The Indian stranger was tall for her years, which did not exceed fifteen. Her form was slender, flexible, and graceful; and there was a freedom and loftiness in her movement which, though tempered with modesty, expressed a consciousness of high birth. Her face, although marked by the peculiarities of her race, was beautiful even to an European eye. Her features were regular, and her teeth white as pearls; but there must be something beyond symmetry of feature to fix the attention, and it was an expression of dignity, thoughtfulness, and deep dejection that made the eye linger on Magawisca’s face, as if it were perusing there the legible record of her birth and wrongs. Her hair, contrary to the fashion of the Massachusetts Indians, was parted on her forehead, braided, and confined to her head by a band of small feathers, jet black, and interwoven, and attached at equal distances by rings of polished bone. She wore a waistcoat of deerskin, fastened at the throat by a richly wrought collar. Her arms, a model for sculpture, were bare. A mantle of purple cloth hung gracefully from her shoulders, and was confined at the waist by a broad band, ornamented with rude hieroglyphics. The mantle and her strait short petticoat or kilt of the same rare and costly material, had been obtained, probably, from the English traders. Stockings were an unknown luxury; but leggings, similar to those worn by the ladies of Queen Elizabeth’s court, were no bad substitute. The moccasin, neatly fitted to a delicate foot and ankle, and tastefully ornamented with beadwork, completed the apparel of this daughter of a chieftain, which altogether, had an air of wild and fantastic grace, that harmonized well with the noble demeanor and peculiar beauty of the young savage.
Mr Fletcher surveyed her for a moment with a mingled feeling of compassion and curiosity, and then turning away and leaning his head on the mantelpiece, his thoughts reverted to the subject that had affected him far more deeply than he had ventured to confess, even to the wife of his bosom.
Mrs Fletcher’s first feeling was rather that of a housewife than a tender woman. ‘My husband,’ she thought, ‘might as well have brought a wild doe from the forest to plough his fields, as to give me this Indian girl for household labour; but the wisest men have no sense in these matters.’ This natural domestic reflection was soon succeeded by a sentiment of compassion, which scarcely needed to be stimulated by Everell’s whisper of “do, mother, speak to her.”
“Magawisca,” she said in a friendly tone, “you are welcome among us, girl.” Magawisca bowed her head. Mrs Fletcher continued: “you should receive it as a signal mercy, child, that you have been taken from the midst of a savage people, and set in a Christian family.” Mrs Fletcher paused for her auditor’s assent, but the proposition was either unintelligible or unacceptable to Magawisca.
“Mistress Fletcher means,” said a middle-aged serving woman who had just entered the room, “that you should be mightily thankful, Tawney, that you are snatched as a brand from the burning.”
“Hush, Jennet!” said Everell Fletcher, touching the speaker with the point of an arrow which he held in his hand.
Magawisca’s eyes had turned on Jennet, flashing like a sunbeam through an opening cloud. Everell’s interposition touched a tender chord, and when she again cast them down, a tear trembled on their lids.
“You will have no hard service to do,” said Mrs Fletcher, resuming her address. “I cannot explain all to you now; but you will soon perceive that our civilized life is far easier – far better and happier than your wild wandering ways, which are indeed, as you will presently see, but little superior to those of the wolves and foxes.”
Magawisca suppressed a reply that her heart sent to her quivering lips; and Everell said, “hunted, as the Indians are, to their own dens, I am sure, mother, they need the fierceness of the wolf, and the cunning of the fox.”
“True – true, my son,” replied Mrs Fletcher, who really meant no unkindness in expressing what she deemed a self-evident truth; and then turning again to Magawisca, she said, in a gentle tone, “you have had a long and fatiguing journey – was it not, girl?”
“My foot,” replied Magawisca, “is used to the wildwood path. The deer tires not of his way on the mountain, nor the bird of its flight in the air.”
She uttered her natural feeling in so plaintive a tone that it touched the heart like a strain of sad music; and when Jennet again officiously interposed in the conversation, by saying, that “truly these savages have their house in the wilderness, and their way no man knows,” her mistress cut short her outpouring by directing her to go to the outer door and learn who it was that Digby was conducting to the house.
A moment after Digby, Mr Fletcher’s confidential domestic, entered with the air of one who has important intelligence to communicate. He was followed by a tall gaunt Indian, who held in his hand a deerskin pouch. “Ha! Digby,” said Mr Fletcher, “have you returned? What say the Commissioners? Can they furnish me a guide and attendants for my journey?”
“Yes, an’ please you, sir, I was in the nick of time, for they were just despatching a messenger to the Governor.”
“On what account?”
“Why, it’s rather an odd errand,” replied Digby, scratching his head with an awkward hesitation. “I would not wish to shock my gentle mistress, who will never bring her feelings to the queer fashions of the new world; but Lord’s mercy, sir, you know we think no more of taking off a scalp here, than we did of shaving our beards at home.”
“Scalp!” exclaimed Mr Fletcher. “Explain yourself, Digby.”
The Indian, as if to assist Digby’s communication, untied his pouch and drew from it a piece of dried and shrivelled skin, to which hair, matted together with blood, still adhered. There was an expression of fierce triumph on the countenance of the savage as he surveyed the trophy with a grim smile. A murmur of indignation burst from all present.
“Why did you bring that wretch here?” demanded Mr Fletcher of his servant, in an angry tone.
“I did but obey Mr Pynchon, sir. The thing is an abomination to the soul and eye of a Christian, but it has to be taken to Boston for the reward.”
“What reward, Digby?”
“The reward, sir, that is in reason expected for the scalp of the Pequod chief.”
As Digby uttered these last words Magawisca shrieked as if a dagger had pierced her heart. She darted forward and grasped the arm that upheld the trophy. “My father! – Mononotto!” she screamed in a voice of agony.
“Give it to her – by Heaven, you shall give it to her,” cried Everell, springing on the Indian and losing all other thought in his instinctive sympathy for Magawisca.
“Softly, softly, Mr Everell,” said Digby, “that is the scalp of Sassacus, not Mononotto. The Pequods had two chiefs you know.”
Magawisca now released her hold; and as soon as she could again command her voice, she said, in her own language to the Indian, “My father – my father – does he live?”
“He does,” answered the Indian in the same dialect; “he lives in the wigwam of the chief of the Mohawks.”
Magawisca was silent for a moment, and knit her brows as if agitated with an important deliberation. She then undid a bracelet from her arm and gave it to the Indian: “I charge ye,” she said, “as ye hope for game in your hunting grounds, for the sun on your wigwam, and the presence of the Great Spirit in your death-hour – I charge ye to convey this token to my father. Tell him his children are servants in the house of his enemies; but,” she added, after a moment’s pause, “to whom am I trusting? – to the murderer of Sassacus! – my father’s friend!”
“Fear