CHAPTER XLIX.
From the bloody field of Ticonderoga, Abercrombie retreated, as iswell known, after having in vain attempted to take the inner _abattis_without cannon, and sacrificed the lives of many hundred gallant mento his own want of self-reliance.
I need dwell no more upon this painful subject; but it was a sad dayfor the whole army, a sad day for the whole province, and a sadder daystill for one small domestic circle, when the bodies of the gallantLord H---- and his promised bride were brought to rest for a night atthe house of Mr. Prevost, before they were carried down to Albany. Aparty of the young nobleman's own regiment carried the coffins byturns, another party followed with arms reversed; but between thebiers and the escort walked four men, with hearts as sad as any uponearth.
It may seem strange, but neither of the four shed a tear. The tallIndian warrior, though he grieved as much as if he had lost a child,had no tears for any earthly sorrow. The fountain in the heart of Mr.Prevost had been dried up by the fiery intensity of his grief. Walterhad wept long and secretly, but the pride of manhood would not let himstain his cheeks in the presence of soldiers. Woodchuck's eyes weredry, too; for, during six long months, he had disciplined his heart tolook upon the things of earth so lightly, that, although he grievedfor Edith's fate, it was with the sort of sorrow he might have felt tosee a beautiful flower trampled down by a rough foot; and bright hopemingled with the shadow of his woe--for he said to himself,frequently, "They have but parted for to-day, to meet in a happierplace to-morrow."
As the procession approached the house, the servants came forth tomeet it, with a young and comely girl at their head, clad in theIndian costume. She bore two little wreaths in her hand, one woven ofbright spring flowers, the other of dark evergreens; and, when thesoldiers halted for a moment with their burden, she laid the flowersupon the coffin of Edith, the evergreens upon the soldier's bier. Thenturning, with the tears dropping from her eyes, but with no clamorousgrief, she walked before them back into the house.
Some four years after, another kind of scene might be beheld at thehouse of Mr. Prevost. He himself sat in a great chair under theverandah, with his hair become as white as snow, and his head a gooddeal bowed. Seated on the ground near him was a tall Indian chief,very little changed in appearance; grave, calm, and still severe. Onthe step of the verandah sat two young people; a tall, handsome,powerful man of about one-and-twenty years of age, and a gracefulgirl, whose brown cheek displayed some mixture of the Indian blood. Onthe green grass before them, with a black nurse sitting by, was aslovely a child of about two years old as ever the sun shone upon. Theyhad gathered for her a number of pretty flowers, and she was sportingwith them, with the grace and happiness that only childhood candisplay or know. The eyes of all were fixed upon her, and they calledher Edith.
One was wanting to that party, out of those who had assembled at thedoor four years previously. Woodchuck was no longer there. He had gonewhere he longed to be. When he felt sickness coming upon him some twoyears after the death of Lord H----, he had left the house of Mr.Prevost, which he had lately made his home; and had gone, as he said,to wander in the mountains. There he became worse. An Indian runnercame down to tell his friends that he was dying; and when Mr. Prevostwent up to see him, he found him in a Seneca lodge with but a fewhours of life before him.
He was glad to see the friendly face near him; and as his visitor bentover him, he said, "I am very much obliged to you for coming, Prevost,for I want to ask you one thing, and that is to have me buried in thechurchyard at Albany, just beside your dear girl. I know this is allnonsense; I know that the flesh sees corruption; still I've a fancythat I shall rest quieter there than anywhere else. If ever there wasan angel, she was one, and I think her dust must sanctify the ground."
It was his only request, and it was not forgotten.
THE END.
---------------------------------------COX AND WYMAN, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON.
The Black Eagle; or, Ticonderoga Page 49