# The Pioneers (Cooper)/Chapter 37

CHAPTER XVIII.
"Love rules the court, the camp, the grove."
Lay of the Last Minstrel.
"It would have been sad indeed, to lose you in such a manner, my old friend," said Oliver, catching his breath for utterance. "Up and away! even now we may be too late; the flames are circling round the point of the rock below, and unless we can pass there, our only chance must be over the precipice. Away! away! shake off your apathy, John, for now is the time of need."
Mohegan pointed towards Elizabeth, who, forgetting her danger, had shrunk back to a projection of the rock, so soon as she recognised the sounds of Edwards' voice, and said, with something like awakened animation—
"Save her—leave John to die."
"Her! whom mean you?" cried the youth, turning quickly to the place the other indicated;—but when he saw the figure of Elizabeth, bending towards him in an attitude that powerfully spoke her terror, blended with her reluctance to meet him in such a place, the shock for a moment deprived him of speech.
"Miss Temple!" he cried, when he found ​words; "you here! is such a death reserved for you!"
"No, no, no no death, I hope, for any of us, Mr. Edwards," she replied, endeavouring to speak calmly, and rallying her thoughts for the emergency. "There is smoke, but still no fire to harm us. Let us endeavour to retire."
"Take my arm," said Edwards; "there must be an opening in some direction for your retreat. Are you equal to the effort?"
"Certainly. You surely magnify the danger, Mr. Edwards. Lead me out the way you came."
"I will—I will," cried the youth, with a kind of hysterical utterance. "No, no there is no danger—I have alarmed you unnecessarily."
"But shall we leave the Indian—can we leave him here, as he says, to die?"
An expression of painful emotion crossed the face of the young man, who stopped, and cast a longing look at Mohegan; but, dragging his companion after him, even against her will, he pursued his way, with enormous strides, towards the pass by which he had just entered the circle of flame.
"Do not regard him," he said, in those horrid tones that denote a desperate calmness; "he is used to the woods, and such scenes; he will escape up the mountain—over the rock—or he can remain where he is in safety."
"You thought not so this moment, Edwards! Do not leave him there to meet with such a death," cried Elizabeth, fixing a look on the countenance of her conductor, that seemed to distrust his sanity.
"An Indian burn! who ever heard of an Indian dying by fire! an Indian cannot burn; the idea is ridiculous. Hasten, hasten, Miss Temple, or the smoke may incommode you."
​"Edwards! your look, your eye, terrifies me! tell me the danger; is it greater than it seems? I am equal to any trial."
"If we reach the point of yon rock before that sheet of fire, we are safe, Miss Temple!" exclaimed the young man, in a voice that burst without the bounds of his forced composure. "Fly! the struggle is for your life!"
The place of the interview between Miss Temple and the Indian has been already described as one of those platforms of rock which form a sort of terrace in the mountains of that country, and the face of it, we have said, was both high and perpendicular. Its shape was nearly a natural arc, the ends of which blended with the mountain, at points where its sides were less abrupt in their descent. It was round one of these terminations of the sweep of the rock that Edwards had ascended, and it was towards the same place that he urged Elizabeth to a desperate exertion of her speed.
Immense clouds of white smoke had been pouring over the summit of the mountain, and had concealed the approach and ravages of the element; but a crackling sound drew the eyes of Miss Temple, as she flew over the ground, supported by the young man, towards the outline of smoke, where she already perceived the waving flames shooting forward from the vapour, now flaring high in the air, and then bending to the earth, seeming to light into combustion every stick and shrub on which they breathed. The sight aroused them both to redoubled efforts; but, unfortunately, there was a collection of the tops of trees, old and dried, which lay directly across their course; and, at the very moment when both had thought their safety insured, an eddying of the warm currents of the air swept a forked tongue ​of flame across the pile, which lighted at the touch; and when they reached the spot, the flying pair were opposed by the surly roaring of a body of fire, as if a furnace were glowing in their path. They recoiled from the heat, and stood on a point of the rock, gazing in a sort of stupor at the flames, which were spreading rapidly down the mountain, whose side soon became a sheet of living fire. It was dangerous for one clad in the light and airy dress of Elizabeth to approach even to the vicinity of the raging element; and those flowing robes, that gave such softness and grace to her form, seemed now to be formed for the instruments of her destruction.
The villagers were accustomed to resort to that hill in quest of timber and fuel; in procuring which, it was their usage to take only the bodies of the trees, leaving the tops and branches to decay under the operations of the weather. Much of the hill was, consequently, covered with such light fuel for the flames, which, having been scorching under the sun for the last two months, ignited with a touch. Indeed, in some cases, there did not appear to be any contact between the fire and these piles, but the flame seemed to dart from heap to heap, as the fabulous fire of the temple is represented to relumine its neglected lamp.
There was beauty as well as terror in the sight, and Elizabeth and the youth stood viewing the progress of the desolation, with a strange mixture of horror and interest. Edwards, however, shortly roused himself to new exertions, and, drawing his companion after him, they skirted the edge of the smoke, the young man penetrating frequently into its dense volumes in search of a passage, but in every instance without success. In this manner they proceeded in a semicircle ​around the upper part of the terrace, until, arriving at the verge of the precipice, opposite to the point where Edwards had ascended, the horrid conviction burst on both at the same instant, that they were completely encircled by the fire. So long as a single pass up or down the mountain was unexplored, hope had invigorated them with her secret influence; but when retreat seemed to be absolutely impracticable, the horror of their situation broke upon Elizabeth as powerfully as if she had hitherto considered the danger nothing.
"This mountain is doomed to be fatal to me!" she whispered, rather than uttered aloud; "we shall find our graves on it!"
"Say not so, Miss Temple; there is yet hope," returned the youth, in the same tone, while the vacant, horrid expression of his eye, contradicted his words; "let us return to the point of the rock; there is, there must be, some place about it where we can descend."
"Lead me there," exclaimed Elizabeth; "let us leave no effort untried." She did not wait for his compliance, but turning, retraced her steps to the brow of the precipice, murmuring to herself, in suppressed hysterical sobs, "My father—my poor, my distracted father!"
Edwards was by her side in an instant, and with aching eyes he examined into every fissure in the crags, in quest of some opening that might offer the facilities of flight. But the smooth, even surface of the rocks afforded hardly a resting place for a foot, much less those continued projections which would have been necessary for a descent of nearly a hundred feet. Edwards was not slow in feeling the conviction that this hope was also futile, and, with a kind of feverish despair, that still urged him to action, he turned to some new expedient.
​"There is nothing left, Miss Temple," he said, in a hollow accent, "but to endeavour to lower you from this place to the rock beneath. If Natty were here, or even that Indian could be roused, their ingenuity and long practice would easily devise methods by which to do it; but I am a child, at this moment, in every thing but daring. Where shall I find means? This dress of mine is so light, and there is so little of it—then the blanket of Mohegan. We must try—we must try—any thing is better than to see you a victim to such a death!"
"And what shall become of you!" said Elizabeth. "Indeed, indeed, neither you nor John must be the sacrifice to my safety."
He heard her not, for he was already by the side of Mohegan, who yielded his blanket without a question, retaining his seat with Indian dignity and composure, though his own situation was even more critical than that of the others. The blanket was cut into shreds, and the fragments fastened together; the loose linen jacket of the youth, and the light muslin shawl of Elizabeth, were attached to them, and the whole thrown over the rocks, with the rapidity of lightning; but the united pieces did not reach half way to the bottom.
"It will not do it will not do!" cried Elizabeth; "for me there is no hope! The fire comes slowly, but certainly. See! it destroys the very earth before it!"
Had the flames spread on that rock with half the quickness with which they leaped from bush to tree, in other parts of the mountain, our painful task would have soon ended; for they would have swept off the victims, who were suffering doubly under the anticipations of their approaching fate. But the peculiarity of ​their situation afforded Elizabeth and her companion the respite, of which they availed themselves to make the efforts we have recorded.
The thin covering of earth over the rock on which they stood, supported but a scanty and faded herbage, and most of the trees that had found root in the fissures had already died, during the intense heats of preceding summers. Those which still retained the appearance of life, bore a few dry and withered leaves, that were drained of their nourishment; while the others were merely the wrecks of pines, oaks, and maples. No better materials to feed the fire could be found, had there been a communication with the flames; but the ground was destitute of the leaves and boughs that led the destructive element like a torrent over the remainder of the hill. As auxiliary to this scarcity of fuel, there was one of the large springs which abound in that country, gushing out of the side of the ascent above, which, after creeping sluggishly along the level land, saturating the mossy covering of the rock with moisture, swept round the base of the little cone that formed the pinnacle of the mountain, and, entering the canopy of smoke near one of the terminations of the terrace, found its way to the lake, not by dashing from rock to rock, but by the secret channels of the earth. It would rise to the surface, here and there, in the wet seasons, when it exhibited a mimic torrent, overflowing the ground for some distance; but in the droughts of summer, it was to be traced only by the bogs and moss that announced the proximity of water. When the fire reached this barrier, it was compelled to pause, until a concentration of its heat could overcome the moisture, like an army impatiently waiting the operations of a battering train, to open its way to death and desolation.
​That fatal moment seemed now to have arrived; for the hissing streams of the spring appeared to be nearly exhausted, and the moss of the rocks was already curling under the intense heat that was thrown across the little spot of wet ground, while the fragments of bark that yet clung to the dead trees, began to separate from their trunks, and fall to the ground in crumbling masses. The air seemed quivering with rays of heat which might be seen playing along the parched stems of the trees. The excited imagination of Elizabeth, as she stood on the verge of the precipice, and gazed about her, viewing the approach of their powerful enemy, fancied every tree and herb near her on the point of ignition. There were moments when dark clouds of smoke would sweep along the little terrace, and as the eye lost its power, the other senses contributed to give effect to the fearful horror of the scene. At such moments, the roaring of the flames, the crackling of the furious element, with the tearing of falling branches, and, occasionally, the thundering echoes of some prostrated tree, united to alarm the victims. Of the three, however, the youth appeared much the most agitated. Elizabeth, having relinquished entirely the idea of escape, was fast obtaining that resigned composure, with which the most delicate of her sex are known to meet unavoidable evils; while Mohegan, who was much nearer to the danger, maintained his seat with the invincible resignation of an Indian warrior. Once or twice the eye of the aged chief, which was ordinarily fixed in the direction of the distant hills, turned towards the young pair, who seemed doomed to so early a death, with a slight indication of pity crossing l;is composed features, but it would immediately revert again to its former gaze, as if already ​looking into the womb of futurity. Much of the time he was chanting a kind of low dirge, in the Delaware tongue, using the deep and remarkably guttural tones of his people.
"At such a moment, Mr. Edwards, all earthly distinctions end," whispered Elizabeth; "persuade John to move nearer to us let us die together."
"I cannot—he will not stir," returned the youth, in the same horridly still tones. "He considers this as the happiest moment of his life. He is past seventy; and has been decaying rapidly for some time; he received some injury in chasing that unlucky deer, too, on the lake. Oh! Miss Temple, that was an unlucky chase indeed! it has led, I fear, to this awful scene."
The smile that beamed on the lovely features of Elizabeth was celestial, as she answered, in a soft, soothing voice, "Why name such a trifle now—at this moment the heart is dead to all earthly emotions!"
"If any thing could reconcile a man, in the vigour and pride of manhood, to this death," cried the youth with fervour, "it would be to meet it in such company!"
"Talk not so, Edwards, talk not so," interrupted Miss Temple, "I am unworthy of it; and it is unjust to yourself. We must die; yes—yes—we must die—it is the will of God, and let us endeavour to submit like his own children."
"Die!" the youth rather shrieked than exclaimed, "No—no—there must be hope yet—you must not, shall not die."
"In what way can we escape?" asked Elizabeth, pointing, with a look of heavenly composure, towards the fire. "Observe! the flame is crossing the barrier of wet ground it comes slowly, Ed​wards, but surely.—Ah! see! the tree! the tree is already lighted!"
Her words were too true. The heat of the conflagration had, at length, overcome the resistance of the spring, and the fire was slowly stealing along the half-dried moss; while a dead pine kindled with the touch of a forked flame, that, for a moment, wreathed around the stem of the tree, as it whirled, in one of its evolutions, under the influence of the air. The effect was instantaneous and magical. The flames danced along the parched trunk of the pine, like lightning quivering on a chain, and immediately a column of living fire was raging on the terrace. It soon spread from tree to tree, and the scene was evidently drawing to a close. The log on which Mohegan was seated lighted at its farther end, and the Indian appeared to be surrounded by the fire. Still he was unmoved. As his body was unprotected, his sufferings must have been great, but his fortitude was superior to all. His voice could yet be heard, raising its tones, even in the midst of these horrors. Elizabeth turned her head from the sight, and faced the valley. Furious eddies of wind were created by the heat, and just at the moment, the canopy of fiery smoke that overhung the valley, was cleared away, leaving a distinct view of the peaceful village beneath them.
"My father!—My father!" shrieked Elizabeth. "Oh! this—this surely might have been spared me—but I submit."
The distance was not too great, for the figure of Judge Temple to be seen, standing in his own grounds, and, apparently, contemplating, in perfect unconsciousness of the danger of his child, the mountain in flames. This sight was still ​more painful than the approaching danger; and Elizabeth again faced the hill.
"My intemperate warmth has done this?" cried Edwards, in the accents of despair. "If I had possessed but a moiety of your heavenly resignation, Miss Temple, all might yet have been well."
"Name it not—name it not," she said. "It is now of no avail. We must die, Edwards, we must die—let us do so as Christians. But—no—you may yet escape, perhaps. Your dress is not so fatal as mine. Fly! leave me. An opening may yet be found for you, possibly—certainly it is worth the effort. Fly! leave me—but stay! You will see my father; my poor! my bereaved father! Say to him, then, Edwards, say to him, all that can appease his anguish. Tell him that I died happy and collected; that I have gone to my beloved mother; that the hours of this life are as nothing when balanced in the scales of eternity. Say how we shall meet again. And say," she continued, dropping her voice, that had risen with her feelings, as if conscious of her worldly weaknesses, "how dear, how very dear, was my love for him. That it was near, too near, to my love for God."
The youth listened to her touching accents, but moved not. In a moment he found utterance and replied:
"And is it me that you bid to leave you! me, to leave you on the edge of the grave! Oh! Miss Temple, how little have you known me," he cried, dropping on his knees at her feet, and gathering her flowing robe in his arms, as if to shield her from the flames. "I have been driven to the woods in despair; but your society has tamed the lion within me. If I have wasted my ​time in degradation, 'twas you that charmed me to it. If I have forgotten my name and family, your form supplied the place of memory. If I have forgotten my wrongs, 'twas you that taught me charity. No—no—dearest Elizabeth, I may die with you, but I can never leave you!"
Elizabeth moved not, nor answered. It was plain that her thoughts had been of heaven. The recollection of her father, and her regrets at their separation, had been mellowed by a holy sentiment, that lifted her above the level of earthly things, and she was fast losing the weakness of her sex, in the near view of eternity. But as the maiden, standing in her extremity, listened to these words, she became once more woman. The blood gathered slowly, again, in those cheeks, that had, in anticipation of the tyrant's triumph, assumed the livid appearance of death, until they glowed with the loveliness of her beauty. She struggled with herself against these feelings, and smiled, as she thought she was shaking off the last lingering feeling of her nature, when the world, and all its seductions, rushed again to her heart, with the sounds of a human voice, crying in piercing tones—
"Gal! where be ye, gal! gladden the heart of an old man, if ye yet belong to 'arth!"
"List!" said Elizabeth, "'tis the Leather-stocking; he seeks me!"
"'Tis Natty!" shouted Edwards, springing on his feet, "and we may yet be saved!"
A wide and circling flame glared on their eyes for a moment, even above the fire of the woods, and a loud report followed, that was succeeded by a comparative stillness.
"'Tis the canister! 'tis the powder." cried the same voice, evidently approaching them. ​"'Tis the canister, and the precious child is lost!"
At the next instant Natty rushed through the steams of the spring, and appeared on the terrace, without his deer skin cap, his hair burnt to his head, his shirt of country check, black, and filled with holes, and his red features of a deeper colour than ever, by the heat he had encountered.
* James Fenimore Cooper,
* The Pioneers,
* Preface,
* Ch.1,
* Ch.2,
* Ch.3,
* Ch.4,
* Ch.5,
* Ch.6,
* Ch.7,
* Ch.8,
* Ch.9,
* Ch.10,
* Ch.11,
* Ch.12,
* Ch.13,
* Ch.14,
* Ch.15,
* Ch.16,
* Ch.17,
* Ch.18,
* Ch.19,
* Ch.20,
* Ch.21,
* Ch.22,
* Ch.23,
* Ch.24,
* Ch.25,
* Ch.26,
* Ch.27,
* Ch.28,
* Ch.29,
* Ch.30,
* Ch.31,
* Ch.32,
* Ch.33,
* Ch.34,
* Ch.35,
* Ch.36,
* Ch.37,
* Ch.38,
* Ch.39,
* Ch.40,
* Ch.41,
* Characters.