The Last of the Mohicans, The Pathfinder & The Deerslayer. Джеймс Фенимор Купер

and God, who made us, has put into our natures the craving to keep the skin on the head!”

      Against this stern and unyielding morality, supported as it was by such visible policy, there was no appeal. From that moment the yells in the forest once more ceased, the fire was suffered to decline, and all eyes, those of friends as well as enemies, became fixed on the hopeless condition of the wretch who was dangling between heaven and earth. The body yielded to the currents of air, and though no murmur or groan escaped the victim, there were instants when he grimly faced his foes, and the anguish of cold despair might be traced, through the intervening distance, in possession of his swarthy lineaments. Three several times the scout raised his piece in mercy, and as often prudence getting the better of his intention, it was again silently lowered. At length one hand of the Huron lost its hold, and dropped exhausted to his side. A desperate and fruitless struggle to recover the branch succeeded, and then the savage was seen for a fleeting instant, grasping wildly at the empty air. The lightning is not quicker than was the flame from the rifle of Hawkeye; the limbs of the victim trembled and contracted, the head fell to the bosom, and the body parted the foaming waters like lead, when the element closed above it, in its ceaseless velocity, and every vestige of the unhappy Huron was lost forever.

      No shout of triumph succeeded this important advantage, but even the Mohicans gazed at each other in silent horror. A single yell burst from the woods, and all was again still. Hawkeye, who alone appeared to reason on the occasion, shook his head at his own momentary weakness, even uttering his self-disapprobation aloud.

      “’Twas the last charge in my horn, and the last bullet in my pouch, and ’twas the act of a boy!” he said; “what mattered it whether he struck the rock living or dead: feeling would soon be over. Uncas, lad, go down to the canoe, and bring up the big horn; it is all the powder we have left, and we shall need it to the last grain, or I am ignorant of the Mingo nature.”

      The young Mohican complied, leaving the scout turning over the useless contents of his pouch, and shaking the empty horn with renewed discontent. From this unsatisfactory examination, however, he was soon called by a loud and piercing exclamation from Uncas, that sounded, even to the unpractised ears of Duncan, as the signal of some new and unexpected calamity. Every thought filled with apprehension for the precious treasure he had concealed in the cavern, the young man started to his feet, totally regardless of the hazard he incurred by such an exposure. As if actuated by a common impulse, his movement was imitated by his companions, and, together, they rushed down the pass to the friendly chasm, with a rapidity that rendered the scattering fire of their enemies perfectly harmless. The unwonted cry had brought the sisters, together with the wounded David, from their place of refuge; and the whole party, at a single glance, was made acquainted with the nature of the disaster that had disturbed even the practised stoicism of their youthful Indian protector.

      At a short distance from the rock, their little bark was to be seen floating across the eddy, towards the swift current of the river, in a manner which proved that its course was directed by some hidden agent. The instant this unwelcome sight caught the eye of the scout, his rifle was levelled as by instinct, but the barrel gave no answer to the bright sparks of the flint.

      “’Tis too late, ’tis too late!” Hawkeye exclaimed, dropping the useless piece in bitter disappointment; “the miscreant has struck the rapid; and had we powder, it could hardly send the lead swifter than he now goes!”

      The adventurous Huron raised his head above the shelter of the canoe, and while it glided swiftly down the stream, he waved his hand, and gave forth the shout, which was the known signal of success. His cry was answered by a yell and a laugh from the woods, as tauntingly exulting as if fifty demons were uttering their blasphemies at the fall of some Christian soul.

      “Well may you laugh, ye children of the devil!” said the scout, seating himself on a projection of the rock, and suffering his gun to fall neglected at his feet, “for the three quickest and surest rifles in these woods are no better than so many stalks of mullein, or the last year’s horns of a buck!”

      “What is to be done?” demanded Duncan, losing the first feeling of disappointment in a more manly desire for exertion; “what will become of us?”

      Hawkeye made no other reply than by passing his finger around the crown of his head, in a manner so significant, that none who witnessed the action could mistake its meaning.

      “Surely, surely, our case is not so desperate!” exclaimed the youth; “the Hurons are not here; we may make good the caverns; we may oppose their landing.”

      “With what?” coolly demanded the scout. “The arrows of Uncas, or such tears as women shed! No, no; you are young, and rich, and have friends, and at such an age I know it is hard to die! But,” glancing his eyes at the Mohicans, “let us remember we are men without a cross, and let us teach these natives of the forest that white blood can run as freely as red, when the appointed hour is come.”

      Duncan turned quickly in the direction indicated by the other’s eyes, and read a confirmation of his worst apprehensions in the conduct of the Indians. Chingachgook, placing himself in a dignified posture on another fragment of the rock, had already laid aside his knife and tomahawk, and was in the act of taking the eagle’s plume from his head, and smoothing the solitary tuft of hair in readiness to perform its last and revolting office. His countenance was composed, though thoughtful, while his dark gleaming eyes were gradually losing the fierceness of the combat in an expression better suited to the change he expected momentarily to undergo.

      “Our case is not, cannot be so hopeless!” said Duncan; “even at this moment succor may be at hand. I see no enemies! they have sickened of a struggle in which they risk so much with so little prospect of gain!”

      “It may be a minute, or it may be an hour, afore the wily sarpents steal upon us, and it is quite in natur’ for them to be lying within hearing at this very moment,” said Hawkeye; “but come they will, and in such a fashion as will leave us nothing to hope! Chingachgook”— he spoke in Delaware —“my brother, we have fought our last battle together, and the Maquas will triumph in the death of the sage man of the Mohicans, and of the pale-face, whose eyes can make night as day, and level the clouds to the mists of the springs!”

      “Let the Mingo women go weep over their slain!” returned the Indian, with characteristic pride and unmoved firmness; “the Great Snake of the Mohicans has coiled himself in their wigwams, and has poisoned their triumph with the wailings of children whose fathers have not returned! Eleven warriors lie hid from the graves of their tribes since the snows have melted, and none will tell where to find them when the tongue of Chingachgook shall be silent! Let them draw the sharpest knife, and whirl the swiftest tomahawk, for their bitterest enemy is in their hands. Uncas, topmost branch of a noble trunk, call on the cowards to hasten or their hearts will soften, and they will change to women!”

      “They look among the fishes for their dead!” returned the low, soft voice of the youthful chieftain; “the Hurons float with the slimy eels! They drop from the oaks like fruit that is ready to be eaten! and the Delawares laugh!”

      “Ay, ay,” muttered the scout, who had listened to this peculiar burst of the natives with deep attention; “they have warmed their Indian feelings, and they’ll soon provoke the Maquas to give them a speedy end. As for me, who am of the whole blood of the whites, it is befitting that I should die as becomes my color, with no words of scoffing in my mouth, and without bitterness at the heart!”

      “Why die at all!” said Cora, advancing from the place where natural horror had, until this moment, held her riveted to the rock; “the path is open on every side; fly, then, to the woods, and call on God for succor. Go, brave men, we owe you too much already; let us no longer involve you in our hapless fortunes!”

      “You but little know the craft of the Iroquois, lady, if you judge they have left the path open to the woods!” returned Hawkeye, who, however, immediately added in his simplicity, “the down stream current, it is certain, might soon sweep us beyond the reach of their rifles or the sounds of their voices.”

      “Then try the river. Why linger to add to the number of the victims of our merciless enemies?”