“It is so,” said Cora, drawing a long
breath, as if reviving from a trance, raising her
face, and shaking back her shining veil, with a kindling
eye, that contradicted the death-like paleness of her
countenance; “but why—it is not permitted
us to inquire. There is yet one of thine own
people who has not been brought before thee; before
thou lettest the Huron depart in triumph, hear him
speak.”
Observing Tamenund to look about him doubtingly, one
of his companions said:
“It is a snake—a red-skin in the
pay of the Yengeese. We keep him for the torture.”
“Let him come,” returned the sage.
Then Tamenund once more sank into his seat, and a
silence so deep prevailed while the young man prepared
to obey his simple mandate, that the leaves, which
fluttered in the draught of the light morning air,
were distinctly heard rustling in the surrounding forest.
“If you deny me,
fie upon your law!
There is no force in
the decrees of Venice:
I stand for judgment:
answer, shall I have it?”
—Merchant
of Venice
The silence continued unbroken by human sounds for
many anxious minutes. Then the waving multitude
opened and shut again, and Uncas stood in the living
circle. All those eyes, which had been curiously
studying the lineaments of the sage, as the source
of their own intelligence, turned on the instant,
and were now bent in secret admiration on the erect,
agile, and faultless person of the captive. But
neither the presence in which he found himself, nor
the exclusive attention that he attracted, in any
manner disturbed the self-possession of the young Mohican.
He cast a deliberate and observing look on every side
of him, meeting the settled expression of hostility
that lowered in the visages of the chiefs with the
same calmness as the curious gaze of the attentive
children. But when, last in this haughty scrutiny,
the person of Tamenund came under his glance, his
eye became fixed, as though all other objects were
already forgotten. Then, advancing with a slow
and noiseless step up the area, he placed himself
immediately before the footstool of the sage.
Here he stood unnoted, though keenly observant himself,
until one of the chiefs apprised the latter of his
presence.
“With what tongue does the prisoner speak to
the Manitou?” demanded the patriarch, without
unclosing his eyes.
“Like his fathers,” Uncas replied; “with
the tongue of a Delaware.”
At this sudden and unexpected annunciation, a low,
fierce yell ran through the multitude, that might
not inaptly be compared to the growl of the lion,
as his choler is first awakened—a fearful
omen of the weight of his future anger. The effect
was equally strong on the sage, though differently
exhibited. He passed a hand before his eyes, as
if to exclude the least evidence of so shameful a
spectacle, while he repeated, in his low, guttural
tones, the words he had just heard.
