"Protect us, O Father Almighty! in the hours of darkness and unconsciousness. Give us Thy blessing of sleep, to refresh our minds and bodies; and, if it be Thy will, let us wake again to serve and praise Thee through another day more perfectly than in the days past, for Christ's sake."
The Lord's Prayer succeeded; and then they separated to their rest.
CHAPTER IV.
Before daylight in the morning, Sir William Johnson was on foot, and in the stable. Some three or four negro-slaves--for there were slaves then on all parts of the American continent--lay sleeping soundly in a small sort of barrack hard by; and, as soon as one of them could be roused, Sir William's horse was saddled, and he rode away, without pausing to eat, or to say farewell. He bent his course direct towards the Mohawk, flowing at some twenty miles' distance from the cottage of Mr. Prevost.
Before Sir William had been five minutes in the saddle, he was in the midst of the deep woods which surrounded the little well-cultivated spot where the English wanderer had settled. It was a wild and rather gloomy scene into which he plunged; for, though something like a regular road had been cut, along which carts as well as horses could travel, yet that road was narrow, and the branches nearly met overhead.
In some places the underwood, nourished by a moist and marshy soil, was too thick and tangled to be penetrated either by foot or eye. In others, where the path ascended to higher grounds, or passed amongst the hard dry rocks, the aspect of the forest changed. Pine after pine, with now and then an oak, a chestnut, or a locust-tree, covered the face of the country, with hardly a shrub upon the ground below, which was carpeted with the brown slippery needles of the resinous trees; and between the huge trunks poured the grey, mysterious light of the early dawn, while a thin, whitish vapour hung amongst the boughs overhead.
About a mile from the house, a bright and beautiful stream crossed the road, flowing on towards the greater river; but bridge there was none, and, in the middle of the stream, Sir William suffered his horse to stop, and bend its head to drink. He gazed to the westward, but all there was dark and gloomy under the thick overhanging branches. He turned his eyes to the eastward, where the ground was more open, and the stream could be seen flowing on for nearly half a mile, with little cascades, and dancing rapids, and calm lapses of bright, glistening water, tinted with a rosy hue, where the morning sky gleamed down upon it through some break in the forest canopy.
While thus gazing, his eye rested on a figure standing in the midst of the stream, with rod in hand, and the back turned towards him. He thought he saw another figure also amongst the trees upon the bank; but it was shadowy there, and the form seemed shadowy too.
After gazing for a minute or so, he raised his voice, and exclaimed--
"Walter!--Walter Prevost!"
The lad heard him, and, laying his rod upon the bank, hastened along over the green turf to join him; at the same moment the figure amongst the trees--if really figure it was--disappeared from the sight.
"Thou art out early, Walter," said Sir William. "What do you at this hour?"
"I am catching trout for the stranger's breakfast," replied the lad, with a gay laugh. "You should have had your share, had you but waited."
"Who was that speaking to you on the bank above?" asked the other, gravely.
"Merely an Indian girl watching me fishing," responded Walter Prevost.
"I hope your talk was discreet," rejoined Sir William. "These are dangerous times, when trifles are of import, Walter."
"There was no indiscretion," returned the lad, with the colour mounting slightly in his cheek. "She was remarking the feather-flies with which I caught the trout, and blamed me for using them. She said it was a shame to catch anything with false pretences."
"She is wise," observed the other, with a faint smile; "yet that is hardly the wisdom of her people. An Indian maiden!" he added, thoughtfully. "Of what tribe is she? One of the Five Nations, I trust?"
"Oh, yes--an Oneida," replied Walter; "one of the daughters of the Stone; the child of a Sachem, who often lodges at our house."
"Well, be she whom she may," rejoined Sir William, "be careful of your speech, Walter, especially regarding your father's guest. I say not, to conceal that there is a stranger with you, for that cannot be; but, whatever you see or guess of his station, or his errand, keep it to yourself, and let not a woman be the sharer of your thoughts, till you have tried her with many a trial."
"She would not betray them, I am sure," said the lad, warmly; and then added, with slight embarrassment, as if he felt that he had in a degree betrayed himself, "but she has nothing to reveal, or to conceal. Our talk was all of the river, and the fish. We met by accident, and she is gone."
"Perhaps you may meet again by accident," suggested the other, "and then be careful. But now, to more serious things. Perchance your father may have to send you to Albany--perchance, to my castle. You can find your way speedily to either. Is it not so?"
"Farther than either," replied the lad, gaily.
"But you may have a heavy burden to carry," rejoined Sir William; "do you think you can bear it?--I mean the burden of a secret."
"I will not drop it by the way," returned Walter, gravely.
"Not if the Sachem's daughter offers to divide the load?" asked his companion.
"Doubt me not," replied Walter.
"I do not doubt you," said Sir William, "I do not. But I would have you warned. And now farewell. You are very young to meet maidens in the wood. Be careful. Farewell."
He rode on, and the boy tarried by the wayside, and meditated. His were very strange thoughts, and stranger feelings. They were the feelings that only come to any person once in a lifetime--earlier with some, later with others--the ecstatic thrill, the joyous emotion, the dancing of the young bright waters of early life, in the pure morning sunshine of first love--the dream--the vision--the trance of indefinite joy--the never-to-be-forgotten, the never-to-be-renewed, first glance at the world of passion that is within us. Till that moment, he had been as one climbing a mountain with thick boughs shading from his eyes the things before him; but his friend's words had been a hand drawing back the branches on the summit, and showing him a wondrous and lovely sight beyond.
Was he not very young to learn such things? O yes, he was very, very young; but it was natural that in that land he should learn them young. All was young there: all is young: everything is rapid and precocious; the boy has the feelings of the young man; the young man the thoughts of maturity. The air, the climate, the atmosphere of the land and the people, all have their influence. The shrubs grow up in an hour: the flowers succeed each other with hasty profusion, and even the alien and the stranger-born feel the infection, and join unresistingly in the rapid race. Well did the dreamers of the Middle Ages place the fountain of youth on the shores of the new world.
The boy, who stood there meditating, had lived half a lifetime in the few short years he had spent upon that soil; and now, at Sir William's words, as with him of old, the scales fell from his eyes, and he saw into his own heart.
His reverie lasted not long, indeed; but it was long enough. In about two minutes, he took his way up the stream again, still musing, towards the place where he had laid down his rod upon the bank. He heeded not much where he set his feet. Sometimes it was on the dry ground, by the side of the stream; sometimes it was in the gurgling waters, and amongst the glossy pebbles.
He paused, at length, where he had stood fishing a few minutes before, and looked up to the bank covered with green branches. He could see nothing there in the dim obscurity; but even the murmur of the waters and the sighing of the wind did not