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And what would I do? Would I bury the tomahawk? Would I forget my wrongs ? Would I quietly smoke the calumet of peace ? Would your midnight slumbers be undisturbed? No! The warwhoop should ring in your ears. Our knives would reek with your blood, and our mantles be covered with your scalps. But, if I depart, with the promise to return, rely on my word. Shall I go
?" The chief was unbound.
“ An hour before sunset,” said Col. N-,"you will hear the sound of the wardrum. This will be the signal for your return."
Sagitto walked slowly away. In a few moments he was lost among the trees. He journeyed on to the home of Orania. She met him in the forest where she was gathering flowers. She beheld her long absent lord, and flew to his embrace.
“Oh, Sagitto, you have at last returned. My heart is full of joy. But you were unkind, very unkind to leave me so long. Oh, I had such a fearful dream? I thought you were dead, and that I was scattering flowers upon your grave. Are you well? Do not frown upon me. How mournful you look. Will you not kiss me, Sagitto? There ! once more. Now, are you better ? If you would smile-but for a moment !"
6 Orania !” said the chief, after a long pause, a messenger of the Great Spirit has whispered to you the truth. Your dream is true. I am doomed to death by your white brethren.”
6 What madness is this? Are you not with your dear Orania ? Tell me the truth? The white men doom you to death? They dare not do it! By the great and good Wahconda !* I repeat, they dare not do it!"
* The Supreme Being.
“ Orania, you are deceived. I am their prisoner. I pledged my word to return an hour before sunset.”
“ Then there must be no violation of promises. But I will accompany you. You shall not perish alone. I will show the palefaces that I have no woman's heart." The chief clasped his bride still closer to his breast, and for a long time they were conscious only of each other's presence.
A little before the appointed hour, they were both in sight of their enemy's camp. The drum beat. This was the signal for Sagitto's appearance. Every eye was looking anxiously around. He walked forward with a bold and majestic step. Orania hung upon his arm. In Col. N—the commanding officer, she recognised her brother. But she made not known the secret. She sought not the acquaintance of those who were preparing to shed her husband's blood. She looked
present, with a calm and sullen indifference. She was asked no questions ; for the paint, with which she was accustomed to daub her face, prevented, perhaps, a surmise as to the reality of her person. Sagitto and his wife were ordered to take their stations at the western extremity of the camp. The six other Indian prisoners were led out, and placed at a distance of about fifty yards. A body of twenty men, armed with muskets, advanced in regular order, and stood before them. The word was given, and they fired. The work of death was complete. One of the unhappy wretches sprung several feet into the air. Col. N-approached the chief, who had been looking, unmoved, upon this scene of slaughter.
“ You see,” he said, “ the dreadful extremity to which we are sometimes driven."
“I see," replied the chief. “ Are you ready?"
“ Ready!” he answered. Sagitto embraced his wife, and took his stand near the spot where his followers had just been offered up to the vengeance of the usurpers. A dozen muskets were levelled at his person. Col. Nstood at a distance, with his sword drawn, ready to pronounce the word “Fire.” Orania walked boldly forward, and clutched him violently by the arm.
“ Hold !” she cried, “ or a sister's curse shall rest upon you for ever !”
“Woman, away! I know you not," he replied.
“But you shall know me," she exclaimed, and in a spirit of phrenzy she tore off the ornaments of her person; and spoke confusedly and hurriedly of a hundred different circumstances, that tended to prove her his only sister. The evidence was irresistible; and he paused a moment to receive her embrace. Still he was inexorable in his purpose. The chief was represented to be the husband of his sister ; but in this, according to the summary code of frontier warfare, he could find no reason why he should not be dealt with as his crimes deserved. He lifted his hand as a signal for the men to fire, while Orania hung convulsively about his neck to prevent, if possible, the fatal command. It was too late. A moment, and Sagitto was no more.
Orania survived him but a few months. She returned to her kindred race; but she languished away like the autumnal flower. The spell that bound her to the earth was broken. The birds had lost their melody—the moon, and the stars, their lustre—and the rivers and mountains no longer had a charm ; and when the light of Paukannewah* glowed over the silent midnight, and the dancing spiritst arose from the bosom of the arctic zone, the unhappy Orania departed to the land of dreams.
* Ursa Major.
+ The Aurora Borealis.
THE BROKEN HEARTED.
BY ROBERT MORRIS.
I would that thou wert dead, devoted one,
For thou art all too pure to linger here ; Life's joyous sands to thee have fleetly run,
And sorrow's hand hath made thy being searThy girlhood was a pure and artless dream,
And many a sunny hope has thrilled thy breast, And many an air-blown bubble gilt life's stream,
Flash'd for a moment-broke, and sunk to restEmblems of youth and loveliness were they, And like hope's fairy visions pass'd away.
I would that thou wert dead, forsaken girl,
That high pale brow enshrined within the tomb; For as with gentle winds still waters curl,
So fades at sorrow's touch young beauty's bloomThou art too pure and fair for this cold earth,
A thing too guiltless long to dwell below,
The glory has departed from thy brow-
I would that thou wert dead, for life to thee
Is as a broken reed—a withered flower; Dark shadows rest upon thy destiny,
And storms of fate around thy fortunes lowerWedded to one thy bosom cannot love,
Banished from him thine every thought employs,
Thou art in heart a bruised and wounded dove,
And earth to thee can yield no future joys,
I would that thou wert dead, devoted one,
And thy bright spirit disenthralled of clay;
Thus by disease thy being wastes away-
With a glad voice and heaven unfolding eye,
With a bright lip and cheek of rosy dye,
I would that thou wert dead, and sanctified
Thy spirit with high elements is fraught, And that which scorn and cruelty defied,
The lingering stealth of pale disease has wroughtYes, death is near thee now, sweet Genevieve,
And thou shalt haste to meet him with a smile; It is in vain thy gentle sisters grieve,
Thy soul shall soon flee by each starry isle, That glitters brightly through the calm blue skies, Like white lids lifted from pure spirit's eyes.
Thou soon shalt die, sweet martyr, and the earth
Will nurture gentle flowers above thy grave,
leaves around thy tomb shall waveAnd when the pensive stranger wanders nigh,
His lips shall waft a tributary prayer, For her who soon shall prematurely die,
For her whose seraph form shall moulder thereFarewell, sweet Genevieve—tis sad to part, Farewell, thy beauty shrouds a breaking heart.