Cfie Htbrarp 
 
 of tye 
 
 CJnitiet0itp of JSortft Carolina 
 
 (Entiototi bp %%t 2Dialectic 
 
 anli 
 
 PSilantfitopic feoctetteg 
 
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 10003058566 
 
 This BOOK may be kept out TWO WEEKS 
 ONLY, and is subject to a fine of FIVE 
 CENTS a day thereafter. It was taken out 
 on the day indicated below: 
 
 I 
 
■ 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH: 
 
 A TALE OF VIRGINIA. 
 
 MARY GERTRUDE. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO., 200 BROADWAY 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 GEORGE S. APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT ST. 
 MDCCCXLV. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hi 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/philiprandolphtaOOmary 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The incident on which this tale is founded is 
 one very common in the early history of America, 
 and has been chosen by many transatlantic wri- 
 ters as very suitable for an interesting story. But 
 hitherto, the scenes and characters thus interwo- 
 ven have been placed in New England, the home 
 of the pilgrim fathers-, «,nd are illustrative of their 
 peculiar and romantic position. 
 
 However, the more settled, but not less re- 
 markable condition of the earlier settlers of Old 
 Virginia presents details of equal interest ; and 
 in adapting one of the many with which its his- 
 tory is so rife, the present story-teller has not 
 aimed at copying or borrowing from sources gen- 
 erally known and deservedly popular. 
 
 This tale is intended to convey a moral to the 
 youthful reader, and to show wherein true hero- 
 1* 
 
6 PREFACE. 
 
 ism consists ; exemplifying, in the ®onduct of 
 Philip, preserving self-denial and moral courage. 
 The writer trusts that her story may prove both 
 amusing and instructive to those for whom it was 
 especially and originally written. 
 My, 1844. 
 
 ,. * 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The discoveries of Christopher Columbus filled 
 the greater part of Europe with astonishment, and 
 roused a spirit of curiosity and adventurous heroism 
 in almost every nation at all capable of appreciating 
 the difficulties of his undertakings. In his day, mari- 
 time affairs were not conducted with the skill of mod- 
 ern times, and it was a perilous attempt to put to sea 
 in a small vessel, with an ignorant and timid crew, to 
 cross oceans hitherto considered boundless and unex- 
 plored. The great object in view in all the voyages 
 of Columbus and his immediate successors, was the 
 discovery of a northwest passage to India ; nor does it 
 appear that any of the navigators of the fifteenth and- 
 sixteenth centuries were aware of the impracticability 
 of such an enterprise. The Spaniards gained so much 
 by the discoveries of the great Genoese, and so large 
 an acquisition was made both of dominion and terri- 
 tory to their sovereign, that a spirit of emulation and 
 jealousy arose among their neighbors, and others fol- 
 lowed in the track they had pursued, so that Spain 
 soon found that she was not to have all the good 
 things of the New World to herself. The Portu- 
 
8 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 guese had long been a seafaring people, and had made 
 many successful voyages to Africa, India, and the 
 Western isles. Some of the Italian states also had a 
 share in the glory that attached to maritime discovery. 
 Henry VII. of England, a wise prince, made some 
 efforts to extend the commerce of the nation, and sent 
 out Cabot in quest of the supposed nearer communi- 
 cation with the East. Two years after the return of 
 Columbus from his first voyage, Cabot set sail from 
 Bristol and reached the east coast of America. He 
 sailed from Labrador to Virginia, but the expedition 
 was fruitless, and till the reign of Elizabeth the dis- 
 covery was never followed up. That sagacious queen 
 wisely improved her navy, and rightly judged it the 
 most proper means of defence to her sea-girt realm. 
 The enthusiasm for maritime adventure was so great 
 in her reign, that private individuals fitted out ships at 
 their own expense, and whole towns furnished arma- 
 ments for research and conquest. 
 
 It was thought advisable to plant colonies in such 
 parts of America as had been discovered by the Eng- 
 lish, and a charter was granted, empowering the li- 
 censed to make settlements on whatever lands they 
 chose to select, and that all who thus settled them- 
 selves should hold their property from the sovereigns 
 of England. All these privileges were conferred by 
 Queen Elizabeth, without reference to the people or 
 natives her subjects would probably find on these 
 strangely-acquired territories. Sir Walter Raleigh 
 had the honor of giving a name to a beautiful tract of 
 country lying on the eastern shores of North America, 
 between the latitudes of 31° and 42°, calling it Vir- 
 ginia, in honor of his queen ; but James I. divided 
 the country into two parts, one of which received the 
 name of New England, and the other retained that of 
 Virginia, which was " the most ancient and most val- 
 uable of the British colonies in North America." 
 
 English colonists founded Jamestown, on the James 
 river, with various settlements either in its immediate 
 vicinity or higher up the same stream. Friendly re- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. bl 
 
 lations were maintained with the natives, and a short 
 time before our story begins, a young Englishman had 
 married the daughter of the Indian king Powhatan. 
 The settlement was rather populous, and the life of a 
 settler endurable, though it had its hardships, and to 
 the indolent or fickle offered nothing attractive ; but 
 many of those who had perseverance and fortitude 
 sufficient for the trial soon had the satisfaction of find- 
 ing their situation comfortable, and every difficulty 
 fast vanishing before them. Invincible patience and 
 good humor smoothed the way to contentment and 
 ease. When their families grew up around them, 
 and their plantations prospered, the colonists felt 
 cheered, and looked forward with cheerful hearts to 
 extended improvements and success. Many of them 
 were blessed with the light of religion in their dwel- 
 lings. 
 
 As long as Powhatan lived, the English were in 
 perfect peace with their savage neighbors, and though 
 a garrison was maintained, no one seemed to think it 
 would ever be required for the safety of the colony. 
 Jamestown extended itself along the low bank of the 
 river. It can not be considered as the most favorable 
 site for the first English town of America, but one of 
 the highest spots within it had been appropriated for 
 a church. That church is now a ruin ; but pleasant- 
 ly do those vestiges recall the days when the inhabit- 
 ants of Jamestown resorted to the shelter of its rude 
 but hallowed walls. 
 
 The services never sounded more touchingly than 
 on the morning of the — of March, 16 — . The cler- 
 gyman of the settlement and an assistant priest entered 
 the church together. Many an eye glanced toward 
 the countenance of Doctor Haverdean, and all seemed 
 to love its kindly and holy expression. His long gray 
 hair fell over his snowy surplice, waving in shining 
 locks upon his venerable shoulders, and the manner in 
 which he read the offices was both fervent and im- 
 pressive. How did those slightly-tremulous tones 
 sink down into the hearts of the assembled congrega- 
 
10 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 tion, arresting their attention, and gradually leading 
 them to a forgetfulness of all outward things, till ev- 
 ery devout hearer became a spiritual worshipper ! 
 There was no clerk in Jamestown church, nor lead- 
 ing in response or psalm, nor pews, nor organ. The 
 congregation, old and young, joined heartily in the 
 service, the sweet voices of children now and then 
 rising clear and shrill above the deep-toned murmurs 
 of their elders. All were provided with benches, ex- 
 cept the governor's family, who sat in a more elevated 
 position than the rest, and around whom the official 
 personages of the colony had peculiar sittings ap- 
 pointed them. It did not escape the observation of 
 some inquiring eyes, that might have been better em- 
 ployed, that the governor's face wore an unusually 
 anxious expression. Instead of the open and agree- 
 able aspect remarked at all times upon the manly 
 countenance of Sir James Yeardly, was now ob- 
 served one of care and ill-concealed disquietude. 
 Deep were the responses of his agitated voice, and 
 after the collect for peace, no amen was louder or 
 more fervent than his own. 
 
 The greater part of the congregation left the church 
 with an air of thoughtfulness most gratifying to their 
 pastor, and they passed on to their respective destina- 
 tions. Among the numerous parties was a group 
 combining all that was most attractive in age, man- 
 hood, and youth. The foremost of the party was a 
 woman whose rosy complexion and rustic dress be- 
 tokened a recent introduction into the colony. She 
 carried an infant in her arms, and had two other young 
 children in charge, who tripped hand-in-hand by her 
 side. On her arm was leaning an aged man, whom 
 from time to time she fondly regarded, and to whose 
 slow pace she carefully regulated her own. On the 
 other side, likewise supporting his grandfather, walked 
 a youth, whose resemblance to his mother was re- 
 markable, even in the amiable expression of her coun- 
 tenance. They were followed by the father of the 
 family, a fine-looking Englishman ; but a hand was 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 11 
 
 suddenly laid upon his arm, and on turning he recog- 
 nised Mr. Rolfe, a young man of rank in the colony. 
 
 " How now, Master Rolfe ?" said he, returning the 
 salutation of the other, but continuing his walk. " I 
 thought you at Roanoke." 
 
 " True, I was there this morning, but ill tidings 
 travel fast, and I came hither to inquire into those 
 which reached me last night." 
 
 "Ill tidings?" said Henry Randolph, in a low and 
 alarmed tone, " what news is this ? — From the old 
 country?" 
 
 "No, no, far worse, I fear," replied Rolfe, speaking 
 in a still lower tone ; " the governor would have you 
 come up to him as soon as possible : as soon as you 
 have placed your family in the boat, he would speak 
 a word with you." 
 
 " I am grieved to displeasure his excellency, but it 
 may not be," replied Henry Randolph, gravely, " for 
 this is not a day whereon to prosecute business, and I 
 must accompany my wife and children home." 
 
 " But, Master Randolph, half the colony will be at 
 council to-day." 
 
 " The less need then of my presence, but I will be 
 with his excellency to-morrow, please God ; and now, 
 Master Rolfe, excuse me, but I can not depart with- 
 out reminding you that business transacted on the 
 Lord's day is not likely to prosper. My duty to the 
 governor : he will not miss me among so many." 
 
 "Nay, nay, my friend," said Rolfe, "these are 
 mere scruples ; the safety of those most dear to you 
 may depend upon your reply: come with me." 
 
 A slight sigh escaped Henry Randolph, but he 
 turned to his companion with a firm countenance, and 
 said, " Well, Master Rolfe, it may indeed be as you 
 say; but I am very sure that He whose sabbaths we 
 honor will care for us. Farewell." 
 
12 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In consequence of the frequent occasion they had 
 to come to Jamestown, the residents on the distant 
 settlements had built a tolerably commodious landing- 
 place, to which many little boats were now attached. 
 In some of these were seated negroes, already trained 
 to service by the rigorous rule of their masters ; but 
 when the Randolphs hailed their boat, they were an- 
 swered by the hearty tones of a man who occupied 
 the place of their farm-servant. The children and 
 their attendant were first seated ; then Henry with 
 great care handed in his father and his wife ; Philip 
 took the helm, and Ralph Giles plied a vigorous oar, 
 and the little boat made way in the water. 
 
 The children were gazing into the water, wonder- 
 ing how deep it was, and what made the banks fly 
 away so fast from them. Philip sat intent upon the 
 direction in which the boat was to be steered: the 
 eyes of the old man were closed, and his hands clasped 
 upon the top of his staff, on which his chin rested ; the 
 little Alice loved to look at his long silver locks blown*-** 
 about by the breeze, and admired, though she knew 
 not why, the placid expression of his countenance. 
 The eyes of the wife were fixed upon her husband's 
 face with interest and inquiry. He was looking back 
 toward Jamestown, and she observed that he appeared 
 anxious and restless, as if his mind were more than 
 commonly occupied with careful thoughts.. He was, 
 indeed, considering the words of Rolfe, and tould not 
 refrain from watching the various groups of persons 
 who were to be seen hurrying in the direction of the 
 governor's dwelling : then he glanced anxiously at 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 13 
 
 his children, and, connecting the sense of danger with 
 the mysterious communication he had so lately re- 
 ceived, his disturbed imagination presented the most 
 serious grounds of apprehension for those most dear 
 to him, over whom some unseen calamity was im- 
 pending. The rising trouble of the father's heart 
 formed a sad contrast to their happy unconsciousness 
 of its cause. He turned from them again to resume 
 his observations upon the scene they were leaving, 
 when a bend in the river caused their little boat to 
 take another course, and Jamestown was lost to view. 
 He was roused from his silence by his wife's voice : 
 she leaned forward and whispered — 
 
 " Something has troubled thee, Henry, since the 
 morning ; thou hast learned unpleasant tidings." 
 
 " I ought not to look sad," replied her husband, en- 
 deavoring to smile ; " the day is gay enough, and we 
 have heard precious words this morning : truly, 1 
 never valued the worthy Doctor Haverdean more. Al- 
 ice, my child, dost thou remember the text ?" 
 
 The little girl blushed, but rose reverently and an 
 swered : " From the fortieth of Isaiah — 'And all flesh 
 is grass.' " 
 
 " Remember it, my child," said the old man, open- 
 ing his eyes, and laying his hand upon her fair ring- 
 lets ; " this world is very beautiful, but the fashion of 
 it passeth away^' - 
 
 Alice looked almost doubtingly around upon the 
 bright sky and the sunshine, and even the low flat 
 shore and dusky woods were pleasant things to her ; 
 she thought it could not be. 
 
 " My Alice, what grandfather says is true ; it is 
 written in the Scripture, and thou knowest we must 
 believe what is written there," said her father. 
 
 The man plied the oars, and after a sail of an hour 
 or two, the settlement of the Fair Meadows became 
 visible in the distance, and all turned to look at their 
 home. The scene was tame but not unpleasing : a 
 large green meadow slopedsto the river-side, and one 
 or two wooden dwellings were seen here and there 
 2 
 
14 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 peeping from out the trees, which were already bud- 
 ding ; low thick woods stretched far on every side ; 
 the windings of the river formed the only picturesque 
 feature in the landscape, but the children knew no 
 other, and they thought their Virginian home the 
 sweetest spot uptn earth. On a few places upon its 
 banks were pleasant dwellings, where but twenty 
 years before had been an untracked woodland. The 
 deer were seen in large herds coming down to drink, 
 and as the several boats neared the shore, they would 
 start, and tossing up their heads in alarm, flee to the 
 shelter of the woods beyond. No human being was 
 in sight, not even an Indian ; and Philip, with acute 
 observation, remarked this to his father, who did not 
 appear to hear him. 
 
 " Why, Master Philip," said Ralph Giles, the serv- 
 ing-man, "it is, to be sure, uncommon strange; there's 
 no live things on the banks at all ; Pse wonder where 
 them Indian folk ha' put themselves. May be they're 
 gone for good ; ay, and a good riddance, say I, for 
 they're not like Christians seemingly ; Pse sure I never 
 see such down in Oak Hollow." 
 
 " Because thou knowest they belong to America," 
 said the youth, laughing, " so it is not likely that 
 thou shouldst have seen them in the old country. 
 Who knows but that they shall become a civilized 
 people like ourselves ?" 
 
 " Civil people, Master Philip ! sure you be dream- 
 ing ; they'll always be a rude, ill-mannered set, or I'm 
 mistaken. I don't think much o' their feathers and 
 paint, not I ; they look sharp, I'se warrant, when no- 
 body's by." 
 
 " Thou hadst better move quickly, Ralph Giles," 
 said his master, " or we shall arrive later than our 
 neighbors." 
 
 Upon this seasonable hint, Ralph ceased his obser- 
 vations on Indian character, and used his oar so much 
 to the purpose, that they were soon at the landing- 
 place of the Fair Meadows. The settlers had wisely- 
 chosen the highest position they could find upon the 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 15 
 
 bank, and had raised their simple dwellings under 
 shelter of the wooded rising ground, so as to be far 
 from the damp of the river, which would have proved 
 particularly noxious in such a climate. A well-beaten 
 path had been made from the river to their habitations, 
 and the Randolphs were very glad to tread it once 
 more. A clearing had been made above, and a num- 
 ber of dwellings were built on an open space in the 
 centre. They were of simple construction, but sub- 
 stantial, and the soil, susceptible of the slighest culti- 
 vation, yielded sufficient crops to the settlers. Alto- 
 gether, the settlement of the Fair Meadows wore a 
 very comfortable and neighborly aspect. 
 
 As Philip Randolph opened the gate of their little 
 garden for his mother, he looked around him with 
 an air of happy satisfaction, and said, " Oh, moth- 
 er, is it not pleasant to be at home again ? I don't 
 think any place looks better than the Fair Meadows." 
 
 Margaret Randolph smiled sweetly upon her son, 
 and assented cheerfully to his remark, though she 
 had known the comforts of a far more luxurious dwel- 
 ling. 
 
 Sunday with the Randolphs was indeed a happy 
 day ; not that they spent it idly or in amusements, but 
 they spent it so well, that it was felt to be the most 
 pleasant of all days in the week. It was a day of rest 
 from the business and conversation of other days, and 
 was so well occupied, that it did not pass gloomily ; 
 and though books were not plentiful, the children 
 were carefully instructed to value those they pos- 
 sessed. The family Bible, with its large silver clasps, 
 the book of Common Prayer, with Sternhold's Psalms, 
 were the best known in the house, and these, with a 
 few others, formed all their Sunday library. Henry 
 Randolph, having received a good education in his 
 youth, was anxious to impart the love of study to his 
 son, though he had but little leisure to teach him. 
 Philip, however, took such pains, and was so desirous 
 to learn, and thought it so kind in his father to attend 
 to his lessons when he came home tired with his daily 
 
16 PHIXIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 labors, that he made progress, and though scarcely 
 sixteen, could read a few chapters in the Greek Tes- 
 tament, with a good understanding of the text. His 
 duty on the Sunday afternoon was to instruct his sis- 
 ter Alice, and to study the Scriptures. The father 
 and mother taught and amused the younger children, 
 and at five o'clock the neighbors of the settlement as- 
 sembled at one another's houses in turn, for the pur- 
 pose of reading the evening service. A homily was 
 read, and a psalm sung, the young people and ser- 
 vants catechised, and then the different families re- 
 turned to their homes, and took their early and sub- 
 stantial suppers. 
 
 The supper was ample, and of such as the farm sup- 
 plied : a good ham, poultry, with dried venison, and 
 the potato, best liked as the greatest novelty, already 
 regarded as one of the many good things found in the 
 New World. After the little ones and their grand- 
 father had retired, Henry and Margaret Randolph 
 drew near the fire, and Philip took his station be- 
 tween them. His father dismissed him earlier than 
 usual, saying that they must all be up in good time in 
 the morning, as he must go to Jamestown as soon as 
 the day broke. The boy rose without a word of re- 
 monstrance or entreaty to stay longer ; he kissed his 
 mother, received his father's blessing, and ascended 
 the ladder that communicated with his sleeping- 
 room. 
 
 His shutter was not closed, and the cool air came 
 in with the moonlight, which illumined every object. 
 The river was calm and glistening, though the woods 
 of the opposite shore flung their broad shadows over 
 the waters, making the soft reflection of the moon 
 more distinct and silvery, while those around the Fair 
 Meadows were tipped with light, which floated, as it 
 were, over the masses of impenetrable shade beneath. 
 Philip at all times loved to gaze upon nature, and 
 could scarcely tear himself from the delightful scene ; 
 everything seemed so peaceful and reposing, that he 
 thought he could never feel unhappy, or dull, or 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 17 
 
 vexed again, his feelings were so soothed and subdued 
 by the tranquillity without; and his heart rose in 
 spontaneous adoration to his Maker. 
 
 He was turning away, at length, to throw himself 
 upon his knees, when his attention was suddenly ar- 
 rested by a new object upon the scene. He saw a 
 canoe emerge from the obscurity of the opposite 
 shore, and enter the broad reflection of the moon in 
 the water. The figures of two men, whom he con- 
 jectured to be natives, were discernible, and they ap- 
 peared to be industriously using the paddle ; for their 
 little boat darted with great rapidity across the river, 
 in the direction of the Fair Meadows, and was soon 
 lost to sight in the shelter of its wooded banks. Philip 
 still kept watch, and shortly after saw the same fig- 
 ures standing upon the top of the green hill which 
 overlooked the settlement, and screened it on the west 
 side from the stream. It was so common a circum- 
 stance for the Indians to roam hither and thither when 
 they pleased, that it occasioned little surprise to Philip, 
 though he felt a slight curiosity to know what they 
 could be doing at so late an hour, in the vicinity of 
 the Meadows. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 On the following morning, soon after breakfast, 
 Henry Randolph was again seated in his boat ; but 
 before starting, he whispered to Ralph Giles to be 
 watchful, and not leave the premises during his ab- 
 sence. The faithful servant seemed surprised, but 
 answered with emotion, " Sure, master, I'se care for 
 every one o' them." 
 
 Upon reaching Jamestown, Henry found the little 
 place in much commotion, and the inhabitants ma- 
 
18 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 king their way to the government house. The green 
 court was filled with people hurrying to and fro, and 
 among them were seen a few stately Indians moving 
 slowly and loftily in the crowd, as if they disdained its 
 eager and bustling activity. Randolph made his way, 
 and requested an audience with the governor. He 
 was instantly conducted to the large hall where the 
 councils were held, and in which the newly-formed 
 house of representatives met. It was spacious and 
 lofty, lighted by several long diamond-paned win- 
 dows. A large fire was burning on the ample hearth ; 
 large high-backed chairs, richly carved, were ranged 
 round the room ; and a large table stood at the upper 
 end of the apartment, covered with a crimson cloth. 
 Above the head of this table was placed a canopied 
 chair, on which the arms of England were embroid- 
 ered ; and here usually sat the governor, when busi- 
 ness was to be transacted, or audience granted. Por- 
 traits of James I. and of his queen adorned the walls, 
 and full-length pictures of the princes Henry and 
 Charles hung on each side of the fireplace. 
 
 Sir George Yeardley was standing in one of the 
 deep window-recesses, in earnest conversation with 
 a gentleman of the colony, in military attire. His re- 
 ception of the new comer was cordial, and he said, 
 turning to his companion with a smile, " Here comes 
 our delinquent! Captain Preston must chide you, 
 Master Randolph, for not joining our council yester- 
 day. Nay, I have your excuse already, and it is a 
 much better one than we have to offer for ourselves ; 
 for we did naught but quarrel, and that to no purpose. 
 But we have other matters to speak of just now, and 
 will draw toward the fire. You have had a chilling 
 sail and a long one." And he rang a Jittle silver bell 
 that lay upon the table. 
 
 " A cup of warm canary for our guest," said the 
 governor to a servant who entered ; " and tell those 
 fellows to be sharp with the victuals for the Indians." 
 
 The servant soon returned with a silver tray, bear- 
 ing a massive silver tankard, which was proffered to 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 19 
 
 Henry Randolph, who merely tasted /he beverage, and 
 sat it down again. 
 
 " You pay a poor compliment to our wine," said 
 the good-natured governor. " Come, pray refresh 
 yourself, Master Randolph, after your long sail, and 
 tell me if English comforts are quite banished from 
 this barbarous clime." 
 
 "Nay, nay, Sir George, say not so; the climate 
 is good enough for men who must earn their bread ; 
 and when the mind is made to bear, one place is as 
 good as another," said Captain Preston, who took up 
 the rejected tankard, and swallowed the contents at a 
 draught. 
 
 " I have more appetite for news than for canary," 
 replied Henry Randolph to the repeated invitation of 
 the governor. " Your excellency is hospitable, but 
 must excuse me." 
 
 " Well, well, as you will ; and now to business." 
 
 Sir George then proceeded to inform him of certain 
 reports which had reached them from all quarters, of 
 the hostile dispositions of the chief Opecanoff, who 
 was considered to be the king or head of all the tribes 
 from the southern border of Virginia to the river Del- 
 aware — a wide tract of country, and, under the power 
 of one chief, might constitute a formidable neighbor- 
 hood to the English. The late king, Powhatan, had 
 heen very friendly toward them, and lived in amity 
 with the intruders — pale-faces, as they were called by 
 his successor — but the policy of the new chief bad 
 differed from the first, from the peaceful character so 
 long maintained ; he had attacked the tribes supposed 
 to be most intimately bound to the English, and never 
 appeared at Jamestown to share the bounties of the 
 governor, or partake of his hospitality. The late re- 
 ports had much alarmed them, and Sir George Yeard- 
 ley had convened a council as soon as he heard of 
 them, but was really perplexed by the matter. They 
 had so long enjoyed peace, that none appeared pre- 
 pared or willing to court hostility, by making public 
 their suspicions. A few tribes, to the south of James 
 
20 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 river, had come to ask protection from the grasping 
 ambition of the new sachem, and their dread of his 
 power infused an infectious fear into the minds of the 
 colonists, which they had long been strangers to. 
 
 On the Sunday morning, the council had been di- 
 vided, and no conclusion was arrived at ; but r on the 
 morning which we are speaking of, at a very early 
 hour for such meetings, the whole congress were as- 
 sembled, and soon engaged in close confabulation, at 
 the long table before mentioned. In the midst of the 
 conference, a servant entered to announce the arrival 
 of six Indian messengers, who brought presents with 
 them from the Indian king to the governor. The 
 countenance of Sir George brightened at this intelli- 
 gence, and he looked cheerfully upon his friends, say- 
 ing, in an animated tone, " Admit them instantly, and 
 let us assume all our dignity, gentlemen, for these 
 savages have it to perfection, and will look sharply at 
 us, depend on't." 
 
 The party of Indians were shortly announced, and 
 the representatives were sitting with an air of dignified 
 composure at the table. The embassy was received 
 •with suitable condescension by the governor, whose 
 handsome attire and brave countenance seemed to im- 
 press the savages with a momentary awe. They were 
 headed by a man of majestic deportment, whose fea- 
 tures were calm to rigidity, and whose dark eyes alone 
 expressed the character of his soul. His piercing 
 glance flitted from object to object with the rapidity 
 of lightning, and then subsided into a cold and indif- 
 ferent stare, as he fixed his eyes upon the governor, 
 standing in silence, with his arms folded and his head 
 erect. Their interpreter, who had been in the service 
 of a former governor, gave the message of the Indian 
 king, and described the presents in exaggerated terms, 
 though they had been left in the courtyard. Sir 
 George returned an appropriate reply, and requested 
 them to take some refreshment with their countrymen 
 without, but f he offer was declined. Mr. Rolfe, who 
 sat next the governor, and had attentively observed 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 21 
 
 the scene, now whispered, " Do not trust them ; they 
 refuse to eat with us : they are spies, I am convinced. 
 Let them not depart without examination." 
 
 " Nay, you had better seek into this matter your- 
 self, Master Rolfe, for you are a scholar in their lan- 
 guage, and I care not to question such subtle knaves ;" 
 and Sir George leaned back in his chair of state, care- 
 lessly playing with the hilt of his sword, but keenly 
 watching the group from beneath his dark and bushy 
 eyebrows. Rolfe, thus sanctioned, without preface 
 spoke in their figurative language, and interpreted 
 their replies : — 
 
 " Will not my brothers taste our bread and water ? 
 They must not return to their village hungry and 
 thirsty. The Dahwyotts are at the feast : will not my 
 brothers join them ?" 
 
 The tall Indian raised his eyes to the speaker's face, 
 and paused ere he replied in a low guttural tone, " We 
 do not eat corn with the Dahwyotts" — accompanying 
 his remark with a contemptuous expression of coun- 
 tenance and gesture. 
 
 Rolfe changed his mode of address, and said, haugh- 
 tily, " The great king of the Yengees does not offer 
 his food twice to the stranger : go back to your chief, 
 and tell him to send those who will eat with us. Has 
 Opecanoff burnt the wampum ?" 
 
 A glance of intelligence was exchanged between 
 the savage and his party at this name ; and then the 
 first speaker replied, as calmly as before : " Who 
 knows where the dwelling of the eagle is ? Go ask 
 for Opecanoff, and the forest will be silent ; the white 
 man may never see his track !" 
 
 " The great king of the Yengees was the friend of 
 Powhatan, and called him brother. He will call 
 Opecanoff his son, if he is wise toward his great white 
 father ; but let not your chief deceive us. We are 
 watchful." 
 
 " The great king knows well that we have buried 
 the hatchet," replied the Indian ; " the serpent of his 
 tribe is wise ; he will not use them more." 
 
22 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 " But the serpent has not kept his secret : he is ly- 
 ing in the grass now, but he will rise to destroy. Go 
 tell your chief that we will crush him if he dare to 
 cross the boundary !" 
 
 The Indian made no reply, and his calm demeanor 
 appeared in direct contrast to the inflamed and excited 
 countenance of Rolfe. His face betrayed no angry 
 feeling, and he turned loftily away without acknowl- 
 edging the salutations of the council. No one thought 
 of following them, and they quitted the hall and court- 
 yard witliout molestation ; not deigning to notice their 
 countrymen, who were feasting upon the green, appa- 
 rently enjoying the governor's good cheer. 
 
 After the departure of the deputies, much debate 
 ensued in council, and none seemed disposed to take 
 the lead or give an opinion except Preston, who urged 
 caution, and reproached Rolfe in no measured terms 
 for his imprudent expressions, which would, without 
 fail, stir up strife. The governor entreated their ad- 
 vice, and invited them all to meet him in the morning 
 of the following day ; deciding for the present to put 
 the garrison in better defence, and to send messages to 
 the neighboring settlements, to summon them on the 
 very first intimation of danger to come up to James- 
 town for shelter. 
 
 Henry Randolph returned to his boat with a quick 
 step but heavy heart, and sailed homeward ill at ease, 
 though on the whole considerably relieved of the bur- 
 den which had weighed on his mind in the morning. 
 He did not apprehend any danger to his own family 
 from Indian hostility, for he had ever shown the great- 
 est kindness and hospitality toward those natives 
 whose wanderings had brought them hungry or weary 
 to his dwelling, and he did not fear their enmity, as 
 he knew them to be particularly grateful for favors of 
 this kind. His wife's skill as a doctress had gained 
 her some repute among the wounded or sick of the 
 tribes who lived near them ; and perhaps there was 
 no English family throughout the whole of the colony 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 23 
 
 so truly respected or so popular with the natives as 
 the Randolphs. 
 
 While Henry was considering these advantages, 
 and deriving comfort from them, although he could 
 not but feel apprehension for others, he was not aware 
 of the vicinity of a little bark which was following in 
 the wake of his own boat, and the occupant, a solitary 
 Indian, was making great efforts to overtake him, by 
 paddling with both arms ; and as the canoe was much 
 the smaller and lighter of the two boats, he at length 
 gained his purpose, and, shooting ahead of Henry 
 Randolph's, intimated his wish to converse, by resting 
 upon his paddles, and turning his head round so as to 
 address himself more readily to his companion. Hen- 
 ry accosted him in a friendly manner, and laid by his 
 oar for a while, so that both boats came to a stand in 
 the stream, and the Indian rapidly communicated his 
 errand, informing his astonished auditor that he was 
 one whom he had befriended in times past, and that 
 he now came to tell him of a plot that had been 
 formed to fall upon the English and destroy them. 
 No sooner had. the savage delivered his conscience of 
 this burdensome secret, than he darted away, and in 
 vain did Henry attempt to pursue him. He paddled 
 to such purpose, that he soon attained the shelter of 
 the bank, and, entering one of the numerous little 
 bays thrown out by the woodland from the shore, was 
 effectually hidden from his pursuer. 
 
 Henry promptly decided to return to Jamestown, 
 but it occurred to him that the better plan would be 
 to come in the morning, for the day was still short, 
 and the darkness always came on suddenly : he should 
 not have time to communicate his intelligence to the 
 governor so as to reach home by daylight. It was 
 better, therefore, to defer it till the morrow ; and he 
 rapidly pursued his course, considering, as he went, 
 this strange incident, in which so much of mystery 
 and of danger mingled. 
 
 Philip was absent when his father reached the Fair 
 Meadows, and it was almost dark when he made his 
 
24 PHrLIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 appearance. The moon, which on the preceding 
 nighl had shone so brightly, was clouded ; masses of 
 darkness seemed gathering over the sky, and the rain 
 began to descend in torrents. Henry went forth to 
 look for his son, and was much surprised to meet him 
 just emerging from the wood which skirted the for- 
 est, accompanied by an Indian. The mystery was 
 soon explained. Philip had gone in quest of some 
 stray pigs, and, returning with them through the wood, 
 had encountered the Indian, who was lying upon the 
 ground at the foot of a tree, much exhausted, with a 
 broken arrow sticking in his leg, and apparently suf- 
 fering great pain. Philip had assisted him to extract 
 the weapon, and persuaded him to accompany him 
 home to his mother, who, he felt sure, would soon 
 cure the wound. 
 
 " Heaven be praised, thou art safe, my son !" cried 
 his father, who, for the moment, could not help sus- 
 pecting that the stranger was a spy ; yet, upon after- 
 thought, it seemed improbable that he could be such, 
 as he would surely be better skilled in the arts of de- 
 ception than to turn his weapons against himself. 
 Whatever were the character and intentions of the 
 savage, humanity required that he should be well 
 treated, and his wants attended to. Margaret Ran- 
 dolph received him kindly, and was soon ready with 
 water,- salve, and linen, to dress the wound, while 
 Bridget prepared him some food, which he eagerly 
 demanded. The Indian was exercising the stoical 
 principle of his race, and betrayed by no expression 
 of words or actions the exhaustion and pain he felt : 
 his countenance and demeanor rather indicated the 
 condescension of some haughty potentate who hum- 
 bled himself to receive kindness at the hands of his 
 slaves. In the midst of his native forests, he would 
 not have appeared out of keeping ; but in the large 
 room of the Randolphs' dwelling, with its accompani- 
 ments of civilization, surrounded by a hospitable fam- 
 ily intent upon the charities of life, and in performance 
 of the first of moral duties, he looked indeed a savage. 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 25 
 
 And as Margaret proceeded with accustomed gentle- 
 ness to cleanse and dress the wound, his countenance 
 lost much of its rigidity, and exhaustion elicited what 
 native pride would have scorned to yield — a growing 
 wonder at all he saw and heard ; and by the time the 
 kind office was fully performed, he was so faint, as to 
 grasp Philip's arm and support himself to a seat. 
 Without ceremony, he threw himself upon a long 
 wooden settle by the fire, and for a time seemed inca- 
 pable of motion ; but this apathy gave way when 
 Bridget appeared with a well-broiled fowl upon a 
 trencher, and some smoking potatoes, which he ea- 
 gerly seized, starting up from his hard couch, and 
 carelessly throwing down the bones as he picked 
 them upon the well-scoured floor. All this was done 
 with a lightning rapidity, and the bystanders marvelled 
 at such sudden alacrity, and, above all, at his powers 
 of swallowing large mouthfuls of the hot potatoes, 
 which would have given them burnt palates for a 
 week had they been so adventurous. Bridget, too, 
 was especially shocked at his disregard of her clean 
 Jioor, and heartily wished him away ; but having 
 scrambled through his meal, he had the audacity to 
 ask for more, in very good English, which she could 
 not mistake, and she held up her hands in amazement. 
 
 "Bring him more, good Bridget," said her master ; 
 " these people have large appetites, and he has fasted 
 for days, I doubt not." 
 
 Thus ordered, Bridget tripped away, and could not 
 forbear saying to her mistress as she returned with a 
 further supply, " Why, he will eat us out of larder at 
 that rate !" 
 
 When the hunger of the famished Indian was ap- 
 peased, he again threw himself upon the settle, and 
 closed his eyes, as if intending to sleep. Margaret 
 retired with her children to the kitchen, and Henry 
 followed her, saying to his son, " Thou mayest keep 
 company with thy guest, Philip, and we will take up 
 with Bridget this evening. Detain him till morning, 
 if he seem willing, and let the barn be his quarters to- 
 3 
 
26 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 night : this is an adventure to thy taste, so I leave him 
 to thee." 
 
 It was, indeed, an adventure quite to Philip's taste, 
 to have brought home a wounded and starving native 
 to enjoy the comforts of an English hearth — to show 
 kindness to one of the dreaded but frequently despised 
 sons of the soil. He could not forbear indulging in a 
 few suppositions about this stranger, and anticipated 
 most happy consequences from the meeting. He 
 thought there was something mysterious and almost 
 sublime in his manner from the first moment of their 
 meeting till that of his exhaustion during the process 
 of his mother's doctoring, when the Indian had looked 
 so much less of a savage than a human being — as ca- 
 pable of feeling as others of his species ; but there 
 was a sort of romance in the whole affair that pleased 
 Philip more than anything else, and he longed to 
 know the history and circumstances of his guest, 
 whom from time to time he regarded with a curious 
 eye. 
 
 The Indian was restless, and had turned from the 
 fire, displaying more fully the contour of his swarthy- 
 figure, the outline of which his scanty robe of richly- 
 dressed skins did not conceal. His limbs were strong 
 and sinewy, his chest broad, and shoulders muscular ; 
 his head was bald, with the exception of one little 
 tuft of hair, which seemed to have been carefully 
 trained to stand upright on the top of his narrow but 
 lofty forehead ; his features were remarkably hand- 
 some, though with closed eyes his countenance want- 
 ed expression to be agreeable or interesting. Upon 
 his bare and ample chest was delineated, by a process 
 peculiar to his race, a flying eagle, the symbol of the 
 tribe to which he belonged, and the same device also 
 adorned his arms and hands. The tops of his mocca- 
 sins were marked in porcupines' quills, and he wore a 
 belt of the same round his hunting-shirt of the bright 
 colors dyed by native art, at this day wrought among 
 the Indians, and probably only known to them : to 
 this belt was attached a large pouch of otter-skin, 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 27 
 
 out of which protruded the head of a hatchet J and, as 
 if by accident, a coronet of eagles' feathers hung care- 
 lessly from the girdle, betokening the high rank of the 
 wearer. 
 
 The more attentively Philip examined the figure 
 and dress of this Indian, the less he felt attracted to 
 him ; and his first impressions gave place to a thrill 
 of awe almost amounting to terror when the savage 
 opened his eyes and fixed them steadily upon him. 
 The gaze was so coldly searching, and yet so fierce, 
 that the youth started to his feet and hastily quitted 
 the apartment, but soon returned with a trencher of 
 provisions for his supper ; and chiding himself for his 
 foolish fears, he sat down again, resolving to confront 
 the stranger with an aspect as bold as his own. He 
 scanned him once more, and again felt a thrill of ap- 
 prehension at his gaunt and ferocious appearance. 
 How dreadful, he thought, to lead such a life as this 
 man's — never to know the blessings of civilization or 
 religion — the delights of a peaceful life ! For some 
 time he indulged in reflection, and was concluding 
 with a rather proud self-congratulation that he was 
 not born an Indian, when his companion abruptly 
 arose, and, totally disregarding the state of his wound- 
 ed limb, took a hasty stride across the room and ap- 
 proached the elock, which he examined and listened 
 to with an expression of great surprise depicted upon 
 his face. " Hugh !" he exclaimed, " ugh ! ugh !" and 
 then strode back to Philip's side. He addressed him 
 in the rapid and musical language of the Indians of 
 the west, and on finding that his words were not un- 
 derstood, returned to the settle and again reclined. 
 Once more Philip presented the trencher, but that 
 was declined ; he then opened the clock-case, and en- 
 deavored to explain its use, but this politeness was 
 thrown away upon his guest, who deigned no reply, 
 but sat with folded arms, evidently musing deeply. 
 Philip resumed his chair by the fireplace, and was 
 silent. Some time passed in this manner, and the boy 
 thought it dull, and was beginning to regret his charge, 
 
28 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 when the Indian suddenly approached him. As he 
 moved, his tall figure seemed to dilate and acquire 
 grandeur and majesty of proportions and carriage. 
 With a graceful gesture he pointed to the doorway, 
 and said slowly, but in tolerable English, " The red 
 man makes night in the wigwam of the pale face : he 
 will go and sleep under the dark trees." 
 
 "No, no," said Philip, eagerly; "stay! you shall 
 have food and shelter ; you shall sleep in our dwelling 
 to-night." 
 
 The dark eye of the savage kindled as he gazed on 
 the boy, whose manly demeanor he had doubtless re- 
 marked and admired : he hesitated, and Philip placed 
 himself between him and the door, ready to open it if 
 he persisted. 
 
 " The red man is alone ; will the pale face give him 
 a mat in his wigwam ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Philip ; " come, I will take you 
 to your quarters." 
 
 The Indian looked keenly at him. " The pale 
 faces lie : what are their children ?" And he laid 
 his powerful hand on Philip's arm. The boy's face 
 flushed, and he shook off the hand that grasped him 
 so tightly. 
 
 " My father is no liar ; if he wished to hurt you, he 
 w r ould not have brought you into his dwelling." 
 
 The Indian slowly withdrew his eyes from Phiilp's 
 open countenance, and glanced at his wounded limb. 
 After a pause, he said, " The pale face will laugh at 
 the red man ; they will call him dog ! they will say 
 he makes the wigwam very dark. He will stay, but 
 he will not sleep with the pale face ;" and again he 
 pointed to the door, which Philip immediately opened 
 and led him to the barn, where, after shaking down 
 some hay, he made his guest understand that these 
 were his quarters for the night, and then re-entered 
 the dwelling. 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 29 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 On the following morning, the family assembled 
 early, and after exchanging theirs accustomed affec- 
 tionate greetings, took their places round the room, 
 and prepared for their usual religious service. : While 
 the old man opened the Bible, and his mother selected 
 a psalm, Philp stole out and quickly returned with the 
 Indian, who, whatever surprise the novel scene might 
 occasion in his mind, did not betray any ; and without 
 regarding the salutations offered him, he took up his 
 post in a corner, leaning against the wooden wall in 
 an attitude of indifference, his eyes downcast, and his 
 whole figure motionless. 
 
 The attention of the little Alice was much dis- 
 turbed, and even her graver brother could scarcely re- 
 press the frequent inclination to look at their guest, 
 and he was soon aware that from the moment the 
 reading began, and when he supposed none of the 
 family were regarding him, the Indian had never 
 ceased to remark with rapid glances the furniture of 
 the apartment and every human being within it. The 
 old man's voice was next heard in the beautiful lan- 
 guage of the morning service, and could those who 
 were then kneeling so devoutly have been conscious 
 of the actions of another, they would have seen the 
 look of wonder and of irrepressible awe which over- 
 spread the countenance of their guest. After the 
 prayers were ended, they all rose and sang a morning 
 hymn. Margaret Randolph had a sweet voice, and 
 her husband and children followed her in a pleasing 
 strain. Ralph Giles and Bridget did not hesitate to 
 join in the harmonv. 
 
 3* 
 
30 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 The breast of the Indian heaved, as it appeared, 
 with a new emotion, which he was unable to control : 
 his rigidly-folded arms fell to his sides, and he ad- 
 vanced some steps ; then, ashamed of his want of self- 
 control, retreated. It was impossible for him to re- 
 main unaffected by the melody, and as this was prob- 
 ably the first time his ears had ever been greeted with 
 any so sweet, it is not to be wondered at that his fierce 
 restless glance should subside, his dark eyes gleam 
 with a softened expression, and his stern mouth relax ; 
 indeed, his whole countenance lost its habitual rigidi- 
 ty. When the service was concluded, Henry Ran- 
 dolph endeavored to explain to him the nature of it ; 
 and the Indian listened with attention, afterward re- 
 plying with grave dignity, and in his imperfect Eng- 
 lish idiom, " The white man has his Great Father, 
 and the red man tells the Great Spirit what he wants. 
 The pale faces are birds — they sing more sweetly than 
 the night-bird ; the sons of the eagle will not harm 
 them." 
 
 " No, your young men must not harm us," said 
 Henry, mildly ; " we will always care for them, and 
 treat them well." 
 
 " Good, good," replied the Indian, turning an ad- 
 miring gaze at Philip, who was approaching with the 
 breakfast of their guest. The food was scarcely 
 touched, and more declined, for an Indian's meal lasts 
 him many hours, and appetite had not yet returned. 
 In the meantime, Alice had become accustomed to 
 the strange attire of the savage, and seemed disposed 
 to make his acquaintance, for she stole nearer and 
 nearer, and by degrees gained his side, where she 
 looked up into his face, regarding him with all the cu- 
 riosity and interest her blue eyes could express. The 
 Indian stroked her hair, and gave her a piece of meat 
 from his trencher, on which she offered him some of 
 her hommony and milk, which he liked so much that 
 the little girl saw it fast disappearing, and her looks 
 of undisguised dismay amused her associate, for he re- 
 turned the empty bowl to her with a bow, accompa- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 31 
 
 nied by a laugh so soft and musical, that Philip was 
 more than ever interested, and thought him now posi- 
 tively handsome. At length, however, he rose and 
 pointed to the door, which his young friend immedi- 
 ately opened, and followed him into the garden. 
 
 " The red man remembers the white man's kind- 
 ness ; his shadow has not made night in his enemy's 
 wigwam." 
 
 " We are not your enemies," said Philip, earnestly. 
 
 The Indian drew himself up loftily. "Are you my 
 friends ? Look at the dark forest, and say, ' When 
 all is sky — when there is no forest there — then will 
 the red man call the pale face friend.' He remembers 
 kind words : he says peace to my brothers of this wig- 
 wam" — and he drew a curiously-wrought belt of 
 wampum from his pouch and presented it to Philip. 
 " We are friends." 
 
 "May we not know the name of our friend ?" said 
 Henry Randolph, joining them at this moment. 
 
 A flash of pride and exultation gleamed in the dark 
 eye of the stranger, as the lightning illumines the 
 clouds of a stormy sky, appearing and instantly van- 
 ishing. He answered in a tone of forced coldness, 
 though his words betrayed the proud scorn he felt 
 through his assumed humility, pointing at the same 
 time to the symbol upon his chest and arms. 
 
 " The son of the eagle is not known to the white 
 man. Why should they ask his name ? A great 
 chief among his people is a woman, a little child, in 
 the council of your wise men. Go, go ! — a pale face 
 hears my name to-day : he will not remember it to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Nay," said Philip, imploringly, " tell us the name 
 of our friend ;" and he twisted the wampum round his 
 waist with such evident satisfaction, that it won him 
 a reply. 
 
 " When the white boy is in the forest, let him call 
 for Oneyda." These words were said with some hes- 
 itation ; and the Indian hastily turned to depart. He 
 walked slowly toward the river, and they watched 
 
32 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 him till he disappeared behind the green hillock which 
 intervened between their dwelling and the stream. 
 
 " Where have I seen him before ?" said Henry, mu- 
 singly, as he re-entered the dwelling. "And now get 
 thee to Ralph Giles, my son, and be busy till noon, 
 when I hope to return." 
 
 Philip obeyed with alacrity, and soon reached the 
 spot where Ralph was clearing or cutting down trees, 
 and it was his part to remove them to an open space 
 for barking. 
 
 " Ye be long o' coming, Master Philip, and we've 
 all this row to bring down afore nightfall." 
 
 " Well, see if I don't work as hard as thee, Ralph ; 
 give me my knife, and I'll be busy as thou art." 
 
 The work was hard enough, and both frequently 
 stopped to wipe the perspiration from their heated 
 brows, but Philip persevered. His companion was 
 not disposed to quiet reflection over his work, and 
 chatted from time to time with his young master, for 
 whose sagacity he had great reverence, nor had he at 
 any time a more agreeable companion. 
 
 " I'se been thinking, Master Philip, how different 
 things be since we stepped ashore on the place : then 
 trees were thick enough, and there was neither sky 
 nor ground for 'em ; ye couldn't ha' walked this far 
 then. There must be a deal of forest to come at yet. 
 Dear-a-me, how the buds be come out — they're leaves 
 pretty near : no sooner is winter done wi\ than out 
 pops summer." 
 
 " The spring is early," replied Philip. " Thou hast 
 seen many changes since we came." 
 
 " Like enough, Master Philip, for we were first 
 here ; ay, and a toilsome time had we. I was a rosy- 
 cheeked lad o' seventeen when I followed Master 
 Henry, and now I be as brown as one o' them Indians. 
 Ah, this sun's not like a good old English sun: why, 
 you, that was such a bonny baby, is near to be as red 
 as any savage." 
 
 " Father does not like us to talk of the Indians just 
 now ; we might be heard." 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 33 
 
 " Well, now, if one be not to speak, 'tis a hard 
 matter ; who'll hear us but the birds ? and they're too 
 busy with their chattering to hearken unto us. Ah, 
 if you could but hear the birds sing in England ! I'se 
 rather hear a nice piping blackbird than any of their 
 popinjays." 
 
 " Yet these birds are beautiful to look at, and many 
 have a sweet song," said Philip. " I like much to 
 hear their melody of a summer afternoon." 
 
 Ralph shook his head. " That's just because you 
 never lived in Old England. I'd like to see you, Mas- 
 ter Philip, of a fine June evening, before sundown, in 
 hay-making time, lying o' the bank at the end of our 
 meadow under the bannat-tree, and just when you're 
 tired, cast up your eyes to the sky, and hearken to the 
 throstles and blackbirds singing their very hearts out ; 
 and in the morning when the sun's up, to go out to 
 the cornfields and see the fine twinkling water-drops 
 upon the flowers, and the mists rolling themselves up 
 on the hills, and ye'll hear such a twitter-twitter over 
 your head, and there for sure you'll see a cloud of 
 wee tiny black things up in the sky, and what should 
 it be but the larks that sing so sweet and so high ? — 
 and there they're at it all day, flying up so fast, apd 
 then falling down all of a sudden into the furzy bushes. 
 Oh ! but it gladdens my heart to think of the fine fresh 
 air, and the meadows, and the birds, that were all so 
 plenty down in Oak Hollow." And Ralph bent down 
 to his work with redoubled zeal, but Philip saw that 
 his hardy hand dashed off the big tears that were rolling 
 down his bronzed cheek, for Ralph had a tender heart, 
 and loved his native land. 
 
 " It was kind in thee to follow my father, Ralph. 
 We all think so, and we all wish you to be happy and 
 comfortable with us in this strange land," said Philip, 
 with a smile of cordial affection. 
 
 " I would not ha' stayed behind, I can tell you, 
 Master Philip ; for we were all brought up wi' you 
 and yours, and may be master could not ha' managed 
 so well without me," replied Ralph, with a smile of 
 
34 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 gratified affection and self-complacency. " But where- 
 ever can them Indians ha' put themselves ? They 
 used to be popping in at all hours ; howsomever, I 
 suppose they've no liking to see other folks in their 
 places." 
 
 " But thou shouldst remember they were willing 
 for us to come, and we hold their land by treaty ; be- 
 sides, they never lived much in these parts : the red 
 man loves the forest and prairies best." 
 
 " Ay, ay; but that's because he can get no better. 
 It always puzzles me, Master Philip, to think what 
 he's the better for our coming. I know we've a good 
 bargain ; but 'tis hard o' belief that any man should 
 like to see another stand in his shoes." 
 
 "Well, but we hope to do them good, and that will 
 make up for much : only, I would have thee remem- 
 ber, Ralph, that this bit of land is really ours, and that 
 we bought it from the government." 
 
 " Master Philip, how should you know? Tse no 
 scholar ; but I never could see who gave government 
 the land at the first. Well, as you say, though it's 
 ours now — only," continued Ralph, wiping his heat- 
 ed brow, " I think many a time, when striking at their 
 timber, they might come and cry out, ' Holloa ! what 
 art thou doing with my wood V " 
 
 Philip laughed heartily, and whatever he might 
 have said about treaties, unappropriated lands, and ex- 
 change of benefits, &c, &c, was interrupted by the 
 arrival of his little sisters, who had wandered in search 
 of him, and intended to spend the morning in his com- 
 pany, till it was time to return home to dinner. 
 
 In the meantime, Henry Randolph had proceeded 
 with all diligence to Jamestown, attended council, and 
 informed the governor of the information he had be- 
 come so singularly possessed of, and of his regret at 
 not having been able to ascertain who and what his 
 informant was. The affair created great sensation, 
 and Mr. Rolfe felt especially interested, as he loved 
 romantic adventure. His connexion with the natives, 
 as the husband of their late king's daughter, had given 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 35 
 
 him many opportunities of studying their character ; 
 and he now gave it as his sincere opinion, that they 
 must have some deadly scheme on foot among them, 
 which it was most important to unravel ; and, at the 
 same time, he felt equally convinced that the colony 
 had still a faithful ally, if he could only be found out, 
 as it was very unlikely that a solitary Indian should 
 separate himself from his countrymen in a matter of 
 such consequence. 
 
 Henry Randolph departed, and the wind favoring, 
 soon reached his home. He deferred communicating 
 his alarming suspicions to his wife till they were 
 alone ; and though she observed with concern the 
 shade that had gathered on his brow since morning, 
 she did not make inquiries, thinking it more discreet 
 to wait for the fitting moment when her husband 
 should think proper to tell her. When their children 
 and the old man had retired, Henry unburdened his 
 troubled mind, and found great support and comfort in 
 the opinion of his judicious help-meet. She was 
 sensible and strong-minded, and did not take so gloomy 
 a view of the matter as her husband. She thought 
 that their neighbors should be told and consulted, and 
 that a plan of defence ought to be immediately deci- 
 ded upon, since the safety of so many of the helpless 
 and feeble depended upon the promptitude and pru- 
 dence of the measure. She apprehended little danger 
 to themselves as a family ; but her gentle nature shrank 
 from the horrors of an Indian warfare ; and though 
 she hoped everything for the Fair Meadows, she trem- 
 bled for the weaker and more remote settlements, 
 which seemed to lie so much at the mercy of their 
 unknown foes. They both agreed in thinking it 
 wiser not to communicate the matter to Philip or 
 their father, whose age and infirm health rendered 
 him a very unfit subject for the anxiety it would oc- 
 casion him. They took their troubles in prayer and 
 faith to their God, who could bring good out of evil, 
 and to whose fatherly protection they desired humbly 
 to commit themselves. 
 
36 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 There was little variety in the life of a settler in 
 Virginia in those days ; it was one of toil rather than 
 of enjoyment, yet not without its pleasures. Winter 
 and spring were seasons of labor ; but summer brought 
 rest, in the necessity of retiring from the heat and glare 
 of the day, while the evenings were generally devoted 
 to recreation and exercise. The children of the Fair 
 Meadows were very fond of their summer evenings' 
 sports, more especially if one of the elders of the com- 
 munity would devote his leisure to them. They 
 liked to sit by the river-side to listen to tales of the old 
 country, and ask questions about it, and indulge the 
 hope of visiting it, though sure they should never like 
 any place so well as the Meadows. There was one 
 member of the settlement beloved by all, and popular 
 with young and old. This was Rachel More, a deli- 
 cate invalid, but one whose powers of mind fully com- 
 pensated for that bodily strength generally so much 
 esteemed in the household of a settler. She had ac- 
 companied her brother and his family to their Virginian 
 home, but the climate had further disordered her weak 
 constitution, and an active member of the community 
 she could not be considered. But though she could 
 neither scour, nor bake, nor spin very long at a time, 
 she found plenty of occupation in educating the chil- 
 dren, or nursing the sick ; and the sick and aged were 
 alike the objects of her patient care. 
 
 Toward the end of March the weather had become 
 mild and genial, and one day when Philip returned 
 from one of his woodland excursions, he found, to his 
 great delight, his friend Rachel More sitting in the 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 37 
 
 porch, engaged in conversation with his grandfather. 
 She had been ill for some weeks, and this was the first 
 time she had ventured beyond her brother's enclosure ; 
 and Margaret Randolph had brought her over to en- 
 joy the sunshine of a bright afternoon, and (what she 
 valued far more) the society of the old man, whose 
 piety and wisdom she could well appreciate. 
 
 Philip felt much interested in the conversation of 
 these two excellent persons, and though he did not 
 join it, stood near, endeavoring to understand and ap- 
 ply all he heard to the wants of his own mind. He 
 felt sorry when called away by his father, who told 
 him that he intended going upon the river that evening, 
 and should want the boat. As some of the neighbors 
 were to accompany him, Philip found more than one 
 little vessel unmoored, and, as soon as he had prepared 
 their own, ran back toward the house. He was met 
 by Ralph Giles, whose countenance betrayed much 
 excitement, and he seemed breathless with agitation 
 or haste. 
 
 " It's uncommon strange, Master Philip, but I'se 
 sure I seed a round dozen of those Indians lurking 
 about the wood, and I don't like their looks at all ; so 
 I came up to find master, and tell him a piece o' my 
 mind." 
 
 " Come, come, then, quick !" cried Philip ; and he 
 flew into the garden. His father was just taking leave 
 of Rachel, and was surprised to see his son in such 
 agitation. Philip was too considerate to alarm the 
 weak and delicate, and he beckoned to his father, say- 
 ing that he wished to speak to him. Henry Randolph 
 hastened to the gate, and his son was just about to tell 
 him of what Giles had informed him, when suddenly 
 there arose a cry so terrible and unearthly, that it 
 struck awe into every heart. The children screamed, 
 and their mother rushed out of the house, and in- 
 stinctively caught them to her bosom. The old man 
 looked around mournfully, but stirred not. Bridget 
 snatched the infant from its cradle ; and Ralph darted 
 into the dwelling to seize the arms from the wall ; but 
 4 
 
38 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 Henry Randolph stood for a moment overwhelmed 
 and paralyzed — the blow was about to fall upon his 
 helpless family, and nothing had been done to avert it. 
 
 Another cry arose, and Rachel More started to her 
 feet ; the color rushed to her pale brow, and with a 
 desperate effort she cried, " To the boats, to the boats ! 
 The Indians are upon us," she added in a lower tone, 
 and then sank back horror-stricken in her chair. The 
 old man groaned, and bent his feeble steps toward the 
 threshold. 
 
 Margaret Randolph recovered her self-possession, 
 and with her two little ones fled with lightning speed 
 down the garden toward the river ; Bridget was soon 
 by the side of her mistress with the baby ; and Henry 
 endeavored to bear away his father. He took him in 
 his arms, but the old man was heavy, and resisted the 
 effort of his son, commanding him to take his 'children, 
 and to leave him to die. The alternative was fearful ; 
 but Henry, in whose heart so many feelings were con- 
 flicting, persisted in his filial duty, and bore him from 
 the garden. 
 
 " Fly, Master Philip !" cried Ralph Giles ; " now 
 or never — fly ! Take the little girl with you — they're 
 upon us ! — but we'll see, my masters : come on, and 
 you dare !" and he posted himself at the little gate 
 with a drawn sabre, menacing the still distant foe. 
 The party he had observed were busy at their horrid 
 work on the neighboring farm, and as the yells arose 
 in the air with the screams of the flying or expiring, 
 the little group drew closer, and Rachel, half fainting, 
 ejaculated feebly, " Oh ! Father of mercy, look down 
 and save!" 
 
 " There's no time for nonsense," said Ralph, blunt- 
 ly; "so you must get along, Master Philip, right 
 sharply, and I'll take Mistress Alice." So saying, he 
 caught up the little girl, and Phi^« assisted Rachel to 
 rise. She could scarcely stand. " ' Lean on me, dear 
 Rachel, lean, lean ; we have time — we shall escape." 
 He led her on as quickly as he could move, following 
 Italph through the house, that they might get out of 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 39 
 
 sight before pursued ; but their purpose was baffled. 
 The sturdy Giles had to place his little charge upon the 
 ground, and bade her fly the other way ; but the poor 
 child, bewildered and terrified, clung to Rachel, for 
 she thought she should then be safe. Two gaunt and 
 ferocious savages approached, their weapons smeared, 
 just as the little party were crossing the doorway of 
 the kitchen, and Ralph alone was armed to defend 
 them. A desperate struggle ensued, and the fore- 
 most was overcome and lay at the feet of his sturdy 
 antagonist. 
 
 " Now," cried Ralph Giles* " fly, all of ye : this is 
 the time." But Philip still lingered. Rachel had 
 fainted, and he could not leave her. The valiant yeo- 
 man drove back his second assailant, who retreated, 
 probably going for more aid ; and then they made an- 
 other attempt to escape the dangerous spot. 
 
 " Here, Ralph, do you take Rachel in your arms; 
 I can carry Alice. We shall escape : go forward." 
 
 Ralph took up the insensible Rachel as if she had 
 been a baby, and proceeded ; but again they were as- 
 sailed, and an Indian laid his powerful hand upon 
 Philip, and bound him in an instant with withes. Al- 
 ice was next made prisoner, and again was the worthy 
 Giles compelled to relinquish his charge. As the 
 shouts grew louder, and the confusion increased, they 
 were separated, and a band of savages intervened be- 
 tween the captives and the faithful friend who would 
 have defended them with his life. Philip shuddered 
 as he was borne along with the struggling crowd, and 
 a cry of horror escaped him as he beheld the prostrate 
 body of Rachel More. He saw her suffering counte- 
 nance paler than ever : the ashy hue of death was on 
 it, and her dying glance rested on him as he passed, 
 with an expression of fond solicitude ; a stream of 
 crimson was flowing from her side, and he knew that 
 the fatal knife had been there. 
 
 The quiet and peaceful settlement had suddenly be- 
 come the abode of demoniac rage and cruelty : dwel- 
 lings were already smoking from the fire just applied, 
 
40 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 and the groans of the dying were yet mingling with 
 the cries of those still fighting or in captivity. Many 
 were defending themselves with desperate bravery, 
 and fighting their way toward the river-side. Among 
 them Philip thought he saw his father and Ralph 
 Giles, and would have raised his voice to call them, 
 but his tongue was parched and tied with horror — he 
 could not utter a word. In his hurried progress, he 
 stumbled over a body that lay in the path : it was that 
 of his aged grandfather ! His face was still calm, but 
 his white hair was discolored ; the fatal scalping-knife 
 had been there also, and that hoary head shorn of its 
 crown. His hands were still clasped, and from the 
 position in which he lay, it was evident that he had 
 been struck down at a blow. 
 
 We know not, truly, what an hour may bring forth. 
 But half an hour previously, they had been a happy 
 and united family. The Fair Meadows had become 
 the scene of a dreadful massacre. On that day the 
 savages of the west had fallen upon every defenceless 
 settlement in Virginia, and numberless were the vic- 
 tims of their cruelty : a day memorable in the annals 
 of Virginia, a lasting memorial of the natural ferocity 
 of the Indian tribes, and a sad lesson to a careless gov- 
 ernment ; but, as far as the Randolphs were concerned, 
 the hand of God may be traced, and his providence 
 acknowledged, who, though he permits evil for atime, 
 alone knows how to bring good out of evil. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 When Philip awoke to consciousness and misery, 
 he felt that his arms were unbound, and that he was 
 lying upon grass under trees. He soon recognised 
 his position as a captive. Dark figures were moving 
 round him, and at a little distance sat a group con- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 41 
 
 versing in low tones ; and from their frequent glances 
 toward the spot where he lay, he conjectured that he 
 himself was the subject of their conversation. He 
 could not banish the image of the murdered Rachel — 
 her countenance of agony, or the solicitude of her last 
 fond gaze, which spoke the prayer she could not ut- 
 ter — and the ghastly spectacle of his aged grandfather 
 stretched lifeless on the ground. Where, too, were 
 his father and mother, his little sisters, and the faithful 
 Giles ? and at the thought of their fate, Philip became 
 almost frantic. 
 
 But he was recalled from the absorbing influence of 
 his grief by the plaintive weeping of his little sister, 
 who had been placed at the foot of a tree not far from 
 the spot where he- was lying. Philip started up, and 
 his heart smote him for having forgotten the weaker 
 companion of his misery. The Indians watched him 
 narrowly, but did not intercept his approach to her. 
 The little girl's hands were unbound, and she was 
 wringing them in a piteous manner; but when her 
 brother spoke, and laid his finger upon her arm, en- 
 treating her to look up, she turned, and, with a scream 
 of joy, threw herself into his arms, exclaiming — 
 
 " Oh, Philip, you are alive ! I thought you were 
 dead. 1 thought you would never speak to me any 
 more ! Take me home, Philip : let us go — ask them 
 to let us go." 
 
 " My precious Alice, they will not let us go, but 
 thou wilt be with me. See, Alice, we are prisoners ; 
 but I think they will not harm thee. Thou art not 
 afraid with me?" 
 
 " Oh no, no," said the poor child, " I am not afraid 
 with thee, Philip ; but they look so bad ! Oh, if 
 these red men take us, they will kill us too, Philip. 
 See, they are coming, they are coming — save me, Phil- 
 ip!" and she clung in terror to him, trembling violently. 
 
 " They will not harm thee, my sweet Alice ; but 
 we must go with ihem, and I shall be very near thee. 
 Thou must pray, Alice, and ask God to take care of us. 
 We can not help ourselves." 
 
42 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 Alice trembled, but her feelings were soothed. 
 There was protection in the voice of Philip, and she 
 submitted patiently to be taken from him when one 
 of their captors approached and lifted her in his arms 
 to resume their toilsome journey. The party marched 
 in file, one leading and the others carefully following 
 in his footsteps. Philip felt scarcely able to move, but 
 was compelled to go alone, without even the satisfac- 
 tion of being near his sister ; but occasionally he 
 caught sight of her long hair streaming over the shoul- 
 der of her bearer, and though but a poor consolation, 
 he derived a slight satisfaction from it, and did not feel 
 so desolate. 
 
 At length, after a fatiguing progress of two or three 
 hours, they gradually emerged from the tangled path, 
 and entered a more open track, taking the direction 
 of the river, the brink of which they soon reached, 
 and unmoored several canoes. How did Philip's 
 heart ache as he stood upon the bank, and turned to 
 take a farewell glance of the green hillock which he 
 thought he perceived to the eastward, and recognised 
 the tall trees crowning its top, under whose shade he 
 had spent so many happy hours, and from which he 
 had so often surveyed the distant hills and forests 
 where he was probably going to linger out his days ! 
 He saw, too, a cloud of smoke hovering over that quar- 
 ter, occasioned doubtless by the burning ruins of his 
 home ! Alice, who had fallen asleep in the arms of 
 her bearer, was laid in the bottom of the first canoe : 
 three Indians entered it, and Philip was rudely pushed 
 into another. He sank down exhausted, and more 
 miserable than ever. It was now that the Indians 
 seemed to fear pursuit, for they rowed with all their 
 might, and soon left the green hill far behind them : 
 one bend after another in the winding river was passed, 
 and still their exertions relaxed not. When the shades 
 of evening rendered the objects on the shore increas- 
 ingly obscure, they slackened speed, and drew up to 
 consult. Philip heard the voice of his sister ; she 
 called for him, and he hastened to assure her that he 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 43 
 
 was near, and hoped they should soon land. Indeed, 
 his fears for her were not groundless, as she was both 
 cold and hungry, and found her position at the bottom 
 of the canoe very uncomfortable. 
 
 The spot chosen by the Indians for their night's 
 encampment was evidently one well known to them, 
 for there were traces of its having been visited before, 
 and the ashes of a recent fire yet remained upon the 
 sylvan hearth. They brought out from some place 
 of concealment the remains of a deer which had been 
 left from a previous meal, with a quantity of maize 
 already prepared after their fashion. Soon was a fire 
 lighted, diffusing a heat and glow that were cheering 
 to the captives. The Indians offered them food, and 
 clear water in a calabash, and the fare being seasoned 
 with appetite, was not unpalatable. Alice revived, but 
 her brother felt anxious that she should take rest, and 
 persuaded her to lie down with her head upon his 
 knee. The Indians had the considerateness to furnish 
 them with a few more furs and buffalo-robes, in which 
 Philip carefully wrapped his sister, and then reminded 
 her to say her prayers before she slept ; but when she 
 commenced the simple petition her mother had 
 taught her, the grief of the little girl was renewed, 
 and she could not speak for sobbing. Philip wept, 
 for he knew the cause of her trouble, and for some 
 time could not find voice to pray for her. He laid 
 his cheek to hers and kissed her tenderly, and Alice 
 at length cried herself to sleep. But it was long ere 
 Philip could compose himself to rest. The events 
 of the day returned to haunt the dreamy moments of 
 exhausted nature when fatigue and misery gained the 
 mastery over his reason ; and while he felt scarcely 
 able to control the wanderings of fancy and of memo- 
 ry, he almost feared to sleep, lest the tragedy should 
 be re-enacted in his dreams, and often started up wild- 
 ly with a cry of horror, as the dreadful scenes of the 
 morning recurred to his bewildered recollection. In 
 one of these awakenings, he opened his eyes upon the 
 dark features of the savage who was posted as a guard 
 
44 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 to the party. He was bending over him with an ex 
 pression of awe and wonder upon his swarthy counte- 
 nance, considerably heightened by the flickering glare 
 of the fire-light which played upon its fierce linea- 
 ments, giving to them an effect so malignant and 
 threatening, that Philip exclaimed, in the confused 
 language of his dreams, " Kill me, then, now ; kill 
 me, but spare my little sister !" 
 
 But Philip did not long repose, though he awoke 
 again without a start, and calmly surveyed the new 
 and striking objects which surrounded him. The 
 scene was indeed highly picturesque. The Indians, 
 to the number of ten dark figures, lay stretched upon 
 the earth, wrapped in their buffalo-robes; their guard 
 stood upright against a tree, perfectly motionless and 
 rigid as a statue, the restless glances of his dark and 
 gleaming eyes alone betokening life and animation in 
 him who stood there. The captive gazed mutely upon 
 the savage, struggling with the flood of misery which 
 seemed swelling up from the very depths of his soul, 
 threatening to overwhelm and engulf him. How 
 dreadful the thought, even if life were spared, to pass 
 it with such beings as the petrified ferocity he there 
 beheld ! How unbearable their society, their cruelty, 
 and how dreadful their revenge ! 
 
 " Oh my God ! my Father !" cried Philip, while the 
 tears again gushed forth, and sobs of anguish choked 
 the half- uttered prayer ; " forsake me not, for thou art 
 mighty to save ! Oh! my Savior! thou hast suffered 
 — aid me and be near me in this dark, dark hour!" 
 After this earnest but broken ejaculation, he was calm- 
 er ; a sweet sense of the care and providence of God 
 returned to his heart ; he was led to consider the sad 
 bereavement and trials of this day as forming one of 
 the numberless events which are only to be viewed as 
 ordered or permitted by the Almighty for good purposes, 
 and as such, to be left in his hand, that the end of all 
 may be well. Philip recalled the lessons he had so 
 lately learned from his friend Rachel More— lessons 
 of obedience and faith— whereby he might strengthen 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 45 
 
 his drooping courage, and fortify his soul in every 
 coming trial. He fell asleep again, with the wordy 
 of the psalmist on his lips : " I will say of the Lord, 
 He is my refuge and my fortress ; my God : in him 
 will I trust." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 It were tedious to dwell upon the journey of Philip 
 and Alice Randolph to the west. After two days of 
 equal toil and misery, they were again sailing up the 
 river. 
 
 Philip was permitted to be with his sister, and if 
 aught could have diminished the weight of the burden 
 which oppressed him, his heart had felt lighter and 
 less bereaved when he saw Alice gradually reviving 
 from the effects of the terrible blow which had fallen 
 upon her with the suddenness of a thunderbolt. Al- 
 ice was too young to cherish sorrow ; she naturally 
 banished it from her heart as an unwelcome guest 
 who would mar all the enjoyment she so loved, and 
 she was too ignorant of the perils to which she was 
 exposed to anticipate evil of any kind. She often 
 turned to her brother with the animation of renewed 
 hope beaming in her bright countenance, and besought 
 him to cheer up, for she was sure Ralph Giles or 
 father would soon rorae after them, and take them 
 home again. She had lost her terror at their fero- 
 cious captors, and found herself an acceptable com- 
 panion to those who had probably children at home ; 
 and being permitted the use of a paddle whenever she 
 pleased, she amused her many idle moments in learn- 
 ing to row and manage the canoe. 
 
 Early one afternoon they landed, and the canoes 
 were drawn ashore as if no further use were to be 
 made of them. Alice was again elevated on the 
 
46 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 shoulder of an Indian, and the party commenced an 
 inland journey. They followed the course of the 
 river on a high level above its banks as far as the path 
 admitted, and then struck off in a northerly direction, 
 their route lying across an undulating plain rather 
 savannah, intersected by many tracks, which, from 
 their appearance, had been frequently trodden of late. 
 The savages walked less regularly, and with the care- 
 less manner of those who have ridden themselves of 
 an irksome restraint not to he resumed if possible; and 
 even the habitual dignity of Indian reserve seemed to 
 have been thrown aside, or, replaced by exultation at 
 their anticipated triumph when they should return to 
 their villages with the news of their glorious victory 
 over the defenceless pale face, and exhibit the won- 
 drous beings whom they had made captives. At a 
 late hour they encamped for the last time, and some 
 of the party commenced the operation of painting 
 afresh and decorating their persons with the spoils of 
 the ravaged settlement. 
 
 Morning returned, and with it new trials for the 
 captives. They commenced their march, however, 
 and on the way Philip sought to calm his fears of 
 future evil by firm and composed reflection. He 
 thought it useless to anticipate sorrow by suffering in 
 imagination what might in the good providence of 
 God be averted ; and bidding Alice take heart and be 
 cheerful, he followed his captors with as much alac- 
 rity as if he were returning home to his friends and 
 family. 
 
 They ascended a hill which gradually became so 
 steep and difficult that Philip conjectured they must 
 now be upon one of the Blue Ridge, those azure- 
 colored mountains which he had seen from the river. 
 The fatigue of ascending depressed him, and weaken- 
 ed by previous suffering of mind and exposure to hard- 
 ships he had never before encountered, he found his 
 strength greatly diminish. Thus they proceeded till 
 after a toilsome walk of a few hours the party halted, 
 and a young man, who seemed to be their leader, took 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 47 
 
 the prisoners under his care. He was fierce-looking, 
 and had a most malignant expression in his eye, 
 though, as he scanned the manly proportions of Phil- 
 ip, it relaxed into one of approval and admiration. 
 After he had despatched one or two of his party as 
 heralds to announce their approach, he set forward 
 with the rest, and as they now began to descend the 
 hill, their progress was rapid. They were apparently 
 entering one of the green and secluded valleys of the 
 west of Virginia. The side of the hill was covered 
 with rhododendrons and other flowering shrubs ; and 
 the smoke of a neighboring village was plainly seen 
 rising from the woods already bursting into leaf, and 
 a fair clear stream flowed through the vale at a little 
 distance from their dwellings. Several huts of rude 
 construction were scattered among the trees or in the 
 midst of green and open glades with which the plain 
 was interspersed. 
 
 Philip was much interested in looking for the first 
 time upon an Indian village, and felt surprised at the 
 general air of neatness and comfort it presented. He 
 had often thought, with more romance than reason, 
 that a woodland life would surely prove a happy one, 
 and that savages had many advantages over the civil- 
 ized world in the primitive simplicity of their mode 
 of living, and in the few wants with which they were 
 acquainted. He now felt differently. A transient 
 curiosity yielded to the dread of unknown trials, and 
 the dangers of his situation returned to his recollec- 
 tion. He knew not the character of the tribe whose 
 habitations were now in sight ; but, from all he had 
 lately witnessed, he could only suppose them to be as 
 barbarous as other savage people. And what treat- 
 ment could he expect from their hands more merciful 
 or humane than their usual mode of dealing with their 
 prisoners ? Philip would have felt it difficult to look 
 calm had he not glanced at Alice, whose blanched 
 cheek betrayed the fear with which she regarded her 
 present conductor, who had placed her upon the 
 ground, and was rather dragging than leading her, as 
 
48 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 he strode along with triumphant pace to the village. 
 The sight of her fear, recalled Philip to his present 
 duty, and he was enabled to walk in the steps of his 
 captor with an air of dauntless firmness that could not 
 fail to attract his notice and win his approbation. 
 
 The savages raised their war-song. It was a low 
 irregular chant, without melody or harmony, re- 
 markable only for its uncouth monotony. In response, 
 a cry was heard ; and then came rushing from the 
 wood a crowd of children to hail the return of the 
 war party. As they proceeded they were met by the 
 old men and women of the tribe ; for most of the 
 warriors were absent, and no others remained to wel- 
 come the victors. Great seemed to be the joy of the 
 whole village at the sight of the two captives. Even 
 the gravity and dignity of the old men gave way to an 
 uncontrollable expression of wonder at the complex- 
 son and attire of the young strangers. Alice was 
 regarded as a being of higher skies : they did not 
 approach her, but gazed upon her fairy figure and 
 long golden ringlets with something of awe and ador- 
 ation. Alice's countenance was usually mirthful, and 
 her eyes arch and roguish; but now she trembled, 
 and seemed to shrink within herself from their rude 
 and alarming stare. Philip made unceasing efforts to 
 occupy her attention, talking to and encouraging her, 
 and telling her what she was to do if they were sep- 
 arated. 
 
 When they had made the round of the village, they 
 reached a large building in the centre, constructed of 
 logs, more neatly put together than the huts, which 
 were chiefly made of poles covered with bark and clay. 
 In this lodge the old men sat to deliberate upon the 
 fate of their prisoners, for the warriors led in their 
 captives to stand before them. 
 
 Philip threw his arm fondly around Alice, who 
 began to cry and sob, for she could not look upon her 
 judges without terror, and clung to her brother as if 
 safety were only to be found with him. It was, 
 therefore, a hard trial to poor Philip when she was 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 49 
 
 taken from him and given up to some women, who, 
 however, received her with kindness, and in whose 
 hearts better feelings seemed stirring at sight of her 
 grief. But for him was reserved another fate. After 
 a few moments deliberation and scrutiny, he was led 
 away to a space before the council lodge and bound 
 to a tall stake ; and before he could recover from his 
 surprise at this sudden proceeding, he was surrounded 
 by a crowd of boys. Hooting and yelling at him, 
 they assailed their defenceless victim with sundry 
 missiles ; but presence of mind did not forsake him — 
 he retained his firm demeanor, though his heart beat 
 fearfully. After indulging their malice for a while in 
 this manner, they withdrew to a distance, and, taking 
 their bows and arrows, made him a mark for practice. 
 Had they been more expert, his sufferings had soon 
 ended ; but as yet their arrows passed him harmlessly. 
 At length an elder boy, who grew impatient that the 
 sport should be so dull, took better aim and shot him 
 in the arm : the pain was extreme, and the blood be- 
 gan to flow. The prisoner, already exhausted by 
 fatigue and anxiety, sickened at the sight which 
 brought with it so many associations of horror to his 
 recollection, and, ere the shout of savage triumph had 
 passed away, he drooped fainting at the stake, and his 
 tormentor, who had greatly admired the brave bearing 
 of the white boy, was the first to fly to his aid, and 
 with his own knife cut the bonds that bound him. 
 Philip sank to the ground perfectly insensible, and in 
 this state was carried into a hut appropriated for pris- 
 oners. As they intended to try his courage another 
 day, the young savages left him to the care of an old 
 woman, who set about recovering him from his swoon. 
 5 
 
60 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The morning light penetrating the chunks of his 
 rude prison, aroused the sleeping Philip, who, after a 
 restless slumber, awoke to realize the danger and 
 dreariness of his situation. It was not immediately 
 on first opening his eyes that he recognised his posi- 
 tion, or the strange character of the place in which 
 he lay ; but as soon as consciousness returned, he 
 sprang from the mat, and threw himself upon his 
 knees in earnest prayer. Life was still precious to 
 him; its instincts warm within him, and the thought 
 of the peril to which he was exposed, as a captive 
 among savages, was almost too horrible to be borne : 
 yet Philip knew it was still in the power of God to 
 save him, and he prayed for deliverance in the first 
 thrilling moments of his terror. He was afraid and 
 unmanned by the anticipation of torture, and wept and 
 wrung his hands, and implored the protection of his 
 Heavenly Father more earnestly than he had ever 
 done in his life ; but soon this paroxysm of fear sub- 
 sided, and he became gradually calmer. He commit- 
 ted himself, his fears, his perils, his life, and death, to 
 the keeping of Him who could order all things well; 
 and he arose from his knees in strength and in spirit, 
 and almost content with his lot. 
 
 In this temper, and outwardly calm, he was found 
 by the old squaw, who peeped in to see that all was 
 safe. He hoped that she had brought him some food, 
 but this was not the case; and he would have fared 
 very ill at her hands, but for the kindness of a young 
 woman who had visited him on the previous evening. 
 She came to see the captive, and sent one of the wo- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 51 
 
 men who attended her, to procure refreshment; and 
 she presently returned, bearing a calabash with honey 
 and corn. Philip relished his breakfast, and found it 
 invigorating. The young woman looked at his wound- 
 ed arm, then giving further directions to the squaw, 
 withdrew, and left him once more to his companion. 
 She did not trouble herself to bandage it, but after be- 
 stowing a hasty glance upon the herbs and leaves she 
 had so carefully arranged the day before, abruptly 
 quitted the hut, leaving the prisoner to his meditations. 
 The cause of this very sudden departure was soon 
 explained, for he heard loud shouts, as of triumph, 
 rending the air, and then a crowd hurried past the 
 wigwam. Philip went to the door and opened it, for 
 the squaw, in her haste, forgot to secure it. The hut 
 faced the square or centre-ground of the village, and 
 it seemed as if a multitude now thronged it. A war 
 party, just returned, were leading two prisoners in the 
 dress of the colony's service, up to the stake to which 
 Philip had been bound the day before ; and boys, 
 women, and. children, old men and youthful warriors, 
 were testifying their savage exultation at the near 
 prospect of a glorious torture. 
 
 One of the prisoners was a tall man, whose rich 
 uniform attracted the attention and covetousness of 
 the Indians, for many a hand was stretched out gree- 
 dily to snatch at the torn embroidery and gold lace 
 that so profusely adorned his crimson surcoat. His 
 bearing was bold and dauntless, though cautious and 
 watchful ; and he drew his crushed beaver over his 
 face, as it appeared, to avoid the gaze of the savage 
 multitude who were yelling at him, endeavoring by 
 their clamor to bewilder their captive, whose provo- 
 king calmness they much admired but resolved to 
 ruffle. 
 
 His companion was less in stature, and so worn and 
 feeble that it seemed scarcely possible for him to sus- 
 tain the torrent of abuse and menace that assailed 
 him. He leaned on his companion's arm in evident 
 helplessness, and drew his breath with difficulty, fre- 
 
52 PHILIP RANDOLPH. ' 
 
 quently pressing his side as if in extreme pain : but 
 with all this bodily exhaustion the countenance of the 
 prisoner was perfectly serene. Philip remarked, with 
 emotions of horror and disgust, how eagerly the sav- 
 ages fastened upon their victims. When they had 
 bound them to separate stakes, they paused for a few 
 moments to consult among themselves. The result 
 of the debate was the immediate summons to Philip 
 to join them. He was still standing with his wounded 
 arm unbound, at the door of the wigwam, and hastily 
 obeyed the messenger who was despatched to conduct 
 him to the place of torture ; but no one bound him ; 
 he was permitted to stand unmolested and almost un- 
 noticed, opposite the stakes of his countrymen. Phil- 
 ip could not bear to witness their sufferings, and turned 
 his head away ; but upon hearing his name uttered in 
 feeble accents by the exhausted prisoner, he hastily 
 advanced toward him, nor was he interrupted by the 
 bystanders. 
 
 " Oh Master Morton, I knew you not; I grieve to 
 see you here." 
 
 " Nay, grieve not, Philip, for my hours are num- 
 bered : please God, I shall not Jive long under torture. 
 1 rose from my bed of sickness to aid our suffering 
 countrymen, and was captured, as you see ; but I 
 must tell thee, while I may, the good news of thy 
 father's safety. I saw him and his family in James- 
 town on the evening of the massacre. They are in 
 no danger there." 
 
 " So, this is Henry Randolph's hope, is it?" said 
 Morton's companion. " Well, my lad, I'm sorry to 
 see thee in this case, but they'll not harm thee. No, 
 no, take my word for it, they'll make a warrior of 
 thee, and thou canst help the king and colony all in 
 good time. Hast thou a knife about thee ? for those 
 noisy imps should not hinder me if I could but cut 
 these bonds. Come nearer, boy, and do me this ser- 
 vice." 
 
 Philip's heart was in a tumult of joy and thankful- 
 ness, thus assured of the safety of those so dear to 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 53 
 
 him; but he complied with the prisoner's request, 
 and slipped a little clasp knife into his pocket so 
 adroitly as not to be detected by the savages, who 
 were busily preparing the torture tires. 
 
 " William Morton," said his companion, " if thou 
 art wise thou wilt take some of the powder I spoke 
 of, which will send thee off quickly, I warrant thee 
 on the word of a soldier ; and, therefore, 'twill only 
 serve to shorten tby sufferings, so thou wilt be better 
 off than I could have hoped for thee." 
 
 "I tell you, Captain Preston," said his companion, 
 in hoarse and broken accents, " hope is vain for both ; 
 you had far better take to prayer than indulge in any 
 scheme so delusive. Provoke not the cruelty of yon 
 savage crowd: you are helpless! Why not yield, 
 like a brave man, to the will of the Almighty ? He 
 has brought us into this strait, doubtless that we 
 should glorify Him. And as to the means you pro- 
 pose of shortening my sufferings, I should be un- 
 willing to try them ; more will not be laid upon me 
 than I can bear — God's will be done !" 
 
 Captain Preston answered sternly, " I have given 
 you my best advice, Master Morton, and since you 
 reject it, I must fain follow my own, and make a push 
 for myself; but for the sake of this boy, I could wish 
 to know the tribe of these tawneys. Yet harkee, lad, 
 wilt take thy chance and run for it ? Come, a few 
 good blows at these urchins and we'll clear these 
 woods in no time. Follow me, boy, if thou lovest 
 freedom." 
 
 "I have a little captive sister, and I can not leave 
 her," replied Philip, calmly retiring from the spot to 
 a little distance, to avoid the crowd of boys and chil- 
 dren who were heaping fuel and rubbish around the 
 pile. Captain Preston looked on warily from under 
 the slouching front of his beaver, and perceived that 
 the elders and warriors were about to withdraw for 
 their weapons of torture, and felt well assured that no 
 gentle death of mercy was in store for him. He 
 stood still, apparently unheeding the yells and insults 
 5* 
 
54 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 of his young tormentors ; but he had contrived to free 
 himself from the withes that bound him, and snatch- 
 ing a hatchet from the nearest foe, sprang over the 
 mass of wood and straw so busily collecting around 
 him, ran toward the river, and instantly disappeared. 
 
 The boys were so astonished by this unexpected 
 movement, that they were at first unable to commu- 
 nicate the intelligence ; but ere five minutes had 
 elapsed, the whole village was in commotion, and the 
 warriors all in suspense. The feat was so daring and 
 unforeseen, and its accomplishment so rapid, that they 
 were lost in amazement at the subtlety and courage 
 of their foe ; regarding him as one whose powers of 
 head and limb far surpassed any they could have con- 
 ceived it possible for a white man to possess. In the 
 sight of their women and children, just as they were 
 returning with their weapons of torture and destruc- 
 tion, he had contrived to effect his escape. However, 
 they did not remain inactive. Men, boys, and war- 
 riors, set off in pursuit, and when Philip observed the 
 speed at which they ran, and how they took different 
 sides of the wood that lay between the village and the 
 hill, he trembled for Captain Preston. All he could 
 hope was, that he would use the greatest prudence in 
 his flight ; and when he remembered the reputation 
 of that officer as so well skilled in Indian tactics, he 
 trusted that he might yet escape. 
 
 For more than two hours did the other prisoner 
 linger at the stake unharmed by the rest of the sava- 
 ges. He was fast drooping, and Philip's heart yearned 
 toward him with compassionate interest, that he drew 
 near to speak a few words of comfort to his departing 
 spirit. The dying man regarded him gratefully, and 
 after many efforts, murmured a few words, interrupted 
 by frequentsighs and violent coughing, which seemed 
 to shake every bone in his frail body: his bound arms 
 struggled for a moment, but he had not strength to 
 break the fetters that confined his hands. Philip 
 could not bear to see him in this posture, and regard- 
 less of all that might befall, rushed to his side, and 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 55 
 
 gently taking his head between his hands supported 
 him, whispering a few texts in his ear. The savages 
 did not prevent him. Their eyes were eagerly fixed 
 upon the woods, from which their companions were 
 just issuing, with rage and disappointment depicted 
 upon their countenances ; for Captain Preston was 
 not to be seen, and their pursuit had been unsuccess- 
 ful. 
 
 They turned with menacing gestures toward their 
 remaining captive. Philip rejoiced at heart that they 
 would exert their vengeance vainly. He held the 
 dying Morton's head, and having broken a few of his 
 cramping fetters, he felt that every breath he drew 
 became more feeble. When they came up with tom- 
 ahawk and hatchet unsheathed and uplifted, he pointed 
 expressively to the closed eyes and rigidly-set features 
 of their intended victim. They gazed in mute aston J 
 ishment one instant, and then set up a howl of min- 
 gled despair and rage. They glanced at Philip, and 
 a few hasty w T ords were exchanged between the fore- 
 most of the party, two ferocious-looking savages, who 
 appeared to dispute some matter in which he was con- 
 cerned. The contest grew loud, and another advanced, 
 whose dignified demeanor announced him as a chief 
 He laid his iron-grasp upon Philip's shoulder, and 
 turned to address his companions. His language was 
 not understood by his captive, but Philip saw that its 
 effect was to make them all more fierce. Their regret 
 and anger were so great at losing their other victims, 
 that they thirsted for his blood. A. hundred knives 
 gleamed in the air, and they all thronged around him, 
 each snatching at some article of dress, and merci- 
 lessly tearing the sleeve from his wounded arm, left 
 him half destitute of clothing, and exposed to all their 
 relentless vengeance. Philip still clung to life, and in 
 this moment of peril thought of all or of anything he 
 might do to save it. The name of Oneyda flashed 
 across his mind, and he thought of the wampum belt 
 presented by the stranger Indian on the morning of 
 his departure from their dwelling With the urgency 
 
56 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 of one whose life is indeed at stake, he drew the cu- 
 riously-wrought band from the pocket of his jerkin, 
 not yet rifled by the greedy hands around him, and 
 holding it up, called loudly upon the name of Oneyda. 
 There was a long and portentous silence. Every 
 brow grew darker, but not a hand was stirred, and 
 Philip felt the tiger-like grasp of the savage relax: he 
 was free at length, and stepped forth boldly into the 
 circle of old men, holding up the belt to their view. 
 They looked gravely at one another, and addressed a 
 few words to the warriors, who lowered their shining 
 weapons; but murmurs still went round the assem- 
 bly, and Philip saw that he had yet much to dread 
 from their dangerous vicinity. But a friend appeared 
 in this moment of suspense and apprehension. To 
 Jie yells of rage and murmurs of disappointed ven- 
 eance, suceeded shouts of triumph and of rapturous 
 
 jpy- 
 
 Another war party entered the village, laden with 
 spoils and trophies of their barbarous victory over the 
 detested Yengees. The warrior in advance appeared 
 to be their leader ; for his dress was rich, and for an 
 Indian chief, almost magnificent. The skin which 
 composed his frock or hunting-shirt, was emblazoned 
 with various hieroglyphics, probably the history of his 
 own exploits in war: he wore many rude ornaments 
 of the precious metals, and a large plume of eagle's 
 feathers nodded over his dark but handsome features. 
 Philip could not think himself mistaken : he had seen 
 that majestic figure before, and knew it could be none 
 other than Oneyda. The chief was greeted with ex- 
 traordinary manifestations of joy, and even the old 
 men quitted their stations to do him homage. The 
 women held up their little ones to behold him; and 
 the young men and boys approached eagerly, and as 
 near as they dared to the spot where he stood. The 
 captive was soon summoned to the presence of the 
 great warrior, who scarcely returned his courteous 
 salutation, but instantly laying his hand upon his 
 shoulder, Oneyda addressed the surrounding crowd in 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 57 
 
 rapid but singularly musical language. It seemed to 
 carry persuasion with it ; for every countenance be- 
 came calm, every knife was sheathed, and every hatch- 
 et thrown to the eanh; not a murmur was uttered, 
 but all stood attentively listening, and in attitudes of 
 submission and respect. Philip was surprised at the 
 extraordinary change produced in those around him : 
 a few words from this stranger had stilled their tur- 
 bulent spirits, and transformed these resentful savages 
 into the tractable subjects of a despotic chief. Oney- 
 da concluded his oration by baring his wounded limb, 
 and displaying the scar which was still visible. This 
 last appeal was unanswerable, and its eloquence reach- 
 ed the best feelings of his auditors. They extended 
 their hands to Philip, and endeavored to show him 
 how much they approved his conduct ; and their grat- 
 itude was as troublesome as their rage had been im- 
 portunate. He shrank back from their rude atten- 
 tions, and, passing his arm hastily through that of his 
 deliverer, said earnestly, " Oneyda, take me to your 
 wigwam; I am weary ; let us go !" 
 
 The chief complied, and the crowd divided to let 
 them pass. On their way Philip stopped before the 
 lifeless body of William Morton. He turned to 
 Oneyda, and summoned resolution to request that it 
 might be buried. A dark shade passed over the brow 
 of the Indian as he replied haughtily, and in better 
 English than he had condescended to use in the 
 dwelling of Henry Randolph: — 
 
 " My young men are the children of the eagle ; 
 they must have their prey ; they hold fast ; they never 
 give back. The son of the pale face shall come to 
 Oneyda's wigwam, and he will forget the dead dog 
 that dies at the torture-stake." 
 
 Oneyda's wigwam was the largest in the village, 
 and contained four or five apartments, all constructed 
 and arranged with greater regard to neatness and cora- 
 forLtnan was usual among the Indians of the west. 
 The young woman who had visited Philip in the hut 
 was sitting upon a richly-dressed mat upon the floor 
 
58 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 When they entered she instantly arose with gladness 
 and delight in her eyes, and yet timidly advanced to 
 greet her husband, who, like others of his race, hardly 
 condescended to notice his wife, and carelessly throw- 
 ing off the weapons that encumbered him, and pre- 
 senting her with the surplus ornaments he had taken 
 from the ravaged settlements, turned away to look for 
 his companion, who had made his way to another 
 apartment, and was now standing with his little sister 
 clinging to his neck crying aloud for joy. Philip had 
 caught a glimpse of Alice upon entering the wigwam, 
 and rushed forward, calling her by name, to announce 
 his approach. She was playing with an Indian baby, 
 whose swarthy fingers were busily travelling through 
 her long bright hair, and very much pleased did she 
 appear with her plaything. However, when she 
 heard her brother's voice, down rolled the baby on the 
 floor, and regardless of its screaming, she flew into 
 his arms and almost strangled him in her embrace. 
 She was for some moments quite overcome with ec- 
 stacy and surprise ; but when she found voice to speak, 
 she poured forth such a mingled strain of joy at pres- 
 ent happiness, and misery endured in his absence, 
 that Philip, smiling, bade her be silent awhde and tell 
 him all by-and-by when she had recovered breath. 
 Alice was indeed supremely happy while looking into 
 his face and safely sheltered in his arms. She thought 
 of nothing but the present felicity, and was only re- 
 called to other recollections by the appearance of the 
 ^hief, who came to take up the crying infant, soon 
 ^: soothed by his father's caresses. 
 
 " Oh, Philip, I dare say that Indian man is that 
 kind woman's husband. Dost thou kpow she sang 
 me to sleep, and gave me the baby to play with ? and 
 I dare say she'll coax him to let us go'.'* 
 
 " Do you remember giving that man some of your 
 porridge ? He slept in our barn, and you played with 
 him at breakfast." 
 
 " Oh, that's the man !" cried Alice ; " then I'm sure 
 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH- 59 
 
 he'll be kind to us. Dost thirfk he will speak to me, 
 Philip?" 
 
 "Certainly; come with me and talk to him." So 
 saying, he led her into the presence of the chief, who 
 smiled as she gave him her hand, and patting her upon 
 the head as he would have caressed a dog, bade her be 
 seated upon a mat at his feet. At a sign from her 
 husband, the young woman brought out the best pro- 
 vision of her simple larder, and sat them before their 
 guest. The grateful Oneyda seemed bent upon show- 
 ing him their Indian hospitality, and urgently pressed 
 him to eat much ; but Philip could scarcely taste the 
 food so warmly commended — not being able to relish 
 the mess of corn, vegetable, hommony, and venison, 
 which Oneyda piled upon his platter. He observed 
 with surprise that knives and spoons of English manu- 
 facture were offered him, and his manner of using 
 them occasioned astonishment to the squaw, who re- 
 garded him with looks of interest and curiosity. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Months passed away, and the summer had reached 
 *s prime, and the trees of the forest were thick and 
 sheltering, but their hues were changing fast, and 
 nothing could be more beautiful than their rich and 
 varied coloring. The days were still warm, but the 
 mornings were bracing, and evening came with its 
 cool breezes to refresh the weary brow of Philip — 
 wearied of a life of comparative idleness, and sad at 
 heart under his long captivity. He felt it a present 
 duty to appear reconciled to circumstances, as Alice 
 was as much concerned in the result as himself. She 
 had discovered her importance among her savage play- 
 fellows, and had little difficulty in tutoring them to 
 her will, in all sorts of games and pastimes. She had 
 
00 PHfLIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 a particular pleasure ir? being the object of their admi- 
 tion, as she frequently stood at the door of Oneyda's 
 wigwam, with the baby in her arms, receiving their 
 homage with the most unembarrassed gratification. 
 But her affection for Philip was more influential than 
 any other feeling of her heart over her conduct and 
 Lemper ; and as he dreaded the effect of such associa- 
 tion upon her impressible character, it was his con- 
 stant endeavor to attract her by the pleasure of his 
 own society from theirs : and Alice loved him too well 
 not to come readily when he called her to the wo'ods 
 or to the river-side. Early every morning he took 
 her aside to say her prayers, and to repeat Scripture, 
 but the keeping of the sabbath was more difficult to 
 accomplish. He frequently repeated to her upon that 
 day the impressive command, " Remember the sab- 
 bath day to keep it holy ;" and led her into the wood 
 co pray and sing psalms. His memory furnished him 
 with many precious stores from the Bible, and he 
 carefully instructed his little sister in all that he him- 
 self remembered. Thus the sabbaths were felt to be 
 happy days among the monotony and restraint passed 
 in the village. Philip became a favorite with all: the 
 men felt flattered by his respect and attention to them, 
 and by his earnest endeavors to learn their language ; 
 and the warriors and young men of the tribe admired 
 the readiness with which he learned to manage their 
 weapons. The women liked him, because he was so 
 kind and obliging to them, performing many little of- 
 fices of domestic drudgery which their husbands and 
 sons never condescended to do for them. Though 
 the arrangements of Oneyda's wigwam were superior 
 to those of any other in the village, and adorned with 
 the spoil of many a ravaged settlement, the uses of 
 these articles of furniture and clothing were not un- 
 derstood by himself or his young wife, who, though 
 attended on some occasions by ail the rude pomp of 
 savage rank, was obliged to perform the greater part 
 of her household work, though her dignity exempted 
 her from the more fatiguing labors of the field and 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 61 
 
 plantation. Philip taught her to dispose of the wood- 
 en chairs and settles — some of them well carved and 
 polished — which had been strangely transported to 
 the wigwam of an Indian chief; and the various im- 
 provements he made were so acceptable to the squaw, 
 that she treated him with great kindness, and present- 
 ed him several articles of clothing for himself and 
 Alice. 
 
 The weather became so sultry, as the summer ad- 
 vanced, that Philip found his cloth dress unbearable, 
 and had thrown it off, though he had nothing to sup- 
 ply its place but the light hunting-shirt of the savages, 
 which did not accord very well with his dark hose 
 and doubtlet. The first day he appeared in this mot- 
 ley attire before Alice, she laughed heartily, and was 
 very sure mother would not have known her neat boy, 
 as she always called him. Oneyda, who was present, 
 took occasion to recommend a still greater transforma-, 
 tion, which was nothing less than to metamorphose 
 Philip into a young warrior. " My son is a brave ; he 
 has the heart of an eagle under his pale skin ; he shall 
 wear the paint of my young men, and lead in the 
 hunting-grounds of the Wyannows ; the sun of the 
 red man is hot, it warms him more than the white 
 man's sun ; Philip shall look as brave as he is." 
 
 Poor Philip was most unwilling either to look or 
 act the part of a brave, but the chief would take no 
 refusal, and upon this occasion manifested the high 
 and resolved tone of command which he had before 
 used to rescue his -protege from ^e thirsty knives of 
 his warriors. His will was law, ana i, j did not conde- 
 scend to express it twice. With his own hands he 
 painted and dressed Philip, who was so disguised that 
 even Alice would not have recognised him, but for the 
 *hick clustering curls which adorned his ample fore- 
 heau, and mc pieasanr voice 01 wnich ne always ad- 
 dressed her. He had lost the long shining locks which 
 his mother had thought so beautiful, but would not 
 permit Oneyda to shave his head. He was the more 
 reconciled to the change in his attire, from finding it 
 6 
 
62 PHrLIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 lighter and cooler than his cloth jerkin, and his limbs 
 were more free. Altogether, the effect was so good 
 that he found himself an object of much admiration to 
 the Indians ; and if their compliments could have 
 atoned for his captivity, Philip had felt happier on 
 that day than he had done for three months past : but 
 as he folded up his rejected attire, he could not for- 
 bear sighing deeply, and acknowledged that now he 
 had filled up the measure of his misfortunes, and made 
 himself more than ever their prisoner, by thus assimi- 
 lating his external condition to theirs. Yet, upon 
 calmer reflection, he felt a degree of solid consolation 
 in the recollection, that, though in appearance he 
 might be as savage as his captors, his inward being 
 was stamped with a different impress, as distinguish- 
 ing as light from darkness. As Philip drew the con- 
 trast between his own character and attainments and 
 those of his present associates, his heart relented of 
 many of its proud and seif-gratulating thoughts, and 
 he became humbled under a deep sense of his own 
 responsibility. Having been blessed with so many and 
 great advantages, it was his duty to regard their defi- 
 ciencies charitably, and also to endeavor to lead them 
 to a better and safer mode of life. But was it possible 
 for him — a helpless prisoner, ignorant of their lan- 
 guage, and detesting their customs — to effect anything 
 for their permanent good ? If such might be the re- 
 sult, he should never regret having been torn from 
 home and kindred ; and the suggestion infused new 
 energy into his mind. He resolved to cultivate every 
 occasion that should present itself to this end, and 
 went forth from the wigwam of Oneyda to mingle in 
 the sports of his young companions, with the calm 
 and settled purpose of a benevolent heart. 
 
 In pursuance of his intention to gain information of 
 Indian life and customs, Philip went much among 
 them, and was always treated kindly by the people of 
 the village, who regarded the protege of their powerful, 
 chief as a friend, and one to whom they were bound 
 to pay the most hospitable attention. In many of 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 63 
 
 these visits Alice accompanied him, for he liked to 
 hear her simple and often acute remarks upon all she 
 saw in the strange scenes to which he introduced her. 
 One evening about sunset, they heard mournful cries 
 from a number of women collected at the door of a 
 hut, and Philip stopped to inquire the cause. They 
 made way for him to pass, but he bade Alice wait for 
 him while he went on to ascertain the cause of such 
 distress. A young man, apparently in the last stage 
 of consumption, and almost insensible, lay upon a 
 mat ; two conjurers were exercising all their arts to 
 recall him, and as these consisted chiefly in shaking 
 over the prostrate sufferer a variety of charmed snake- 
 skins and bear-skins, Philip much feared that suffoca- 
 tion would be the speedy result. The patient was 
 passive from weakness or insensibility, but his long- 
 drawn respirations attested his struggles and need of 
 fresh air. While his tormentors were performing 
 their antics, his aged father and brothers stood upright 
 against the rude wall of the wigwam with fixed and 
 resolute countenances, their feet close together, and 
 their arms folded. The eye of the old man alone be- 
 tokened sense or emotion betraying the inward strife 
 of nature with stoicism : it glanced restlessly from his 
 dying son to the conjurers, as if to chide their mock- 
 ery or want of skill, but he spoke not. Philip gazed 
 compassionately upon all, and turned sadly away, 
 aware of his inability to relieve or prevent the catas- 
 trophe so speedily approaching. 
 
 He led Alice from the spot, and hastened to Oney- 
 da's dwelling. The following morning, when Philip 
 entered the wigwam to breakfast, he found Oneyda 
 busily engaged in painting a number of black and 
 white lines upon his arms and legs ; his plume was 
 resumed, and an attendant Indian presented him with 
 two or three additional black feathers, and assisted his 
 . chief in the disposition of a few of his arms, some of 
 "which, being of English manufacture, neither of them 
 knew how to wear. However, when his toilet was 
 completed, Oneyda looked and moved a savage, and 
 
64 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 Philip could not glance at him without a shudder. 
 The chief explained that they were about to bury a 
 warrior, and gave orders to his attendant to draw the 
 same lines upon Philip, who did not venture to re- 
 fuse ; and as the process was shorter, he was soon re- 
 leased. When their morning meal was concluded, he 
 accompanied Oneyda to the burial-ground which he 
 had visited on the preceding evening. 
 
 Many warriors were already assembled, and the 
 chief took the place of honor among them. The old 
 men stood with downcast looks, awaiting the arrival 
 of the dead. At length a mournful train appeared : 
 the body of the young man Philip had visited lay upon 
 a bier, borne by six of the stoutest youths ; his broth- 
 ers followed, but not with the step of mourners ; they 
 walked firmly and erect, without paint or weapons, 
 but as proudly as if they were accompanying some 
 triumphal procession rather than the body of a broth- 
 er to an early grave. The father had already taken 
 his post among the group of old men, undistinguished 
 from them by any outward mark of sorrow ; but as 
 the young men sat down the bier, he gazed fixedly 
 upon the countenance of the dead. Worn by suffer- 
 ing, and emaciated by disease, the shrunk and wasted 
 form contrasted sadly with the arms and ornaments 
 which so profusely decked its rigid limbs, and seemed 
 but the mockery of life in death. But now a party 
 of girls approached, strewing flowers fresh gathered 
 from the hillside, spangled with the dew of early 
 morning, and scattering them abundantly upon the 
 bier and corpse. One of them addressed the dead 
 warrior as if entreating him to return : she tore her 
 long black hair, and clasped her hands, and wept and 
 screamed in her frantic energy ; then, as if upbraiding 
 him for his silence, turned away with a haughty air 
 and flashing eye. Again she approached, and again 
 bent over him, addressed to his lifeless ear tones of 
 exquisite tenderness, and seemed to entreat his return 
 with the gentleness of most patient affection ; then, as 
 if she had found all unavailing, she drew back and re- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 65 
 
 joined her companions : they commenced a chant, in 
 which the praises of the youthful warrior were sung — 
 his swiftness in the race, his skill in the hunt, his 
 valor in the fight, and his vengeance at the torture- 
 stake. 
 
 Oneyda next addressed the assembly. His manner 
 was by no means so urgent as when he pleaded for 
 Philip's safety ; and after speaking for a short time in 
 a cold and monotonous strain, he returned to his 
 place. All eyes were now turned to the father of the 
 young man, who answered the appeal by slowly quit- 
 ting his station among the elders of the tribe, and tot- 
 tered rather than walked to the foot of the bier. He 
 regarded the inanimate face of his son for some mo- 
 ments earnestly and in silence : the muscles of his 
 throat were seen to work convulsively, as if essaying 
 to do their office, but in vain ; and he bent forward 
 from momentary weakness; but however powerful 
 might be the pleadings of natural grief within the fa- 
 ther's heart, the stern requirements of a barbarous cus- 
 tom prevailed. It was his duty to relate the actions 
 of his son — of the wounds he had received in battle, 
 of the scalps he had won, of the captives he had made, 
 of the scars he had brought home, and how long he 
 had struggled with death. The old man found voice 
 for all this, and went through the recital unhesitating- 
 ly till he came to the farewell address, which the fu- 
 neral rites prescribed as the best dismissal of the dead 
 to his new and last abode. Then his voice faltered, 
 gradually losing its power and pathos till it reached a 
 faint shrillness, when, at length totally overcome by 
 emotion, the aged and heart-broken father abruptly 
 buried his face in his mantle and retired. 
 
66 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 How sad was Philip to lose the sunny days of au- 
 tumn, the rich bright coloring of the woods, and the 
 balmy air of the Indian summer! How would he lin- 
 ger in an evening with Alice by his side upon the 
 banks of the stream, and watch the sun set — to mark 
 every cloud that moved across the gorgeous sky, clus- 
 tering at length in such brilliant masses round the 
 west ! Some youths of his age would have worn 
 themselves out in vain repinings and discontent ; but, 
 though Philip yearned for the rest of heaven, he 
 blamed himself for desiring anything which it was 
 manifestly not the will of God that he should have ; 
 and, with the help of God, he determined to submit 
 cheerfully and resignedly to all that might befall him. 
 He returned to the wigwam on the evening of his 
 seventeenth birthday, after such reflections as these, 
 strengthened for duty, and comforted in mind, though 
 the day had commenced sadly, bringing with it so 
 many dear associations of his home and parents, and 
 the fond recollection of his mother in particular, 
 whose kind voice had always greeted him on awaking 
 with words of love and solicitude. 
 
 But thoughts of home were to be banished by a 
 hunt, and Philip anticipated a degree of pleasure from 
 change of scene and occupation, as Oneyda had in- 
 vited him to accompany them in their intended excur- 
 sion to the prairies. On setting out, Philip gave 
 Alice a strict charge to devote herself to the baby and 
 Meeahmee, which she promised to do ; and though 
 she looked pensive for a few seconds after receiving 
 his parting kiss, when he looked back he saw her 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 67 
 
 laughing merrily at his expense ; for, it must be con- 
 fessed, Philip's attire rendered his whole appearance 
 rather grotesque. He answered her laugh by a smile 
 and wave of the hand, and was soon lost to sight, 
 though she stood looking toward the wood into which 
 the party had plunged with the eager activity of men 
 who are just commencing an agreeable expedition. 
 
 The party consisted of fifteen or twenty persons, 
 and each was provided with arrows and long spears 
 pointed with flint, more than one pair of moccasins, 
 and a quantity of parched corn. The chief talked 
 much to his followers, laying aside his usual dignity 
 of demeanor for the familiar tone and manner of a 
 companion. Nothing could be more musical than 
 his laughter, or more animated than his countenance 
 in conversation, or more playful than his sallies, 
 which were received with undisguised raptures by the 
 rest, who seemed delighted to converse thus freely 
 with their leader, and threw aside all their reserve 
 and indifference, though none stepped beyond the 
 line of deference so strongly defined by their relative 
 stations. Philip had often heard of the obedience of 
 the Indian tribes to their sachems and wise men, but 
 he felt much surprise at the invariable submission 
 manifested by the Wyannows for their chief, resem- 
 bling rather the tutored deference of courtiers than 
 the discipline of native warriors. Oneyda's manner 
 had also on many occasions indicated the conscious- 
 ness of power with the tone and spirit of a despot. 
 He was certainly of high rank, and Philip was curi- 
 ous to know his real position and office, and especially 
 his relations with English Virginia. 
 
 They marched westward and pursued the course 
 of the stream, keeping upon its wooded banks as long 
 as the path permitted ; gradually, however, the trees 
 thickened on both sides, and they went farther into 
 the forest ; but Philip had yet to learn the wandering 
 and capricious plan of an Indian journey. They 
 were not long in the wood, but emerged from it rather 
 suddenly by a by-path upon the banks of a river 
 
68 PHTLTP RANDOLPH. 
 
 whose current was so rapid that Philip could not sup- 
 pose it to be the same as that they had just quitted 
 Here the party lowered the bark canoes which they 
 had borne upon their shoulders, and launched them ; 
 two entered at a time into each boat, and Oneyda 
 beckoned to Philip to come with him. The invita- 
 tion was gladly accepted, though he felt some alarm 
 upon rinding himself for the first time in such a mere 
 cockle-shell; but slight as these rude barks appeared, 
 they skimmed over the surface of the turbulent wa- 
 ters, to which they were better suited than boats of 
 heavier construction. They flew with extraordinary 
 swiftness, and a few strokes of One} r da*s arm impelled 
 his canoe with a velocity which carried it far ahead 
 of its companions. 
 
 The chief looked inquiringly into his protege's 
 face, as if to ascertain what he thought of his novel 
 position; and it was so new that Philip could not 
 conceal the emotions of surprise and apprehension 
 which it occasioned ; but these feelings changed to 
 awe and admiration at the scenery which presented 
 itself at every turn. The canoes bounded lightly over 
 the small cataracts that sparkled in their way, until 
 they approached the head of a rapid. Oneyda rose 
 and guided the boat skilfully to the top of the fall, 
 then, suddenly sinking, grasped its sides, and in an in- 
 stant they were precipitated. The little vessel soon 
 regained its equilibrium and the chief resumed his 
 oar. Philip was much surprised as he measured the 
 height of the rapid, and it alarmed him more to see 
 the canoes in their wake falling with such amazing 
 rapidity down the same descent. Oneyda was too 
 busy guiding and managing his canoe to talk to his 
 companion, but at length, when the chief paused in 
 his exertions, Philip ventured to ask him a few ques- 
 tions respecting the country and the people to whom 
 it belonged. 
 
 Oneyda's lip curled at the latter inquiry, and his 
 gaze dwelt proudly upon the magnificent scene, as he 
 replied : ** The land of the sun is the land of the red 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 69 
 
 man ; my fathers hunted from the great salt lake to 
 the place where night is; they followed the chase 
 from the shores of the big river to the hills where the 
 sun sleeps, every night: and their children are free; 
 they kill the deer in the woods, where the pale-face 
 dwells, and the buffaloes on the prairies ; and none 
 say the land is mine. Why does my son ask if the 
 land is ours? we hunt where we will." 
 
 " You sold your land to the white man, did you not ?" 
 
 Oneyda answered in a tone of disdain : " Our fathers 
 never lived long by the shores of the salt lake, for they 
 loved not those flat shores ; they were warriors and 
 hunters, and left their land to the pale-face ; their 
 heart was in the forest and on the prairies ; Oneyda 
 never took their presents." 
 
 Philip saw plainly that the Indian would scorn to 
 acknowledge any obligation between his race and the 
 pale-face; he therefore changed the subject. The 
 chief seemed pleased with the courtesy, and gave 
 various rude sketches of the history of his people, 
 though the language was often so figurative as to be 
 totally incomprehensible. But Oneyda was gratified 
 at the interest of his young friend, and cordiality and 
 intimacy were gradually ripening into confidence and 
 affection. 
 
 Encouraged by Oneyda's affability, Philip ventured 
 to say, " Oneyda, were you of the party that destroyed 
 my home and drove my father from his dwelling?" 
 
 The Indian turned his head haughtily away like 
 one who was not accustomed to be interrogated ; but 
 Philip remarked that his breast seemed heaving with 
 irrepressible emotion, and it was some moments ere 
 he replied, in a tone of sadness and with an air of in- 
 jured dignity : " When Oneyda ate bread and drank 
 water with your father he spoke words of friendship. 
 An Indian will not sleep in the wigwam of the white 
 man and take his scalp on the morrow. My young 
 men did foolishly ; they knew not the resting-place 
 of their sachem." 
 
 ** Then you would have hindered that massacre had 
 
70 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 you been there ; yet why should your young men 
 have been without a leader — they should surely have 
 waited for their chief?" 
 
 Oneyda bent such a gaze of scrutiny and severity 
 upon the youth that Philip's eye sank under it for a 
 moment ; but he recovered his self-possession and 
 said firmly; " Oneyda, you are a brave chief, and will 
 not be angry if I ask you that question again, for I 
 have long wished to know by whose authority I was 
 torn from my home ?" 
 
 " We talk of these things at the council fire," re- 
 plied the Indian, gravely, " and why should my son 
 ask ? When the hatchet of the warrior tastes blood 
 it cries for more ; and why should my young men 
 stay their hand ? They knew not that their sachem 
 had a friend among their enemies, and why should 
 they not strike ?" 
 
 Philip shuddered, but quickly answered : " If you 
 count my father your friend, then I know you were 
 not of that war party ; but, Oneyda, since you would 
 have spared his dwelling had you been there, why 
 will you not send me home to him ? He thinks me 
 dead, let me then return to tell him what a friend you 
 have been to me." 
 
 " If your white father thinks you dead," said the 
 subtle savage, " he will not look for your return. No, 
 Philip shall stay and be Oneyda's son." 
 
 The tears gushed forth from Philip's eyes. "Oh 
 no !" he cried, "I can never become one of you." 
 
 Oneyda looked surprised and offended. " When 
 my son was at the torture-stake, who saved him from 
 the knives of his enemies — who told my old men he 
 was a brave — who has given him food and brought 
 him into his wigwam — who will make him a great 
 warrior ? Philip shall be Oneyda's son ; x Oneyda is 
 a great chief; his enemies have never followed on his 
 track in the forest, and who ever saw him in the 
 white man's arm? From the swift river to the dark 
 lakes Oneyda is a chief, and no one disputes his will ; 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 71 
 
 Philip shall be his son, and the eagle of his tribe will 
 be his father. Has not Oneyda given him life ?" 
 
 Philip could have reminded him that he too had 
 probably saved his life when he took him starving and 
 wounded to his father's dwelling, but was too gener- 
 ous to recall an obligation to another. Giving a few 
 rapid strokes with the oar, the chief caused his little 
 boat to shoot far a-head of its companions, and when 
 he thought himself beyond their observation, he laid 
 a hand upon the shoulder of his captive and said, in a 
 satirical tone, and with a gesture of contempt : " Can 
 a brave weep ? Women only weep ! My young 
 men will despise their brother if they see his tears. 
 Philip is Oneyda's son, and the great chief loves him, 
 though he can not let him go ; what would my war- 
 riors say if their sachem lied ? No, he said the boy 
 is brave — he shall live, he shall be a great chief, and 
 he shall lead us against the pale faces ; the great king 
 shall tremble when he hears this. But what would 
 my warriors say, if Oneyda sent back the brave white 
 boy ? They would plunge their knives into his heart 
 that he might not die like a coward." 
 
 " Think not, Oneyda, that I will ever lead your 
 people against my own ; never will I yield to your 
 cruel expectations," said Philip, whose anger was 
 now kindled by indignation at this last specimen of 
 savage craft. The eye of the Indian gleamed fiercely, 
 and his hand instinctively relinquished the oar and 
 grasped a weapon. " Kill me, then," said Philip, 
 passionately, "kill me at once, for I would rather die 
 than live in such hopeless captivity. Cruel, barbarous 
 wretch!" 
 
 Oneyda looked calmly, though with sternness, up- 
 on the boy, and recovered his oar. — " No, no, he is 
 mine," he muttered. 
 
 Long did Philip struggle with the tide of grief and 
 passion that oppressed his heart, but when the shad- 
 ows of evening drew closer and his now detested com- 
 panions lay down to rest, he turned aside, and, as was 
 his custom, knelt down to his evening prayer. "I 
 
72 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 have done what I ought not to have done !" he ex- 
 claimed, and tears of penitence mingled with those of 
 self-upbraiding and sorrow ; and presently he rose 
 with a heart lightened of half its burden, though still 
 humble and pensive ; his feelings toward his compan- 
 ions assumed a more charitable and forgiving character, 
 and he overcame his repugnance so far as to take his 
 station among them, and even to close his eyes in the 
 vicinity of Oneyda, and with his own shoulder in con- 
 tact with that of a savage. He lay down but could 
 not sleep, and knowing that they all took singular 
 pleasure in hearing him sing, he raised his voice in 
 the evening hymn he had so often sung at home, and 
 though he faltered, the melody made its way to 
 Oneyda's heart, for he drew nearer and requested 
 Philip to sing more. While thus engaged, he 
 thought he discerned some object emerging from the 
 branches on their sylvan hearth, and presently dis- 
 tinguished the writhing and shining body of a large 
 snake, which had probably lain torpid among them till 
 awakened to consciousness by the heat. 
 
 The dangerous reptile was within a yard of the 
 naked leg of a young Indian. Philip sprang lightly 
 from the ground, and dexterously seizing it below the 
 head, with one blow of his hatchet destroyed it ere 
 another could interfere. Oneyda looked on with 
 much admiration, and the young savage, rising, thank- 
 ed Philip with many expressions of gratitude. The 
 snake was examined and found to be of a most dan- 
 gerous species ; but the incident caused no further 
 commotion among the party, whose loud breathings 
 now greatly disturbed Philip, who found it very diffi- 
 cult to sleep in the woods at night. These sounds 
 were also accompanied by the notes of the whip-poor- 
 Will and the cry of another bird which was very 
 plaintive, and made him feel sadder. The bird was 
 evidently near them, and its note awakened Oneyda, 
 who had sunk into slumber. He started, and, turning 
 to Philip in his usually confidential manner, said, in a 
 tone of mystery, " That bird sings of death to the In- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 73 
 
 dian; he comes to tell him that a warrior must soon 
 go to the happy hunting grounds. My brother had 
 been on his way before the sun wakes if Phiiip had 
 not used the hatchet of the brave." 
 
 "Your brother! is that young man your brother, 
 then ?" 
 
 " Appomax is my brother, and he is a young war- 
 rior. He can bring down the flying birds, and knows 
 where the deer hide. Philip and Appomax are the 
 sons of the great chief of the Wyannows." 
 
 In the morning they once more took to their cano.es, 
 and the chief's brother rowed by their side, talking 
 animatedly with him, frequently regarding Philip with 
 an admiring eye. With this young man's manners 
 and appearance Philip was much pleased, as they 
 were less ferocious and much more gentle and modest 
 than those of his nation generally. This day's sail 
 was altogether more agreeable than that of the pre- 
 ceding, and Oneyda evidently condescended to concil- 
 iate his. protege, who felt, in consequence, less miser- 
 able. In the afternoon they reached a spot whose 
 principal feature astonished Philip more than anything 
 he had yet seen ; for a lofty bridge appeared in view* 
 thrown across the river by a single though imperfecfi 
 arch. Being the first bridge he had ever seen, he felt 
 surprised that that one should be of Indian architect- 
 ure. He could not imagine how it had been built, 
 much less how it should ever have been projected by 
 savages ; and the more he examined it the more won- 
 derful it appeared. He longed to take a nearer view ; 
 this, however, he feared was not to be allowed him, 
 as the river became more turbulent in its course, and 
 having ventured as far as they dared, the savages step- 
 ped ashore and drew up their canoes after them. 
 Philip congratulated himself when he saw that they 
 took the direction of the bridge, and, carrying Oney- 
 da's boat upon his shoulder, followed their steps with 
 alacrity. He soon had leisure to examine the object 
 of his curiosity more minutely. It was high enough 
 above the water to form a bold object in a. scene of 
 7 
 
74 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 wild grandeur, and as the party in advance approached 
 the supports they looked like pigmies in comparison. 
 The bridge was formed of a very irregular arch, but 
 strong and massy in its construction. Shrubs, and 
 even trees, hung over it ; the base was of solid rock, 
 much broken, and covered with beautiful festoons of 
 the Virginian creeper, which hung down in graceful 
 wreaths of many a brilliant hue, mingling its gay col- 
 ors with the tawny foliage of other trees and the rich 
 mosses with which these rugged bulwarks were cov- 
 ered. Philip stood gazing in silent admiration — he 
 could not guess its height. 
 
 " Who built that bridge ?" he asked of Oneyda, 
 who was standing near him in contemplation of the 
 same magnificent object. 
 
 Oneyda replied, with much reverence of tone and 
 manner : " The Great Spirit made the woods and the 
 water for the red man, and gave him the great path 
 over the river. My people say that He made it." 
 
 " Then it must be a natural bridge," cried Philip, 
 springing forward to examine it more nearly. He 
 scrambled down the rocks till he reached the river, 
 and endeavored to stand beneath the arch, but could 
 not ; he was therefore obliged to return without the 
 satisfaction of examining its roof and sides, and soon 
 rejoined his companions. 
 
 Their route now lay across the top of the bridge, 
 and Philip noticed that the rock of which it was com- 
 posed was even more worn in the exposed parts than 
 in the sides and base, but could not account for the 
 manner in which it had assumed its picturesque and 
 magnificent form. He felt pleasure in looking down 
 upon the rushing river from this platform. The fig- 
 ures of the Indians were less unpleasing to him in 
 this scene of wild grandeur, and he thought he had 
 never before realized the freedom and solitude of na- 
 ture or its suitability to savage life, so much as iu 
 those almost unvisited retreats. His imagination be- 
 came engaged, and for some hours he walked on 
 without fatigue, his mind impressed the while with 
 the novel and beautiful objects thus presented. 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 75 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The morning sun rose brightly on the open prairie, 
 and the first object which greeted the sleepy eye of 
 Philip was its large and glowing orb magnified by 
 proximity to the horizon, from which it seemed burst- 
 ing, as if about to roll over the majestic plain. Philip 
 retired to the privacy of the wood to attend the better 
 to his devotions ; for these he never neglected under 
 any circumstances, nor had he assumed the habits of 
 an Indian with the dress of one. 
 
 Though Philip used all speed, he was much later 
 than the hunters approved. Whether Oneyda's curi- 
 osity got the better of his consideration, or thinking 
 his favorite had been long enough, he at length went 
 to seek him. Philip had just concluded his prayer, 
 and paused ere he rose from his knees ; then rising* 
 he resumed his weapons with a sigh, and turned to 
 leave his retreat, when, to his surprise, he beheld 
 Oneyda standing at a little distance, and doubted not 
 that he had been a witness of his devotions. The 
 chief returned his expression of surprise with a look 
 of cold scrutiny, and if he had not felt embarrassed 
 and distracted by this intrusion he might have dis- 
 covered traces of ill-concealed wonder upon the fea- 
 tures of the almost noble-looking savage. 
 
 " My young men are swift hunters ; they wait ; they 
 ask for my son. Will he stay upon his knees all day, 
 like the bear that creeps? The Great Spirit loves a 
 good hunter ; he hates the idle. Does my son listen 
 for the tramp of the buffalo upon the leaves of his 
 hiding-place ?" 
 
 "Oneyda," replied Philip, gravely, "my God will 
 
76 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 not bless me or do me any good this day if I do not 
 ask him. He is a great and holy Spirit, who is not 
 so much pleased with the customs you think are 
 pleasing to him as with humility and obedience to his 
 commands." 
 
 The savage interrupted him with an exclamation 
 of surprise, and not comprehending Philip's explana- 
 tion, asked, "If Wacondah were not the Great Spirit 
 of the pale faces ?" 
 
 *' No, Oneyda ! you have never heard that great 
 name. The God whom we worship is he who made 
 the earth, the red man and the white ; he is called the 
 Lord Almighty !" and with habitual reverence Philip 
 bowed as he spoke. 
 
 " My son speaks low," replied Oneyda, laying his 
 hand on the youth's shoulder, unconsciously awed by 
 his solemnity of manner. " Does Philip think that 
 the red man and the white man have the same Great 
 Father? Go, go! my son is very proud; he says 
 there is only one Father of life; but the Indian has 
 Wacondah, and the white man has his God." 
 
 Philip did not pursue the conversation, but rejoiced 
 that Oneyda remembered even the name he was so 
 anxious to teach him. The savage turned to depart, 
 saying : " My son shall tell me of his God in the long 
 nights when the snow is round the wigwam of Oney- 
 da. My young men wait ; let us go." 
 
 The party set forth, and all seemed sensible of the 
 freshness of the air and the agreeable elasticity of the 
 atmosphere. Travelling farther west, they often 
 halted to listen if there were sounds upon the plain; 
 but though every heart was beating high in expecta- 
 tion of their dangerous sport, no countenance betrayed 
 the slightest symptom of disappointment or of im- 
 patience. Oneyda walked among his warriors as a 
 familiar friend, talking animatedly; but suddenly the 
 chief paused and stood still ; their mirth ceased, and 
 they also stopped, while Oneyda bent toward the 
 earth and then lay flat among the grass for a few sec- 
 onds with his ear to th e ground, as if listening very 
 
PHrLTP RANDOLPH. 77 
 
 intently. His acute sense of hearing had not de- 
 ceived him, for presently a cloud of dust ai j>se in a 
 corner of the horizon and extended over that side of 
 the plain. It appeared to be approaching them rapid- 
 ly. The Indians threw themselves down, and Philip 
 followed their example. The cloud which had been 
 seen in the distance came nearer and nearer ; a noise 
 resembling thunder was heard, and then a mighty 
 trampling. Hundreds of buffaloes were on the plain, 
 racing over its untrodden grasses in all the freedom of 
 their reckless natures, wild and savage as the scenes 
 through which they roamed as sole proprietors. 
 
 On they came tossing their heads, jostling one an- 
 other, shaking their huge flanks, and bellowing loud- 
 ly. The effect was terrific and stunning. Philip 
 peeped through the gtass and obtained a view of the 
 herd which was now approaching ; his heart beat 
 quickly, and he closed his eyes with a sudden sensa- 
 tion of faintness; but recovering, took courage and 
 re-opened them, impelled by an irresistible curiosity 
 to watch the progress of the terrible foe. At length 
 Oneyda raised himself from his recumbent position to 
 take a view of the herd. The animals were very 
 near. His companions sprang up and rushed forward 
 in various directions, shouting and throwing their 
 arms into the air, clashing their weapons, and using 
 every means in their power to frighten the startled 
 host. The effect was as instantaneous as wonderful ; 
 the buffaloes were thrown into a panic and divided ; 
 file after file scampered past the hunters, and the 
 whole herd diverged over the plain. Those nearest 
 to them, bewildered by the sudden shock they had 
 received, though at first so madly bounding forward, 
 had been checked effectually by the cries and men- 
 acing gestures of the party. A few stragglers, bold- 
 . er than the rest, remained at bay, and these it was 
 Oneyda's right and duty to attack. His rank entitled 
 him to this dangerous privilege, and he advanced alone 
 to the charge. The foremost buffalo received an ar- 
 row in his flank, a d rendered furious by the wound, 
 7* 
 
78 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 came rushing toward his assailant, tossing his huge 
 and shaggy head and bellowing loudly, while he 
 trampled the long grass beneath his hoofs. The dan- 
 ger appeared imminent, but Oneyda sank quietly to 
 the earth, and the enraged animal, still plunging on- 
 ward, passed within a yard of the spot where he lay. 
 He was soon upon his feet again, and drawing anoth- 
 er well-aimed shaft, his victim fell, tossing and strug- 
 gling, to the ground. Nothing could exceed the ar- 
 dor with which the Indians pursued their favorite 
 amusement. The whole plain re-echoed with the 
 shouts of the hunters and the roars of the dying or 
 infuriated animals. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The dreary months of winter came at length ; 
 dreaiy, because to Philip they brought the cheerful 
 memory of past years with painful vividness before 
 him, and in bitter contrast to his present position. 
 Philip was weary of his captivity, and his patience 
 often wavered ; the firm and constant courage he had 
 proposed to himself yielded frequently to the depres- 
 sing circumstances of his lot, and he was fast approach- 
 ing to a settled despondency. The society of Alice 
 became a burden to him, and he preferred his solitary 
 rambles where he could indulge in melancholy with- 
 out the interruption of her lively prattle; for the little 
 girl had no intention of nursing care of any kind, but 
 had thrown away sorrow, and reconciled herself most 
 happily to her new mode of life and the companion- 
 ship of savage playfellows. 
 
 But from this unhealthy state of mind, he was re- 
 covered by a new train of thoughts arising from a 
 providential circumstance. Christmas day arrived, 
 and he awoke to those painful feelings in the gloomy 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 79 
 
 light of a winter's morning. As usual, he called the 
 name of the day to his sister, who slept in an adjoin- 
 ing apartment of the hut. 
 
 The poor captive covered his face with his hands, 
 and gave way to the troubled feelings which over- 
 whelmed him. The past brought torturing recollec- 
 tions, from contrast with the present ; and resignation 
 and hope seemed for a while to have given place to 
 despair. Captivity was intolerable, and Philip thought 
 he would rather not live than continue in such an un- 
 happy condition. But the voice of Alice again recall- 
 ed him to a sense of duty and exercise of self-control. 
 She came up to the door of his little dormitory, which 
 opened into the village, and assailed it with so much 
 resolution that the fastenings would have yielded, had 
 not Philip started up and hastened to assure her that 
 he would soon be with her. The incident, slight as 
 it was, produced a good effect upon him, and remind- 
 ed him that he had some reasons and inducements 
 yet left for life and for a more patient endurance of 
 captivity. 
 
 The brother and sister met in the wigwam to share 
 their Indian breakfast of hommony. Unpalatable as it 
 was, Alice had brought in a good appetite from her 
 morning ramble, and Philip felt reproved for his indo- 
 lence when he observed the advance which the sun 
 had made in his course above the hills of the eastern 
 horizon. 
 
 " And where hast thou been, Alice?" 
 
 "Oh, I have been down by the river side, helping 
 Maneecho to launch his canoe ; but the water is frozen 
 over, and I could not get a sail." 
 
 44 Thou hadst better not sail without me, Alice ; but 
 when breakfast is ended we will go into the wood to- 
 gether and walk to the farthest clearing. I want to 
 talk about home to thee, and of the church at James- 
 town." 
 
 Alice, pouted, and, coloring deeply, went on with 
 her breakfast, and did not reply. 
 
 'Nay, Alice, what ails fhee? Surely thou wilt 
 
80 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 come and hear of home, and talk of all we did this day- 
 last year ?" - 
 
 "I don't want to talk of home, Philip; it is no use; 
 and I promised to have a play with the children, and 
 Maneecho is going to teach me to shoot. I don't 
 want to go into the woods this morning." 
 
 Philip gravely regarded her. " I wish thee to go, 
 Alice ; and I am sure father and mother would not 
 like to see thee playing to-day, or learning to shoot 
 arrows with Maneecho when I wanted thee go with 
 me." 
 
 "Indeed, indeed!" said, j^lice, angrily; "I don't 
 see why you should not ISt me play to-day ; we can 
 not go to church, and we have no books. I am ten 
 years old, Philip, and I am not going to do what you 
 say always ;" but she did not venture to withdraw the 
 hand which her brother had taken. He looked at her 
 sorrowfully, and sighed. Nine months of association 
 with the wild children of the Indian village had not 
 improved Alice either in character or appearance. 
 She had lost the orderly habits in which her mother 
 had so carefully brought fier up; her curls were still 
 beautiful, and nothing seemed capable of robbing her 
 complexion of its delicate fairness, but her dress was 
 untidy and soiled, and her moccasins full of holes. 
 Her countenance had lost much of its mirthfulness 
 and vivacity in exchange for confidence and haughti- 
 ness, which dispositions were but too much encour- 
 aged by the passive obedience yielded to her will by 
 her companions, who regarded her as a superior being, 
 and permitted her to rule in their games with undis- 
 puted authority : she was acquiring a decision and 
 wilfulness of temper very contrary to the docile and 
 gentle character her parents had so earnestly desired 
 to cultivate. 
 
 " I am sorry, Alice, that thou art unwilling to hear 
 about home ; for I thought it would have been very 
 pleasant to us both to talk of the Fair Meadows and 
 Jamestown church, and father and mother and little 
 Margaret. To-day they will stay to take the Holy 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 81 
 
 Sacrament, and I am considering who will take care 
 of baby as thou didst when Bridget used to stay. 
 Baby will miss his little nurse. How pleased thou 
 wast, Alice, to take charge of him, and sing him to 
 sleep and make him happy while mother and Bridget 
 were away ! And this day last year, how well do I 
 remember, Alice, grandfather gave thee that pretty 
 hood from England, and thou wert on his knee all 
 evening stroking his long white hair and calling him 
 ' dear dad.' " 
 
 Alice looked down, her varying color denoted that 
 she had still more interest left in her home than she 
 had before acknowledged ; but she turned her head 
 away and began to play with the jagged corner of the 
 buffalo coat which the squaw had made for her as a 
 protection against the winter's cold. 
 
 " Yes, Alice ; and dost remember how last Christ- 
 mas day, when we had all said our catechism, and 
 thou hadst been praised for thy comely behavior in 
 church, that Rachel More kissed thee and patted thy 
 head, and said, « May God bless thee, child !' Ah ! 
 our dear friend is gone now. And then when we all 
 sat round the fire, what a happy party we were, 
 throwing on the hickory till it blazed so bright and 
 high ! Grandfather kissed thee, and said thou wast 
 his own good little damsel. He will not say that 
 again, Alice ! And father and mother looked on and 
 smiled so lovingly !" 
 
 This last appeal was not made in vain, and the sim- 
 ple eloquence of her brother penetrated with the 
 power of nature into the very heart of Alice. He had 
 stirred the 'slumbering feelings of natural affection 
 which had for a while lain dormant there, and though 
 she stifled her emotion as long as she could, they 
 were too powerful to be controlled, and, throwing 
 herself into his extended arms, she hid her face in his 
 bosom, and sobbed and wept as if her heart would 
 break. Philip did not attempt to check the current 
 of her sorrow ; he thought it better that she should 
 yield to the touch of Nature, and strove not to inter- 
 
82 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 nipt this overflo ving of pent-up emotions. It light- 
 ened his heart to find that Alice was not wanting in 
 affection for those she had been torn from, and that in 
 hers was a chord still unbroken, which if touched 
 skilfully, would vibrate in sympathy with his own. 
 
 While the brother and sister were thus engaged 
 Meahmee had been observing them with much atten- 
 tion ; her own eyes were moistened at sight of Alice's 
 grief, and unable to bear it any longer, she approach- 
 ed and said, in her native language, which Philip 
 could understand : — 
 
 "Why does the golden-hair weep? she is Meah- 
 mee's own child ; what shall her mother bring to dry 
 her tears ? Philip has spoken angry words ; let him 
 go. A brave is too fierce for a dove ; let him go." 
 
 " No, my mother," replied the youth, addressing 
 her by the name she had assumed when they were 
 brought prisoners to her hut, "you are wrong ; Philip 
 loves his sister ; he talks to her of home, of her father 
 and mother, and she weeps because she can not go to 
 them. Meahmee knows that she is right to weep for 
 the wigwam of her father." 
 
 Meahmee comprehended, and replied quickly : 
 "The golden-hair weeps for her father and mother 
 and the children who sleep in the wigwam, but they 
 can not hear her; they do not see her, and they know 
 not the speech of their Indian childreip. Let my 
 children stay, and they shall have corn and water ; 
 and their skin shall be red, like the children of the 
 eagle, and my brothers will love them. Meahmee 
 has a wide heart, and she loves her white children." 
 
 This address was most gratefully received by Phil- 
 ip, who valued the simple affection it manifested ; but 
 Alice, though tenderly embraced by Meahmee, was 
 inconsolable. The sorrow which had been stirred 
 within her did not subside till Philip thought it ad- 
 visable to subdue it. Her affections had been dor- 
 mant, but their existence was proved ; and however 
 cold or indifferent she had appeared to be, she had 
 shown that she yet retained a fondness for those dear 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 83 
 
 and nearest friends she had first learned to love and val- 
 ue. They passed the day together, and in the even- 
 ing Alice sat pensively by the hearth, her face resting 
 on her hand, and the mirthful light of her eyes 
 quenched for a while by the tears she had been shed- 
 ding and which still occasionally suffused them. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Onetda had been absent for some weeks upon a 
 war excursion, from which he was daily expected to 
 return, and Philip began to wish for his coming. He 
 had not found many opportunities of making further 
 explanations of his faith to the savage ; and though 
 he sought such conversations, the chief appeared 
 anxious to avoid them, or had become indifferent to 
 the subject. Meahmee was more interested, and lis- 
 tened with the attention of deep curiosity to Philip's 
 details, his history, in language the simplest he could 
 use, of the creation and fall of man and the birth and 
 death of the Savior of the world, which the squaw 
 gave ear to very much as queens and princesses of 
 old might have done to their bards and minstrels, not 
 realizing the truth of the story, but finding in it agree- 
 able food for the imagination. Philip was led to most 
 sanguine expectations of her conversion to Christianity 
 by the unaffected interest she manifested in his efforts 
 to instruct her. She was a simple-hearted and untu- 
 tored child of Nature, with a mind utterly unaccus- 
 tomed to thought upon any subject ; and though her 
 countenance expressed greater softness and intelli- 
 gence than the hard-featured and inanimate faces of 
 the Wyannow women, it was rather the intelligence 
 of feeling than of mind. Association with the Eng- 
 lish strangers had already improved Meahmee, and 
 she thought Philip the wisest and most extraordinary 
 
84 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 of beings; t was, indeed, matter of ceaseless wonder 
 to her how the young pale face should be even wiser 
 than her grayheaded father, the renowned Tallassee, 
 sagamore of a neighboring tribe ; a chief much es- 
 teemed among his people for discretion and sagacity. 
 
 As Philip was anxious to acquire more of the Indian 
 language, he often applied to her for instruction, and 
 she felt much gratified in being thus appealed to, tel- 
 ling him very readily the names of different things, 
 and in return requesting to be taught them in the 
 Yengee tongue. The domestic economy of a squaw 
 was very simple, and Meahmee had many idle hours, 
 which she had been accustomed to spend in talking 
 with her neighbors, or reclining upon a mat in sum- 
 mer in the shade, and during the winter by the fire. 
 She then passed the time in a different manner — in 
 learning English words, or in teaching Alice to weave 
 wampum, or to fabricate the more delicate and beau- 
 tiful ornamental dresses of a chief in the dyed porcu- 
 pine-quills and feathers, which formed so striking an 
 effect when tastefully arranged. She also showed her 
 how to weave baskets and mats of the twigs of the 
 sumach and the long thick reeds which grew upon the 
 bank of the river ; and the little girl did not enjoy these 
 hours of industry more than Meahmee, who was de- 
 lighted with the interest and skill manifested by her 
 pupil; and the great object of completing a new hunt- 
 ing-frock, richly embroidered and ornamented, for the 
 chief on his return, was at length accomplished, and 
 the little fingers of Alice had mainly contributed to 
 the work. 
 
 But the little girl was not always at work. She 
 found time for active sport, and Philip could not. help 
 smiling to see her sometimes assuming the airs and 
 authority of a drill-sergeant, turning and marshalling 
 a troop of swarthy children like a company of recruits, 
 admonishing the inattentive and awkward with a long 
 stick, pulling their long black hair, or calling out an- 
 grily to the disorderly. The grave warriors could not 
 forbear a relaxation of their rigid muscles at sight of 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 65 
 
 the fairy figure of Alice flitting around the little troop, 
 her cheeks glowing with exercise, and her bright eyes 
 flashing with animation and eagerness to make them 
 do just as she pleased, vociferating her orders in the 
 imperious tones of a commanding officer; indeed, they 
 began to do her credit, and marched in tolerable order. 
 Their parade-ground was the green of the village, or 
 square, as it might be termed ; and one day while thus 
 engaged, the young recruits were interrupted by the 
 unexpected return of the war-party from a successful 
 expedition — a band of a hundred warriors or more, 
 with Oneyda at their head. Before him were carried 
 on a pole the barbarous trophies of his victories. 
 
 The chief walked proudly, but not more firmly or 
 elate than the captives who followed him ; though 
 painfully bound and fettered, and surrounded by a fe- 
 rocious guard, unarmed, and in prospect of a merciless 
 fate, they were erect and indifferent. 
 
 The scene so nearly resembled that of their own 
 peril, that Philip's heart sickened at the contemplation 
 of it ; and Alice, so lately sporting and elate with her 
 superiority over her playmates, ran toward him with 
 a blanched cheek and quivering lip. The cries of the 
 children, and the ferocious gestures of the warriors 
 and women, had struck terror into her heart, and 
 startled her from the dream of empire in which she 
 had so unconsciously been indulging. 
 
 " They will not harm thee, Alice," said her brother, 
 fondly kissing her ; " come, let us go into the wig- 
 wam : we shall be far better out of their way." 
 
 Alice submissively followed him. They found Me- 
 ahmee at the entrance with her child in her arms, 
 hushing him, for he had awoke from sleep at that 
 wild cry, and was not to be pacified ; he was calmed, 
 however, on the appearance of Alice, and began to 
 play with her long curls as he was wont when he 
 wanted amusement. Philip was glad to find that she 
 had not gone out to meet the war-party, and thought 
 there was a shade upon her joyous countenance which 
 he had never observed before. Her gaze was riveted 
 8 
 
50 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 upon the form of her husband, and she looked as if 
 she would have drawn him from the group if a glance 
 could have brought him ; but when she turned her 
 eyes toward the captives, they seemed to glisten with 
 a new emotion. Perhaps it was pity awakening in 
 her bosom — that strange and unknown feeling from a 
 savage to his foe. Philip regarded her with interest 
 and in silence as she stood with her baby hanging over 
 her shoulder, unconscious of her burden, her thoughts 
 absorbed by the yet distant party. At length they 
 moved toward the centre of the green before the 
 council-lodge, and then Meahmee turned and said, 
 abruptly — 
 
 " My son is not with the warriors ; why does he stay 
 with the women ? Oneyda's enemy is at the stake ; 
 my son must go." 
 
 " No, my mother ! my heart is a white man's ; I 
 love not the torture-fires, and those poor men are not 
 my enemies." 
 
 A sigh escaped her as she replied, " When the war- 
 riors came back from battle, Meahmee was a swift 
 fawn, she ran to the prisoners, she made their hearts 
 pale, they were afraid when she looked at them ; but 
 now her heart is white too, and she stays with her 
 white children ;" and Meahmee looked down, as if 
 ashamed of her confession. 
 
 Philip smiled. " Oh, my mother is wise ; it is not 
 for women to be with the warriors at the council-fire. 
 Let her heart soften toward the prisoners ; see, they 
 are taking them to the council-lodge." 
 
 Meahmee's eye rested once more compassionately 
 upon the prisoners, and Philip continued : " They 
 have wives in their wigwams, and a baby like our own 
 baby, my mother ; they will never go to them again ; 
 and their wives will weep for them, as Meahmee 
 would if Oneyda were to go and not return. I know 
 that my mother's heart weeps for these men, though 
 there are no tears in her eyes." 
 
 Meahmee hastily retreated within the shade of her' 
 dwelling. She was ashamed to show so much sym- 
 
PHILIP RAND0L1H. 87 
 
 pathy for her husband's enemies, and this last ap- 
 peal had affected her anew to tears. Who can tell 
 what was the luxury of these dawnings of compas- 
 sionate feeling toward those she had been taught to 
 detest ? 
 
 But the council was held, and the captives were 
 condemned, and their torture-fires lighted. They 
 were tied to separate stakes, and each seemed to emu- 
 late the example of the other, so undauntedly they 
 behaved. Philip sat in the wigwam with Alice by 
 his side, endeavoring to engage and divert her atten- 
 tion : but she was aware that some deed of horror was 
 going forward, though she. saw it not, and her coun- 
 tenance betrayed every alternation of her feelings : as 
 each shout of the barbarous victors rose in the air, she 
 started, and the color left her cheek, and at length she 
 stopped her ears, to shut out, if possible, the terrific 
 sounds. A hasty step was heard, and Appomax en- 
 tered the hut. 
 
 " Come, my brother !" he exclaimed, breathlessly 
 addressing Philip, " come, take your hatchet and knife; 
 come, see how brave men die ! The chief of the Black- 
 feet is at the stake, but his heart is stone ; he does not 
 feel the knives of my people ; let my brother come, 
 and he will tremble." 
 
 " I can not go with you, Appomax, for he is not 
 "my enemy, and I would not see him tortured for the 
 world ; and do you stay with me, Appomax. What 
 harm has he done you, that you should join in these 
 cruelties ? If you are my friend, you will do as I do. 
 Lift not your hand against brave men, who can not 
 help themselves : that is not like a warrior." 
 
 Appomax heard him with surprise, and turned away. 
 Meahmee would have spoken, but another yell rose in 
 the air, and the young Indian hastened from the wig- 
 wam, fearful of losing the important moment for 
 plunging his weapon into the expiring foe. 
 
 The captives, after enduring the measure of their 
 enemies' malice, had perished; but Oneyda took little 
 part in those horrors. It might be that compunction 
 
88 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 struggled for the first time against the strong current 
 of habit, pride, false shame, and a savage nature. He 
 did not join in the taunts and scoffings with which 
 they reviled their defenceless prisoners, hut he stepped 
 forward once to offer the brave chief his life, on condi- 
 tion that he would become a Wyannow warrior. The 
 proposal was rejected with scorn, and the proud vic- 
 tim expired without giving his enemies the slightest 
 cause to triumph over his weakness. As soon as the 
 prisoners had breathed their last, Oneyda withdrew to 
 his wigwam in deep thought, his dark countenance 
 clouded with ill-concealed disgust and sadness. Me- 
 ahmee kept her station upon the mat which lay before 
 the fire, and rose not to greet her husband. His rec- 
 ognition was, however, kindly, and then the young 
 wife sprang up with joy sparkling in her eyes, and 
 presented the child with much animation to his fa- 
 ther. The chief pressed it tenderly to his heart, and 
 then returned the frightened infant to its mother. A 
 few rapid words were exchanged, and Philip's name 
 was mentioned. He stepped forward and offered his 
 hand to his host, who received him with as much cor- 
 diality as suited the dignity of a great warrior in pres- 
 ence of a woman. 
 
 " My son was not at the torture-fires," he said in 
 English. "Does a brave stay with the women when 
 his foe is dying ?" 
 
 " My Indian father knows that I hate the sight of 
 cruelty, and since I could not save those unhappy cap- 
 tives, I would not look upon their sufferings," replied 
 Philip, boldly, a deep flush of indignation coloring his 
 whole face. 
 
 Oneyda did not reply but by a look of surprise, and 
 turned away to conceal a faint smile of admiration. 
 His wife had already prepared their simple meal, and 
 they sat down together upon the benches which Phil- 
 ip had constructed during the chief's absence. Alice 
 was all happiness; she could not help jumping up be- 
 fore she had finished, to run away and get the hunting- 
 shirt which she was so impatient to present to Oney- 
 
PHIL P RANDOLPH. 89 
 
 da ; and Philip felt a secret astonishment at the cour- 
 teous and complimentary manner in which he instantly 
 accepted it — throwing off* the one he had then in wear, 
 and putting on the new, at the same time bestowing 
 many endearing appellations upon Alice, who clapped 
 her hands in an ecstasy of joy when she saw Oneyda 
 attired in her handiwork. Meahmee was quite as 
 hap^y, and the chief all politeness and affability. This 
 little incident had evidently gratified his feelings, and 
 called forth new acts of attention and kindness. As 
 the brother and sister rose from dinner, as it might be 
 called, and Philip was preparing to go out, Oneyda 
 laid his hand upon the youth's shoulder, saying, in a 
 low tone, " Go not, my son ; night will make all dark, 
 then you may go. You must not see my people 
 now." , 
 
 Philip took his place again by the fire, and Oneyda 
 resumed : " It is well ; my son is wise. Now 1 shall 
 tell him what will make his heart very glad. When 
 the white men were upon the trail of my warriors, 
 Oneyda walked free among their villages ; he never 
 forgets a friend; he saw your father, he spoke to him, 
 he told him that his children were well." 
 
 " You saw my father, Oneyda ! and spoke to him ! 
 how could that be ?" cried Philip, eagerly, and forget- 
 ting, in the surprise which this information occa- 
 sioned, the peculiar sensitiveness of the chief when 
 he supposed his veracity doubted. 
 
 " Oneyda never lies !" replied the chief with digni- 
 ty; " he saw Henry Randolph, and he spoke words 
 of friendship to the pale face." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Philip, the tears suffusing his 
 eyes as he spoke, and his heart beating quickly with 
 the varied and tender emotions which the name of his 
 father awakened, " you know my father, Oneyda, and 
 you have seen him many times, I know : teli me how 
 he looked, and what he said, and if he is well ; and 
 my mother " 
 
 Oneyda said little, but he spoke in friendly tones : 
 8* 
 
90 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 " Why does my son ask what were the words of his 
 white father 1 The red man may not stay in the sun- 
 shine with the pale faces ; they have made him like 
 the timid deer that flies to the woods when he hears 
 the steps of man. The Yengee has hunted Oneyda 
 for long days and many nights ; but who can find the 
 nest of the eagle ?" He added proudly, while his 
 dark eye sparkled with mingled passion and scorn, 
 " No ! there will be many suns and moons in the sky 
 before they tread upon the track of ." He ab- 
 ruptly quitted the hut, leaving Philip in a state of 
 mind far from enviable. 
 
 The village was silent when evening's shadows fell 
 around it, and the early winter's night commenced. 
 When Alice had retired, Philip took his accustomed 
 walk, and bent his steps toward the wood. The 
 moon was shining brightly over the tops of the naked 
 branches, which were elegantly and clearly outlined 
 upon the gray sky, standing out with the vivid pen- 
 cilling of nature from its soft mysterious depths. He 
 felt soothed by the mild radiance of the firmament, 
 and the keen night air soon exhilarated his frame, and 
 restored his languid powers : the events of the day had 
 almost stupified him. But as he passed the still smoc- 
 king embers of the torture-fires, his heart once more, 
 sickened, and he paused a moment ; then shuddering, 
 quickly turned from the spot. Yet the sufferers were 
 released from the cruelty of their relentless foes ; and 
 naught remained of the renowned chief and his com- 
 panions but the mouldering ashes, which the first 
 breeze would scatter to the heavens. 
 
 " Ah ! what is man when left to himself?" thought 
 Philip. " What pleasure can one human being de- 
 rive from witnessing the agony of another? And 
 Oneyda, too: he could be thus destitute of humanity ! 
 And shall I never escape from such a den of cruelty 
 as this ? And yet, if civilized Christians were never 
 to make their way here, they could neither be hu- 
 manized nor converted, or made better than they are. 
 I am too selfish toward these poor savages." 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 91 
 
 At this moment a tall dark figure crossed his path 
 and stood before him. " Oneyda !" 
 
 " My son wanders from the wigwam of Oneyda, he 
 is tired of his red father," replied the Indian, in a tone 
 so sad, that it went to Philip's heart. " What has the 
 great chief done ? Philip hides his heart ; there is a 
 cloud over it now." 
 
 The youth answered witn emotion, turning and 
 pointing toward the smoking stakes : " What has 
 Oneyda done with his captives ? It is this sight that 
 makes my heart so sad, and under a cloud to-night. 
 Oh ! Oneyda, why should a brave chief like you tor- 
 ture your poor unarmed prisoners ?" 
 
 The Indian waved his hand with an impatient ges- 
 ture. " Philip thinks he is the only wise man among 
 my people. Oneyda killed his enemies in the fight ; 
 but when my young men lighted the torture-fire, my 
 hatchet was in the ground. Oneyda will not torture. 
 He said, • Great chief, be my son;' but the heart of 
 Mahuree was hard, and his spirit a great way off, and 
 he died when my young men bade him. Oneyda is 
 the eagle of his tribe ; he flies to the sun ; he does not 
 stoop to the crow." 
 
 Philip gathered from this address that the chief dis- 
 dained to torture an enemy his inferior in rank, and 
 regretted to find that no better principle withheld him. 
 They walked on toward the wood, and had not pro- 
 ceeded very far when Appomax joined them. The 
 young Indian was anxiously seeking his friend, to gain 
 an explanation of his conduct that morning ; and this 
 induced Philip to speak of his principles, and that it 
 was his religion which rendered him averse to every 
 deed of cruelty. 
 
 Appomax could not understand the word cruelty, 
 and Philip had some difficulty in explaining its mean- 
 ing, and still more to make him apply it to his own 
 actions ; but Appomax had a reverential affection for 
 Philip, and regarded him with superstitious confidence; 
 therefore, though he could not understand the reason- 
 ing of his friend, he doubted nothing of the truth of 
 
92 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 his statements as to the wondrous story of God's pow- 
 er and providence in this world, his love to man, and 
 the holy law which he had given for man's conduct 
 and happiness. 
 
 Philip had not long exercised himself in self-com- 
 munion ere be discovered how iittle he actually knew 
 of his own heart ; and he never returned from more 
 active life to the retirement of his solitary rambles 
 without deeper convictions of this very truth. Every 
 day's experience confirmed it, that intercourse with 
 beings so distasteful and uncongenial was so unendu- 
 rable that he was only too anxious to avoid them, and 
 was growing selfishly fond of his own society: first, 
 because it enabled him to gain more self-knowledge, 
 and secondly, because it rendered captivity more toler- 
 able. Still this was not molive sufficient to shun so- 
 ciety and withdraw himself from every opportunity of 
 doing good to the ignorant beings he had resolved to 
 instruct. But how was he to do them good ? He 
 knew not ; and principally because he really knew 
 very little of himself. If Philip had been left to the 
 happy tranquillity of undisturbed domestic life in the 
 Fair Meadows, he would have grown up a good and 
 amiable man, romantic but inactive, rather passively 
 excellent than useful ; but now he was called upon, by 
 the voice of conscience and the powerful conscious- 
 ness of superiority to his present associates, to exert 
 himself for others, and to do God service. After much 
 thought upon the subject, it appeared to him better 
 and wiser to commence the work patiently and ob- 
 scurely by endeavoring to influence those immediately 
 around him. The wayward Alice, the simple Meah- 
 mee, the ardent and affectionate Appomax, and Oney- 
 da, were unquestionably the first and nearest objects 
 of his solicitude, and in them was evidently centred 
 his sphere of duty. But could he hope to gain the 
 haughty and indifferent Oneyda as a patient listener, 
 when, after so many attempts to secure his attention, 
 he had discovered him to be deeply abstracted and 
 even unconscious of his presence ? He thought that 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 93 
 
 no plan he could fix upon for his good would be more 
 effectual for the present than to regulate his own tem- 
 per, to set an example in his own conduct of the prin- 
 ciples he wished to inculcate ; and, above all, to pray 
 daily for direction in his duty, and for spiritual bles- 
 sings upon his companions. 
 
 It will not have been forgotten that Oneyda deferred 
 more serious conversation with Philip on the subject 
 of his religion till the winter evenings should arrive, 
 when by the wigwam hearth, the white boy was to 
 tell him of the God of his fathers ; but, during the 
 beginning of the winter, the chief was absent, and 
 not until the evening so lately described had any such 
 converse taken place between them. From that 
 night may be dated the missionary labors of Philip 
 Randolph among the Indians of the west. 
 
 When night set in and the cold winds blew fiercely 
 without the wigwam of Oneyda, the inmates drew 
 around their central hearth, and though the smoke of 
 the chief's pipe blended with that of the piled-up fuel 
 and escaped as it could best find vent through a hole 
 in the roof, the interior was neither comfortless nor 
 unpicturesque. Meahmee, busily plaiting reeds, or 
 assisted by Alice dressing the porcupine's quills for 
 dyeing, sat upon a mat before the fire, her child 
 sleeping in a corner, while Oneyda reclined upon a 
 pile of skins and furs, which a modern trader would 
 have envied — the most luxurious couch of a warrior ; 
 Appomax, a frequent visiter, seated upon the ground 
 with folded arms, and dark wondering eyes fixed upon 
 the countenance of Philip, who, with an arm thrown 
 around his sister, and sitting upon a low bench of his 
 own construction, in these moments often forgot the 
 weariness of captivity ; they were the sweet drops 
 mingled in the bitter portion allotted him, and, while 
 talking to Appomax with a fluency that increased 
 with practice, he lost all consciousness of the savage 
 scene in which he was acting. Appomax showed 
 much interest and curiosity respecting the settlement 
 and the habits of the English ; he felt great desire to 
 
94 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 visit them, and asked many questions as to the way 
 thither, which Philip could not answer, and to which 
 Oneyda never replied. Meahmee too, showed by her 
 artless and almost childish expressions of wonder and 
 delight, how much interest she felt in hearing of Mar- 
 garet Randolph's housekeeping, but especially of her 
 loom, which was the most extraordinary and incon- 
 ceivable thing she had ever heard of. These fireside 
 conversations were insensibly working changes in the 
 minds of the simple natives. They served to bring 
 them in contact with civilization ; presenting objects 
 new and striking, and leading them by degrees to em- 
 ulate all they heard, and to long for the same happy 
 condition. It gave them also very great conscious- 
 ness of Philip's superiority, and so agreeable did he 
 thus become that in spite of his pride, Oneyda himself 
 was not proof against the charm, and though he sel- 
 dom joined in the conversation, the abrupt and laconic 
 questions with which he occasionally interrupted it, 
 evidenced an interest and attention highly flattering to 
 the youthful speaker. These meetings were held in 
 the wigwam every evening, and Philip thought he 
 was doing good. Thus occupied his heart felt light- 
 ened of half its sorrows, and at night he retired with 
 feelings more resigned to his lot, and cheered by the 
 efforts he had been able to make for the good of oth- 
 ers. 
 
 It was not to be expected that Oneyda always in- 
 tended to leave his adopted son behind him in his va- 
 rious excursions ; Philip was of an age to take a more 
 active part in these expeditions than merely to stand 
 by and watch the preparations for war or the depart- 
 ure of the warriors. He thought it now time for him 
 to come forward and show that he still possessed the 
 brave spirit which they had at first admired in him. 
 Philip had not a few enemies among the Wyannows; 
 there were very many of his companions who secretly 
 hated the favorite of their chief, and eyed the stranger 
 with dislike and suspicion. They had frequently ex- 
 pressed their opinion that he was no brave, but loved 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 95 
 
 walking by the river much more than handling a weap- 
 on. But, either these aspersions never met the ear of 
 the chief, or he was indifferent to them ; for he con- 
 tinued to speak of his protege in terms of affection, 
 and was evidently proud of the treasure he possessed. 
 In those moments of private and domestic intercourse, 
 when unrestrained by the observation of others or the 
 formal and ceremonious requirements of Indian dig- 
 nity, he would throw aside the stoical reserve of his 
 race, and talk to Philip in the free and confidential 
 tone of a father addressing a favorite son. On such 
 occasions Philip was often made aware that Oneyda 
 was his inferior. Though the Indian possessed 
 knowledge that sometimes surprised his young com- 
 panion, and uttered sentiments far in advance of his 
 age and nation, they were of the kind least likely to 
 be appreciated by a youth who knew little of real 
 life and nothing of the actual position of the chief or 
 of the sources of his information; but Philip, while 
 he knew his own mental and moral superiority, was 
 despondent of imparting any; and, moreover, the bet- 
 ter he became acquainted with Oneyda the less hope 
 he felt of ever rendering the influence he possessed 
 available to the regaining of his own freedom. 
 
 Oneyda must not be called a savage ; he had not 
 thus long associated with so intelligent a mind as Phil- 
 ip's without experiencing the beneficial effect which 
 is sure to result in every case from such a circum- 
 stance. It was not indeed the first time he had been 
 thrown into civilized society, but he had never been 
 placed for so long a period under a similar influence. 
 There was a gentle firmness in Philip's manner and a 
 thoughtful ness beyond his years that attracted his in- 
 terest ; he marvelled that one so young should have 
 attained to such dignity and self-control. He never 
 saw in him any approach to the folly and wild ferocity 
 which was so ready to break forth in the young men 
 of the tribe w*n / en ordinary restraints were withdrawn. 
 This Yengee youth, though brave and sincere, fearless 
 of his anger and resolute in doing what he thought 
 
96 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 right, was at the same time patient and respectful, and 
 wise in many things which he had never thought or 
 heard of. What could be the cause — the secret law 
 by which he governed himself? Oneyda longed to 
 Know, and sometimes condescended to inquire ; but 
 he was too proud to be definite, and his questions 
 were so vague that Philip, who was too inexperienced 
 to read such a heart, felt unable to satisfy his curiosity. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The chief had interests of his own to advance in 
 extolling the superiority of his captive protege, and 
 this cherished plan of the subtle Indian was none 
 other than to train his adopted son in all the discipline 
 of savage warfare, that in process of time he might 
 lead the Wyannows against the detested pale face. 
 He contemplated with fierce exultation his anticipated 
 triumph over the foreigners, when they should behold 
 one of their own race bringing fire and sword and 
 terror into their usurped domains. Philip would not 
 only have the training of ? red warrior, but possess 
 naturally that mysterious influence which all white 
 men appeared to hold in common with such strange 
 appropriation over the deceived and injured native. 
 Many vague ideas of the manner in which his proj- 
 ects were to be accomplished floated through Oney- 
 da's imagination, and so deep was the animosity he 
 cherished toward the English intruders, and so great 
 his infatuation respecting Philip, that he could not re- 
 frain from discoursing upon his hopes to those elders 
 of the tribe who were already prepossessed in his fa- 
 vor ; and their opinions coinciding with his own, Oney- 
 da could not entertain a doubt as to the delightful re- 
 alization of all his wishes. 
 
PHTLTP RANDOLPH. 97 
 
 With almost delirious joy the haughty chief was 
 summoned to receive the deputies of his allies in the 
 council lodge of the village. Philip remarked with 
 surprise and interest the high degree of order and 
 ceremony maintained upon this occasion, and the 
 deference paid to the messengers, more than is usually 
 bestowed upon the ambassadors of modern princes ; 
 but that which most astonished him was, the lethargic 
 composure of Oneyda, whose dignity did not allow 
 him to show the proud joy he felt at being thus hon- 
 ored. He sat apart and abstracted, though occasion- 
 ally his eye glanced toward the envoys with intelli- 
 gence, as if to intimate that he was perfectly con- 
 scious of all that was passing, but that it suited not his 
 present pleasure to reply. They made their oration, 
 and the old men returned an answer through one of 
 their body. A long pause ensued, but Oneyda was 
 still silent. The assembly were in suspense, and the 
 younger warriors who could not imitate the stoical 
 indifference of their seniors, looked anxiously and im- 
 ploringly at their chief, but he rose not. The mes- 
 sengers maintained the calm and patient dignity suita- 
 ble to such an occasion. Nothing had been omitted 
 ou their part; the wampum had been presented and 
 the pipe smoked ; they must now wait till the great 
 chief should condescend to speak. 
 
 At length Oneyda rose ; he considered that sus- 
 pense had rendered them sufficiently deferential, and 
 doubted not that he should be most attentively listened 
 to. His attitude was majestic as he waved his power- 
 ful hand toward the assembly ; and then, drawing 
 himself up to the full height of his noble figure, he 
 stepped forth with animation in every feature, and 
 throwing up his arms in the air, uttered a few senten- 
 ces in a tone that shook the rude rafters of the build- 
 ing, and made many a heart within it beat quickly. 
 His oratory was not ineffective; none would have dis- 
 sented from him who had just been ruling them with 
 so subtle and wonderful a spell. The shout with 
 which the first burst of eloquence was received re- 
 9 
 
98 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 sounded through the lodge, was caught up by the 
 crowd of women and children without, and then gave 
 place to a stillness that, by contrast, seemed super- 
 natural. But when the sounds had quite ceased, and 
 the ardent young warriors looked at their chief, he 
 was calm and silent as the air around them. Having 
 resumed his former attitude, he prepared to receive 
 the replies of the envoys. They were in accordance 
 with his wishes ; the alliance was entered into, and 
 its details considered ; the obligations of each party 
 were denned, and arrangements made for a future ex- 
 pedition. But Oneyda had yet another matter to 
 bring forward ; one which evidently lay near his 
 heart ; for he appeared struggling with feelings too 
 powerful for utterance. Catching a view of Philip, 
 he motioned him to his side, and the countenances 
 of the messengers expressed their surprise at the 
 youth's attire ; for though he wore the short buffalo 
 robe and weapons of a young warrior, bis head was 
 not shaven, and to the initiated eye of a native, many 
 deficiencies were observable. 
 
 The chief introduced his protege to the assembly, 
 commending his brave heart and wise head, and con- 
 cluded by assuring them that he would soon have a 
 red skin like the children of the sun, who looked kind- 
 ly upon the pale face since he had made his dwelling 
 with the sons of the eagle. In the enthusiasm of the 
 moment, Oneyda went on to anticipate the day when 
 Philip should lead the Wyannovvs against the Yen- 
 gees. But first he must learn their method of war- 
 fare, and follow Maneecho, a brave young chief, on 
 the track of the false-hearted Dahwyotti ; then would 
 his arm be strong for his red fathers. He asked his 
 young men how they should like to have Philip for 
 their companion in the approaching war excursion, 
 but in a tone of curiosity rather than of earnestness ; 
 and as if he deigned not to wait for their answer, went 
 on to assert still more decidedly his own confidence in 
 their perfect willingness to receive so distinguished an 
 associate. The proposition met with applause. Oney- 
 
PHTLIP RANDOLPH. 99 
 
 da next turned to Philip, and his manner instantly 
 changed to one of gentleness and courtesy. 
 
 " My son," said the latter, addressing him in the 
 softest intonations of his musical language, " my son 
 will be the young eagle of his tribe ; he will fly up- 
 ward as I have done, who am the father of my young 
 warriors. My son shall take up the hatchet, and 
 lead to the track of the falsehearted Dahwyotti ; they 
 shall not see his pale skin under the paint o£a Wyan- 
 now." 
 
 Philip considered that the moment had arrived for 
 speaking boldly, though he apprehended no danger to 
 his person. He looked up, therefore, and answered 
 in a firm tone of voice, and in English, " I will not 
 fight against the Dahwyotti ; they are not my ene- 
 mies." 
 
 All turned to Oneyda for an interpretation ; but he 
 was silent from astonishment. Appomax, who had 
 been for some time intently watching his friend, now 
 glided through the crowd, and making his way to the 
 side of Philip, whispered in his ear, " Say you will 
 fight, my brother ; your heart says no, but let your 
 lips say yes — only yes." 
 
 " No, Appomax, 1 must not tell a lie ; I never will 
 fight with your people, or against them ; and my lips 
 shall not speak what my heart forbids." 
 
 Appomax turned toward the assembly, and, over- 
 coming his agitation, took upon himself the office of 
 interpreter, saying, "My brother is very brave, but he 
 has never been on the trail of our enemy, and he can 
 not sing our war-song ; he has never taken a scalp, 
 but he will learn when my brothers teach him. Can 
 the young eagle fly to the sun till the old bird has 
 taught it ? It follows, and then it can fly down alone. 
 Let the Yengee go with us, and he will learn to fight 
 like our braves." 
 
 Philip waited to observe the effect of his friend's 
 appeal, but an enemy rose. " If the pale face will go 
 and fight against the Dahwyotti, we will call him 
 brave ; but if he will not smoke the pipe, he is a cow- 
 
100 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 ard. If he can not speak with the tongue of a led 
 man, he can smoke." 
 
 " Let him smoke," said the old men, who were now 
 beginning to take a lively interest in the affair. 
 
 The pipe was presented to Philip, but he pushed it 
 from him; then looking around, and seeing the state 
 of commotion into which the assembly were thrown 
 by this act, he stepped forward once more to the side 
 of Oneyda, and said in the Indian language, " I have 
 not told you any lie ; a white man thinks it wicked to 
 fight like his red brothers. My God is a good and 
 holy God ; he hides his face when men are cruel ; he 
 speaks to me now, and I must listen to his voice. 
 My lips can not speak when my heart is silent. Wy- 
 annows, I will not fight with you." 
 
 The old men applauded the honesty and bravery of 
 the youth, who was not afraid to stand forth boldly 
 and alone to justify his conduct, and many of them 
 would have suffered the matter to rest there ; but 
 Maneecho had stirred up a few spirits malignant as 
 his own, and a cry was raised against Philip that 
 reached the ears of Oneyda, but he stirred not. 
 
 " He must die if he will not fight," cried the angry 
 few. " He is the friend of our enemy, if he is not the 
 enemy of the Dahwyotti," said Maneecho. 
 
 " True," repeated the old men ; " if this young 
 stranger will not fight after being adopted into the 
 tribe, he is our enemy, and not a friend ; let him smoke 
 the pipe." 
 
 There was a pause of some moments, and still the 
 youth remained firm to his resolution not to act a 
 fraud ; the remonstrances and pleading glances of Ap- 
 pomax were vain. Another cry arose in the assembly 
 while every fierce spirit was roused at the undaunted 
 firmness of their captive. Many threatening gestures 
 were used by the younger party, and some approached 
 nearer, commanding him to smoke ordie. Philip re- 
 tained his composure. Turning to Oneyda, he said 
 in English, "Can you not help me, Oneyda? Will 
 you see me in such danger- and yet stand silent/ 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 101 
 
 Speak for me now, and 1 shall escape. Oneyda ! is 
 this your friendship ? Will you see me die before your 
 eyes ? I can not smoke the pipe : for that would be 
 to act a lie, and that is sin against my God." 
 
 Oneyda appeared as utterly abstracted from the 
 scene as if his bodily presence were withdrawn. He 
 started, however, when Philip again addressed him in 
 a tone of thrilling energy ; for the youth felt the ex- 
 tremity and peril in which he found himself. 
 
 " Oneyda ! why do you not help me ? You are a 
 great chief, and one word from you would save me." 
 
 " My son," he said, " Oneyda can not help you ! 
 These are not my people — Oneyda has no people. 
 He reads your heart ; he knows you are brave. But 
 why does my son listen to that voice now ? The 
 knives of my young men are greedy ; they cry out 
 for the blood of the Yengee. Does your God tell 
 you not to do a thing which would save you from 
 death ?" 
 
 Oneyda suppressed a sigh as he was interrupted by 
 the shouts of Philip's enemies, who were augmenting 
 every moment ; but against this storm the innocent 
 object of their hatred was upborne by Him whose 
 strength and protection he had sought daily in prayer, 
 and who did not leave him in this extremity. An old 
 man now arose and spoke a few words, which were 
 received with deference by the assembly, though in 
 opposition to the almost unanimous opinion. It was 
 therefore agreed that the contumacious captive should 
 be confined in the prison-hut ; and that when the war- 
 party were ready to set forth, he should have the 
 same alternative presented to him-— but upon a second 
 refusal should die as decreed, the death of a coward. 
 44 Brave men," said the old man, " only are worthy of 
 torture ; one stroke of the hatchet will find the life of 
 a coward." 
 
 Oneyda gave his orders, and a few of the younger 
 
 warriors advanced to the spot where Philip stood, and 
 
 taking from him his weapons, laid them down at their 
 
 sachem's feet. His heart sank within him as he passed 
 
 9* 
 
102 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 Oneyda, who gave him no token of interest or regard ; 
 but Appomax pressed his hand in the crowd, and 
 Philip read in the glistening softness of his dark eyes 
 the eloquence of a heart fondly devoted to him ; and 
 thus was he placed a second time in the hut which 
 had received him little more than a year before, a des 
 olate and bereaved captive. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Captain Preston escaped the pursuit of his tor 
 mentors and reached Jamestown, though in such a 
 state of exhaustion that he lay long afterward upon 
 the borders of the grave ; but when sufficiently recov- 
 ered, he devoted all his energies to the affairs of the 
 colony, which were much deranged. The whole 
 community had received so terrible a shock in the 
 fearful calamity which had befallen them, that the hor- 
 rors of the general massacre had left an impression 
 upon the minds of old and young which it was scarce- 
 ly possible to efface. 
 
 Captain Preston brought the first news of the safety 
 of Henry Randolph's children ; at least he had seen 
 Philip alive, and thought him in no peril ; but of the 
 fate of Alice they were uncertain, till one night Henry 
 Randolph received an unexpected visit from the In- 
 dian whom he had so hospitably treated at the Fair 
 Meadows. The stranger informed him of his chil- 
 dren's safety ; that they were well, and kindly enter- 
 tained by a great chief, who had adopted them into 
 his tribe : but he would not tell the place of their cap- 
 tivity, or the name of their protector. In vain the 
 anxious parent entreated to be made acquainted with 
 these. The Indian would tell no more, and departed 
 as abruptly as he came. Henry determined to follow 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 103 
 
 ind detain him till the information was given ; but the 
 stranger moved quickly, and upon reaching the river's 
 side, a canoe, manned by four dark figures, was seen 
 in waiting. It would have been madness to attempt 
 compulsion, and Randolph was obliged to relinquish 
 his intention. With a sigh he saw them receive their 
 companion into the boat, and push from the shore. 
 But as they rowed into the current, a tall figure rose 
 in the boat, and waving his hand in the direction of 
 the bank, said in English, " Henry Randolph will 
 never hear the voices of his children in his dwel- 
 ling again ; but they shall be safe in the wigwam of 
 Oneyda." 
 
 One morning Henry Randolph was called to the 
 council ; and when he entered the hall where the 
 members held their meeting, the governor did not 
 immediately recognise him, he had grown so thin and 
 careworn. Suffering had traced her intelligible char- 
 acters on his brow, and as he walked toward the up- 
 per end of the apartment, Sir George remarked with 
 regret that he appeared both lame and feeble. 
 
 " I fear you do not find yourself so well, Master 
 Randolph ; pray be seated. You seem somewhat wea- 
 ry ; these March days are fickle as April." 
 
 " I have not quite recovered from the wounds I re- 
 ceived a year ago," replied Henry gravely, " and much 
 fear they will accompany me through a weary life ; 
 but the will of God be done !" 
 
 " Well, well, my friend, I feel for you ; those were 
 bad wounds of yours a year ago, but the matter won't 
 be mended by dwelling upon it. We must take life 
 as it goes. You'll not be lame all your life, depend 
 upon it. No, no ! all cloud just now; but sunshine 
 will return, doubt it not." 
 
 The governor spoke rapidly, but the husky tones 
 of his voice denoted how much he felt for the misfor- 
 tunes of Henry Randolph. The latter replied with a 
 struggle for composure — 
 
 " We must take everything unquestioning from the 
 hands of the Lord. His providence ordered the blow : 
 
104 PHILIP RANEOLPH. 
 
 shall we not receive evil as well as good from him 7 
 I am weak from my wounds still, Sir George ; but my 
 heart is sadder this morning than I like : 'tis the room 
 that unmans me. Last year, the very day before the 
 massacre, we held council, and your excellency gave 
 audience to " 
 
 "Ah! true, my friend — to those rascally Indians, 
 the knaves ! Well, I'll have a care they don't abuse 
 my trust in that way again. I wish I could catch 
 that crafty villain Opecanoff; but I think he's made 
 of something more invisible than air — as slippery as 
 volatile mercury. Send where I will, the man is no- 
 where to be seen ; and just when I would lay my 
 hand on him, he vanishes. But I forget to tell you, 
 Master Randolph, that we meet to-day to consider 
 some matters of reprisal." 
 
 " Reprisal ! Sir George — how so ?" 
 
 "Nay, nay; that face of yours augurs ill for the 
 unanimity of our counsels to-day. Well, sit you 
 down, Master Randolph, and the business shall be 
 opened. Gentlemen, I am ready and impatient to 
 hear your deliberations. Captain Preston, favor us 
 with your scheme ; and you, Captain Smith, we hope 
 will introduce us to yours anon;" and the governor 
 took his usual place under the canopy at the head of 
 the table. , 
 
 Many busy heads were clustered; and much con- 
 versation was going on. Around Captain Preston 
 were grouped a few whose dark and flushed counte- 
 nances looked hardly English in their characteristics; 
 already had the climate effected a change in their 
 complexions, and they were talking with all the ar- 
 dor of the southern temperament. Opposite to this 
 party sat a young man busily engaged in studying a 
 rudely-constructed chart of Virginia. He was attired 
 in military costume, and evidently an officer of high 
 rank in the corps so recently imported to the colony. 
 This person spoke to none, and seldom raised his 
 eyes from the map, upon which he was making vari- 
 ous lines and measurements. He appeared quite ab- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 105 
 
 stracted from the noise and business by which he was 
 surrounded, and started when a hand was laid upon 
 his shoulder, and he was informed that the proceed- 
 ings of the morning were now at ^and. 
 
 After an address from the governor, which was en- 
 tirely preliminary, Captain Preston rose to announce 
 his scheme. It was none other than a plan for redu- 
 cing the native tribes to subjection, at the risk of ex- 
 terminating every human being among them, though 
 the speaker shrouded his meaning as well as he was 
 able by involving it in dubious language, and the use 
 of terms which sound better than they mean, though 
 too frequently in the mouths of politicians. 
 
 The speech of Preston was brief and animated, and 
 met with a favorable reception from the greater part 
 of his auditors. 
 
 " But your means, your means," cried Sir George, 
 vehemently, as if listening to some bright but imprac- 
 ticable speculation. " You have raised a goodly pros- 
 pect to view in the peace we should all value so high- 
 ly, but I have no eyes for it till I see whereby you 
 would establish such a state of things." 
 
 " Seems it truly a fair prospect ? Then your excel- 
 lency need not question the means thereto ; though, 
 after all, much will depend in the worshipful assist- 
 ance the colony's servants hope to receive from the 
 governor and council. And presently I shall endeavor 
 to show to the members here assembled those meth- 
 ods of Indian warfare in which they know me to be 
 not unskilled, seeing that I knew much service in the 
 time of our late friend and ally Powhatan. But the 
 rules of courtesy prescribe the precedence to my 
 young friend Captain Smith, whose command of the 
 reinforcements entitles him to that honor." 
 
 The stranger rose and bowed, his pale face flushed, 
 and belied not the energy of his tone and manner. 
 His utterance was rapid, and accompanied by gestures 
 rather nervous than graceful ; but his simple and 
 straight-forward eloquence made its way to some 
 hearts in the assembly. He introduced himselnfcs a 
 
106 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 young relative of the Captain Smith who had some 
 years before rendered such distinguished services to 
 Virginia. He, too, urged an immediate attack ; but it 
 must be open, and after the European mode of war- 
 fare ; for his troops knew nothing of any other, and 
 would fail unless they were led by their own com- 
 mander, and according to the discipline of the service. 
 Besides," said he — his eye kindling with indignation 
 at the thought — " what can be more unmanly, more 
 inglorious, than to take one's brave fellows skulking 
 into the woods, now hiding from, and now peeping 
 at, the enemy? I am not here as a delegate of your 
 Virginia assembly, but I bear the commission of his 
 majesty to defend the colony, either in garrison or by 
 carrying arms against the natives, if need require, and 
 I will not return with my duty undone. If the red 
 man is to be exterminated, let it not be by our means; 
 let us make him indeed quail before us, and drive him 
 far from our habitations : but would it be justifiable or 
 honorable to fall upon him in his own cruel and crafty 
 manner ? My heart abhors such counsel ; I scorn to 
 use my sword in such a service !" And here he 
 sheathed it with such violence that the scabbard rat- 
 tled on the floor, and the walls of the congress hall 
 gave back the angry sound. 
 
 In spite of the rather untempered vehemence of the 
 speaker, many of the members regarded him approv- 
 ingly, and Sir George himself could not refrain from 
 bestowing a glance of cordial admiration ; but Captain 
 Preston rose once more, with a proud smile upon his 
 swarthy countenance, and without deigning to look at 
 his youthful opponent, turned to the governor : — 
 
 " Let your excellency and all in council to-day 
 judge whether it seem prudent to lead English sol- 
 diers into the forests of the west against the wander- 
 ing and lurking savage. Tactics would little avail us 
 in such quarters ; and a few picked adventurers, pru- 
 dent and fearless men, would accomplish our purpose, 
 were they dispersed over different stations. Methinks, 
 sinc^his majesty's captain so well understands the 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 107 
 
 chart of Virginia, he should have learned the length 
 and depth of our forests. My plans are well digested, 
 and of most simple execution." 
 
 ;t We await your announcement, Captain Preston," 
 said the governor, whose curiosity was much excited. 
 
 " It is simply this," replied the captain, with an air 
 of studied indifference ; "the fact is well known that 
 the Indians are lulled by our apparent dejection and 
 inactivity into a state of confiding repose ; they are not 
 in the least expecting the tardy vengeance I propose. 
 Who knows not the proverb, ' Set a fox to catch a 
 fox ?' Well, here I stand, not little used to their war- 
 fare, and with two hundred men would engage to sur- 
 prise Opecanoff himself, and return his treacherous 
 dealing with a liberal hand." 
 
 " If you could catch him, you would indeed find 
 your fox," interrupted Sir George, laughing at his 
 joke. 
 
 " The tribes between this river and the Delaware 
 are quiet enough, and forsooth 'tis this which encour- 
 ages me to my plans. I have certain advice that the 
 Indian king, our crafty foe, has but lately taken signal 
 vengeance upon our allies the Blackfeet, and this is a 
 sure token of what is in store for all who are friendly 
 toward us. Now, I find by comparing notes with our 
 worthy Master Randolph, that the chief of the tribe 
 from whom I so nearly got a roasting last year, is sa- 
 chem of the Wyannovvs — by name Oneyda — and he, 
 by advice of Opecanoff I should presume, is about to 
 overpower our best allies, the Dahwyotti. Could we 
 procure a Dahwyott guide, we should easily make our 
 way to Oneyda's village. Such a blow as that I con- 
 template would have a signal effect, and by such alone, 
 my friends, can you hope for safety to your homes 
 and children. Ah ! there will be no flourishing plan- 
 tations, no fair posterity on these settlements, unless 
 the natives be swept from the lands. Ye who have 
 friends, brothers, and children, in captivity, would 
 you not wish to rescue them from their grievous 
 bondage ? Will you suffer any fearful and softhearted 
 
108 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 notions to come between your courage and this enter- 
 prise ?" 
 
 Many eager murmurs were now heard, for Preston 
 had touched a chord which he well knew would re- 
 spond to his appeal. Sir George Yeardley looked 
 around ; his better feelings revolted at so barbarous a 
 policy, yet he could not help thinking how much 
 more easy would be his rule of the colony were his 
 savage neighbors removed. He did not wish to reply, 
 and requested Henry Randolph to give his opinion 
 upon this difficult question. 
 
 The father, whose feelings had been so painfully 
 touched by the last allusion, obeyed ; and, suppres- 
 sing his emotion, spoke in a firm tone fixing his calm 
 upright eye upon the stern countenance of Preston. 
 
 " Shall we do evil that good may come ? You 
 know well, my friend, that we should not. Let every 
 father present answer for himself; for my own part, I 
 am ready to reply, and to express my abhorrence of 
 this scheme of extermination. I wish not to magnify 
 my own sufferings, though all must know how bitter 
 they have been, and how aggravated by suspense; but 
 I would not sacrifice my principles to regain anything 
 I have lost. Shall we treat the Indians as they have 
 treated us ? Shall we carry destruction into their 
 villages, as they brought death and anguish to our 
 homes? I should marvel less at the natural cruelty 
 of a savage than at the proposition we have heard, 
 were it put into execution by Englishmen. You 
 know, my friends, that two of my children are in sad 
 captivity. I would do all that a just man may do for 
 their rescue ; but no countenance will I give to a 
 measure such as this. The English settler has yet a 
 duty toward his red brother unperformed, and how 
 shall it be done if we treat them as they have treated 
 us? Consider it well, I entreat you, before decision 
 is given. And may it please your excellency to ex- 
 cuse me ; my advice and opinion have been offered to 
 the assembly, and my vote against the enterprise. 
 The feelings of a bereaved fit her must plead for my 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 109 
 
 weakness ; I should listen to these discussions with 
 more distress than would be seemly. Gentlemen, I 
 would fain withdraw." 
 
 There was an expression of such keen anguish on 
 the countenance of Henry Randolph that appealed to 
 every feeling heart, and the struggle he evidently was 
 making for resigned composure gave dignity to his 
 sorrow, which could not fail to win him respect and 
 interest. He withdrew, and a silence of a few mo- 
 ments succeeded to his departure. The young offi- 
 cer looked after him with admiration and sympathy, 
 testifying his respect by rising and saluting him with 
 a low bow as he passed; but when the pause had 
 been broken, many experienced a sense of relief, as if 
 some weight had been removed, and those most anx- 
 ious for revenge commenced forwarding the designs 
 of Preston and Smith with equal ardor. The delib- 
 erations of the council finally resulted in a confirma- 
 tion of the barbarous project of Preston ; which, in 
 the language of these worldly politicians, was termed 
 merely an act of moderate and justifiable retaliation. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Henry Randolph left the council with a perturbed 
 spirit; yet amid the conflicting feelings which had 
 been roused to such distressing activity by Preston's 
 speech, a self-approving thought rose to cheer him,, 
 He had made his protestation against the cruel pro- 
 ject, and feeble as his voice might be, he had done all 
 he could do publicly, though he still hoped to plead 
 the cause of mercy with the governor, and privately 
 consider with him other plans of a more peaceful ten- 
 dency. Not that he hoped very much against the 
 promptings of self-interest and the natural evil pas- 
 sions of the men who were stimulating the good-tem<- 
 10 
 
110 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 pered and thoughtless Sir George to the deed, but 
 because he felt it a duty to use further arguments ere 
 he gave up the matter. 
 
 Captain Preston was a man of daring spirit, whose 
 favorite element was enterprise. A life of adventure 
 had made him unscrupulous and reckless of conse- 
 quences, and he was little accustomed to consider 
 principles of any kind ; expediency, what is best for 
 the present, was his governing maxim, therefore he 
 could not be called a good or honest man. In the 
 subtle modes of Indian policy and warfare Preston 
 had become an adept ; and in his frequent communi- 
 cations with Pow-how-tan, had formed friendships 
 with many of the sachems or principal chiefs of tribes. 
 With one in particular he had contracted an intimacy 
 which was only dissolved by death ; and Oneyda in 
 dying had charged his son to show kindness to his 
 white friend, for whom the youth had always mani- 
 fested the greatest abhorrence and animosity. This 
 young man's name was Opecancanoff, whom Preston 
 supposed to be the same as the newly elected king 
 Pow-how-tan's successor, but was unable to verify 
 this supposition, as the haughty chief had never 
 deigned to visit the principal station of the colony, and 
 his wanderings were so extensive that he was seldom 
 to be heard of; yet he was suspected to be the prime 
 
 mover of the horrible transactions of the day of 
 
 March. Preston had often boasted that he could fol- 
 low the fox to his hole as well as any hound, and not 
 a little prided himself upon his skill in conducting 
 hazardous expeditions against the crafty foe. 
 
 With such a man Henry Randolph had nothing in 
 common. So far was he from appreciating these 
 qualifications that he could not discern the least tal- 
 ent in the captain of the garrison, and dreaded him as 
 a reckless man, who had prudence only for his own 
 ends, but was not trust-worthy ; and his own feelings 
 as a Christian were entirely repugnant to the plan 
 brought forward in council by this person, whom he 
 regarded as now more devoid of humanity than ever. 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. Ill 
 
 Yet the last argument introduced by Preston for the 
 recovery of the lost ones had made much impression 
 upon the fond father. The project for attacking the 
 chief Oneyda, in whose keeping his children were 
 supposed to be, was at one moment too inviting, and 
 he could not at first bring himself to condemn it ut- 
 terly ; but after further reflection, his judgment de- 
 cided the matter, and he resolved to go straight tqthe 
 governor and have a private interview, in the hope of 
 dissuading him from his cruel purposes. He accord- 
 ingly repaired that same evening to Sir George, whom 
 he found just preparing to set out for the garrison, 
 attended by Captains Smith and Preston. 
 
 "Ah, thou bird of ill omen!" cried Sir George 
 gayly, " prithee, Master Randolph, lay aside that 
 grave countenance; our plans are all arranged and too 
 cumbersome for any further ordering. My forehead 
 is wrinkled already with the weight of this matter." 
 
 "Yet must I crave a word. I would not trouble 
 your excellency needlessly ; but the affair is alto- 
 gether too urgent for ceremonials. Will you grant 
 me five minutes private audience before you go to 
 parade ?" 
 
 "Why now T know all you would say as well as 
 if you had told me, Master Randolph ; but no learned 
 lawyer could ever make case clearer than do you to 
 get on the weak side of me. However, I can not re- 
 fuse you if I would, so we will not detain these gen- 
 tlemen any longer." 
 
 The young soldier looked after Randolph's retreat- 
 ing figure with admiration, and said with much ener- 
 gy, "That man is an excellent fellow; I like him, 
 Preston, and I am certain that he has a great mind." 
 
 "Pooh! pooh! that's a spice of your romance, 
 I suppose," answered Captain Preston peevishly. 
 "The man's worthy enough, but too tame for me. 
 I've no mind to make out such a mystery as his char- 
 acter ; he has not an idea like an}?- one else in the 
 colony, nor can 1 see a glimmer of what he's after. 
 A man that can leave his two children in captivity 
 
112 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 without raising a finger to help them is quite beyond 
 my understanding. Ay, and such a noble stripling 
 too ; he'd make the best king the red wretches ever 
 chose to rule them. K he's sensible, he'll stay and 
 get promotion." 
 
 Smith replied as though he heard him not: "A 
 great man, I'm convinced." 
 
 " Well, Captain Smith, since you choose to wait 
 on the governor I'll on to the garrison. We shall 
 have work enough ere night-fall — all to go over again, 
 I warrant you — now that he's come to turn Sir George 
 round again." Preston walked quickly out of the 
 room, in evident displeasure. 
 
 The young man stood musing. They had merged 
 their differences ; but he was too entirely opposed to 
 Captain Preston in principles to yield his opinion with 
 regard to Randolph. Nor would he have felt grieved, 
 had the latter been able to impress the easy governor 
 with his own view of the proposed hostilities. The 
 thing which occasioned most surprise to Smith was 
 this: that a man bereaved of his children, should still, 
 upon avowed principles, urge good faith toward a 
 faithless foe. In the meanwhile the subject of his 
 meditations was endeavoring to turn Sir George Yeard- 
 ley from his present intentions. But, though the 
 good-natured governor of Virginia would most wil- 
 lingly have obliged all parties if it had been in his 
 power, he could not extricate himself from the dilem- 
 ma into which his want of firmness had led him, but 
 at the risk of offending the majority of his council, 
 and such consequences were extremely disagreeable. 
 Like most men who are afraid to do right, from a 
 dread of false shame, or ridicule of the world, he 
 wished to excuse himself to the man whom he so 
 much respected, urging the impossibility of disarrang- 
 ing plans which had been made and concerted by the 
 newly-formed house of representatives. It was in 
 vain that Henry Randolph placed the truth before him 
 of the precise resemblance the intended inroad bore 
 to the deed perpetrated by the Indians themselves ; 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 113 
 
 that by whatever specious name they might call it, it 
 was nothing less than a massacre, and one which 
 could not fail to bring a lasting disgrace upon the 
 name of England and all succeeding settlers in Vir- 
 ginia. Sir George had reasons shallow and weak, 
 but better than none to his own mind; and though 
 suspicious that he was doing wrong, he fortified him- 
 self against all the twinges of conscience, by falling 
 back u 
 lature. 
 
 The contrast between the two men was very strik- 
 ing, as they returned from their conference to the 
 apartment where Smith was still awaiting them. 
 Henry Randolph looked sad, but stepped as one who 
 felt conscious of having done a duty to the utmost, 
 though unsuccessfully ; and Sir George rather tripped 
 along than marched in his usually soldier-like manner, 
 endeavoring to hide disagreeable sensations under a 
 gay exterior. On bidding Henry good night, he ex- 
 tended his hand, and said, with a slight tremulousness 
 in his tone — "A good night, my friend; pray do not 
 set every man down as cruel or dishonest who can not 
 see with your eyes. A good night to you, Master 
 Randolph, and better days to you and yours. Soon 
 shall your lost ones be restored; doubt it not. Pre- 
 sent me courteously to Mistress Margaret," and away 
 he went. But Smith lingered; a (lush passed over 
 his pale countenance, as, with an impulse he strove 
 not to resist, he seized Randolph's hand, and said, 
 *' Yes! I pledge my word as a soldier and brother, to 
 bring your children back to you safe and soon ; trust 
 me, they shall return." 
 
 "You are most kind indeed, young man," replied 
 Henry, with much emotion ; " but say not so confi- 
 dently that they shall return. God knows how blest 
 a sight it would be to me and their poor mother ; but 
 He who led them captive can alone restore them to 
 our prayers. 1 shall hope much from your generous 
 efforts, and my gratitude" 
 
 ** Nay, nay, nothing of gratitude, I pray you," in- 
 JO* 
 
114 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 terrupted Smith. " It will bring its own reward if I 
 succeed, to witness your happiness. But how shall 
 I know your son, if so fortunate as to meet with him ?" 
 
 "Know him! Oh! if you should see one more 
 active, healthy, and comely than another ; though I 
 say it, that is my son. He has a modest bearing and 
 a gallant fearless carriage ; and Alice, she is the fair- 
 est, sweetest, little sprite, as loving and as" — Here 
 the fond father stopped abruptly, and sank into the 
 nearest chair, covering his face, and trembling vio- 
 lently. The young man looked on compassionately, 
 and respectfully waited till he should recover a little. 
 
 " I am very foolish," at length said Randolph, in a 
 tone of anguish. " Pardon such weakness, young 
 friend : it speaks little for the resignation a Christian 
 man should exhibit. Pardon me." 
 
 Smith only replied by again wringing his hand, and 
 then quitted the room, to overtake, by rapid strides, 
 the less-enviable governor. 
 
 When Henry Randolph reached his temporary 
 dwelling, he felt better, happier than when he left it ; 
 and, as he took his two youngest children on his knee, 
 and looked at the sweet and contented countenance 
 of his wife, thankfully felt and acknowledged that by 
 the goodness of God, he had yet many blessings left. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Alice Randolph sat pensively in the wigwam of 
 Oneyda, totally regardless of the whining of her in- 
 fant charge, who, in the absence of its mother, had 
 been intrusted to her care. Her eyes were red with 
 weeping, and though she had ceased to shed tears, 
 she sighed very frequently, and many a long breath 
 ended in sobbing. Altogether, the little girl seemed 
 very sorrowful. Two or three children without the 
 
PHTLIP RANDOLPH. 115 
 
 hut were staring in, but did not venture to cross the 
 doorway, and pressingly invited her to join their 
 sports ; but she motioned them from her, and at heart 
 could scarcely endure their swarthy visages. They 
 had never looked more savage in her eyes : the whole 
 current of her feelings was turned against her late 
 associates. 
 
 But the child began to cry more piteously, and 
 Alice felt obliged to attend to. him. She placed him 
 in a more comfortable position, and gave him a few 
 rushes to play with ; then, resuming her former mel- 
 ancholy attitude, the tears which had for a short time 
 been repressed, gushed forth anew, and she wept once 
 more, as passionately as before. While thus yielding 
 to her grief, she was not unobserved by a new inmate 
 of the hut. Oneyda had entered just as a fresh party 
 of children, more inconsiderate than the rest, were 
 about to rush in and disturb their favorite and quon- 
 dam leader, but he pushed them back sternly, and at 
 this rebuke, the whole group tools to their heels and 
 were soon out of sight. 
 
 The chief, seeing that his entrance was unnoticed, 
 stood silently regarding Alice with glances of interest 
 and affection ; but she was so absorbed in grief, that 
 she never uncovered her face to inquire whose step 
 had crossed the threshold, or whose presence had 
 stilled the crying child, now chattering in his baby 
 language, to his father. Oneyda did not interrupt her. 
 At length, as if a new thought had darted into her 
 mind, she hastily arose, and, without casting a glance 
 at the baby, ran out of the wigwam, and rapidly bent 
 her steps to the prison-hut ; but her progress was ar- 
 rested by a strong hand, and she turned with a feeling 
 of keen disappointment ; but the moment she beheld 
 Oneyda, the flush of hope overspread her cheek, and 
 she uttered an exclamation of joy. She clasped his 
 hand tightly, and covered it with kisses, bestowing 
 every endearing epithet she could think of upon the 
 silent chief, who only replied by leading her back to 
 the wigwam, where, having closed the door, he sat 
 
116 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 down, and stroking her hair in indication of his affec- 
 tion, told her to speak to him again. She thought 
 the day her own, and, with greater importunity, re- 
 peated her request to be taken to Philip. 
 
 " Thou shalt go to thy brother, my child ; but tell 
 him that he must fight, or my young men will be 
 angry." 
 
 " Oh, never mind your young men ; you are a great 
 chief, and you should make them do as you like." 
 
 He shook his head and was silent for a few moments : 
 yet the simple child had suggested an idea that was 
 very agreeable to the imperious Oneyda. Alice stole 
 closer to his side, and looked into his face with such 
 a pleading tenderness, that even the stern chief could 
 not but be moved. 
 
 " Oh yes, now dear good Oneyda, do let Philip out. 
 Never mind your silly young men ; thou knowest, 
 dear Oneyda, they are none of them half so good as 
 our Philip. "What business have they to shut up 
 dear Philip, indeed ? Oneyda, let me tell those young 
 men that you don't care a feather for them;" and her 
 blue eyes flashed defiance, and Alice waived her hand 
 as haughtily as he himself could have done. This 
 appeal was answered by the low and musical laughter 
 of the chief. He motioned her to depart, giving her 
 a small feather from his plume, as a passport to the 
 guard. 
 
 " Go to thy brother, golden hair: thou hast the eye 
 of a dove and the heart of an eagle. Go, tell him 
 that summer is coming." 
 
 Alice delayed not a moment : she flew across the 
 green, and soon stood with her feather upheld, urging 
 instant admission. The sentinels did not prevent her, 
 and she was soon nestled by her brother's side, laugh- 
 ing and chattering with her accustomed glee. She 
 could not sorrow long, and the traces of her recent grief 
 had almost entirely disappeared ere an hour had sped 
 in Philip's society. A day and night had he been a 
 prisoner ; but desolate as his external condition was, 
 he had not felt unhappy. He sought to wait upon his 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 117 
 
 God and trust entirely to his providence, not anticipa- 
 ting evil which he had yet the power to avert. It 
 gave him pleasure to see Alice so happy and contented 
 with him even in this gloomy prison, and now bent 
 fondly over her ; his dark eyes were only occasionally 
 upraised as the thought of his peril and the possibility 
 of separation intruded, but soon again they sank un- 
 der their long fringes, rendering the expression of his 
 countenance still more tender and touching. She, 
 all animation and happiness, sat his unconsciously 
 beautiful contrast, the brilliancy of her fair complex- 
 ion heightened by the suffusion of joyous emotions 
 which tinged her cheek with a deeper glow, varying 
 with every modulation of her voice ; the liquid and 
 quivering brightness of her blue eyes was now and 
 then obscured by the drooping of her waving hair, 
 which fell over her forehead as she moved, to be as 
 hastily tossed back by her rapid hand. Philip had 
 the sweet satisfaction of observing that his presence 
 was enough to create this sunshine in the mind of 
 Alice, and that she truly, warmly, loved him. She 
 would have chattered on the whole afternoon, but the 
 guard at the door looked in and made a sign that she 
 was to come away. 
 
 " Not I," cried Alice, tossing back her hair as she 
 looked resolutely upon him. " Oneyda said I might 
 stay, and thou need not tarry for me there ; I am not 
 coming yet, Maneecho." The savage stood as if 
 transfixed by the picture, and wonderingly regarded 
 the fair being whose appearance indicated so much 
 both of softness and energy. 
 
 " Never mind him, Philip ; Oneyda says he'll teach 
 those bad young men that hate thee to behave better, 
 and he won't let them do thee any harm, so I don't 
 care how long he stands staring." 
 
 " Nay, Alice, Oneyda did not say all that ; what 
 Would thou tell me ?" 
 
 "Why," answered Alice, blushing, "he did say 
 something, but my heart was so full I did not mind 
 much what he said. Oh ! but Philip, he called ma 
 
118 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 his dove and his eagle, and said summer was coming; 
 so when summer comes he will send us home, and 
 then these ugly men can't lock thee up." 
 
 Alice kissed him again so affectionately that he 
 could not ask any more questions ; but putting togeth- 
 er the probabilities of these random recollections, he 
 inferred that some hopeful circumstances had arisen, 
 The guard at last recovered from his revery, and once 
 more beckoned to Alice to depart; but she was so un- 
 willing that it required all Philip's persuasive powers 
 to effect obedience. 
 
 Where was Meahmee? She had quitted the wig- 
 wam early that morning, leaving her boy to the care 
 of Alice, and promising to return ere the sun slept, 
 saying that she would soon make Alice laugh again. 
 She unmoored a light canoe from under the shelter 
 of a projecting rock and sprang into it, displaying 
 great skill in it's guidance down the river. She had 
 not proceeded far when her attention was diverted by 
 the sudden appearance of her husband on the bank. 
 He made a sign that she should stop ; whereupon she 
 instantly made toward him and he sprang into the 
 boat, but did not take the oar from her hand. A few 
 hasty words were exchanged between them, and with 
 more tenderness than he was wont to display, Oneyda 
 smiled encouragingly upon his wife, and giving her a 
 hasty salute made a spring and soon stepped lightly 
 ashore again leaving the happy Meahmee to pursue 
 her voyage with a joyous heart. A few hours of 
 floating brought her to her destination. Here she 
 was met by an elderly Indian accompanied by two 
 younger warriors, not of Oneyda's tribe, but attired 
 very much after the fashion of the Wyannows. The 
 young men's reception was kind, and less negligent 
 than their usual manner of addressing a woman ; but 
 the old man embraced her affectionately, and accepted 
 the presents she had brought from Oneyda, with 
 much satisfaction and courtesy. Meahmee did not 
 quit the river's brink, but promptly made known her 
 mission, for which they were in some measure pre- 
 
PHTLIP RANDOLPH. 119 
 
 pared by the tokens she had despatched the previous 
 evening, by the trusty hand of Appomax. Her father 
 listened with grave attention to the simple eloquence 
 of his daughter, and the brothers stood respectfully 
 awaiting his decision, in which they were sure to ac- 
 quiesce. 
 
 Oneyda's efforts to deliver his protege had been pro- 
 foundly considered; he must not appear as an agent 
 in the liberation of their contumacious captive. Hav- 
 ing turned over many plans in his mind for effecting 
 this purpose, he at length decided upon one which for 
 its policy and wariness could scarcely have been ex- 
 celled. This plan was to secure the assistance of 
 Tallassee, one of the wisest sigamores of the west, 
 whose influence and counsel were indispensable in 
 this affair. His alliance had been made, and the 
 friendship between his people and those of Oneyda 
 cemented by a marriage between the powerful chief 
 of the Wyannows and Meahmee, for whose hand 
 many suitors had enriched her father by the quantity 
 and value of their presents, but she loved Oneyda, 
 and nothing could have pleased her father better than 
 such a choice. Meahmee, prompted by an urgent 
 desire to save her adopted son, painted his qualities in 
 glowing terms to her father and brothers, and partic- 
 ularly interested the latter in his behalf. They 
 thought he must indeed be scarcely human to possess 
 such wisdom without gray hairs : they almost ima- 
 gined, though perhaps very indefinitely, that to serve 
 him was to do honor to the Great Spirit, the Father 
 of Life, who had so richly endowed him with gifts 
 seldom shared by mortals. They resolved to send an 
 embassy on the following morning, which should ar- 
 rive about noon in the Wyannow village, just at the 
 time when it had been arranged to bring out Philip 
 to his trial, and this they had no doubt would cause a 
 diversion. If his enemy was very urgent, and the 
 public voice clamorous, Tallassee, as an acknowledged 
 friend and adviser, was to petition for his life and to 
 elaim him for himself. This would prove a sure 
 
120 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 means of rescuing Philip, as it was in the power of 
 Oneyda to comply, which he intended to do, although 
 he had not felt sufficiently independent to set the 
 prisoner at liberty by his own command. Meahmee 
 did not spend any unnecessary time with her father 
 and brothers ; but entered her canoe once more with 
 a lightened heart, and was peacefully sailing, when 
 she was startled by the sound of oars splashing in the 
 distance, and at once drew in closely under the bank 
 to listen and watch unobserved. The sound grew 
 more distinct, and Meahmee looked around for a safer 
 position, but she must sail onward a few yards before 
 she could reach a landing place. Moving steadily 
 along she gained a harbor, but, just as she was about 
 to land, three boats filled with strange men appeared 
 in sight, and their singular aspect startled and arrested 
 her. The drooping branches of a tree partially shad- 
 owed her, and she hoped thus to escape their obser- 
 vation ; to move she felt would be most difficult, and 
 therefore remained quiet, watching the party from her 
 place of retreat. They paused, and the three boats' 
 crew drew up to consult, apparently in great perplex- 
 ity. Some stood upright and scanned each side of 
 the stream, probably in quest of a landing place. 
 They selected the one already chosen by Meahmee, 
 whose consternation was excessive on observing that 
 they were steering toward it. With the lightness of 
 a fawn she sprang from her canoe and gained the bank 
 so noiselessly as not to be heard by the eager stran- 
 gers, whose attention was shortty attracted by the sol- 
 itary canoe, now rocking and trembling from its re- 
 cent impulse ; but Meahmee was not discovered. She 
 plunged into the brushwood, which is usually to be 
 found on the borders of the forests near water, though 
 never abounding in the interior, and concealed herself 
 by crouching down, and scarcely daring to breathe 
 after attaining its shelter. 
 
 She soon heard the voices of the. strangers, and 
 her ear detected many tones and words which Philip 
 and Alice had made familiar to her : and she there- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 121 
 
 fore rightly concluded that they must be English. 
 Fearful anticipations rushed upon her imagination ; 
 the pale faces had come armed into these wilds ; what 
 should they seek but the blood of her people ? 
 
 The party in the foremost boat had disembarked, 
 and, upon gaining the upper bank of the steep side 
 of the river, commenced reconnoitring the place, 
 and then one of them descended to give a report to 
 the others remaining in the boats. 
 
 " There is no path to be seen, and the wood is im- 
 penetrable ; we had better try lower down or higher 
 up, 'tis far too steep here ; the lower land would do 
 better," said one. 
 
 " Not so," cried another speaker, leaping down the 
 steep bank as he spoke, "every one who knows any- 
 thing of Indian hunting may be sure that an open 
 trail were the very worst to be chosen ; take the river 
 if you choose, Captain Smith ; I'm for the forest, 
 and will take my chance of the first prey." 
 
 " We are going in quest of brave men, of human 
 beings, Captain Preston, and not after buffaloes and 
 deer," replied the first speaker, haughtilv ; " and I 
 put it to our friends in the boats whether mine or 
 yours be the most soldier-like method — skulking 
 through the woods, or marching on an open track 
 where there may be fair vantage ground." 
 
 " Well, I am not here to take my first lesson in In- 
 dian warfare from you, gallant captain ; though I 
 doubt not your tactics are vastly humane. But I put 
 the matter to vote, and the volunteers of our party 
 shall decide." 
 
 A third officer now rose from the stern of one of 
 the boats. " My opinion is this," said he, " that our 
 party divide. Do you, Captain Preston, proceed up- 
 on your forest excursion, and Captain Smith and I 
 will land at some point which you shall name, either 
 east or west of this spot, whence we can make some 
 junction with you inland. We may then probably 
 pick up our Dahwyott friends, who have been so long 
 on the way to meet us." 
 
 11 
 
122 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 "Trust a Dahwyott! the knaves. I'll be beholden 
 to the first that shall ever do us service. As you say, 
 Mark, we will divide ; do you and Smith take the 
 western direction, and I'll lead a few brave fellows 
 through this wood up to the red bluff you'll see hang- 
 ing over the stream ; but mind, gentlemen, its all a 
 chance that you're not seen upon the open river; 
 draw in to the bank if a leaf stir. We shall get noth- 
 ing done, I fear, before morning. Follow me, my 
 men, we must not tarry." 
 
 " Ay, ay," cried a hearty voice from below, " you 
 say right now, captain; and if ever any proverb was 
 true there's one I wot of — 'set a thief to catch a 
 thief,' sirs. There's Captain Preston that '11 have all 
 the villages burning before morning, just as the red 
 villains did the Fair Meadows not so long ago ; and 
 there, while you've been talking o' this way I've been 
 speering about I'se warrant, and I think we've caught 
 something already. Now is it likely that canoe could 
 ha' sailed itself into that snug corner all alone ? Its 
 clear to me there's been hands and feet here ; and, for 
 sure, the little thing's rocking about just as if it had 
 been left to shift for itself all of a sudden." 
 
 " Well said, Ralph Giles," cried Preston, " and we 
 must look into this at once ; thou art a sharp fellow^ 
 with all thy impudence. If I catch the bird that has 
 flown so recently I'll tie him to the nearest tree till 
 we're safe back again. Everything depends upon a 
 surprise. I would not have any forerun er to our 
 coming on this occasion. Look sharp, my men, and 
 beat the bushes there ; some of you get into the 
 trees, and look round." 
 
 " Preston !" said Captain Smith, with much energy, 
 after some deliberation, " I'll join your party, and 
 place my men as a reserve under your orders, but on 
 condition that no cruelty is used here. To be honest, 
 I confess I have my motives, but from this time am 
 resolved to act in concert with you ; so ! my men, up 
 and be ready." 
 
 Captain Preston was soon upon the bank of the 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 123 
 
 stream once more, and seizing the young officer's 
 hand, grasped it with great cordiality. " 1 question 
 no man's motives, Smith; you need not tell me yours 
 — it is quite enough that you set so noble an exam- 
 ple of union. I am sure I am only too happy to have 
 you as my companion in this affair. I acknowledge 
 your bravery, but must again declare that in expedi- 
 tions of this kind wariness is far more needed than 
 courage." 
 
 Smith bowed slightly at these words, and made no 
 reply ; but his pale face flushed as he turned away to 
 hasten the movements of his men. 
 
 Captain Preston reasoned with honest Ralph that 
 the boat could not have come there without agency, 
 and no Indian would have quitted his canoe without 
 securing it in some manner, or drawing it up after 
 him, unless suddenly made aware of an enemy's ap- 
 proach ; he inferred, therefore, that their own party 
 had alarmed the late occupant, and that that individu- 
 al must either have escaped by magic, or be still very 
 near them. 
 
 Poor Meahmee began to tremble when she felt the 
 brushwood above her hiding-place press more heavily 
 upon her, and heard the loud voices of the men on all 
 sides ; but she remained quiet, patiently bearing the 
 rude jostling of the passers-by, who, sedulously as 
 they beat the bushes, did not discover her. At length, 
 after spending much time in this manner, weary of 
 their fruitless efforts, the men returned to their leader, 
 and Captain Preston was much annoyed at this mys- 
 terious escape, as he deemed it. If the late occupant 
 of the canoe had observed their arrival, and gone for- 
 ward to give intelligence, it was of the first importance 
 to depart and pursue their way to the village of the 
 far-famed chief Oneyda. So, after observing the po- 
 sition of the sun, they endeavored to keep westward, 
 and commenced their march through the mazes of the 
 forest. 
 
 When all became still, and the crackling of fallen 
 branches was no longer audible, Meahmee tremblingly 
 
124 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 emerged from her hiding-place, and cautiously ap- 
 proached the spot where she had left her canoe, but 
 did not venture to descend till the three boats had dis- 
 appeared ; waiting impatiently till the sound of the 
 oars had quite diedaway, with a deep sigh she entered 
 her own frail bark, and with a heavy heart paddled in 
 the direction of the Indian village. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Oneyda's spirit had caught fire from the spark 
 which the unconscious Alice had thrown out in her 
 childish vivacity and resentment at the young men. 
 He pondered the strange fact which her inadvertent 
 remark had brought to light, that he, a great and pow- 
 erful chief, was really afraid of his young men, and in 
 dread of them — daring not to follow the inclination 
 which so strongly urged him to rescue his protege by 
 more direct means from their jealous machinations. 
 The more he dwelt upon the matter, the less satisfied 
 did he feel with the long-practised customs of his 
 tribe ; and it might be that his own sentiments had lost 
 much of their sternness, rendering him less capable 
 of yielding the stoical obedience which savage law 
 required. Unconscious that affection for Philip was 
 the ruling motive, he arrived at a conclusion which to 
 his own mind justified anything he might propose to 
 himself for execution. He resolved to break through 
 the barrier which barbarous customs had so long up- 
 held, and become arbitrary master of the people he 
 ruled. But Oneyda was too much the Indian to ar- 
 rive at the end by direct means ; he could not help 
 reflecting, planning, and balancing, ere he took any 
 step of importance, and subtlety was as natural to him 
 as it might be obligatory to an ordinary politician. 
 What a civilized but worldly-wise white man would 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 125 
 
 have deemed policy, Oneyda naturally esteemed cred- 
 itable deceit, such as all prudent sachems would em- 
 ploy to accomplish their own ends. Of one thing he 
 assured himself, and that was a visit to the captive 
 when night should fling its sudden shadows over the 
 village. There could be nothing suspicious then ; his 
 people would have retired, and they should have evi- 
 dent testimony in the meanwhile that he was not con- 
 niving at escape or treachery. 
 
 None who could have seen the stately Oneyda pa- 
 rading with such an air of apathetic haughtiness the 
 irregular promenade which lay in front of the council- 
 lodge, would have supposed that he felt either anxie- 
 ty or apprehension, so abstracted was bis demeanor, 
 and so dignified his carriage. He seemed to tread the 
 earth with condescension, and as if his deep-set eye 
 deigned not to glance at it ; indeed, it was steadily 
 fixed upon the distance, except when he turned in his 
 walk, and then it was not withdrawn for an instant 
 from the wigwam before which Philip's guard stood 
 statue-like. Oneyda was greatly respected by the 
 men of his tribe ; old and young venerated, almost 
 adored him, and many were the respectful salutations 
 and difficult glances he received in his solitary prome- 
 nade, for none ventured uninvited to join him. It was 
 plain to them that the great chief was holding high 
 and dear converse with his father and grandsire, both 
 of them renowned warriors, who at this moment were 
 doubtless urging him to take a refined and summary 
 vengeance on the ungrateful Yengee, who had repaid 
 his kindness with such perfidious defiance. So thought 
 the young men, and so feared Appomax, who stood 
 pensively leaning against one of the rude pillars of the 
 lodge, his eyes fixed upon his brother, though occa- 
 sionally wandering toward the prison-hut which con- 
 tained his dear friend, whom he pictured to himself 
 as there pining and plunged in despair. When the 
 idlers had dispersed, and but one or two remained 
 upon the green, Appomax ventured to join his brother, 
 but an expressive sign from the chief caused him to 
 il# 
 
120 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 withdraw and disappear from the lodge. Oneyda had 
 not spoken, but Appomax understood the direction of 
 his glance, and obeyed it. He continued to pace the 
 green with the same measured and majestic tread till 
 the red of the glowing west had faded above the dis- 
 tant trees, and he knew that the sun must have sunk, 
 and the summer night was fast coming on. Oneyda 
 now bent his steps slowly toward the river, and on the 
 way was accosted by Appomax, who had preceded 
 him to the appointed place of meeting. 
 
 There was a thrilling plaintiveness in the tones of 
 the young Indian as he addressed his brother, which 
 seemed to effect a change in his feelings ; for Oneyda's 
 manner of proud dignity instantly appeared influenced 
 by their pathos, and melted as snow in sunshine, be- 
 coming cordial and affectionate ; he spoke in low but 
 rapid accents, and ere he had uttered a few sentences, 
 Appomax almost bounded from the earth, uttering an 
 exclamation of joy, but he was immediately checked 
 by his brother's ready caution. 
 
 " Hush ! let not my brother's voice be heard ; the 
 night winds have not whispered to the trees; they wait 
 till the shadows are deeper ; let them not tell their 
 tale in the wigwam of Maneecho. Shall the enemy 
 of Philip hear ? No ! hush, speak low, my son, and 
 he will soon be free." 
 
 Appomax repressed his delight at the further com- 
 munications of Oneyda, who, while talking, never de- 
 layed his progress to the river's side, where he expect- 
 ed to find Meahmee just arriving. They waited till 
 twilight had faded, and the stars began to gleam in 
 the dusky sky, and the outline of the dark woods be- 
 came fainter and fainter, but still she came not. Oney- 
 da, who would have felt ashamed to betray emotion 
 in the presence of another, could not now rejoice that 
 the darkness hid his agitated countenance from his 
 brother, whose acute ear enabled him to ascertain 
 that Oneyda was feeling unwonted anxiety about 
 Meahmee. The darkness made her absence only the 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 127 
 
 the bank, chiding the gloom, and lamenting that he 
 had sent her away upon so difficult an enterprise, 
 while Appcmax endeavored to cheer him with the 
 reasonable expectation that she would arrive at last. 
 The night was remarkably still ; every sound of nature 
 was hushed to calmness ; the village was quiet ; the 
 woods might have been silenced at the wish of the 
 anxious listeners ; nothing was heard but the quick 
 breathing of Oneyda, and the gentle plaintive tones of 
 his brother, who occasionally uttered some plausible 
 conjecture respecting the absent Meahmee. At length 
 the long-wished-for sound was heard, and Oneyda 
 flew along the brink of the river in the direction 
 whence the plashing of oars in the water seemed to 
 proceed. He strained his eyes, and called loudly 
 upon the name of his wife ; but suddenly all was still 
 again, and, unable to account for so strange a decep- 
 tion, he rejoined Appomax, greatly wondering at the 
 mystery. 
 
 " She will not come," said Appomax; " her father 
 and mother have given her a mat in their wigwam to- 
 night, and she stays to sleep there, as the night is 
 dark." 
 
 "Yes, it is so," replied Oneyda, gloomily; "yet 
 why does a wife leave the wigwam of her husband ? 
 I told her I should wait at the river when the sun 
 slept, and her footsteps are swifter than the fawn's 
 when Oneyda calls. See, another star is burning 
 above the sumachs, but the light of Meahmee's eyes 
 will not shine on my hearth to-night; it will be very- 
 dark, brother." 
 
 The youth listened with secret surprise at this 
 avowal of tenderness, and thought his brother much 
 changed toward his gentle wife, who, though she had 
 ever been treated kindly by Oneyda, had never ap- 
 peared to be an object of such great interest to her 
 husband. However well Oneyda might behave to 
 her in private, Meahmee received no attention from 
 him in public ; yet, apparently, she was the happiest as 
 well as the most interesting woman of the whole tribe. 
 
128 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 The brothers at length walked homeward, but in- 
 stead of entering his own wigwam, Oneyda led the way 
 to the prisoner's hut. An Indian was standing motion- 
 less before the door ; a large torch was placed in the 
 ground at a little distance, at which the chief lighted 
 a smaller brand, and bidding Appomax retire out of 
 sight, he went up to the guard and requested him to 
 open the door. The savage hesitated, and Oneyda 
 raised his flambeau to obtain a better view of his 
 countenance. It was that of Maneecho, the inveter- 
 ate enemy of his protege, and the chief sternly scruti- 
 nized him. He then spoke a few words in a tone 
 which made the young man's heart beat, and, pushing 
 him aside, unfastened the door and quietly entered 
 the hut. 
 
 All was still. The kindness of Meahmee had pro- 
 vided a mat for her adopted son to sleep upon, and an- 
 other to serve as a coverlet to his rude couch. There 
 he lay peacefully sleeping, one arm thrown over his 
 head, and his face fully exposed to the light. Oneyda 
 stood for some moments intently gazing upon the 
 captive, noting with admiration each well-developed 
 muscle, and the outline of a form of youthful sym- 
 metry ; he marked, too, the peculiarly placid expres- 
 sion of Philip's features, though deficient neither in 
 dignity nor firmness. Oneyda felt humbled by the 
 contrast thus strikingly presented to him between him- 
 self and his defenceless captive, whose superiority, 
 eveu in moments of unconsciousness, he acknowl- 
 edged and respected. 
 
 " He shall be free !" he muttered as he turned away ; 
 for he would not disturb slumbers so tranquil and in- 
 nocent, and quitted the hut. The crafty Maneecho 
 had heard these words, and they inflamed every evil 
 passion of his revengeful heart. He knew that he 
 had no power to oppose the will of his chief, should 
 the latter interpose to save his intended victim, and he 
 began to feel far too insecure of the perfect vengeance 
 he had promised himself. He paused a moment, and 
 then, rapidly unsheathing his knife, gently unfastened 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 129 
 
 the door and entered in darkness. He groped his way 
 to the mat, where Philip still slej t. But his murder- 
 ous purpose was arrested, even as he raised his hand 
 to strike, for he staggered and fell heavily to the 
 ground, himself wounded in the back by an unseen 
 hand. Maneecho writhed for a few moments under 
 the double torture of baffled revenge and the agony of 
 his wound, and fainted at the feet of Philip. 
 
 When Oneyda reached the door of his own hut, he 
 heard a low chanting from within, and, much sur- 
 prised, paused a few moments to listen. Great was 
 his joy upon recognising the sweet tones of Meah- 
 mee's voice, who was rocking her baby to sleep in 
 the little cradle which the ingenuity of Philip had 
 constructed. Rushing into the dwelling, Oneyda 
 greeted his wife with every demonstration of delight 
 at seeing her safe at home once more; and, overjoyed 
 at such unusual attentions, Meahmee could scarcely 
 find words to reply to the many interested inquiries 
 he made concerning her voyage and return. It was no 
 new thing to be treated kindly by her husband, but 
 she had been little accustomed to hear him express 
 anxiety and distress at not finding her where she had 
 promised to meet him at a certain hour, or to see joy 
 and tenderness sparkling in his eyes at her safe return, 
 or to receive food from his hand because she was 
 weary — that she almost forgot everything save the in- 
 tense delight of the present moment. She felt like 
 some little bird restored to the parent nest after peril 
 and exposure, never to be torn thence again : no queen 
 upon the mightiest of earth's thrones could be hap- 
 pier, or have fewer wishes ungratified, than the simple 
 Meahmee while receiving the still dignified but affec- 
 tionate attentions of her husband. 
 
130 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The morning sun rose brightly upon the village of 
 the Wyannows, and its inhabitants were stirring early. 
 The whole tribe seemed to be in commotion. Oney- 
 da had quitted his wigwam soon after re-entering it, 
 and had visited the dwelling of every chief warrior ; 
 before dawn he had held a council with the old men 
 in the lodge ; and now was seen making his way 
 through the throng which had so suddenly assembled 
 to the prisoner's hut, with a ruffled air, far different 
 from his demeanor of the preceding day. His dress, 
 too, was changed : that is to say, he was now accou- 
 tred in the full costume of a warrior chieftain. The 
 bright lines indicative of the character of his warfare 
 were carefully painted in their proper colors upon his 
 arms and legs ; his hunting-shirt of doe-skin was 
 beautifully wrought in feathers ; and upon his mantle 
 were pictured the deeds he had performed, in the rude 
 style of savage artists. The precious metals were not 
 wanting to add richness to his attire : the plumed crest 
 of his tribe and rank gave a few inches to his stature ; 
 and at every step his glittering weapons rattled and 
 shook as if to give intimation of the chafed spirit of 
 him who so proudly wore them. A few hasty strides 
 brought him to the door of the hut ; the guard was 
 absent, and the fastening undone. He started ! Per- 
 haps the jirisoner had escaped ; and if so, then had he 
 lost one unspeakably dear to him. He entered ; and 
 what was his surprise to find Philip still sleeping, for 
 it was yet very early, and Maneecho stretched to all 
 appearance lifeless on the ground by his side. A 
 fierce smile passed over the dark features of Oneyda, 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 131 
 
 and he stood awhile irresolutely regarding the scene. 
 Appearances were strongly against Philip, and would 
 render the task of liberating him extremely difficult. 
 He scarcely knew what to do ; but, after further re- 
 flection, roused the sleeping captive, who was instant- 
 ly called to consciousness by the well-known voice of 
 his friend. 
 
 " Oneyda !" cried the youth, starting to his feet, 
 "you are come to deliver me; I dreamed that you 
 were by my side — that you saved me from a cruel 
 death ; but oh! what is this ?" recoiling, as he spoke, 
 in horror from the insensible savage, whose cold form 
 he at that moment touched. Oneyda narrowly scru- 
 tinised him. 
 
 " Who did this, my son ?" 
 
 " Who, indeed ?" said Philip, compassionately 
 stooping, and, raising the drooping head of his enemy, 
 he carefully examined him. " There may yet be life ; 
 oh, Oneyda, quick ! Can we do nothing for him ? 
 Why tis the image of my dream! I dreamt last 
 night that the knife of Maneecho was at my throat ; 
 but that you — no, some other person — saved me, but 
 not thus : Appomax oh ! get help instantly." 
 
 " Stay !" said Oneyda, in a tone which startled 
 Philip by its nervousness ; but it was the quivering 
 of hardly suppressed rage against which he seemed 
 struggling. "This dog has died as he deserved, and 
 why should we call to his father or his brothers : — 
 but your dream, my son ; and what of Appomax ?" 
 
 Philip was perplexed, and endeavored to recall the 
 features of his dream, but all was confused. 
 
 "Who calls Appomax? He is here:" and the 
 young Indian glided in through an opening he had 
 made by loosening the planks of which one side of 
 the rude building was constructed. Oneyda pointed 
 in expressive silence toward the body of Maneecho ; 
 but his arm trembled so excessively that he could not 
 hold it long outstretched and it fell to his side, sha- 
 king his dazzling weapons with an ominous sound. 
 Philip occupied himself solely with endeavoring to 
 
132 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 ascertain the extent of Maneecho's injury, and for a 
 short time nattered himself that life was not yet ex- 
 tinct. He tore from his own person part of his attire 
 wherewith to stanch the gaping wound ; but the 
 blood had become a coagulated mass, and he was at 
 last obliged to realize the painful truth that the unfor- 
 tunate savage was now far beyond the reach of pity 
 or of prayer. The brothers stood silently regarding 
 one another. A spell had fallen upon the whole par- 
 ty; but a hubbub of voices was now heard without, 
 and a crowd approached the wigwam. 
 
 At a sign from Oneyda, Appomax threw open the 
 door, and the father and brothers of the dead rushed 
 in. They beheld the sad spectacle with clamorous 
 grief; but rage and fury succeeded to this first emo- 
 tion. They would have immolated Philip upon the 
 spot but for the presence, of Oneyda, whose tone of 
 calm authority was not to be withstood ; for he placed 
 himself before the captive, and as soon as the friends 
 of the deceased had become less noisy addressed them 
 quietly and simply, relating how he had found the 
 prisoner sleeping, with Maneecho dead at his feet. 
 They knew that he had been deprived of his weapons 
 when brought thither ; and the dead warrior was still 
 clenching his own tomahawk unstained in his own 
 hand. It was evident that his intentions had been 
 most dishonorable and murderous ; he had thought to 
 kill the captive alone and in secret, without consulting 
 any one, and had reaped the reward of his treachery. 
 Could Philip be the murderer, who was now bending 
 over the body with such earnest sadness and had 
 bound up the wounds with portions of his own dress? 
 They regarded Philip with unfeigned astonishment, 
 and stoodin deepest perplexity. Here was indeed a 
 mystery, and many heads were shaken. But when 
 they saw Philip about to depart with the chief and 
 Appomax they exclaimed loudly, and insisted upon 
 his detention. Oneyda haughtily waved his hand in 
 the direction of the open door, saying, as he laid the 
 other upon Philip's shoulder: — 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 133 
 
 " He is mine ! Death has buried all jealous words, 
 and my son shall return to his father's wigwam. Go ! 
 take Maneecho ; he shall have a brave's burial, and 
 we will lay the scalps of our enemies upon his grave. 
 The Yengee is eagle-hearted ; he shall live for his red 
 fathers. I am a great chief. Go." 
 
 The countenance and attitude of Oneyda expressed 
 an authority which none present could gainsay, and 
 every voice was hushed, and each face grew calm and 
 submissive ; they all left the wigwam in order, bear- 
 ing the bodjr away to the hut of his father, each pas- 
 sing his chief with a profound salutation. Philip 
 stood mournfully gazing after the procession, and 
 Appomax appeared unable to congratulate his friend 
 upon his liberty; Oneyda alone was active; he smiled 
 more proudly than ever, and motioned to his com- 
 panions to hasten their departure. 
 
 But Philip would not leave the prison, where he 
 had so lately learned to prepare for death, without 
 thanking his Heavenly Father upon his knees for his 
 deliverance ; and his companions, so far from betray- 
 ing any impatience at the delay, waited in the door- 
 way till he was ready ; Appomax regarding his friend 
 with reverent attention, and Oneyda standing with 
 downcast eyes and an expression of ill-concealed won- 
 der upon his countenance. 
 
 Meahmee flew to welcome her adopted son, and set 
 before him the most sumptuous breakfast her stores 
 afforded ; but Philip looked around for his sister. 
 She had gone out for her customary morning ramble 
 ere any one could prevent, but would doubtless soon 
 return. Philip finished his breakfast, but still she 
 came not; and Oneyda looked anxiously at his wife, 
 and she at the corner where their child generally lay, 
 but he too was gone. Philip declared that he would 
 go in search of them, and bring both back speedily. 
 " Little truant," he thought, "she knows not that 1 
 am free." 
 
 He walked toward the river, and on the way saw 
 much that surprised him. The children were group- 
 12 
 
134 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 ed in a strong body under the trees, and the larger 
 boys were practising with their bows and arrows. 
 Alice was not among them. The morning was bright 
 and genial, and all Nature seemed to smile benignantly 
 upon him. The sunshine without was in harmony 
 with his own cheerful thoughts, and a deep enthusi- 
 astic thankfulness filled his heart with emotions which 
 winged their way heavenward in many a silent aspi- 
 ration. But his happiness reached its climax when 
 he heard the sweet voice of his sister and caught a 
 glimpse of her figure. She had been tempted to take 
 a bath in the stream, its waters looked so inviting, and 
 had just completed her toilet when Philip addressed 
 her. The baby had been allowed to play upon the 
 bank, and was now pulling flowers to pieces, occa- 
 sionally holding out a few to his young nurse. Alice 
 uttered a scream of joy at sight of Philip, and flew 
 toward him. " Oh ! Philip, did not I tell thee thou 
 wouldst soon be free; and, I'm sure summer is come, 
 and we shall go home !" and she clapped her hands 
 in the ecstacy of her anticipations. 
 
 "It is, it is !" cried a person very near them; and 
 in another moment Alice was grasped by the sturdy 
 hand of Ralph Giles. 
 
 " Well, now, for sure,: it is our own sweet little 
 Mistress Alice ! Dear, dear, this is the best bit of 
 luck that ever happened ; come along with me, dar- 
 ling. Well, I never knew anything like it; indeed, 
 never!" 
 
 Alice returned his affectionate salute with all her 
 heart ; but Philip stood bewildered and overcome by 
 this unexpected apparition. While his sister was 
 assailing Giles with question upon question, and the 
 honest fellow was indulging in every expression of 
 delight which he could command, his companion, an 
 officer in the dress of an English cavalier, stood aloof 
 for a few moments, eying the whole scene with much 
 interest, yet unwilling to intrude upon emotions so 
 precious ; but as Giles was evidently incapable of 
 stirring from the spot so long as Alice's arms were 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 135 
 
 clasped about his neck, he thought it best to remind 
 him of the value of every minute, and to suggest that 
 he proceeded with his charge to the boats. 
 
 "Well, my dear little mistress," said Ralph, smil- 
 ing through tears which glistened in his eyes as he 
 gazed upon the long-lost child, "where shall we find 
 Master Philip ? But, stay ; I'd better take you off 
 quietly, and then, when you're safe, we can easily 
 find him. But, Captain Smith, l'se thinking you 
 might tie up that youngster there, to quiet him, or we 
 shall be found out; and now, little lady, tell us where 
 we may get at Master Philip when we come back?" 
 
 Alice laughed merrily. " He's near enough, Ralph 
 Giles, if thou hast any eyes." 
 
 Ralph stared and looked again, and drew nearer. 
 "Well, well," he exclaimed hastily, placing the little 
 girl upon the bank, "this is a day of wonders, that 
 both should be here just to our hand, like; but in- 
 deed, Mistress Alice, I am blind, for sure I see no 
 Master Philip at all. My word, the jacknapes is stir- 
 ring : we must fix him at any rate. Why he's wil- 
 ling to be caught, l'se thinking, to be standing staring 
 there." 
 
 " Very willing, honest Ralph. I can assure thee," 
 said Philip, holding out his hand to his faithful friend, 
 who lifted up his eyes and hands in amazement, which 
 for a moment or two seemed to deprive him of the 
 power of speech. But when those well-remembered 
 accents reached his heart, he was almost beside him- 
 self with joy. He took Philip's proffered hand and 
 shook it heartily, and his expressions of delight were 
 so boisterous that his prudent companion thought 
 proper to remind him once more of the flight of time, 
 and how much the safety of his precious charge de- 
 pended upon caution, and that they must all be quiet. 
 
 " It's easy for you to talk, captain ; but how was I 
 to know Master Philip in that mountebank fashion ? 
 Why, he looks as like an Indian as any. of them; but, 
 for all that, l'se glad to see you, my young master, 
 
136 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 and the first sound of your voice was like to break my 
 heart. 
 
 "And what are we to do?" asked Philip, eagerly. 
 The moment was come at length which he had so 
 longed for — the realization of his dreams ; and yet, 
 when liberty was in his grasp, he felt an involuntary 
 pang at the thought of leaving thus abruptly his kind 
 protectors, the well-intentioned beings who had shown 
 him so much love and hospitality ever since he had 
 dwelt among them. It was so ungrateful to leave 
 Oneyda and his generous brother, and the kind gentle 
 Meahmee, who had been as a mother to him, without 
 a word of regret. He urged these feelings in excuse 
 for not instantly complying with the entreaties of his 
 friends to depart at once, while they might do it se- 
 cretly. 
 
 " It can not be Philip Randolph," said Smith, who 
 at heart admired these sentiments ; " our mission is 
 most perilous, and every moment's delay adds to its 
 danger. Our departure must be prompt and instant. 
 Ralph Giles, do you take the little girl on your shoul- 
 der and set forth." 
 
 Alice's heart was overflowing with happiness, and 
 she thought of nothing but the pleasure of riding 
 upon Ralph's shoulder, as in former days, and quite 
 forgot her little charge and everything else she had 
 cared for in the morning ere she quitted the wigwam. 
 The present was the. ail of the volatile child, and she 
 was borne away, without a pang of regret, from the 
 scene of her late enjoyments, willing to enter upon 
 novelties, and most happy to be restored to an old 
 friend's protection. All this was natural to Alice, but 
 her brother still paused. Captain Smith urged him 
 in vain to quit the spot ; he looked at Meahmee's 
 child, and said, firmly, 
 
 " I must first take back this child to his mother ; 1 
 promised to do so ten minutes ago, and I can not 
 leave her thus ungratefully." 
 
 " 1 admire your generous conduct greatly, Philip 
 Randolph, but it is now misplaced ; the child will 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 137 
 
 take no harm ; and my promise is given to your father 
 that you shall return with me. The way is clear, and 
 our opportunity may be lost if we delay ; so follow 
 me." 
 
 "My father!" repeated Philip, in a faltering tone, 
 while the tears rose fast to his eyes, and his lip quiv- 
 ered with an emotion which promised well for Cap- 
 tain Smith's proposition; "God knows how I yearn 
 to see my father's face, but I may not desert this help- 
 less baby. I will soon return, and do you, sir, with- 
 draw : I will rejoin you at the creek above this spot, 
 in a few minutes." 
 
 " There goes the worthy son of his father," thought 
 Smith, as he watched the retreating form of Philip ; 
 and when he had quite disappeared, he himself turned 
 to dep;irt. 
 
 Philip flew up the steep ascent which led to the vil- 
 lage, and, as he drew nearer, heard distinctly the 
 sounds of chanting and the tramp of many footsteps. 
 Upon arriving at the green, he beheld a large body of 
 warriors dancing their war-dance and shouting their 
 discordant song of battle. Contrary to the custom of 
 many tribes, their chief stood apart among the circle 
 of old men, above whom his majestic form towered 
 conspicuously, and ever and anon his plume waved in 
 unison with the energetic eloquence he was then 
 using. 
 
 When his oration was ended, he looked around 
 with an air of discontent and impatience. The curl- 
 ing of his lip might indicate the contempt he felt at 
 the absurd usages of his barbarous and unenlightened 
 subjects. He did not condescend to join in the war- 
 dance or add his voice to the terrific yell which rent 
 the air with its discord. Philip turned not aside, but 
 went onwatd to the wigwam of Oneyda. He placed 
 the child in Meahmee's hands, and his own trembled 
 as he did so. " How can I leave her thus ungrateful- 
 ly," he thought, " wiihout a word of kindness ; and 
 what will Oneyda think of me ? Oh, Heavenly Fa- 
 ther, guide me ; teach me what to do !" 
 12* 
 
138 PHTLIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 Meahmee inquired why the golden hair came not. 
 " She is a sad truant, mother; but I will go again and 
 seek her." 
 
 Philip rejoiced that he could speak the truth, and 
 hoped that the squaw would not ask him any ques- 
 tions to which he might not be able to reply evasively. 
 
 "My son," said Meahmee, timidly, "Appomax 
 will go ; there is danger. Oneyda said, ' Let Philip 
 stay ; a dark cloud is over our village to-day.' Go 
 not forth, my son." 
 
 " Nay, mother, if there be danger I ought to pro- 
 tect my sister," and he turned to depart, though with 
 so much agitation that the watchful eye of Appomax 
 observed his unusual emotion ; and placing himself 
 in the doorway, he entreated him to remain, declaring 
 his willingness to go in quest of Alice. To this, 
 Philip, of course, did not accede, and accomplished 
 his purpose of leaving the hut. But just as he was 
 darting across the green, every joyous hope and long- 
 cherished anticipation winging his footsteps, he was 
 suddenly arrested by a cry, which, in its horrific 
 shrillness, seemed to fall upon his heart with the 
 weight of a death-blow, chilling every bright thought 
 and stagnating every pulse of hope within him. 
 
 But the cry was succeeded by many more, and the 
 din grew louder. The clash of weapons was next 
 heard, mingling with the shrieks of affrighted women 
 and children. They came rushing over the plain, 
 wildly mixing with the warriors thus suddenly inter- 
 rupted in their preparations. The way toward the 
 river was completely blocked up, and so great was the 
 confusion that Philip could only gather from appear- 
 ances that some unexpected attack had been made 
 upon the Wyannows, though, as yet, he could not 
 distinguish the foe. But now, above the shouting of 
 the multitude, was heard the report of firearms, and vol- 
 ley after volley succeeded. Not many of the savages 
 had seen or heard these formidable and destructive 
 arms, and their terror and amazement were so great 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 139 
 
 that, though brave and determined, they shrank from 
 the encounter with a species of superstitious dread. 
 
 The old men could not join in the fight, and looked 
 on with anxious hearts, though too stoical to betray 
 their feelings even to one another. It was for them 
 to plan a method of escape for the women and chil- 
 dren; and they hastened the flight of all they could 
 assemble toward the river, on that side of the village 
 yet free from attack. By making a short circuit it 
 was still possible for many to escape without interrup- 
 tion from the enemy ; but not a few already lay life- 
 less or dying upon the ground, and others, wounded, 
 or stupified by terror, were unable to follow those 
 who were flying from the dangerous fire. Philip, 
 with entire unselfishness, endeavored to persuade 
 Meahmee to retreat, offering to escort her to the ca- 
 noe which always stood moored in its special har- 
 bor; but she would not quit the spot which she 
 had chosen, and whence she could see the plume of 
 eagle's feathers and occasionally obtain a glimpse of 
 Oneyda's form. 
 
 When Philip saw that his persuasions were thrown 
 away, he turned to others who equally needed his 
 care. Many a bewildered child he raised from the 
 ground and hurried forward to join the departing 
 crowd. But sometimes he was called to the wigwam 
 door by the clash of weapons, and those of Appomax 
 were already stained by collision with some daring 
 intruder. In spite of the resistance made by the 
 youthful sentinel, who now fought like a true warrior, 
 a soldier effected an entrance, and Philip had only 
 time to rush in and throw himself before Meahmee. 
 How did his heart sicken at sight of a human being, a 
 civilized man, with sabre upraised and aimed at the 
 head of a defenceless woman ! 
 
 " Stay, stay !" he cried, " I am Philip Randolph, 
 and for my sake spare this woman ; she has been a 
 mother to me in my captivity." 
 
 The man instantly dropped his weapon, and, after 
 examining Philip's face and dress, replied, "Well, 
 
140 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 master, I do it at your bidding; but my orders are to 
 kill every woman and child and old man, for we've a 
 lesson to teach them that they wont forget in a hurry. 
 But you had better stay in these quarters, youngster, 
 and then we shall know where to find you when the 
 work's over." The man departed as quickly as he 
 had entered, unmolested by Appomax, whose eyes, 
 however, glared fiercely on him as he passed out 
 within the reach of his tomahawk. 
 
 Meahmee had been so alarmed that she now con- 
 sented to follow Philip's advice, and was quite willing 
 to fly as soon as an opening could be made for her in 
 the throng ; but her agitation and distress were so ex- 
 cessive that she could scarcely stand unsupported. 
 
 Smith looked for Philip Randolph and called upon 
 his name repeatedly, but the object of his solicitude 
 was then engaged in assisting Meahmee to escape, as 
 also two wounded children whom he carried in his 
 arms. Their retreat was covered by the lion-hearted 
 Appomax, and their flight accelerated by a pressure 
 from the crowd behind them. Filled with a gener- 
 ous anxiety about Meahmee, Philip thought not of 
 his own freedom, and that of Alice being secured, he 
 was less careful for personal safety. He had the hap- 
 piness to place the squaw and her child with the two 
 young Indians whom he had rescued, in a canoe ; and 
 then, turning to Appomax, requested him to follow 
 and take charge of them to some place of safety, but 
 Appomax drew back. 
 
 " And you, my brother," said he, inquiringly, 
 " where do you go ?" 
 
 " Ask me not," answered Philip ; " I must away. 
 Farewell, dear kind friends ; may God bless you and 
 lead you into his. truth." 
 
 He was bounding away, when Appomax firmly 
 seized his arm. The eye of the young savage glis- 
 tened, and his voice was very tremulous as he replied, 
 " My brother is going, and he will never come back ; 
 when he is gone to his people the heart of Appomax 
 will wither ; he will sorrow because your voice is si- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 141 
 
 lent ; he will never- learn wisdom. Oh, my brother ! 
 if you leave us the sunshine will be darkness." 
 
 Philip was much affected and could scarcely an- 
 swer. " But, Appomax, we may meet again ; how 
 shall I stay when the voice of my father and my moth- 
 er calls me? 1 shall never forget you; but I must 
 away. Farewell, Appomax ! why would you keep 
 me from liberty ? We shall meet again ; I will go 
 and try to make peace for your people, and you shall 
 come and visit me in my father's house." 
 
 But Appomax was not to be comforted. With a 
 mournful farewell he wrung his friend's hand, and, 
 relinquishing his firm grasp on Philip's arm, turned 
 away and sprang into the canoe. Philip did not trust 
 himself to say another word ; he had already suffered 
 much by delay, and, plunging into the crowd once 
 more, made his way unheeded to the green. He 
 went on, seeing and hearing nothing but the imploring 
 looks of Appomax and the pathetic tones of his voice. 
 Yet liberty invited him smilingly forward. He look- 
 ed toward the spot where he had last seen Preston, 
 and to that point directed his efforts as if life and 
 death hung upon its attainment. 
 
 He could not pass directly to the desired spot, and 
 was compelled to turn aside in order to avoid the shot 
 that was whistling round him; so he determined to 
 make for the wood, hoping to gain the river's brink 
 by a pathway familiar to him. When he reached the 
 first clump of trees, what was his horror to behold, 
 surrounded by numbers of slain, the very protector 
 he had been seeking ! Captain Preston lay dead 
 upon the field of carnage. 
 
 At a little distance from him, almost insensible, and 
 dangerously wounded, was stretched the Wyannow 
 chief. At the sound of an approaching footstep, he 
 opened, his languid eyes and raised a feeble arm, 
 which instantly sank into its recumbent posture. 
 Philip flew toward him, and kneeling down upon the 
 blood-stained turf, bent over him, and said, in the lan- 
 guage of the Indian : — 
 
142 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 " Oneyda, 'tis your son, 'tis Philip ; what shall he 
 do for you ?" 
 
 The warrior's stern countenance relaxed as he said, 
 faintly, " Who calls for Oneyda ? He was a great 
 chief, and is gone to the happy hunting grounds. 
 But, is it Philip ? Raise me, my son, that I may look 
 at my young men; and bind my arm and stop the 
 stream of life; it flows fast, fast, Philip; and the 
 Yengee is at the door of my wigwam." 
 
 Philip complied with his request, and assured him 
 that Meahmee was safe : that she and her child had 
 escaped with Appomax. A smile lit up the dark 
 features of the Indian ; they wore a humanized ex- 
 pression, tender and parental, as he pressed the hand 
 of Philip, and called upon the Great Spirit to bless 
 him. But again his eye became fixed upon the fight, 
 and he could scarcely be repressed from rising and 
 shouting his war-cry. When he saw that all was 
 lost, that the English maintained their ground and 
 were gaining upon his people, his agitation was ex- 
 cessive ; but he did not withhold his admiration of 
 the brave man who now appeared to lead the enemy, 
 and who, it was plain to see, was facilitating by every 
 means in his power the retreat of the aged and help- 
 less to the river side. 
 
 Philip, intent upon his work of mercy, would not 
 quit Oneyda's side. He believed him to be dying, 
 and was anxious once more to whisper in his ear the 
 truth he had so long endeavored to teach him. But 
 the eye of the chief was busily scanning the combat; 
 he was restless though faint, and frequently started 
 from the supporting arms of his generous attendant. 
 But at length the wearied lids closed and his lips grew 
 paler, his head sank languidly upon his chest, and he 
 swooned away. As consciousness returned, he spoke ; 
 but his mind wandered, and his thoughts were evi- 
 dently fixed upon things not present. 
 
 " A shadow has fallen over my soul, and I see that 
 the glory of my race is departed. Oneyda is a great 
 chief; he goes to the happy hunting grounds with 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 143 
 
 the scalps of a thousand foes. Why does the Father 
 of Life hide his face under a cloud ? But his voice 
 is in my heart, and he has called me. I come, my 
 Father! I am swift upon the trail of Meeattonee — 
 the deer is not swifter ; the soft breath of the west 
 whispers the names of my fathers, and they crown 
 me with flowers of the blessed prairies." 
 
 " Oneyda ! Oneyda! listen to me, listen to me," 
 said Philip, who hung over him in deepest sorrow. 
 
 " No, no, pale face, go ; go tell the Yengees that 
 Opecanoff is the eagle of his tribe ; he fears not 
 death, his heart is far from the knife of a pale face. 
 
 But, Philip, my son, my pride" A cry arose 
 
 into the air, and instantly interrupted hostilities. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Louder had become the battle-cry, and fiercer the 
 strife. The attacked were fighting with the desperate 
 energy of men whose all was staked upon the result, 
 who knew that they were struggling for home, and 
 life, and name. The council-lodge was already bla- 
 zing ; many huts in its vicinity were reduced to ashes ; 
 the wounded and dying, the old men, and helpless 
 children, and feeble women, were stretched around 
 them. Their chief had disappeared; doubtless, over- 
 powered by numbers, he had fallen ; now their own 
 arms were fainting and their numbers rapidly dimin- 
 ishing. When all seemed lost, and while the elated 
 victors were pursuing with detestable alacrity their 
 work of carnage, in despite of the efforts of Smith to 
 prevent them, a succor arrived, most unexpectedly to 
 all parties, in the person of Tallassee, accompanied by 
 his sons and a large body of warriors. Then arose 
 the terrific war-cry which had startled Oneyda, and its 
 effect was to cast a gloom over the English ; but it 
 imparted fresh vigor to the Indians, who now flew 
 with greater animation to the combat, and desperately 
 
144 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 repulsed their assailants. But. the arrival of these new- 
 comers interrupted hostilities, and the first words of 
 Tallassee were conciliatory and pacific. 
 
 He proposed that the English should withdraw, and 
 be permitted to do so unmolested; they had taken suf- 
 ficient vengeance, he said, and it became them to be 
 satisfied with the number of slain in the engagement. 
 "A brave warrior when full, ceased to be hungry." 
 To this proposition Captain Smith fully agreed, and 
 declared his willingness to depart, if they would de- 
 liver into his hands the captive Philip Randolph. Here- 
 upon many asserted that they had seen him flee to the 
 river, and that they were sure he had taken this oppor- 
 tunity to escape. These words seemed perfectly rea- 
 sonable to Smith, who felt it would be impossible to 
 seek for him in all the confusion which reigned so su- 
 premely over the plain ; and he considered, moreover, 
 that, as Philip had not replied to his oft-repeated call, 
 nor appeared to any of his party, he must surely have 
 departed to the place of rendezvous. Indeed, he had 
 no reason to doubt that he had repaired thither before 
 the attack commenced : so he did not think it necessa- 
 ry to pursue his inquiries, and proceeded to arrange 
 some terms of retreat with the now largely-reinforced 
 Wyannows. His chief difficulty arose from the ab- 
 sence of Preston, who was not to be found ; and he 
 felt diffident about making conditions with the Indians 
 without his concurrence. As Preston's men declared 
 that he had been flying in every direction of the field, 
 it was not improbable that, with his adventurous and 
 erratic ideas of combat, he should have made some 
 detour with a few followers ; or, it was possible that 
 he had been wounded, and had made a retreat. He 
 ordered search to be made for the dead and wounded, 
 but forbade any approach whatsoever toward a. renewal 
 of the fight. 
 
 Smith's terms were humane, and his conduct pru- 
 dent, upon the occasion which succeeded to the first 
 parley of the hostile parties. He declared that such 
 an attack as the present w"wld never have been made, 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 145 
 
 but for the terrible outrage committed upon the set- 
 tlements the previous year ; and that the late encoun- 
 ter might prove to every native tribe what they had to 
 expect if ever they dared again to intrude upon their 
 peacefully-disposed neighbors. That, on the other 
 hand, if they felt willing to enter into alliance with 
 them, he was ready to promise, on the part of his own 
 people,^every encouragement they needed, and assured 
 them of inviolable amity, if fully confided in. These 
 statements Avere received courteously by Tallassee, 
 who promised to consider them in a grand council of 
 the western tribes, and doubted not that they would 
 all nowbejnduced to enter into more friendly relations 
 with their white brothers, who had shown themselves 
 so wise and brave. But the old chief insisted upon 
 the immediate departure of the English from the vil- 
 lage, as he could not answer for the consequences if 
 the Wyannows should be dissatisfied and dissent from 
 these terms. Very few were present at the delib- 
 eration ; for the old men had escaped with the women, 
 or hidden themselves in the wood, and the warriors 
 who had been engaged in the recent combat were now- 
 standing in moody silence, disdaining 1o raise their 
 eyes to their enemies, and busily cogitating some fu- 
 ture scheme of revenge. 
 
 The soldiers who had been sent to recover the dead 
 and wounded now returned, leading back a few who 
 had been much disabled by the weH-aimed shafts of 
 the savages; but Captain Smith gazed upon the only 
 inanimate burden which they bore with mingled pity 
 and aversion. Preston, of all the brave band he had 
 brought with him, alone had fallen in the engage- 
 ment, and his features in death wore so harsh and 
 stern an expression, that even the Indians of Tallas- 
 see's party turned from the forbidding countenance 
 with awe and dislike. After assuring Tallassee of a 
 kind and honorable reception from the governor at 
 Jamestown whenever he should feel inclined to pay 
 him a visit, Captain Smith gave orders for a retreat, 
 and his small but well-disciplined body drew up as by 
 13 
 
146 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 magic, the Indians thought, shouldered their formi- 
 dable firearms, and departed, taking the way that led 
 toward the river, leaving the Wyannows dispirited and 
 overwhelmed by the terrible loss they had sustained, 
 and in much dread of the wondrous strangers, whose 
 appearance had been so unlooked for on the eve of 
 this fatal morning, and whose power they already be- 
 gan to appreciate. 
 
 When Smith and his company reached the river, 
 they found their boat, but scantily manned, awaiting 
 them : it was supposed that Captain Preston's would 
 be met with lower down. .Ralph Giles, having se- 
 cured the safety of Alice, would not leave her ; and 
 they were both happily sailing homeward under the 
 protection of the third commander. With neither of 
 these boats did Captain Smith fall in ; but he felt little 
 anxiety, never doubting that Philip Randolph was in 
 one of them. The distance from Jamestown was 
 great, and the soldiers were desirous to bury their late 
 commander, which they did on the evening of the 
 second day. After digging a grave within the shelter 
 of the forest, they laid him down amid the wild and 
 solitary scenes he had so loved when living. No tear 
 was shed, no prayer hallowed the spot which received 
 his remains ; the sod was replaced, and, though the 
 deer and the hunter have often trodden that wilderness, 
 no Indian ever knew the grave of the reckless and un- 
 honored Preston. 
 
 The generous Smith sighed as he re-entered his 
 boat when the melancholy task was ended, and blamed 
 himself for every hasty word and unkind or haughty 
 rejoinder he had been guilty of in their late intercourse ; 
 he mentally promised to be more guarded in future, 
 and to bear in mind the final destiny of the strongest 
 and the bravest. It was a bitter disappointment to him 
 as well as to the affectionate Ralph, upon meeting at 
 Jamestown, to find that Philip had been left behind. 
 They thought they were both much to blame for ever 
 having suffered him to leave them when once under 
 their protection ; but when Henry and Margaret Ran- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 147 
 
 dolph heard the faithful relation of the circumstances, 
 they both exclaimed, " We would not have had him 
 act otherwise ; our boy has done what he ought to 
 have done, and we are thankful that he did right." 
 They would not allow themselves to feel anxious ; 
 they indulged the hope tha/ the providence of God 
 would eventually restore him, as Alice had been 
 brought back, to their yearning arms. But the tears 
 filled the poor mother's eyes more frequently than 
 they had ever done before, when Alice told her of all 
 they had done, and of all Philip had suffered, and how 
 good he was, and how he made everybody good that 
 he talked to. They were not altogether tears of sor- 
 row, but of thankfulness and pride — the pride of a 
 doating mother — the fond consciousness that her cares 
 had not been bestowed in vain, and that the prayers 
 of former years were answered. 
 
 It may appear strange that the men who had borne 
 away Preston's body had not observed Philip and 
 Oneyda, the latter reclining upon a bank very near 
 the spot where their commander had fallen. Itmight 
 be, that, as Philip wore the dress and paint of a war- 
 rior, he had been overlooked ; or, that at the time they 
 approached the place, he was absent procuring more 
 water, in the hope of restoring the insensible chief. 
 Be that as it may, Philip was conscious of nothing 
 but the danger, and, as he thought, near death of his 
 protector; for, as he held the fainting warrior's head 
 supported on his breast, and gazed upon his noble 
 features, all recollection of captivity or trouble was 
 merged in the present helplessness of him who had 
 rescued him twice from death, and had given him 
 proofs of so remarkable an attachment. 
 
 While these thoughts were passing through his 
 mind, the busy scene we have previously related was 
 going on, out of sight, but within a very short distance 
 of him. 
 
 When the sons of Tallassee, accompanied by a few 
 warriors of the Wyannows, came round to number 
 the dead, they found, to their great surprise, the still- 
 
148 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 captive Philip supporting the wounded sachem. Thei? 
 joy at finding this renowned chief alive, though appa- 
 rently fast sinking, was not equal to their sentiments 
 of astonishment and admiration on beholding Philip, 
 who had lately been presented with so many oppor- 
 tunies of escape, stationary at the side of Oneyda — 
 bending over him with unfeigned solicitude, and evi- 
 dently wholly engrossed by his dangerous condition. 
 They marvelled at such 'generous self-forgetfulness ; 
 for it was too apparent, that, in order to succor Oney- 
 da, Philip had neglected his own opportunity of es- 
 caping. The sons of Tallassee accosted him with 
 the greatest respect, and pointed him out to their fol- 
 lowers as the most exalted of beings. 
 
 While Philip hung over the agonized form of 
 Oneyda, expecting every moment to see him breathe 
 his last, the sons of Tallassee stood by in silent consid- 
 eration of the scene, and made no attempt to interrupt 
 it ; but when their father joined them, he immediately 
 gave orders that the wounded chief should be con- 
 veyed to his wigwam, the only one in the village pre- 
 served entire from the flames, and this on account of 
 the supposed presence of Philip. The latter would 
 not leave him. 
 
 "Your people are gone," said one of the young 
 men, in the language of the Wyannows : " will you 
 not follow them ?" 
 
 Philip almost bounded from the earth at these 
 words. Liberty, home, kindred — all that endeared 
 life to him — were thus presented, and he hastily de- 
 manded which way the troops had departed; but, be- 
 fore a reply was returned, his feelings had undergone 
 another transition. Oneyda was in extreme danger — 
 none about him knew so well as he how to comfort 
 and nurse him. Here was an occasion of doing good, 
 and further opportunity for exercising that heroic self- 
 denial which he so much desired to practise. He 
 would not go ; he would stay till returning conscious- 
 ness should render Oneyda capable of receiving con- 
 solation and instruction ; he would seek to reclaim this 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 149 
 
 erring child of a common Father : he would imitate, 
 as far as he was able, the example of his Master, 
 who never turned away from the miserable and suf- 
 fering. 
 
 When Philip had reviewed this resolution, he felt 
 inexpressible comfort and self-satisfaction. His con- 
 science approved him, and he rejoiced at the intelli- 
 gence that the English had departed without him, 
 supposing their young countryman to have preceded 
 them homeward. This information was communi- 
 cated with much delicacy and consideration by Tal- 
 lassee. 
 
 ** They have gone, but they knew not that the son 
 of Oneyda was resting with his red father ; their hearts 
 will be sad, but my son shall dwell in our wigwam 
 and eat the Indian's food till the great chief wakes. 
 When his wounds are healed and his strength returns, 
 he will speak his will to Philip. Be happy, my son," 
 continued the old man, laying his hand upon Philip's 
 head ; " let the Indian's sun warm the heart of the 
 pale face ; he is welcome to the dwelling of Tallassee." 
 
 For many days did Philip watch by the -mat of 
 Oneyda, rendering him every needful attention ; and, 
 though he had little skill in the healing art, he had 
 profited by having watched his mother and the worthy 
 Bridget, both renowned for their knowledge of sim- 
 ples, and the ability with which they dressed a wound 
 or treated complaiuts not very difficult of cure. During 
 the first few days of extreme weakness, Oneyda had 
 moaned incessantly ; but, as consciousness returned, 
 and when he became aware of the presence of others, 
 the stoical principles of his race resumed their sway, 
 and he suppressed every indication of pain. Philip 
 was unremitting in his attentions to the poor sufferer : 
 from his hand Oneyda received whatever was admin- 
 istered either of cooling beverage or of fruit, and when 
 irritated by pain or fever, it was Philip who alone had 
 power to soothe him. Often daring the day did Oney- 
 da's languid eyes turn toward his youthful benefactor, 
 and a look was sufficient when loo feeble to express 
 
150 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 his wants : Philip understood them all. In all these 
 offices of active kindness, he neglected not a duty of 
 great importance. The sick Indian marvelled to see 
 him kneeling at times in a shady corner of the hut, 
 with the same calm and fervent expression upon his 
 face, and in the same attitude, as when he had sur- 
 prised him in the wood ; and often during Oneyda's 
 wakeful moments, when Philip knew that he was con- 
 scious, would he lift up his heart in prayer, though he 
 retained his post by the sick couch ; the deep earnest 
 breathings of his soul ascending from that dark cabin 
 as incense to Him whose shrine is the lowly heart of 
 faith. Philip had severed himself from sweet links of 
 hope ; his bright anticipations of liberty had all van- 
 ished ; aud now he thought only, or chiefly, of pres- 
 ent duties : none could whisper consolation, or praise, 
 or compliment, or paint his generous self-denial in its 
 true colors. Left to his own resources, his own sor- 
 row — he did not feel alone. By the mat of a savage, 
 in the close atmosphere of that wigwam, the testimony 
 of a good conscience gave him its blessed companion- 
 ship ; and in the morning, when he ventured forth to 
 inhale the fresh air of the summer dawn, his spirit 
 drank not a purer or more refreshing inspiration than 
 from the gloom of the sick dwelling. He suffered 
 some pangs; self-denial cost him some efforts, but the 
 tumult of natural feeling was calmed by the tender 
 pleadings of pity within him, and, above all, by the 
 deep and constant sense of God's merciful providence. 
 " It is all well," he often repeated — " God will care 
 for me ;'' and he found peace and happiness in the 
 thought. 
 
 But thus occupied in unceasing attendance upon 
 Oneyda, Philip did not forget Meahmee or her child, 
 and inquired frequently after the faithful Appomax. 
 He learned with joy that they had reached Tallassee's 
 village in safety, and were now dwelling in his wig- 
 wam ; that Meahmee, though suffering still from the 
 alarm and fatigues she had felt during the day of the 
 combat, was gradually recovering under the care of 
 
PHTLTP RANDOLPH 151 
 
 her mother, and was only deterred from visiting her 
 husband by the parental injunction of Tallassee, who 
 thought that the chief could be in no better hands 
 than those of Philip. As soon as he was convalescent, 
 the latter purposed to have him removed and conveyed 
 in a canoe to a new scene : rightly judging that he 
 would be little able to bear the sight of so much havoc 
 and destruction as that made by the English in their 
 sudden invasion. Many of his people were already 
 busilv employed in constructing a new village, and 
 several neat huts had arisen upon a spot not very dis- 
 tant from that from which they had been driven. Ap- 
 pomax was not allowed to visit his brother, and in the 
 meanwhile had employed himself in constructing a 
 new habitation for him, the neatness and convenience 
 of which was highly creditable to him and to the hints 
 of Philip, whose pupil he had been. His friend, du- 
 ring that time, was gaining all hearts by his kind and 
 prudent behavior, and receiving much honor through 
 the attentions and favor of Tallassee. 
 
 The benevolent and praiseworthy conduct of Philip 
 had produced a great elfect upon the mind of the ven- 
 erable Tallassee, for such he was called by his own 
 people, although still erect and dignified. The snows 
 of more than sixty winters whitened his brows, and, 
 contrary to the custom of most Indians, his head was 
 not shaved, and his silver hair fell over his face in 
 much profusion. He was still vigorous, and his pow- 
 ers of mind retained all or more than their former ac- 
 tivity. This young white stranger had manifested 
 principles of conduct altogether different from any- 
 thing he had ever witnessed, and be felt a secret curi- 
 osity to know what it was that rendered him so much 
 wiser and more prudent than the youth of his own 
 people. He began to argue that if all the Yengees 
 resembled this specimen of their race, they would in- 
 deed prove formidable foes ; that it might be better to 
 cultivate their friendship, and lay aside thoughts of 
 revenge for more useful purposes. He questioned 
 Philip upon the strength and numbers of his people, 
 
152 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 and their modes of living ; but strange to relate, did 
 not inquire in the least respecting their method of 
 warfare. Philip soon perceived that he had met with 
 a character entirely new to him — one he could scarce- 
 ly have expected to find among savages. He discov- 
 ered that Tallassee was a devout Indian, whose specu- 
 lations, though vague, were not without ingenuity, and 
 displayed a thoughtful and inquiring mind. 
 
 Tallassee was the sage of his tribe, and had acquired 
 great, consideration from former governors of Virginia 
 as a peaceable and influential sachem, whose policy 
 had always been more humane than that of his neigh- 
 bors ; and among the Indians of the west he was looked 
 up to as one deeply skilled in great matters, who had 
 seen and known many things by direct revelation from 
 Wacondah himself, and they also highly respected 
 him for his profound prudence. The natural piety of 
 this savage had not carried him very far. He had 
 busily thought when upon the vast prairies, the rolling 
 rivers, in the open sky of his boundless land ; but his 
 range was, after all, very limited, for they could teach 
 his darkened imagination but little of the power and 
 nature of the true God of heaven and earth. Tallassee, 
 after long years of indefinite reasonings and self-com- 
 muning, was fast filling up the measured term of his 
 existence without a satisfactory solution to his diffi- 
 culties ; something within him was at variance with 
 the views and principles of those among whom he had 
 passed his life ; but he had neither guide nor revela- 
 tion, and was groping in the obscurity of natural re- 
 ligion when he unexpectedly met with a friend. For 
 God, who " in every nation accepteth him that feareth 
 him and worketh righteousness," made the captive of 
 the Wyannows his instrument in conveying more 
 clear glimpses of truth to the mind of the aged in- 
 quirer. Philip listened to Tallassee with respect and 
 attention, and answered his questions with all the pre- 
 cision of which he was capable; and the Indian, grat- 
 ified by the readiness which the youth displayed to 
 converse and argue with him, enjoyed, probably for 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 153 
 
 the first time in his life, that greatest of enjoyments — 
 communion with a kindred spirit. Among truthful 
 minds sympathy must exist, and neither disparity of 
 years nor station can mar this union. Thus the expe- 
 rienced Tallassee tasted the sweets of this fellowship 
 of mind with a youth of seventeen, a foreigner, and 
 one of a hated race. 
 
 The conversations of the old man and our youthful 
 hero were on deeply interesting subjects ; and though 
 the arguments used by Philip were simple, and neither 
 learned nor connected, they satisfied Tallassee. He 
 was no logician, and his learning had been derived 
 from the great book which was ever open to him. 
 The landscape, the sky, and the waters, were his in- 
 structed, and nothing advanced by Philip as yet, star- 
 tled him or appeared unworthy of the character of 
 Him whom he ignorantly worshipped ; but he was 
 still far from truth, and Philip felt by no means quali- 
 fied to give him the instruction he needed. He was 
 not in possession of any of the evidences of his faith 
 beyond those with which his simple education had 
 furnished him. The Indian listened with grave inte- 
 rest to all that his youthful teacher said ; but indulged 
 in no expressions of wonder or of gladness at hearing 
 what was really so wonderful and joy-inspiring ; and 
 when Philip informed him of the revelation of God's 
 will, and of the way of salvation by Jesus Christ, his 
 superstitious mind saw nothing incredible in the fact 
 that God should send his Son into the world to die 
 for man, a sacrifice and atonement for their sin. 
 
 Philip was young and inexperienced, though zeal- 
 ous, and sincerely desirous to do good. He felt ex- 
 tremely despondent about Tallassee, after several con- 
 versations upon these subjects, to find him still so 
 imperturbable ; he had not been able to touch his 
 heart, and saw that, although he received with little 
 doubt what was presented to him as general truth, he 
 still remained very far from convinced that religion 
 was a personal thing. Philip learned a useful lesson 
 with this disappointment ; he felt that very little could 
 
154 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 be done by his own power, and that, in order to eon- 
 vert others, a missionary must use diligent prayer, and, 
 above all things, watch his own heart and seek dili- 
 gently to secure his own salvation. One who earn- 
 estly desires the teaching of God's Holy Spirit to 
 enlighten the darkness of another's heart, in like man- 
 ner will seek that purifying influence for himself. 
 Philip felt that he might confidently look up and de- 
 sire that greatest of all blessings a renewed heart, not 
 only for himself, but for the darkened and ignorant 
 beings around him ; and as he advanced in his mis- 
 sionary task, he was made more intimately acquainted 
 with the difference which existed between himself 
 and them, and more powerfully reminded of his own 
 privileges and responsibilities. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 Pihilip Randolph was a captive among the Wy- 
 annows, at least he was in attendance by the sick 
 couch of their once-renowned and powerful chief; 
 but Oneyda was no longer powerful. The very best 
 and bravest of his warriors had fallen in the late con- 
 flict, and there remained but few to take their places. 
 The old men and children, with a rising but undisci- 
 plined youth, now constituted the sole subjects of his 
 despotic sway ; and after two months of dangerous 
 sickness, he lay weak and languid upon his low couch, 
 only leaving it occasionally, when his devoted atten- 
 dant assisted him to the door of the wigwam in order 
 that he m 
 sunshine. 
 
 Oneyda spoke little, and from the first day of his 
 rising from his sick-bed, had become more and more 
 dejected. Meahmee, who was now permitted to join 
 Philip in his services of disinterestedness, vainly sought 
 
PHILIP RAND01PH. 155 
 
 by every simple art to win him from his sadness. 
 He heeded her not, and would often lie for hours 
 with his face to the wall, mute and motionless as 
 death. When he had recovered more strength, Phil- 
 ip urged him to quit the wigwam and lie in the shade, 
 where nothing should be permitted to disturb him ; 
 and the proposition seemed to give him some pleasure, 
 for he raised himself from the mat with a degree of 
 his former alacrity, and attempted to walk unsupported 
 to the door, but he could not, and sank back again in 
 extreme pain. For once his self-command forsook 
 him, and physical strength was at that moment so 
 prostrate, that scalding tears of mortification and im- 
 patience rolled fast down his wan cheeks : the stern 
 warrior was unmanned. 
 
 " Better that I had died like a glorious chief than 
 lived to be a woman! Why did not the Great Spirit 
 call me to my fathers when he sent the knife of my 
 enemy to my heart ? Oneyda is a girl; go, Philip, 
 and tell your squaws of the pale faces that Oneyda, 
 the great chief of the Wyannows, is turned into a 
 child that creeps ;" and he hid his face from his com- 
 panion, weeping bitterly. 
 
 Philip regarded him with compassion, and strove 
 to soothe him as a gentle nurse quiets her wayward 
 charge. He bade him hope for more strength, at the 
 same time reminding him that it must be according to 
 the will of God, and that, if it were his pleasure, he 
 should yet be strong and well again. 
 
 Oneyda's next attempt to gain the door-way was 
 attended with better success ; and he leaned upon 
 Philip's shoulder, listening with pleasure to the voice 
 of his favorite, and together they stepped forth into 
 the light and freshness of the day. But Oneyda 
 shrank back for a moment as they were crossing the 
 village green and the blackened ruins of the council- 
 lodge met his view. The whole place indeed, pre- 
 sented a scene of desolation most trying to the impe- 
 riously-minded chief, to whose memory the fearful 
 combat came back with torturing power in these mo- 
 
156 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 ments of weakness. Philip led him away to the 
 shade, where the exhausted invalid threw himself 
 upon a bank of verdure, and, closing his eyes, seemed 
 to be courting sleep; but he was much agitated, and, 
 frequently starting from his recumbent posture, cov- 
 ered his faGe with his hands and remained silent for 
 many moments. Philip watched him for a while with 
 much interest, and then said — 
 
 " Oneyda, thank God for this day i You are raised 
 from your bed of sickness and restored to life, and to 
 many blessings ; do not think now of anything that 
 you have lost, but of all that you stiil possess; ask 
 God to give you a thankful heart, for everything 
 might be much worse than it is." 
 
 The chief uncovered his face, and replied to this 
 earnest address with a look of deep anguish ; he spoke 
 in tremulous accents, as if struggling to master the 
 powerful emotions of his troubled soul. 
 
 "Philip, Philip!" he said, with a pathos that melt- 
 ed his young friend's heart, "I have lost all — all !" 
 
 " Oh, no ! my father ; not all." 
 
 Oneyda interrupted him. "I was a great chief 
 once, and my arm was strong and my heart without 
 fear. I had five hundred braves around me, and they 
 followed my track in the forest, and we hunted over 
 the far west and no man crossed my path, for my 
 name spoke louder than the fire-spirit when he roars 
 upon the burning prairies; my old men were wise in 
 council, and my villages were never destroyed till the 
 pale face came to sweep away the name of my people 
 from the earth. Oh ! if those warriors were yet liv- 
 ing, would they have left me in my death-struggle? 
 But I know they are gone never to return, I have 
 no tribe — no people — no name." 
 
 Philip hastened to assure him that of the many as 
 dangerously wounded as himself some were aheady 
 better, and busied at the time in rearing a new village, 
 and settling the rest of the tribe on a meadow not very 
 distant ; that as soon as he wished to be conveyed 
 thither, Tallassee had promised to send a canoe, and 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 157 
 
 that his recovery was a matter of much affectionate 
 interest to the whole of his people. 
 
 This intelligence imparted a gleam of hope to Oney- 
 da's mind, in danger of preying upon its own despon- 
 dency ; and he was willing to be persuaded by the 
 kind considerations which Philip so well knew how 
 to suggest. He looked around him with greater cour- 
 age, and appeared to derive strength from the effort, 
 but his tones were still mournful and complaining. 
 
 "Why does the sun shine so gladly?" he cried. 
 " Why is the sky so bright, and why does the spirit 
 of music speak in the forest? See, Philip, God is 
 angry with me ; he despises me, and makes all things 
 sing proudly over my fall." 
 
 " Not so, Oneyda ! Oh, no ! not so. God loves 
 you ; nay, he afflicts you because he loves you and 
 wishes to make you love him better. He can not do 
 wrong. See how happy he has made everything : 
 the sky and the waters look joyous because they were 
 made to praise him and to tell of his goodness to us 
 his creatures ; but lift up your heart to God, Oneyda, 
 and ask him to teach you to love him, and then you 
 will not grieve that he has afflicted you." 
 
 "How shall I speak to him, Philip, while I am so 
 angry ? Do you speak to your God, and ask him. 
 He will not hear the red man." 
 
 "He hears all who call upon him," replied Philip, 
 much moved ; and kneeling down he prayed a fervent 
 petition in the language of Oneyda, who felt surprised 
 that Philip should so well know his wants, and so 
 much of all he was thinking about. 
 
 " My son knows everything, and he shall teach me 
 of his God. Oneyda is a child — he knows nothing." 
 
 Philip did not yet venture to speak of freedom. 
 His work made progress ; the simple Meahmee be- 
 came a convert. Tallassee did not blame her, and 
 she commended her faith to those whom she could 
 influence by her blameless conduct. A change took 
 place in Oneyda ; he grew more humble, and, though 
 reserved, became gradually interested in the truth for 
 14 
 
158 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 its own sake, though, at first, it had only been impor- 
 tant as spoken by Philip. He recovered from his ill- 
 ness, but at the end of three months was still weak 
 and tottering, and evinced much unwillingness to re- 
 move from his wigwam. At length, upon the solici- 
 tations of Tallassee, he consented to go to his new 
 village, and a canoe, manned by Appomax and the 
 brothers of Meahmee, arrived to convey him thither. 
 He entered it firmly, and calmly received the congrat- 
 ulations of his brothers, who had sufficient self-com- 
 mand not to betray their surprise and regret at the 
 great change manifest in his appearance. 
 
 The people, who thronged the river's bank to wel- 
 come home their renowned chief, were all alike shock- 
 ed at this alteration in his appearance; but, bending 
 and lame as he was, Oneyda could yet wave his hand 
 with dignity, and address them in those tones which 
 had always held such a magic sway over their savage 
 spirits. He landed, assisted by Philip, and was con- 
 ducted to the wigwam which Appomax had so care- 
 fully constructed. Its aspect pleased him much, and 
 in the evening, when Meahmee asked Philip to pray 
 that God would bless their new home and do them 
 good in it, Oneyda listened with much attention, and 
 Appomax knelt by his friend's side. It was a happy 
 evening to Philip, and he slept soundly and sweetly 
 upon the new mat in the new little dormitory which 
 affection and friendship had especially intended for 
 him. He awoke in the morning with a lightened 
 heart, and felt so much refreshed that he almost for- 
 got how far he still dwelt from home and kindred. 
 
 A week passed away after their arrival at the new 
 village, and Oneyda was visibly better. His people 
 became accustomed to him, and he felt less mortifica- 
 tion at being seen by them ; but it was his hardest 
 trial to note how few brave men went through their 
 exercises, or mustered for a hunting-party. He pur- 
 posed training the youths as soon as he got better, and 
 also calling a council of allies ; but pride still ruled, 
 and he shrank, for the present, from exposing his 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 159 
 
 weakness to his neighbors. And had he no thought all 
 this time for the liberty of the generous youth who 
 had devoted himself so entirely to his safety, and 
 watched so long by his sick couch? Meahmee 
 yearned to suggest the wish of her heart ; she could 
 not refrain from telling Philip that she prayed for his 
 freedom ; but knowing the temper of her husband, 
 dared not propose it to him. 
 
 Whenever Oneyda's eye rested upon Philip's coun- 
 tenance, he would sigh, and look so sad, that the latter 
 could not utter his oft-recurring wish to be sent home ; 
 and he determined to wait a little longer, till the man- 
 date should proceed from a sense of justice, and Chris- 
 tian consideration be its prompting motive. In due 
 time his patience was rewarded. Oneyda led him to 
 the door of his dwelling one evening, and pointing to 
 the moon, which was then shining brightly in the ze- 
 nith, said, in a voice of emotion — 
 
 " When that moon grows large, Philip shall go to 
 the wigwam of his white father." 
 
 The youth started. "Shall I, indeed, Oneyda? 
 May God bless you for that word !" 
 
 " My son, I have been very selfish ; have hated the 
 white man and called him dog all my life till now ; but 
 from this time I am his friend. You shall go to your 
 father, and Oneyda will be your friend and his; but 
 forget not your red brothers" He stopped ab- 
 ruptly and turned away. 
 
 A few mornings after this conversation, Philip was 
 awakened by a cold hand upon his arm, and the voice 
 of Oneyda in his ear. 
 
 " Philip, my son, rise, for the sun is waking, and 
 you must be gone ere my people stir ; hasten, my 
 friend ! 'Tis not Oneyda that drives you from his 
 dwelling ; 'tis the voice of your heart, Philip, and you 
 are free to go where it leads you. Go, and tell the 
 pale faces that the red man is just ; he will not keep 
 what is not his own. Philip, we shall meet again ; 
 and then I will tell your people what the captive did 
 for his cruel master." He took Philip's hand aud 
 
160 PHILIP RANDOJPH. 
 
 pressed it to his heart, and the youth felt the warm 
 tears falling fast upon it. 
 
 " Now," said Oneyda, recovering his usual dignity, 
 " farewell ! May your God and my God love you, 
 Philip, and take you to your father. You will not go 
 alone. Under the fiery maple you will find a canoe, 
 and Appomax awaits you. Go, my son ! why do you 
 tarry ? You are free ! 1 ' 
 
 Philip pressed his hand and obeyed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The morning was bright and dewy, and the turf 
 glistened in the rising sun. All was happiness around ; 
 and yet Philip felt pensive on his way to liberty. He 
 regretted not having bidden adieu to Meahmee, but 
 resolved to send many grateful messages by Appomax, 
 who greeted him sadly, and who could scarcely enjoy 
 the hours of uninterrupted intercourse which this 
 voyage afforded him, from the ever-present dread of 
 their coming separation. He knew that he was con- 
 veying his friend away, never to return ; and this con- 
 viction made him so sad, that Philip could only cheer 
 him by promising to come back at some future day and 
 pay them a visit. It was in this voyage that Appo- 
 max confessed to his friend that he had been the mur- 
 der of Maneecho, though unintentionally. It was he 
 who had made an opening in the side of the hut, and 
 forced away the timbers, to get admission to the side 
 of the helpless captive ; and his hand had struck the 
 blow, though in ignorance of its terrible effects. He 
 had entertained many fears with regard to Maneecho, 
 and suspected him of the treachery he afterward at- 
 tempted. This confession led to an interesting con- 
 versation, in which Philip endeavored to show to the 
 affectionate Appomax what were the laws of God, and 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 161 
 
 that it was highly needful to guard against impetuosi- 
 ty. He made him feel regret lor the deed and its con- 
 sequences, and led him to seek forgiveness of the God 
 whom he had injured, and whose law he had unwit- 
 tingly disobeyed. Appomax shed tears, and lamented 
 that lie should have no friend or adviser when Philip 
 was gone, to teach him anything right. 
 
 Their monotonous voyage down the river lasted 
 several days. Though varied by conversation, it was 
 tedious ; and, to Philip's harassed mind, much relief 
 was afforded when they left the boat to continue their 
 journey by land. He confided entirely in Appomax, 
 whose directions had been minute ; and in less than 
 two days they reached the bank of another river, and 
 found a canoe moored in the shade, into which Appo- 
 max sprang. He paddled rapidly into the stream, and 
 looked at the sun ; then returning, leaped ashore again, 
 and mournfully pointing to the rocking boat, bade 
 Philip enter it alone. 
 
 "And will you not come also, Appomax? What 
 shall 1 do without my guide ?" 
 
 " I may not," answered the youth, sadly sighing ; 
 " Oneyda's words were loud ; he said, ' Take him to 
 his own river, and then follow your trail and hasten 
 home.' Appomax could weep like a woman, but he 
 dare not ; he will wait till his brother turns from the 
 sun, and then he will fly back to tell Oneyda. Go, 
 Philip — go !" 
 
 Philip thought it useless and tantalizing to keep 
 Appomax longer on the bank than was necessary; he 
 therefore wrung his hand, and, stepping into the canoe, 
 turned down the stream, and soon discovered that he 
 was on the James river. 
 
 He passed many a well-known spot, and beheld the 
 green hill of the Fair Meadows rising in the distance. 
 How his heart swelled at that sight, and all the mem- 
 ories of the past rushed back upon his soul ! He wept 
 and poured out a prayer of thanksgiving for the mer- 
 cies vouchsafed him from that fatal day of massacre to 
 the present. The banks became flatter and duller as 
 14* 
 
162 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 he proceeded ; but, tame as they appeared in compari- 
 son with the many beautiful and magnificent scenes 
 he had witnessed in the west, they wanted nothing 
 now but the settlements that used to stud the river- 
 side, looking so peaceful and pleasant to his eye, as 
 the boat had so often conveyed the family to and from 
 the church of Jamestown. But his heart beat more 
 quickly when that hallowed building appeared in sight, 
 standing in its simplicity upon the fair rising ground 
 above the little town, sheltering, as it were, by its con- 
 secrated vicinity. Philip looked away to the banks 
 once more. They were evidently forsaken ; but he 
 trusted that now the Indians would not be so formi- 
 dable, and that he at least could insure the friendship 
 of two great chiefs to the colony. This reflection 
 caused him to say that his captivity had not been 
 vain. He plied a vigorous oar, and at last entered 
 the little port, and finally moored his canoe upon dry 
 land. 
 
 The sun was just setting, and cast a cheerful radi- 
 ance upon the painted wooden buildings of the little 
 town. He plainly discovered the sentinels on parade 
 upon the parapet of the fort, and heard the hum of 
 voices in the court of the government-house. All this 
 time he had forgotten that he still wore the dress of 
 an Indian ; and, though he was without paint, his ap- 
 pearance was sufficiently forlorn: and at the first glance, 
 an observant eye might very easily have mistaken him 
 for a wandering native. He thought it singular that 
 the day of his arrival should be that of the anniversary 
 of his birth. Such was the case ; and he thought, too, 
 with delight and thankfulness, how happy, how much 
 happier, would be this birthday than any he had ever 
 passed in his life. 
 
 Inquiring from a man— who seemed much surprised 
 to hear such pure English from an Indian hunter, for 
 his dress betokened this — where was Henry Ran- 
 dolph's house, it was pointed out to him. 
 
 " That white house yonder, and the neatest in all 
 the town, I can tell you." 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 163 
 
 Philip hurried onward, but his step faltered as he 
 laid his hand on the gate. The dwelling was indeed 
 remarkably neat, and the garden bore traces of his 
 mother's taste and care. The door was closed, and 
 no one appeared at the little glazed windows, so that 
 his approach was unperceived ; but still he hesitated. 
 The barking of a dog gave warning to the inmates 
 that some one approached ; and soon Bridget's round 
 face appeared at a side window. 
 
 " What's your business ?" were the first words. 
 " Oh, it's one of them Indians !" 
 
 Philip turned his face away. How could he rush 
 into his mother's presence thus abruptly ? It might 
 shock her ; she might be injured from excess of joy, 
 and his father's nerves were none of the strongest. He 
 paused a moment, and then spoke in as harsh a tone 
 as he could assume — 
 
 " I come with news of Philip : to say that he is 
 safe, and not far off." 
 
 Bridget gave a joyous exclamation, and had no soon- 
 er disappeared from the window, than Ralph Giles 
 took his station there. 
 
 " Hush, Ralph !" said Philip, stealing softly toward 
 him. " Do not alarm my mother ; be careful." 
 
 Ralph was soon in the garden, and after him came 
 Alice, who had no difficulty in recognising her broth- 
 er. " He is here !" she cried. " Father, mother, it's 
 Philip, it's Philip !" And she threw herself, weeping 
 and sobbing, into his arms. 
 
 Henry Randolph rushed out of the house, and folded 
 his long- lost son to his heart. " Thou art come, my 
 son ! God be thanked, thou art come at last, my own 
 •dear noble boy !" 
 
 Philip, starting from his father's embrace, rushed 
 into the house, calling upon his mother's name. When 
 he entered the room, he few nd his mother sitting at 
 the table, her cheek resting on her hand, and her face 
 pale as death. She could not rise ; her lips quivered 
 convulsively, and she held out her hand, as if entreat- 
 ing assistance. Philip clasped her in his arms. " My 
 
164 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 mother !" he said, and burst into tears. She made 
 another effort to rise and to speak, but the surprise 
 was too great, and she swooned away upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 When Margaret recovered, the first face she opened 
 her eyes upon was that of Philip, bending over hei 
 with fond solicitude. 
 
 " My son, my dear son !" she murmured faintly, 
 and then closed her eyes again. Philip withdrew, and 
 did not reappear till she was pronounced better able to 
 bear his presence. When her husband returned, 
 about an hour after, leading their son by the arm, she 
 was sitting up, and could speak to him. Philip had 
 changed his dress, and taken some food ; the principal 
 alteration in his appearance, therefore, did not, as at 
 first, affect his mother, tie no longer looked the 
 savage ; but in another suit of clothes, and with the 
 additional height of a year and a half's growth, was as 
 handsome and manly a son as ever fond mother gazed 
 upon. 
 
 It was late that night ere any of the family retired 
 to rest ; and Margaret could not tire of looking at 
 Philip, and listening to his voice. She saw no-ebange 
 for the worse, and many of his expressions delighted 
 her. The sentiments he uttered were all touching 
 and truthful ; and he appeared to be wise and experi- 
 enced beyond his years. Sorrow and danger and self 
 denial had greatly improved his character, and given 
 tone and strength to his moral feelings ; these indeed 
 were quite in accordance with those of his excellent 
 parents. 
 
 " My son," said his father, after he had seen him in 
 bed, " I wish you refreshing sleep. My heart is filled 
 with thankfulness to see you once more, and to see 
 you what you are. Oh, Philip, let us not forget this 
 day as long as we both live ; let us keep it as one of 
 thanksgiving to our God. He has chastened you, 
 Philip, for a wise purpose. He loves whom he chast- 
 ens. Blessed be the name of the Lord!" 
 
 " Amen !" said Philip, fervently ; and he soon sank 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 165 
 
 into sweet slumbers in the comfortable bed prepared 
 for him, and awoke next morning in the happy con- 
 sciousness that he was in his own home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 The affairs of the colony went on prosperously, and 
 many of the native tribes renewed their peaceful rela- 
 tions with the English. The colonists pursued their 
 occupations more freely, and began to extend the line 
 of buildings from the little town along the flat shore 
 of the river ; and some even ventured to post them- 
 selves in more distant and advantageous situations, 
 where they could cultivate the soil and form planta- 
 tions. But the Randolphs remained where they were, 
 and, with diligence and economy, soon found them- 
 selves in a fair way to retrieve their numerous losses. 
 Henry had many friends, and was not destitute of per- 
 severance. In all his labors, too, he was so assidu- 
 ously aided by Philip, that his daily employments 
 could hardly be called labors. Everything appeared 
 so hopeful and agreeable with such a companion, and 
 Philip, on his part, found occupation a most delight- 
 ful change after his long captivity, to the tediousness 
 of which, want of occupation had been so trying an 
 aggravation. To him it was no burden to fill up ev- 
 ery moment of the day ; and when manual labor 
 ceased, he devoted himself to study, endeavoring to 
 regain what he had lost; and the Bible, from which 
 he had been so long debarred, now became the prized 
 companion of his retirement. 
 
 One secret wish of his heart, which he had uncon- 
 sciously fostered from earliest childhood, was to visit 
 his native country. But though hope and imagination 
 pictured all that was brilliant, beautiful, and wondrous, 
 in that distant land, he saw clearly that present duty 
 
166 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 called upon him to remain in Virginia, so long as his 
 father should require his assistance. He knew also 
 the happiness which his society gave his mother; how 
 necessary his influence had become to Alice, and he 
 could not determine to give up these for more selfish 
 gratification. Therefore he never breathed the natu- 
 ral and reasonable desire of his heart to visit Eng- 
 land, the land to which his parents were still 
 fondly attached, and whose praises they so often re- 
 iterated. 
 
 Henry Randolph's heart frequently overflowed with 
 thankful emotion when he considered the exemplary 
 conduct of his son. Every care of life seemed robbed 
 of its bitterness ; his crushed spirits revived under the 
 congenial and refreshing influence of the association 
 now hourly afforded him ; and he had the sweet satis- 
 faction of knowing that Philip regarded him as his 
 best friend and most agreeable companion. The friend- 
 ship of father and son was as perfect as aught hu- 
 man could be, based upon the only foundation that 
 could render it endearing — the holy tenderness of the 
 parent's feelings, and the heartfelt reverence of the 
 child. Philip respected his father as his best and 
 wisest earthly guardian, and listened to his opinions 
 with unwearied interest ; and Henry loved his son too 
 truly ever to withhold advice or confidence. 
 
 Thus their intercourse was remarkably distinguish- 
 ed by its candor and ease : untinctured, on the parent's 
 side, by sternness or reserve, and quite devoid of con- 
 ceit or familiarity on the part of the son. Most happy 
 were they in their union, and blessings to one another. 
 No family in the colony was more respected than the 
 Randolphs ; and Sir George Yeardley looked upon 
 Philip with great favor, as a youth of rare promise, 
 who would eventually do great service and credit to 
 the colony and state of Virginia. He paid him marked 
 attention, and soon discovered his cherished wish of 
 visiting the mother country. 
 
 " You should send that lad of yours homeward, 
 Master Randolph," he would frequently say ; " he 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 167 
 
 merits all the advantages you can give him, and travel 
 would be vastly serviceable." 
 
 "True," replied the father; "and he shall go 
 when I can bring myself to part with him." 
 
 This was the only subject of reserve between Hen- 
 ry and his son. Philip could not introduce it, from 
 delicacy of feeling and self-denying principle, and his 
 father was incapable of inflicting such a blow upon 
 himself. 
 
 It must not be supposed that Philip forgot his In- 
 dian friends. Their names were often upon his lips, 
 and he remembered them in his prayers. He longed 
 for Oneyda's promised visit, which, he doubted not, 
 would sooner or later be paid. 
 
 The natives had of late been very tranquil, and this 
 circumstance led to much suspicion on the part of 
 their English neighbors, who had experienced some 
 cause for apprehension on a former occasion, from a 
 similar state of things, and it was well known that the 
 Indians could adopt this policy when meditating an 
 outbreak. As yet, however, no infraction of late trea- 
 ties had taken place ; and well guarded as they were, 
 the colonists maintained an appearance of indifference, 
 and felt themselves now sufficiently formidable to 
 quell a savage insurrection. Messages of a friendly 
 nature at length arrived from their former allies, the 
 Dahwyotti, a tribe bordering on the western bank of 
 the Rappahannock ; and the intelligence brought by 
 their envoys was at once gratifying and perplexing to 
 the government at Jamestown. They had made them- 
 selves masters of the famed and dreaded Opecanoff, 
 and offered to deliver him up to the English, if they 
 would guaranty to them the transfer of his lands, arid 
 confer his dignities and title upon their own chief. 
 This was an affair requiring very delicate manage- 
 ment ; and some of the council were of opinion that it 
 would be better to decline any interference in the mat- 
 ter. But Sir George Yeardley could not resist the 
 strong curiosity he felt to see the mysterious and for- 
 midable foe, who had so long baffled his vigilance, and 
 
168 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 caused him so much anxiety and difficulty. He re- 
 solved to see the Indian king ; and it was agreed to re- 
 ceive a deputation of the Dahwyotts ; but no promise 
 was given with regard to the chief or his dignities ; 
 and in a few days a party waited upon the governor, 
 accompanied by their prisoner. Much interest was 
 excited throughout the little town, and many came 
 to behold the renowned warrior whose name and in- 
 fluence had so often struck terror into the hearts of the 
 inhabitants ever since the death of Powhatan. The 
 courtyard of the government-house was crowded with 
 an unusual number of spectators ; but they were un- 
 able to distinguish the captive among so many lofty 
 figures, who trod the path with such stately grace, as 
 if each were the sachem of a thousand warriors. The 
 governor was resolved to receive the party with some 
 show of power and pomp, and was attended by all the 
 principal personages of the colony, with many officers 
 of the garrison in full costume. The soldiers were 
 drawn up in a strong body before the window of the 
 hall, and the Indians marched through a double file 
 of them, to the apartment where the representatives 
 were sitting. 
 
 The chief of the Dahwyotti entered with an air of 
 unconcealed triumph, as he exultingly pointed toward 
 the only unarmed savage of their number, and uttered 
 a few words which were quite unintelligible to those 
 whom he addressed. He laid his powerful hand upon 
 the arm of his captive, and motioned him forward. 
 Opecanoff raised his head quickly, and his flashing 
 eyes betrayed for an instant the sensitiveness of his 
 soul ; but their fierceness subsided, and he obeyed the 
 mandate of his captor, advancing with apparent diffi- 
 culty, and eying the assembly attentively, directed his 
 steps to the spot where Sir George was standing, 
 and bowing low, stood silent and motionless before 
 him. 
 
 All regarded him with astonishment. Could this 
 be the dreaded Opecanoff? The Indian was entirely 
 divested of paint and ornaments, and the torn remnant 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 169 
 
 of his once splendid buffalo-robe but ill concealed his 
 shrunk and wasted form. The ravages of illness had 
 evidently wrecked its noble proportions, and its sym- 
 metry was changed into deformity. He was very 
 lame, and one arm appeared contracted ; upon his 
 chest and shoulders were the broad scars of many a 
 hard-fought combat. The captive and disabled war- 
 rior stood before them, weak and defenceless as a 
 child ; but his countenance expressed none of the fe- 
 rocity of which he had always been accused : it was 
 calm, but not severe, and still singularly handsome ; 
 yet its melancholy gravity expressed a sense of present 
 degradation, though borne with a dignity of which 
 his misfortunes had not been able to rob him. 
 
 " Can this be Opecanoff ?" exclaimed the governor, 
 in involuntary surprise. 
 
 The Indian again raised his eyes with the same ex- 
 pression of wounded feeling as before, but encounter- 
 ing the inquisitive and astonished gaze of the assem- 
 bly, they soon sank beneath their long lashes, and a 
 deep flush darkened his swarthy countenance. His 
 lips quivered, and he pressed his hand tightly upon 
 his bosom, as if to quell the angry pulsation ; but the 
 struggles of pride soon ceased, and he confronted once 
 more that formidable gaze. Waving his hand ma- 
 jestically toward the governor, he said in English, 
 and with an air of dignified composure, " I am Ope- 
 canoff." 
 
 The tone was so musical and melancholy, and the 
 countenance of the fallen chief so prepossessing in its 
 expression of dignified sorrow, that there were few 
 present who did not experience emotions of compas- 
 sion and admiration. Sir George was touched by the 
 princely bearing of this savage, as he deemed him, and 
 exclaimed, with much warmth, " You are most wel- 
 come, great chief; and we are only sorry to see you 
 thus suffering and disabled. Tell us how you came 
 into such a state as this ; we wish to be generous to a 
 fallen enemy." 
 
 This speech was evidently perfectly understood, 
 35 
 
170 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 and another flush passed over the Indian's face, but he 
 made no reply, and stood passively before the assem- 
 bly, apparently abstracted from everything around 
 him. 
 
 But the Dahwyotti became jealous of this style of 
 interview between their ally and hated foe ; and resent- 
 ed the effect produced upon every one present by the 
 conduct and demeanor of the helpless prisoner ; they 
 addressed themselves vehemently to the council, who, 
 however, understood not a word of their discourse ; 
 and as Mr. Rolfe was absent, it was proposed to send 
 for Philip Randolph, equally skilled in Indian dialects, 
 to come and act as interpreter. The youth soon pre- 
 sented himself; and intent upon performing the office 
 assigned him, never glanced at the prisoner, but ad- 
 dressed himself to the Dahwyotts. He had scarcely 
 uttered a few sentences, when the hitherto-abstracted 
 Opecanoff started with an impulse of surprise so sud- 
 den and electric, that Philip hastily turned at the 
 movement, and looked inquiringly at the person who 
 had thus interrupted him. The youth seemed trans- 
 fixed when the prisoner spoke to him in the well- 
 remembered accents of the west. The whole council 
 and their Dahwyott visiters were amazed to behold 
 the Indian, with a loud cry, open his arms and fold 
 Philip Randolph to his heart. The lofty and digni- 
 fied sagamore so far forgot the prejudices and stoical 
 principles of his race, the derision of his enemies, or 
 the presence of the pale face, that his head sank oil 
 the shoulder of the youth, and his whole frame ap- 
 peared convulsed with violent emotion. Philip, greatly 
 affected, bent over him with solicitude, and supported 
 him for some moments, speaking in soothing tones, 
 and sharing his agitation. The Indian became calmer : 
 with a great effort he sprang up from the sustaining 
 arm of the youth, and tottered toward the table ; but 
 he was soon compelled to lean upon his shoulder, and, 
 though he tried to speak, he could not for some mo- 
 ments command his voice. His enemies laughed in 
 derision as the large tears rolled down his cheeks in 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 171 
 
 quick succession ; but he did not turn from them, and 
 remained for a while struggling for composure, while 
 Philip, not less affected, stood by his side, wholly en- 
 grossed with the melancholy situation of his friend. 
 
 " Oneyda ! I little thought to meet you thus !" 
 
 When the chief beheld the grief of his favorite, his 
 own emotion instantly subsided; and after speaking to 
 him a few words in his native language, he turned to 
 Sir George, and said in excellent English, with a tone 
 of sadness that sank into every heart — 
 
 " Opecanoff was a great chief once, Philip knows. 
 His name was heard from the forest to the salt river, 
 and the Yengees hated the red sachem. When Ope- 
 canoff was young, Powhatan loved the pale face, and 
 they were his friends, and they came to his dwelling, 
 and the pipe of peace was smoked between them. 
 Opecanoff could not love the pale face ; his heart was 
 red and hot as the sun of the rolling prairie, and the 
 white man laughed at him : he called the eagle of his 
 tribe a dog. They stole the red man's land, and they 
 drove him away from the big river; and they took the 
 knife and the hatchet against the tribes of the west, 
 and they asked not the red man where they might 
 dwell. Opecanoff was a great chief, and he said, 
 4 The pale faces shall not stay in the land of my fa- 
 thers.' He would not touch their gold ; he would not 
 speak to them any more. He lived in his own free 
 forests ; he hunted wherever he would ; and he sent 
 his young men to drive away the Yengee from the 
 land." Here his voice faltered, and he looked around 
 him with an air of mingled regret and humility. 
 
 " You ordered that massacre !" said the governor, 
 sternly ; but his anger was quickly appeased by the 
 Indian, who rejoined, in a mournful tone — 
 
 "Opecanoff* is changed; he is a blasted tree; the 
 storm has swept him to the ground ; he is alone and 
 i desolate, and his heart is withered. Yengees ! he 
 was your enemy ; he loved his own land and his own 
 people, and he hated the pale face. But he is changed : 
 he would never lift his hatchet any more against the 
 
172 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 pale faces — he loves them for Philip's sake. Philip 
 came as a light into the wigwam of the Indian : it was 
 very dark till he came, and he was wiser than his red 
 father. He taught us what was good : he loved us — 
 we loved him : he was our son." Again he paused, 
 in emotion. " I sent him away to his white father, 
 and my wigwam was dark again. My child died ; 
 and my wife, the flower of the Wyannows, withered 
 in the storm, and I buried them in the same grave. 
 Meahmee loved Philip's God : she went to him. His 
 voice called to her ; she said she could not stay. God's 
 will was wiser than OpecanofF's ; he gave them up, 
 and he prayed that he might follow. The Dahwyotti 
 came upon me when I was weak, and they bore me 
 from the grave of my loved ones and brought me to 
 this place. Yengees ! you can kill Opecanoff now, 
 but you need not : he is weaker than a child, and he 
 would not harm you if he could. He has found his 
 son ; he will go with Philip, and Philip shall teach 
 him of his God — and he will die and go to Meahmee, 
 and be at rest. Yengees ! Philip said to me often, 
 4 Love your enemies.' I do not hate you — I ask you 
 to love me." 
 
 He ceased, in much exhaustion, and a deep silence 
 succeeded to his words, which was at length inter- 
 rupted by Henry Randolph, who now came forward 
 and spoke in reply to the pleading looks of Philip, 
 who was too modest to address his petition to the 
 governor, although he so ardently desired it. 
 
 " Your excellency must be aware that this extraor- 
 dinary man was the kind and faithful protector of my 
 son in his late captivity. Gratitude and Christian 
 kindness require from us that we should show him 
 the like conduct ; and I entreat, as a very great per- 
 sonal obligation, that we may be allowed to receive 
 him, and attend to his wants, so long as he is willing 
 to remain with us. I feel. very grateful to you, wor- 
 thy chief, for the friendship you showed to my son 
 when he was a captive among your people. If you 
 are willing to make trial of our gratitude, come with 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 173 
 
 me to my dwelling ; my wife and children will all 
 welcome our Indian friend." 
 
 Opecanoff's countenance brightened at this address, 
 and he held out his hand to Henry Randolph — the 
 best mark he could give of his willingness and cor- 
 diality ; but he did not speak, and pointed expressively 
 to the Dahwyott chief, who replied by a taunting sneer, 
 and an exclamation of contempt. 
 
 Philip could not but contrast the present meek and 
 patient behavior of Oneyda with his proud domineer- 
 ing manner on former occasions ; which, though 
 never displayed toward himself, he had seen manifest- 
 ed to others. Here was a change indeed : surely a 
 very great work had been going on in that heart, and 
 an important transformation taken place. 
 
 The governor requested Philip to inform the Dah- 
 wyotti that it was his pleasure the captive should be 
 left in his charge, and that if they could obtain a 
 fair concession from him of his territories and dig- 
 nities, the English would not interfere, as it was 
 not their intention to put so defenceless an enemy to 
 death. 
 
 The Dahwyott chief then addressed himself to 
 Oneyda in terms of the most haughty and ungener- 
 ous character ; but Philip marked with delight that 
 the reply of the latter was conciliating and even hum- 
 ble ; and though he would not yield to their require- 
 ments without some qualification of them, he showed 
 no anxiety to make use of his present advantage in 
 being protected by the English government. He ap- 
 peared quite indifferent to his own dignity or posses- 
 sions. " Go, go !" he said ; " the Dahwyotti know 
 that Oneyda has no name among his people ; that his 
 braves were cut down at one stroke by the pale face. 
 Where are the Wyannows ? They are gone from 
 their villages, never to return. Their shout will never 
 be heard on the prairie ; and their children weep for 
 their fathers, for their wigwams are empty. Oneyda 
 cares not for his name ; he is a feeble child ; he comes 
 lo die among the Yengees. Why do the Dahwyotti 
 15* 
 
174 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 linger ? They may go, and take their own : Opecanoff 
 will not be there to stay them." 
 
 But he was by no means indifferent to the rights of 
 his brother ; and he would not consent that any but 
 Appomax should be called the sagamore of the west. 
 Upon this point he was immoveable ; and the Dah- 
 wyotts departed, at length satisfied that they had 
 now power enough to acquire the coveted dignity, 
 and that the feeble hand of a youth should not stay 
 them. They had, indeed, nothing to fear from Ap- 
 pomax. 
 
 A few days after Oneyda had taken up his abode 
 with the Randolphs, Appomax, wearied and exhaust- 
 ed by long wanderings, made his appearance in James- 
 town. He had left the new village after the seizure 
 of his brother, and undertaken a perilous journey in 
 quest of him. After roaming through the woods and 
 forests vainly, he at length bethought him of the Eng- 
 lish settlements. It was not improbable that the 
 treacherous Dahwyotti had given up their detested 
 enemy to the pale faces ; and acting upon this sugges- 
 tion, he hastened to the river-side, and found his way 
 to the point where he had separated from Philip. 
 With great perseverance he contrived to reach James- 
 town, and had just strength enough to ask for Philip. 
 Appomax knew his friend by no other name ; and, 
 strange to say, the person he addressed was Ralph 
 Giles, who was leisurel; 
 to his master's dwelling. 
 
 " So you wants Master Philip, Red-and-brown. 
 Well, well, I suppose all the Indians in Virginny will 
 be asking for him, for sure he's friendly enough with 
 that Ouneeda. To think of any of those jackanapes 
 dinnering and suppering with the mistress and the 
 children : now that's taking things too far, to my 
 thinking. But I suppose one good turn deserves an- 
 other. Ay, but I'm glad Master Philip's come back, 
 any way !" 
 
 As Ralph thus muttered to himself, apparently un- 
 conscious or forgetful of his companion, who still fol- 
 
PHILIP RANDOLPH. 175 
 
 lowed, repeating his question, Philip himself came 
 up, with some fagots on his shoulder, and the re- 
 quest of the stranger was instantly brought to the 
 mind of the serving-man-, who instinctively touched 
 his hat, and said, with a lurking smile of humor, 
 «• Well, for sure now, Master Philip, you be grown a 
 great man, for all the Indians come looking after you. 
 Here's another Ouneeda, only in little better condition, 
 that can say nothing but your name, and that seems 
 to be enough, for you come up just to his hand in a 
 moment." 
 
 "Ah !" said Philip, looking at the stranger, whom 
 he did not recognise, for nothing could be more un- 
 like Appomax than the worn and torn figure before 
 him. " Can I do anything for you, my friend ?" 
 
 Appomax saw that he was not remembered, and 
 for a few moments stood before Philip with a swelling 
 heart, silent from disappointment and wounded feeling. 
 But at length he found words to say that he had come 
 to hear tidings of Opecanoff, sagamore of the Wyan- 
 nows, whom the falsehearted Dahwyotti had deliv- 
 ered to the Yengees. No sooner had he said this, 
 than Philip, recognising the peculiar tones of his 
 friend, threw down his fagots and embraced him, all 
 soiled and untidy as he was. The meeting was very 
 joyous on both sides, and Philip led home Appomax 
 in triumph, sending Ralph Giles before him to an- 
 nounce the new arrival. 
 
 "Another ! another !" cried Ralph to Bridget, who 
 was arranging some part of Alice's attire. 
 
 "Another what, man?" 
 
 " Another Indian, for sure, to be brought home and 
 lodged and fed just like Ouneeda. What do you think 
 of tfiat, dame ?" 
 
 " Well, but thou knowest they be all so kind to 
 Master Philip and little Mistress Alice, I'll never 
 grudge lodging and feeding, not I," replied Bridget. 
 The string was wrenched from her hand ; away flew 
 Alice, screaming "Appomax, Appomax ! — I know it 
 is !" — and, rushing into the room where her mother 
 
176 PHILIP RANDOLPH. 
 
 was then sitting with Oneyda, at the time profitably 
 engaged in following up the instructions of Doctor 
 Haverdean, she exclaimed, " Appomax is come, 
 Oneyda ! — come out, and let us all have a merry 
 meeting." 
 
 The chief started from his seat, and for an instant 
 an angry shade passed over his brow. " He should 
 have stayed with the Wyannows. Where are they V 
 
 " He is come to see his lost brother," said Marga 
 ret Randolph, sweetly, " and I am sure you will give 
 him a kind welcome." 
 
 The meeting was entirely without emotion on the 
 part of the brothers. There could be no doubt that 
 both felt much and tenderly ; but they did not permit 
 any manifestation of feeling to escape them. Oneyda 
 soon resumed his seat, while Appomax stood respect- 
 fully before him, as if waiting to be questioned ; but 
 his brother reserved all inquiries till they were alone. 
 
 Appomax would not leave his brother, who was fast 
 verifying his own words, that he had come to die 
 among the Yengees. He was sinking into the grave 
 by sure steps, and well knew his real condition. Doc- 
 tor Haverdean visited him daily, instructed both the 
 brothers, received proofs of their sincerity and earnest 
 desire to lead a new life, and had the satisfaction of 
 witnessing most consistent conduct from them. 
 
 Philip was unwearied in his assiduities to the dying 
 chief. He felt an intense though melancholy interest 
 in observing his spiritual progress — in beholding how 
 gradually with him, but how surely, old things were 
 passing away. Oneyda was changed indeed : human- 
 ized he had long been, but he was now gentle, easy to 
 be entreated, meek and childlike in spirit, and to the 
 last expressed his anxiety that missionaries should be 
 sent to his people, to teach them the truths which he 
 now valued so highly ; thus testifying his sense of the 
 great mercies bestowed upon himself. He died, leav- 
 ing behind him a mourning brother, and a true and 
 constant friend. But Philip could not mourn for 
 Oneyda. He rejoiced in his happiness being ma 
 
PHTLTP RANDOLPH. 177 
 
 sure. He could only think of the exchange which 
 he had made from darkness to light — from earthly suf- 
 fering to glory ; and in the privacy of his own spirit he 
 offered thanksgivings to God for having enabled him 
 to have been instrun: 
 the error of his way. 
 
 The year following the death of Oneyda, Philip 
 went to England, accompanied by Appomax, and both 
 young men had the honor of being presented to King 
 Charles T. They were graciously received, and the in- 
 terview made a deep and lasting impression upon them. 
 
 Appomax nev r regained his taste for Indian life and 
 manners, thou^ he frequently visited the native tribes, 
 and acted on many important occasions as interpreter 
 or ambassador. He was most anxious to spread the 
 gospel among them, and was blessed with some degree 
 of success. His chief happiness was bound up in Phil- 
 ip, who ever showed him the most constant friendship. 
 
 Philip Randolph lived a useful and honorable life, 
 and died much regretted by a large family and numer- 
 ous friends. He was buried in the shady churchyard 
 of Jamestown ; and a simple monument raised to his 
 memory, bore this significant inscription, which all 
 may do well to ponder : — 
 

— ^ €m^ +f~*y~* rr >y/<?'