The Last of the Mohicans, James Fenimore Cooper [best romance ebooks txt] 📗

in horror at the sinister though calm look he encountered. Conquering his disgust, however, he was able, with an averted face, to address his successful enemy.

“Le Renard Subtil is too much of a warrior,” said the reluctant Heyward, “to refuse telling an unarmed man what his conquerors say.”

“They ask for the hunter who knows the paths through the woods,” returned Magua, in his broken English, laying his hand, at the same time, with a ferocious smile, on the bundle of leaves with which a wound on his own shoulder was bandaged. “La Longue Carabine! His rifle is good, and his eye never shut; but, like the short gun of the white chief, it is nothing against the life of Le Subtil.”

“Le Renard is too brave to remember the hurts received in war, or the hands that gave them.”

“Was it war, when the tired Indian rested at the sugartree to taste his corn! who filled the bushes with creeping enemies! who drew the knife, whose tongue was peace, while his heart was colored with blood! Did Magua say that the hatchet was out of the ground, and that his hand had dug it up?”

As Duncan dared not retort upon his accuser by reminding him of his own premeditated treachery, and disdained to deprecate his resentment by any words of apology, he remained silent. Magua seemed also content to rest the controversy as well as all further communication there, for he resumed the leaning attitude against the rock from which, in momentary energy, he had arisen. But the cry of “La Longue Carabine” was renewed the instant the impatient savages perceived that the short dialogue was ended.

“You hear,” said Magua, with stubborn indifference: “the red Hurons call for the life of ‘The Long Rifle,’ or they will have the blood of him that keep him hid!”

“He is gone⁠—escaped; he is far beyond their reach.”

Renard smiled with cold contempt, as he answered:

“When the white man dies, he thinks he is at peace; but the red men know how to torture even the ghosts of their enemies. Where is his body? Let the Hurons see his scalp.”

“He is not dead, but escaped.”

Magua shook his head incredulously.

“Is he a bird, to spread his wings; or is he a fish, to swim without air! The white chief read in his books, and he believes the Hurons are fools!”

“Though no fish, ‘The Long Rifle’ can swim. He floated down the stream when the powder was all burned, and when the eyes of the Hurons were behind a cloud.”

“And why did the white chief stay?” demanded the still incredulous Indian. “Is he a stone that goes to the bottom, or does the scalp burn his head?”

“That I am not stone, your dead comrade, who fell into the falls, might answer, were the life still in him,” said the provoked young man, using, in his anger, that boastful language which was most likely to excite the admiration of an Indian. “The white man thinks none but cowards desert their women.”

Magua muttered a few words, inaudibly, between his teeth, before he continued, aloud:

“Can the Delawares swim, too, as well as crawl in the bushes? Where is Le Gros Serpent?”

Duncan, who perceived by the use of these Canadian appellations, that his late companions were much better known to his enemies than to himself, answered, reluctantly: “He also is gone down with the water.”

“Le Cerf Agile is not here?”

“I know not whom you call ‘The Nimble Deer,’ ” said Duncan, gladly profiting by any excuse to create delay.

“Uncas,” returned Magua, pronouncing the Delaware name with even greater difficulty than he spoke his English words. “ ‘Bounding Elk’ is what the white man says, when he calls to the young Mohican.”

“Here is some confusion in names between us, Le Renard,” said Duncan, hoping to provoke a discussion. “Daim is the French for deer, and cerf for stag; elan is the true term, when one would speak of an elk.”

“Yes,” muttered the Indian, in his native tongue; “the pale faces are prattling women! they have two words for each thing, while a redskin will make the sound of his voice speak to him.” Then, changing his language, he continued, adhering to the imperfect nomenclature of his provincial instructors. “The deer is swift, but weak; the elk is swift, but strong; and the son of Le Serpent is Le Cerf Agile. Has he leaped the river to the woods?”

“If you mean the younger Delaware, he, too, has gone down with the water.”

As there was nothing improbable to an Indian in the manner of the escape, Magua admitted the truth of what he had heard, with a readiness that afforded additional evidence how little he would prize such worthless captives. With his companions, however, the feeling was manifestly different.

The Hurons had awaited the result of this short dialogue with characteristic patience, and with a silence that increased until there was a general stillness in the band. When Heyward ceased to speak, they turned their eyes, as one man, on Magua, demanding, in this expressive manner, an explanation of what had been said. Their interpreter pointed to the river, and made them acquainted with the result, as much by the action as by the few words he uttered. When the fact was generally understood, the savages raised a frightful yell, which declared the extent of their disappointment. Some ran furiously to the water’s edge, beating the air with frantic gestures, while others spat upon the element, to resent the supposed treason it had committed against their acknowledged rights as conquerors. A few, and they not the least powerful and terrific of the band, threw lowering looks, in which the fiercest passion was only tempered by habitual self-command, at those captives who still remained in their power, while one or two even gave vent to their malignant feelings by the most menacing gestures, against which neither the sex nor the beauty of the sisters was any protection. The young soldier made a desperate but