was mortal. A council was now held by the besiegers as to what mode of action should be adopted. Some proposed to fire through the sides of the hut; others to burn it; but both of these plans were rejected, as it would endanger the lives of Shaomet and his daughter, which was far from being their object; for Shaomet had been a bold and renowned chief, and still possessed much influence among the neighboring tribes; while the beauty of the girl obtained for her an influence and celebrity, but little less extensive than her father’s, though of an entirely different kind. At last it was decided to burst into the wigwam, and secure the fugitives, doing no harm to the old man or his daughter, even though they had endeavored to give protection to their enemy.

Whilst they were hesitating what course to pursue, William reloaded the rifle, together with an old musket which he found hanging in the tent. As soon as the door opened, and an Indian appeared, he fired. The shot was effectual, but still the odds were fearful. Another and another savage entered, and the foremost had already levelled his rifle at William’s heart. The musket was in Shaomet’s hand; with the quickness of his youth he brought the piece to his shoulder. It missed fire. In another instant William Russell lay a bleeding corpse.

They immediately advanced to secure his scalp, but the old man would not permit them.

“You have killed my friend,” said he, “in my own wigwam, and now I will protect his body while I live. Shaomet is old now—he will soon be buried with his fathers; you may shoot me if you will, but never shall you take his scalp.”

All this time Tahattawa sat upon the bundle of fagots in the corner of the tent. She spoke not—moved not. For the sake of her friend—her sister as she familiarly called her—she had perilled her own life; nay, what was far more, the life of her betrothed. She had seen her “sister’s” lover shot down—she had seen her own young chief fall, and of course supposed him dead. Poor girl! A victim to her own benevolence and to the evil passions of others!

The savages, casting a glance round the apartment, and perceiving no other inmate besides Shaomet and his daughter, immediately left the wigwam, and, taking their canoes, went silently down the river.

On the afternoon following the events above related, the little island of Hockanum looked as bright and as beautiful as ever. It was as lovely as if it had not witnessed the tragic scenes of the preceding night. The bright sun shone gaily upon it; the birds warbled their sweet notes; the soft breeze played among the bright green leaves; and the whole spot looked like a little paradise;—a sad contrast to two hearts that were even then in its bosom.

The friends of William Russell had already assembled to perform the last sad duties to his remains. He was to be interred here, in accordance with the request of her who was to have been his bride.

“Here,” said she, “here on this little island he was slain, and here let him be buried. Here I will spend many of my hours; I will plant flowers around his grave. Here I can come and weep, away from all eyes but the eye of Him who has seen fit to afflict me thus.”

The ceremony had just been performed and they were just turning away from the grave, when all eyes were directed to a canoe which was slowly moving up the river. It had two occupants. One sat motionless in the stern—the other was gently using the paddle. As it approached the island, Tahattawa regarded it with a fixed and earnest gaze. As she did so her heart beat quick and her eyes darted with joy.

“It is—it is he,” cried she, “Wawhillowa;” and away she bounded to the shore. As the canoe touched the bank, the Indian, who sat in the stern, stepped on shore. The next instant his companion pushed off, turned down the stream, and quickly disappeared from view.

Wawhillowa—for it was he—advanced with a few staggering, uncertain steps towards the girl, but before they met, he fell headlong on the ground. Those who had been standing around the grave now approached. The girl sat holding his head, and chafing his temples with her hands. He had fainted. The blood was slowly oozing from a wound by a rifle ball in the right breast. It appeared to have bled considerably, for it had run down even to his ankle, and the right leggin was deeply stained. Tahattawa looked the very image of despair. Hope had been kindled in her breast only to be destroyed, and her poor heart could hardly contain its grief.

Shaomet ran to his tent, and brought a calabash full of water from the river, and some being sprinkled on the face of the young warrior, he slowly revived. Turning a melancholy glance on those around them, his eye brightened for a moment, and the sternness of his features relaxed as his look rested on the face of his betrothed.

“Tahattawa,” said he, in a feeble voice, “I am dying. Bury me—here—on the island. I am going—to the—happy—hunting grounds. See!—the spirit—of my father—calls me.—Ha! It grows dark—Tahattawa!”

The poor girl bent over him till her face rested on his bosom. When she again raised her eyes, the spirit of the Nonotuck chief had departed, and she looked on the cold, fixed features of the dead.

Another grave was dug close by the side of the one which had just been filled. Some of the friends of the “pale-face” objected to the burial of an Indian so near the body of their own kindred, but the sisters wished it, and their feelings were regarded. He was buried, after the manner of his people—his face towards the rising sun. His hunting weapons were buried with him. There they lay—two fierce and haughty spirits. They would not hold fellowship in life, but in death they sleep side by side.

From that hour the hearts of the two survivors were as one. Theirs had been a sad and mournful fate. Their destinies were similar. They lived—lived long—and as happily as two could live whose first dream of bliss had been thus cruelly broken. They lived to atone for the faults of those whom they had loved. They were never separated during their lives, and nearly at the same time the summons came to both to go and meet their Judge. They have long since passed away. Their clay has “returned to earth as it was, and their spirits have gone to the God who gave them.”

Unionville, Mass.