CHAPTER VIII.

It was, alas! too late to hope for escape from the hall, or to send to the neighboring plantations for assistance; and, to add to their perplexity, the whole force of the farm, white servants and black, had gone to a distant field, where it was scarcely possible that they could hear of the attack until it was too late to contribute their aid in the defence. But with courage and resolution the gentlemen prepared to make such defence or resistance as was in their power, and, indeed, from the unsettled character of the times, a planter's house was no mean fortification against the attacks of the Indians. Early in the history of the colony, it was found necessary, for the general safety, to enact laws requiring each planter to provide suitable means of defence, in case of any sudden assault by the hostile tribes. Accordingly, the doors to these country mansions were made of the strongest material, and in some cases, and such was the case at Windsor Hall, were lined on the interior by a thick sheet of iron. The windows, too, or such as were low enough to be scaled from the ground, were protected by shutters of similar material. Every planter had several guns, and a sufficient store of ammunition for defence. Thus it will be seen that Windsor Hall, protected by three vigorous men, well armed and stout of heart, was no contemptible fortress against the rude attacks of a few savages, whose number in all probability would not exceed twenty. The greatest apprehension was from fire; but, strange to say, the savages but seldom resorted to this mode of vengeance, except when wrought up to the highest state of excitement.[7]

“At any rate,” said the brave old Colonel, “we will remain where we are until threatened with fire, and then at least avenge our lives with the blood of these infamous wretches.”

The doors and lower windows had been barricaded, and the three men, armed to the teeth, stood ready in the hall for the impending attack. Virginia and her mother were there, the former pale as ashes, but suppressing her emotions with a violent effort in order to contribute to her mother's comfort. In fact, the old lady, notwithstanding her boast of bravery on the evening before, stood in need of all the consolation that her daughter could impart. She vented her feelings in screams as loud as those of the Indians she feared, and refused to be comforted. Virginia, forgetful of her own equal danger, leant tenderly over her mother, who had thrown herself upon a sofa, and whispered those sweet words of consolation, which religion can alone suggest in the hour of our trial:

“Mother, dear mother,” she said, “remember that although earthly strength should fail, we are yet in the hands of One who is mighty.”

“Well, and what if we are,” cried her mother, whose faith was like that of the old lady, who, when the horses ran away with her carriage, trusted in Providence till the breeching broke. “Well, and what if we are, if in a few minutes our scalps may be taken by these horrible savages?”

“But, dear mother, He has promised—”

“Oh, I don't know whether he has or not—but as sure as fate there they come,” and the old lady relapsed into her hysterics.

“Mother, mother, remember your duty as a Christian—remember in whom you have put your trust,” said Virginia, earnestly.

“Oh, yes, that's the way. Of course I know nothing of my duty, and I don't pretend to be as good as others. I am nothing but a poor, weak old woman, and must be reminded of my duty by my daughter, although I was a Christian long before she was born. But, for my part, I think it's tempting Providence to bear such a judgment with so much indifference.”

“But, Bessy,” interposed the Colonel, seeing Virginia was silent under this unusual kind of argument, “your agitation will only make the matter worse. If you give way thus, we cannot be as ready and cool in action as we should. Come now, dear Bessy, calm yourself.”

“Oh, yes, it's well to say that, after bringing me all the way into this wild country, to be devoured by these wild Indians. Oh, that I should ever have consented to leave my quiet home in dear old England for this! And all because a protector reigned instead of a king. Protector, forsooth; I would rather have a hundred protectors at this moment than one king.”

“Father,” said Virginia, in a tremulous voice, “had we not better retire to some other part of the house? We can only incommode you here.”

“Right, my girl,” said her father. “Take your mother up stairs into your room, and try and compose her.”

“Take me, indeed,” said his worthy spouse. “Colonel Temple, you speak as if I was a baby, to be carried about as you choose. I assure you, I will not budge a foot from you.”

“Stay where you are then,” replied Temple, impatiently, “and for God's sake be calm. Ha! now my boys—here they come!” and a wild yell, which seemed to crack the very welkin, announced the appearance of the enemy.

“I think we had all better go to the upper windows,” said Hansford, calmly. “There is nothing to be done by being shut up in this dark hall; while there, protected from their arrows, we may do some damage to the enemy. If we remain, our only chance is to make a desperate sally, in which we would be almost certainly destroyed.”

“Mr. Hansford,” said Virginia, “give me a gun—there is one left—and you shall see that a young girl, in an hour of peril like this, knows how to aid brave men in her own defence.”

Hansford bent an admiring glance upon the heroic girl, as he placed the weapon in her hands, while her father said, with rapture, “God bless you, my daughter. If your arm were strong as your heart is brave, you had been a hero. I retract what I said on yesterday,” he added in a whisper, with a sad smile, “for you have this day proved yourself worthy to be a brave man's wife.”

The suggestion of Hansford was readily agreed upon, and the little party were soon at their posts, shielded by the windows from the attack of the Indians, and yet in a position from which they could annoy the enemy considerably by their own fire. From his shelter there, Bernard, to whom the sight was entirely new, could see rushing towards the hall, a party of about twenty savages, painted in the horrible manner which they adopt to inspire terror in a foe, and attired in that strange wild costume, which is now familiar to every school-boy. Their leader, a tall, athletic young Indian, surpassed them all in the hideousness of his appearance. His closely shaven hair was adorned with a tall eagle's feather, and pendant from his ears were the rattles of the rattlesnake. The only garment which concealed his nakedness was a short smock, or apron, reaching from his waist nearly to his knees, and made of dressed deer skin, adorned with beads and shells. Around his neck and wrists were strings of peake and roanoke. His face was painted in the most horrible manner, with a ground of deep red, formed from the dye of the pocone root, and variegated with streaks of blue, yellow and green. Around his eyes were large circles of green paint. But to make his appearance still more hideous, feathers and hair were stuck all over his body, upon the fresh paint, which made the warrior look far more like some wild beast of the forest than a human being.

Brandishing a tomahawk in one hand, and holding a carbine in the other, Manteo, thus disguised, led on his braves with loud yells towards the mansion of Colonel Temple. How different from the respectful demeanour, and more modest attire, in which he was accustomed to appear before the family of Windsor Hall.

To the great comfort of the inmates, his carbine was the only one in the party, thanks to the wise precaution of the Assembly, in restricting the sale of such deadly weapons to the Indians. His followers, arrayed in like horrible costume with himself, followed on with their tomahawks and bows; their arrows were secured in a quiver slung over the shoulder, which was formed of the skins of foxes and raccoons, rendered more terrible by the head of the animal being left unsevered from the skin. To the loud shrieks and yells of their voices, was added the unearthly sound of their drums and rattles—the whole together forming a discordant medley, which, as brave old John Smith has well and quaintly observed, “would rather affright than delight any man.”

All this the besieged inmates of the hall saw with mingled feelings of astonishment and dread, awaiting with intense anxiety the result.

“Now be perfectly quiet,” said Hansford, in a low tone, for, by tacit consent, he was looked upon as the leader of the defence. “The house being closed, they may conclude that the family are absent, and so, after their first burst of vengeance, retire. Their bark is always worse than their bite.”

Such indeed seemed likely to be the case, for the Indians, arrived at the porch, looked around with some surprise at the barred doors and windows, and began to confer together. Whatever might have been the event of their conference, their actions, however, were materially affected by an incident which, though intended for the best, was well nigh resulting in destruction to the whole family.

CHAPTER IX.

There was at Windsor Hall, an old family servant, known alike to the negroes and the “white folks,” by the familiar appellation of Uncle Giles. He was one of those old-fashioned negroes, who having borne the heat and burden of the day, are turned out to live in comparative freedom, and supplied with everything that can make their declining years comfortable and happy. Uncle Giles, according to his own account, was sixty-four last Whitsuntide, and was consequently born in Africa. It is a singular fact connected with this race, that whenever consulted about their age, they invariably date the anniversary of their birth at Christmas, Easter or Whitsuntide, the triennial holydays to which they are entitled. Whether this arises from the fact that a life which is devoted to the service of others should commence with a holyday, or whether these three are the only epochs known to the negro, is a question of some interest, but of little importance to our narrative. So it was, that old uncle Giles, in his own expressive phrase was, “after wiking all his born days, done turn out to graze hisself to def.” The only business of the old man was to keep himself comfortable in winter by the kitchen fire, and in summer to smoke his old corn-cob pipe on the three legged bench that stood at the kitchen door. Added to this, was the self-assumed duty of “strapping” the young darkies, and lecturing the old ones on the importance of working hard, and obeying “old massa,” cheerfully in everything. And so old uncle Giles, with white and black, with old and young, but especially with old uncle Giles himself, was a great character. Among other things that increased his inordinate self-esteem, was the possession of a rusty old blunderbuss, which, long since discarded as useless by his master, had fallen into his hands, and was regarded by him and his sable admirers as a pearl of great price.

Now it so happened, that on the morning to which our story refers, uncle Giles was quietly smoking his pipe, and muttering solemnly to himself in that grumbling tone so peculiar to old negroes. When he learned, however, of the intended attack of the Indians, the old man, who well remembered the earlier skirmishes with the savages, took his old blunderbuss from its resting-place above the door of the kitchen, and prepared himself for action. The old gun, which owing to the growing infirmities of its possessor, had not been called into use for years, was now rusted from disuse and neglect; and a bold spider had even dared to seek, not the bubble reputation, but his more substantial gossamer palace, at the very mouth of the barrel. Notwithstanding all this, the gun had all the time remained loaded, for Giles was too rigid an economist to waste a charge without some good reason. Armed with this formidable weapon, Giles succeeded in climbing up the side of the low cabin kitchen, by the logs which protruded from either end of the wall. Arrived at the top and screening himself behind the rude log and mud chimney, he awaited with a patience and immobility which Wellington might have envied, the arrival of the foe. Here then he was quietly seated when the conference to which we have alluded took place between the Indian warriors.

“Bird flown,” said Manteo, the leader of the party. “Nest empty.”

Two or three of the braves stooped down and began to examine the soft sandy soil to discover if there were any tracks or signs of the family having left. Fortunately the search seemed satisfactory, for the foot-prints of Bernard's and Hansford's horses, as they were led from the house towards the stable on the previous evening, were still quite visible.

This little circumstance seemed to determine the party, and they had turned away, probably to seek their vengeance elsewhere, or to return at a more propitious moment, when the discharge of a gun was heard, so loud, so crashing, and so alarming, that it seemed like the sudden rattling of thunder in a storm.

Luckily, perhaps for all parties, while the shot fell through the poplar trees like the first big drops of rain in summer, the only damage which was done was in clipping off the feather which was worn by Manteo as a badge of his position. When we say this, however, we mean to refer only to the effect of the charge, not of the discharge of the gun, for the breech rebounding violently against old Giles shoulder, the poor fellow lost his balance and came tumbling to the ground. The cabin was fortunately not more than ten feet high, and our African hero escaped into the kitchen with a few bruises—a happy compromise for the fate which would have inevitably been his had he remained in his former position. The smoke of his fusil mingling with the smoke from the chimney, averted suspicion, and with the simple-minded creatures who heard the report and witnessed its effects the whole matter remained a mystery.

“Tunder,” said one, looking round in vain for the source from which an attack could be made.

“Call dat tunder,” growled Manteo, pointing significantly to his moulted plume that lay on the ground.

“Okees[8] mad. Shoot Pawcussacks[9] from osies,”[10] said one of the older and more experienced of the party, endeavouring to give some rational explanation of so inexplicable a mystery.

A violent dispute here arose between the different warriors as to the cause of this sudden anger of the gods; some contending that it was because they were attacking a Netoppew or friend, and others with equal zeal contending that it was to reprove the slowness of their vengeance.

From their position above, all these proceedings could be seen, and these contentions heard by the besieged party. The mixed language in which the men spoke, for they had even thus early appropriated many English words to supply the deficiencies in their own barren tongue, was explained by Mamalis, where it was unintelligible to the whites. This young girl felt a divided interest in the fate of the besieging and besieged parties; for all of her devotion to Virginia Temple could not make her entirely forget the fortunes of her brave brother.

In a few moments, she saw that it was necessary to take some decisive step, for the faction which was of harsher mood, and urged immediate vengeance, was seen to prevail in the conference. The fatal word “fire” was several times heard, and Manteo was already starting towards the kitchen to procure the means of carrying into effect their deadly purpose.

“I see nothing left, but to defend ourselves as we may,” said Hansford in a low voice, at the same time raising his musket, and advancing a step towards the window, with a view of throwing it open and commencing the attack.

“Oh, don't shoot,” said Mamalis, imploringly, “I will go and save all.”

“Do you think, my poor girl, that they will hearken to mercy at your intercession,” said Colonel Temple, shaking his head, sorrowfully.

“No!” replied Mamalis, “the heart of a brave knows not mercy. If he gave his ear to the cry of mercy, he would be a squaw and not a brave. But fear not, I can yet save you,” she added confidently, “only do not be seen.”

The men looked from one to the other to decide.

“Trust her, father,” said Virginia, “if you are discovered blood must be shed. She says she can save us all. Trust her, Hansford. Trust her, Mr. Bernard.”

“We could lose little by being betrayed at this stage of the game,” said Temple, “so go, my good girl, and Heaven will bless you!”

Quick as thought the young Indian left the room, and descended the stairs. Drawing the bolt of the back door so softly, that she scarcely heard it move, herself, she went to the kitchen, where old Giles, a prey to a thousand fears, was seated trembling over the fire, his face of that peculiar ashy hue, which the negro complexion sometimes assumes as an humble apology for pallor. As she touched the old man on the shoulder, he groaned in despair and looked up, showing scarcely anything but the whites of his eyes, while his woolly head, thinned and white with age, resembled ashes sprinkled over a bed of extinguished charcoal. Seeing the face of an Indian, and too terrified to recognize Mamalis, he fell on his knees at her feet, and cried,

“Oh, for de Lord sake, massa, pity de poor old nigger! My lod a messy, massa, I neber shoot anudder gun in all my born days.”

“Hush,” said Mamalis, “and listen to me. I tell lie, you say it is truth; I say whites in Jamestown; you say so too—went yesterday.”

“But bress your soul, missis,” said Giles, “sposen dey ax me ef I shot dat cussed gun, me say dat truf too?”

“No, say it was thunder.”

At this moment the tall dark form of Manteo entered the room. He started with surprise, as he saw his sister there, and in such company. His dark eye darted a fierce glance at Giles, who quailed beneath its glare. Then turning again to his sister, he said in the Indian tongue, which we freely translate:

“Mamalis with the white man! where is he that I may drown my vengeance in his blood.”

“He is gone; he is not within the power of Manteo. Manitou[11] has saved Manteo from the crime of killing his best friend.”

“His people have killed my people for the offence of the few, I will kill him for the cruelty of many. For this is the calumet[12] broken. For this is the tree of peace[13] cut down by the tomahawk of war.”

“Say not so,” replied Mamalis. “Temple is the netoppew[14] of Manteo. He is even now gone to the grand sachem of the long knives, to make Manteo the Werowance[15] of the Pamunkeys.”

“Ha! is this true?” asked Manteo, anxiously.

“Ask this old man,” returned Mamalis. “They all went to Jamestown yesterday, did they not?” she asked in English of Giles, who replied, in a trembling voice,

“Yes, my massa, dey has all gone to Jimson on yestiddy.”

“And I a Werowance!” said the young man proudly, in his own language. “Spirits of Powhatan and Opechancanough, the name of Manteo shall live immortally as yours. His glory shall be the song of our race, and the young men of his tribe shall emulate his deeds. His life shall be brilliant as the sun's bright course, and his spirit shall set in the spirit land, bright with unfading glory.”

Then turning away with a lofty step, he proceeded to rejoin his companions.

The stratagem was successful, and Manteo, the bravest, the noblest of the braves, succeeded after some time in persuading them to desist from their destructive designs. In a few moments, to the delight of the little besieged party, the Indians had left the house, and were soon buried in the deep forest.

“Thanks, my brave, generous girl,” said Temple, as Mamalis, after the success of her adventure, entered the room. “To your presence of mind we owe our lives.”

“But I told a lie,” said the girl, looking down; “I said you had gone to make Manteo the Werowance of the Pamunkeys.”

“Well, my girl, he shall not want my aid in getting the office. So you, in effect, told the truth.”

“No, no; I said you had gone. It was a lie.”

“Ah, but, Mamalis,” said Virginia, in an encouraging voice, for she had often impressed upon the mind of the poor savage girl the nature of a lie, “when a falsehood is told for the preservation of life, the sin will be freely forgiven which has accomplished so much good.”

“Ignatius Loyola could not have stated his favourite principle more clearly, Miss Temple,” said Bernard, with a satirical smile. “I see that the Reformation has not made so wide a difference in the two Churches, after all.”

“No, Mr. Bernard,” said old Temple, somewhat offended at the young man's tone; “the stratagem of the soldier, and the intrigue of the treacherous Jesuit, are very different. The one is the means which brave men may use to accomplish noble ends; the other is the wily machinations of a perfidious man to attain his own base purposes. The one is the skilful fence and foil of the swordsman, the other the subtle and deceitful design of the sneaking snake.”

“Still they both do what is plainly a deception, in order to accomplish an end which they each believe to be good. Once break down the barrier to the field of truth, and it is impossible any longer to distinguish between virtue and error.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Temple, “I am the last to blame the bridge which carries me over, and I'll warrant there is not one here, man or woman, who isn't glad that our lives have been saved by Mamalis's falsehood—for I have not had such a fright in all my days.”

CHAPTER X.

As may be well imagined, the Indian attack formed the chief topic of conversation at Windsor Hall during the day. Many were the marvellous stories which were called to memory, of Indian warfare and of Indian massacres—of the sad fate of those who had been their victims, the tortures to which their prisoners had been subjected, and the relentless cruelty with which even the tender babe, while smiling in the face of its ruthless murderer, was dashed pitilessly against a tree. Among these narratives, the most painful was that detailing the fate of George Cassen, who, tied to a tree by strong cords, was doomed to see his flesh and joints cut off, one by one, and roasted before his eyes; his head and face flayed with sharp mussel shells, and his belly ripped open; until at last, in the extremity of his agony, he welcomed the very flames which consumed him, and rescued his body from their cruelty.[16]

Uncle Giles, whose premature action had so nearly ruined them all, and yet had probably been the cause of their ultimate safety, was the hero of the day, and loud was the laugh at the incident of the gun and kitchen chimney. The old man's bruises were soon tended and healed, and the grateful creature declared that “Miss Ginny's lineaments always did him more good than all the doctors in the world;” and in truth they were good for sore eyes.

It was during the morning's conversation that Bernard learned from his host, and from Virginia, the intimate relations existing between Mamalis and the family at Windsor Hall. Many years before, there had been, about two miles from the hall, an Indian village, inhabited by some of the tribe of the Pamunkeys. Among them was an old chieftain named Nantaquaus,[17] who claimed to be of the same lineage as Powhatan, and who, worn out with war, now resided among his people as their patriarchal counsellor. In the hostilities which had existed before the long peace, which was only ended by the difficulties that gave rise to Bacon's Rebellion, the whole of the inhabitants of the little village had been cut off by the whites, with the exception of this old patriarch and his two orphan grand-children, who were saved through the interposition of Colonel Temple, exerted in their behalf on account of some kindness he had received at their hands. Grateful for the life of his little descendants, for he had long since ceased to care for the prolongation of his own existence, old Nantaquaus continued to live on terms approaching even to intimacy with the Temples. When at length he died, he bequeathed his grand-children to the care of his protector. It was his wish, however, that they should still remain in the old wigwam where he had lived, and where they could best remember him, and, in visions, visit his spirit in the far hunting ground. In compliance with this, his last wish, Manteo and Mamalis continued their residence in that rude old hut, and secured a comfortable subsistence—he by fishing and the chase, and she by the cultivation of their little patch of ground, where maize, melons, pompions, cushaus, and the like, rewarded her patient labour with their abundant growth. Besides these duties, to which the life of the Indian woman was devoted, the young girl in her leisure moments, and in the long winter, made, with pretty skill, mats, baskets and sandals, weaving the former curiously with the long willow twigs which grew along the banks of the neighbouring York river, and forming the latter with dressed deer skin, ornamented with flowers made of beads and shells, or with the various coloured feathers of the birds. Her little manufactures met with a ready sale at the hall, being exchanged for sugar and coffee, and other such comforts as civilization provides; and for the sale of the excess of these simple articles over the home demand, she found a willing agent in the Colonel, who, in his frequent visits to Jamestown, disposed of them to advantage.

Despite these associations, however, Manteo retained much of the original character of his race, and the wild forest life which he led, bringing him into communication with the less civilized members of his tribe, helped to cherish the native-fierceness of his temper. Clinging with tenacity to the superstitions and pursuits of his fathers, his mind was of that sterile soil, in which the seeds of civilization take but little root. His sister, without having herself lost all the peculiar features of her natural character, was still formed in a different mould, and her softer nature had already received some slight impress from Virginia's teachings, which led her by slow but certain degrees towards the truth. His was of that fierce, tiger nature, which Horace has so finely painted in his nervous description of Achilles,

While her's can be best understood by her name, Mamalis, which, signifying in her own language a young fawn, at once expressed the grace of her person and the gentleness of her nature.

Such is a brief but sufficient description of the characters and condition of these two young Indians, who play an important part in this narrative. The description, we may well suppose, derived additional interest to Bernard, from its association with the recent exciting scene, and from the interest which his heart began already to entertain for the fair narrator.

But probably the most amusing, if not the most instructive portion of the morning's conversation, was that in which Mrs. Temple bore a conspicuous part. The danger being past, the good woman adverted with much pride to the calmness and fortitude which she had displayed during the latter part of the trying scene. She never suspected that her conduct had been at all open to criticism, for in the excess of her agitation, she had not been aware, either of her manner or her language.

“The fact is, gentlemen,” she said, “that while you all displayed great coolness and resolution, it was well that you were not surrounded by timid women to embarrass you with their fears. I was determined that none of you should see my alarm, and I have no doubt you were surprised at my calmness.”

“It was very natural for ladies to feel alarm,” said Hansford, scarcely able to repress the rising smile, “under circumstances, which inspired even strong men with fear. I only wonder that you bore it so well.”

“Ah, it is easy to see you are apologizing for Virginia, and I must confess that once or twice she did almost shake my self-possession a little by her agitation. But poor thing! we should make allowance for her. She is unaccustomed to such scenes. I, who was, you may say, cradled in a revolution, and brought up in civil war, am not so easily frightened.”

“No, indeed, Bessy,” said old Temple, smiling good humouredly, “so entirely were you free from the prevailing fears, that I believe you were unconscious half the time of what was going on.”

“Well, really, Colonel Temple,” said the old lady, bristling up at this insinuation, “I think it ill becomes you to be exposing me as a jest before an entire stranger. However, it makes but little difference. It won't last always.”

This prediction of his good wife, that “It,” which always referred to her husband's conduct immediately before, was doomed like all other earthly things to terminate, was generally a precursor to hysterics. And so she shook her head and patted her foot hysterically, while the Colonel wholly unconscious of any reasonable cause for the offence he had given, rolled up his eyes and shrugged his shoulders in silence.

Leaving the good couple to settle at their leisure those little disputes which never lasted on an average more than five minutes, let us follow Virginia as she goes down stairs to make some preparation for dinner. As she passed through the hall on her way to the store-room, she saw the graceful form of Mamalis just leaving the house. In the conversation which ensued we must beg the reader to imagine the broken English in which the young Indian expressed herself, while we endeavor to give it a free and more polite translation.

“Mamalis, you are not going home already, are you,” said Virginia, in a gentle voice.

“Yes,” replied the girl, with a sigh.

“Why do you sigh, Mamalis? Are you unhappy, my poor girl?”

“It is very sad to be alone in my poor wigwam,” she replied.

“Then stay with us, Manteo is away, and will probably not be back for some days.”

“He would be angry if he came home and found me away.”

“Oh, my poor girl,” said Virginia, taking her tenderly by the hand, “I wish you could stay with me, and let me teach you as I used to about God and heaven. Oh, think of these things, Mamalis, and they will make you happy even when alone. Wouldn't you like to have a friend always near you when Manteo is away?”

“Oh yes,” said the girl earnestly.

“Well, there is just such a Friend who will never desert you; who is ever near to protect you in danger, and to comfort you in distress. Whose eye is never closed in sleep, and whose thoughts are never wandering from his charge.”

“That cannot be,” said the young Indian, incredulously.

“Yes, it both can be and is so,” returned her friend. “One who has promised, that if we trust in him he will never leave us nor forsake us. That friend is the powerful Son of God, and the loving Brother of simple man. One who died to show his love, and who lives to show his power to protect. It is Jesus Christ.”

“You told me about him long ago,” said Mamalis, shaking her head, “but I never saw him. He never comes to Manteo's wigwam.”

“Nay, but He is still your friend,” urged Virginia earnestly. “When you left the room this morning on that work of mercy to save us all, I did not see you, and yet I told my father that I knew you would do us good. Were you less my friend because I didn't see you?

“No.”

“No,” continued Virginia, “you were more my friend, for if you had remained with me, we might all have been lost. And so Jesus has but withdrawn Himself from our eyes that He may intercede with his offended father, as you did with Manteo.”

“Does he tell lies for us?” said the girl with artless simplicity, and still remembering her interview with her brother. Virginia felt a thrill of horror pass through her heart as she heard such language, but remembering the ignorance of her poor blinded pupil, she proceeded.

“Oh! Mamalis, do not talk thus. He of whom I speak is not as we are, and cannot commit a sin. But while He cannot commit sin Himself, He can die for the sins of others.”

“Well,” said the poor girl, seeing that she had unwittingly hurt the feelings of her friend, “I don't understand all that. Your God is so high, mine I can see and understand. But you love your God, I only fear mine.”

“And do you not believe that God is good, my poor friend?” said Virginia, with a sigh.

“From Manitou all good proceeds,” replied Mamalis, as with beautiful simplicity she thus detailed her simple creed, which she had been taught by her fathers. “From him is life, and joy, and love. The blue sky is his home, and the green earth he has made for his pleasure. The fresh smelling flowers and the pure air are his breath, and the sweet music of the wind through the woods is his voice. The stars that he has sown through heaven, are the pure shells which he has picked up by the rivers which flow through the spirit land; and the sun is his chariot, with which he drives through heaven, while he smiles upon the world. Such is Manitou, whose very life is the good giving; the bliss-bestowing.”

“My sweet Mamalis,” said Virginia, “you have, indeed, in your ignorance, painted a beautiful picture of the beneficence of God. And can you not—do you not thank this Giver of every good and perfect gift for all his mercies?”

“I cannot thank him for that which he must bestow,” said the girl. “We do not thank the flower because its scent is sweet; nor the birds that fill the woods with their songs, because their music is grateful to the ear. Manitou is made to be adored, not to be thanked, for his very essence is good, and his very breath is love.”

“But remember, my friend, that the voice of this Great Spirit is heard in the thunder, as well as in the breeze, and his face is revealed in the lightning as well as in the flower. He is the author of evil as well as of good, and should we not pray that He would avert the first, even if He heed not our prayer to bestow the last.”

If Virginia was shocked by the sentiments of her pupil before, Mamalis was now as much so. Such an idea as ascribing evil to the great Spirit of the Universe, never entered the mind of the young savage, and now that she first heard it, she looked upon it as little less than open profanity.

“Manitou is not heard in the thunder nor seen in the lightning,” she replied. “It is Okee whose fury against us is aroused, and who thus turns blessings into curses, and good into evil. To him we pray that he look not upon us with a frown, nor withhold the mercies that flow from Manitou; that the rains may fall upon our maize, and the sun may ripen it in the full ear; that he send the fat wild deer across my brother's path, and ride on his arrow until it reach its heart; that he direct the grand council in wisdom, and guide the tomahawk in its aim in battle. But I have tarried too long, my brother may await my coming.”

“Nay, but you shall not go—at least,” said Virginia, “without something for your trouble. You have nearly lost a day, already. And come often and see me, Mamalis, and we will speak of these things again. I will teach you that your Manitou is good, as well as the author of good; and that he is love, as well as the fountain of love in others; that it is to him we should pray and in whom we should trust, and he will lead us safely through all our trials in this life, and take us to a purer spirit land than that of which you dream.”

Mamalis shook her head, but promised she would come. Then loading her with such things as she thought she stood in need of, and which the poor girl but seldom met with, except from the same kind hand, Virginia bid her God speed, and they parted; Mamalis to her desolate wigwam, and Virginia to her labours in the household affairs, which had devolved upon her.[18]