Although both Heyward and Cora listened with painful
suspense and the deepest attention, no sounds were
heard in reply. It appeared as if the delicate
and sensitive form of Alice would shrink into itself,
as she listened to this proposal. Her arms had
fallen lengthwise before her, the fingers moving in
slight convulsions; her head dropped upon her bosom,
and her whole person seemed suspended against the tree,
looking like some beautiful emblem of the wounded
delicacy of her sex, devoid of animation and yet keenly
conscious. In a few moments, however, her head
began to move slowly, in a sign of deep, unconquerable
disapprobation.
“No, no, no; better that we die as we have lived,
together!”
“Then die!” shouted Magua, hurling his
tomahawk with violence at the unresisting speaker,
and gnashing his teeth with a rage that could no longer
be bridled at this sudden exhibition of firmness in
the one he believed the weakest of the party.
The axe cleaved the air in front of Heyward, and cutting
some of the flowing ringlets of Alice, quivered in
the tree above her head. The sight maddened Duncan
to desperation. Collecting all his energies in
one effort he snapped the twigs which bound him and
rushed upon another savage, who was preparing, with
loud yells and a more deliberate aim, to repeat the
blow. They encountered, grappled, and fell to
the earth together. The naked body of his antagonist
afforded Heyward no means of holding his adversary,
who glided from his grasp, and rose again with one
knee on his chest, pressing him down with the weight
of a giant. Duncan already saw the knife gleaming
in the air, when a whistling sound swept past him,
and was rather accompanied than followed by the sharp
crack of a rifle. He felt his breast relieved
from the load it had endured; he saw the savage expression
of his adversary’s countenance change to a look
of vacant wildness, when the Indian fell dead on the
faded leaves by his side.
“Clo.—I am gone,
sire,
And anon, sire, I’ll be with you
again.”
—Twelfth Night
The Hurons stood aghast at this sudden visitation
of death on one of their band. But as they regarded
the fatal accuracy of an aim which had dared to immolate
an enemy at so much hazard to a friend, the name of
“La Longue Carabine” burst simultaneously
from every lip, and was succeeded by a wild and a
sort of plaintive howl. The cry was answered
by a loud shout from a little thicket, where the incautious
party had piled their arms; and at the next moment,
Hawkeye, too eager to load the rifle he had regained,
was seen advancing upon them, brandishing the clubbed
weapon, and cutting the air with wide and powerful
sweeps. Bold and rapid as was the progress of
the scout, it was exceeded by that of a light and
vigorous form which, bounding past him, leaped, with
incredible activity and daring, into the very center
of the Hurons, where it stood, whirling a tomahawk,
