# The Knickerbocker Gallery/Gentle Dove

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Gentle Dove.
AN INDIAN LEGEND.
By F. W. Shelton.
Long, long ago, on the banks of the Upper Mississippi, among the tribes of the warlike Sacs, lived a young woman, who for the endearing gentleness of her nature, was called Nit-o-me-ma, or Gentle Dove. The savages in the wilderness acknowledged her power, though revealed only in the majesty of her motions and in the music of her voice. She controlled their avenging passions by her glance of pity, and disarmed them with a woman's tears. The doctrines of the cross accorded well with a spirit so meek and loving, and she became a Christian. The good missionary Marquette came from a distant land, crossed the stormy deep, and pursuing his journey through a trackless country, bore in his hands the Gospel of Peace. Self-sacrificing and devoted, he went upon his errand, proclaiming to the benighted children of the forest the glad tidings of salvation with a resolution which despised all dangers and which knew no fatigue. How sublime is the life of such a follower of Christ! But alas! the disciple was treated as his master. His benevolent designs were soon mistaken, and ascribed to motives base and mercenary. Escaping from his pursuers, he went into a solitary place to pray. When they came up with him he was discovered on his knees. It is said that they drew their bows, but, observing that he did not move, they approached and found him dead.
Soon after this, Gentle Dove was married to Omaint-si-ar-nah, son of the nation's chief. Beautiful and manly in person, tall and athletic, ​with features regular and handsome, skillful and adroit in the use of the bow and in casting the javelin, in battle bold and daring, like his sire, he was, moreover, the faithful friend, the kind husband, the generous host; but he was in temper sanguine, credulous, and jealous.
Scarcely had Gentle Dove become his bride, even with the first waning moon which made her his, when a sudden war-whoop broke upon this dream of bliss. No more the lovers walked within the silent forest or shot the rapids in their light canoe. Tender and impassioned was their early parting; and should they never see each other more upon the transitory earth, they vowed to meet unchanged in love upon the shadowy confines of the spirit-land. Omaint-si-ar-nah smoothed the tresses of his Gentle Dove, held her hand in momentary silence, then turned his back, and walked erect to meet his warriors in the grove. Towering above the naked and be-painted group, he waved his arm, and with a bold untutored eloquence, he recounted insults and kindled up the passion of revenge. Wild gestures, and a yell more dreadful than the beasts make in concert, attested that his words had taken effect. Calling Que-la-wah, "Faithful Friend," he walked aside, and bade him save his scalping-knife and unstring his supple bow. He could have no part in the present foray, although he was a warrior of approved renown. Que-la-wah must remain behind, and to his good protection during her lord's absence he committed Gentle Dove. Then, having received assurance, the chief once more called his band around him, and marched without delay to take revenge upon the distant tribes.
The art of writing was unknown; but every month he sent a trusty courier from his camp with a verbal message to his wife, and received her missives in return. Loitering and tedious was this method for the impatience of affection, but dearer than volumes were the true words when they arrived. Omaint-si-ar-nah sometimes drank them into his ear as he reclined by the camp-fires at midnight, and the music of water-falls was not so sweet. They nerved his arm for a score of battles, though but the plaining of a dove. How welcome the surprises when he heard the dry leaves crackling, and seized his bow and stole without the tent, expecting an enemy in ambush, and lo! a ​messenger from his love! Thus to and fro, like shining arrows shot and returned, were reciprocated these missives of two faithful hearts, until they suddenly ceased. Omaint-si-ar-nah walked in gloom. He thought his courier had fallen a victim to the foe.
Que-la-wah, "Faithful Friend," had become enamored of Gentle Dove, and sought by every means to win her from her rightful lord. She spurned his offers with indignation, but he did not cease to torment her with his appeals. The old and the very young were all who remained in the tribe, and she needed protection from her protector. Meantime, being much perplexed in spirit, she had a dream. An awful form stood before her, and told her that the Virgin loved her, and promised to reveal the future to her eyes. What she had suffered from Que-la-wah was but a beginning of greater woes to come; for he in whom her soul delighted should be deceived, forsake his faithful wife, and she should narrowly escape with life. Moreover, there should be a strife for empire, and a race of white men who had gained a footing near the rising sun, from small beginnings should sweep over and subdue the entire land. Still her own nation should not be without renown, for lo! a chief should arise who should bear sway over many tribes, and lead his warriors to successful battles; and when at last his limbs should be bound in fetters, his soul would be unsubdued: his name should never perish, and the Holy Virgin would vouchsafe protection to Gentle Dove.
Omaint-si-ar-nah dispatched another messenger. Meantime, Que-la-wah, finding that his proffers were rejected, vowed revenge. He bribed the courier whom the chieftain sent with tidings to his wife, so that she received them not, and returned no answer; but he bore back word that he had delivered them, and that Gentle Dove had treated them with marked contempt; that she was inconstant and abandoned, and had violated her pledge. On the receipt of these cruel tidings, the chief went into a paroxysm of rage. He commanded those who stood near him to draw their bows and shoot him. As none obeyed, he was about to drive a dart into his own breast, but the weapon was wrested from his hand. Then the flame of love being quite extinguished, a violent hate reigned in its place, and he resolved that the base woman who had betrayed his hopes should speedily die. ​He dispatched an emissary, to whom he gave secret orders to entice his wife into the forest, under pretence that he bore tidings from her lord, when he should slay her, and immediately return to the camp, bringing with him a lock of her hair as a pledge that his errand had been accomplished.
The round orb of the setting sun was just visible above the waves of the yellow Mississippi. Nito-me-ma stood in the door of her tent, weeping and dejected, pressing to her bosom her new-born child, and sometimes, according to the faith which she had imbibed, appealing to the protection of the Virgin, sobbing out in short ejaculations, "O sweet Mary, holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me!" Thus engaged in devotion, her eyes were uplifted to heaven; but when again they were cast downward, a strange form stood before her. So stealthily had he glided through the thickets, that his presence was like that of a spirit. For a moment he stood erect in silence, as if spell-bound by her charms.
The expression of maternal love added a new grace to the pale face of the poor child of sorrow, and her bright yet tender eyes were brimming over with tears. Her hair, as if unloosed on purpose to be rifled for the sacrificial token, fell upon her glossy shoulders and almost touched the ground, and, like a mute and unoffending victim, ready for the altar, she stood as if to wait the mandate of the avenging priest.
The stranger stretched his naked arm, and pointed with his finger to the sun. "See!" he said, in a low voice like a whisper, "he is departing; the day is almost dead. The winds cease to move the tree-leaves; the waves cease to murmur. But it is not dark; it is not silent: Go with me to the deepest thicket at a distance from the curling smoke of tents. Over the mountains I have come, through the rivers. A message sent so far for one beloved is not for common ears. Fear not, Gentle Dove!"
Trembling and agitated, still pressing her babe to her breast and praying as she went, she followed his footsteps, which were rapid, so that she could scarce keep pace with them, with her burden in her arms. It was nearly dark when, arriving at a most secluded spot, her guide suddenly turned, and without the delay of a moment, as if he ​feared that pity might gain the mastery over him in the sight of so much beauty, assumed a stem aspect, and commanded her to lay down her child.
"Nito-me-ma!" he exclaimed, "prepare to die instantly, as the penalty of unfaithfulness. I am the avenging messenger of your husband, and I dare not disobey his bidding. That the blow may be surer and less painful, do not resist a fate which is inevitable. Kneel!"
He snatched his tomahawk from his girdle, and raised it on high. Gentle Dove, who, for her own sake, would have gladly died, looked on her innocent child; then, with a wild, impassioned eloquence, begged a few moments' respite to send up a prayer to God. Her request was granted, and she poured forth her soul for heavenly aid in such a strain as well might make the angels weep. The Great Spirit heard it. The delay which had been allowed by Omaint-si-ar-nah's messenger was fatal to his resolution. Three times be whirled his hatchet round his head, then struck it deep into the trunk of the nearest tree, and yielded to compassion. In truth, his savage soul had first been melted when he stood before the tent.
He spared the life of Nito-me-ma on one condition: that she would retire into the thickest forest, and never more be seen among her tribe. Having exacted such a promise, he shore a long lock of her raven hair, gazed at her in a long, admiring silence, replaced his hatchet in his girdle, and then, as loth to go, he turned upon his heel and stalked away. "I have disobeyed my chieftain," he wailed aloud when at a little distance; then he beat his breast and exclaimed, "The Great Spirit is my chieftain, and He spoke to me from here." He was inclined to turn again and shield the unprotected wanderer; but when he reached the river's brink he flung himself into his bark canoe, and waiting for the moon to rise, he slept upon the murky tide.
Gentle Dove, when left alone to perish, as might be supposed, by a more cruel, lingering death, moved slowly onward through the dark, she knew not where. Entering a deep hollow, she found it filled with dry leaves, and, lying down with her child, the breeze of the night came along, and with a sudden gust, covered them lightly with the same, so that the chilling dews should not benumb them. More useful thus ​the perished twigs than when upon the oaken crowns they shone in glossy verdure, and were vital in the spring-time of the year. The wolves howling for their evening repast might be heard in the distance, but Nito-me-ma slept sweetly on her sylvan couch, and feared no evil. On the morrow she rose up refreshed, and went away into her woody exile far from her husband's tent. She would return no more, but God would be her sole protector. For three days she travelled in the forest, till, arriving at a very secret place, where she perceived no trails had been, she kneeled upon the sod, and, by a short act of private devotion, consecrated it as her future home. It was a narrow vale, sheltered by a gigantic growth, and without brambles or under-wood. The soft green sod was a carpet for her bare feet, and a pure fountain gushed up hard by from a bed of little white pebbles. A snail's shell served as a water-cup, and searching in the neighborhood for a place to build her tent, a vast tree, hollowed out at the base, was revealed to her, quite ample in accommodation for herself and child. She now sought the means of life, that the fount which flowed in her bosom might not be dry. Roots and berries would not supply its rich life-stream, but Nito-mo-ma had not lived in the forest in vain. Wandering beyond the limits of her domain, she came upon an open place in the wilderness where the sun shone down, and her eyes were delighted by the sight of a field of wild maize. Day by day she transported the treasure to her habitation, until it was all housed and her bread was sure. From the white husks she wove a matting for her habitation, and the sweet stalks she stored away elsewhere, and she beat the grain in a rude mortar; but as she sat in the door-way, Nito-me-ma reflected that she had no fire to bake the crisp-cakes withal. But the same God who gave her daily bread struck a dry pine-tree in one of his glorious storms, and enkindled its bark as if with the very sparks of His pity. From that time the flame died not on the domestic hearth; and when the shades of night came down, it shone with soft effulgence on the mother and her child. Nito-me-ma found a sharp-edged stone in the brook, with which she hewed down a lithe sapling, and having woven a strong cord for her bow, and selected some reeds for arrows, she shot the little birds and dressed them for food, and she entrapped the mountain trout in their fastnesses, and ​preserved them in the waters of a salt spring which she discovered about a league off from her home. She laid away great store of dried fruits and berries, and pleasant herbs and flowers, and sassafras and birch, and sweet barks. In one moon before the hoar frosts had whitened the ground, her store-house was so well furnished that she could have no dread of famine, and might even entertain a pilgrim in distress. The furniture of her abode accorded also with her wants: a bed made of dry husks, with a covering of the same, a chair woven of the wild willow, and a slight table of the same; for cups, gourds and snail-shells, and vessels of rude pottery made by her own hands. At morning, noon, and night, she offered prayers to God, and invoked the Virgin.
Gentle Dove seemed to live within a charmed circle. Wild beasts and venomous serpents did not find their way therein, and the more dreaded foot of man intruded not; but myriads of birds flew into the inclosures, both those of gorgeous plumage and of dulcet song—the bobolink and the oriole, and the pure white doves. The hummingbirds came in quest of honeysuckles and the Missouri rose-buds, which clustered around the poor child's door. Moreover, the fawns skipped on the grass before the hollow tree, but she could not find it in her heart to pierce them with her arrows. They were the delight of her eyes, and at last approached and ate out of her hand. While her child slumbered on the bed of husks, Gentle Dove sat without, singing in a low sweet voice the hymns Marquette had taught her; nor were these moments spent in idleness: she wove willow baskets, or made sandals from the bark of trees, blankets, and garments for her little one. Oh! how sweetly it slumbered!—it seemed to thrive more and more every day, and in features more and more resembled its mother. "Morning-Glory" was its name, and every morning Nito-me-ma took it to the spring, and poured the cold crystal waters upon it, so that it became hardy, and its olive complexion glowed with health. She had already baptized it, but not in the waves of the fountain. When she first came into the wilderness, perceiving that the child's face was wet with tears which had dropped from her own eyes, she signed the cross upon its forehead, and in those holy drops which welled up from a broken heart, christened it in the name of the ​undivided Trinity. Swung upon her shoulders, Morning Glory was the constant attendant of all her walks, no matter how great the distance, or what additional burden she expected to bear.
A mother with her child, can feel no solitude. Every place is a desert without it; with it, there are people enough in the unpeopled waste. It is music where there is no voice, and speech where there is no language, and a host of friends where all have departed, a blue sky where there is nothing but clouds, and a flower in the unwatered wilderness. But this little wood-nymph, in its hollow tree, made the whole ground enchanted. The winds sighing in the branches seemed to Gentle Dove like angels of heaven which whispered its lullaby. Alas! it was only when she thought that her child was without a father, that this dream of bliss was doomed to be interrupted. But never had her love for her husband become abated, nor had such cruel treatment stirred one feeling of resentment in her soul. In truth, she hardly learned to love him till she was forced to pity and forgive!
How different from this peaceful sanctuary the scenes where Omaint-si-ar-nah walked in gloom! With desperate rage he rushed into the thick of battle. He raged and ravened like a wolf upon the bloody field, and scalped his foes and brought off many trophies; but most of all, he sought to terminate a life which was no longer to be desired. The very sun was hateful to his sight, and so irascible became his temper, that his own friends would scarce approach him in his fits of moody melancholy, lost in a moment he should strike them dead. He had been deceived by the wife of his bosom, in whom he trusted, and he now suspected all of being traitors. In fact, he was betrayed and blinded; but she who was so grossly injured did not cease to pray for his preservation, and that the scales might be removed from her husband's eyes.
One day, with bow and arrows, and a basket on her arm and with Morning-Glory on her back, Gentle Dove went forth to search for eggs of pheasants and the prairie-hen. She wandered far, and was Just stooping to complete her store, when her quick ear detected the approaching sound of steps, Gliding into a thicket, she moved not and dared scarcely breathe. In a moment, Que-la-wah, detested traitor, appeared in sight. Low stooping, with his eyes fastened on ​the ground, he examined footsteps in the sand. Then he laid down his bow and game, and first looking upward, stood with his back against a tree.
"God of Justice!" exclaimed Gentle Dove, "nerve thy weak creature's arm!"
She placed her child upon the ground, chose from her quiver a well-sharpened arrow and fitted it to the string. Fixing her keen eye for the moment on the mark she aimed at, she drew the weapon to its flinty head and let it speed. The whizzing shaft just grazed the ear of the false savage, and quivered in the bark.
"Lost!" said Gentle Dove, but did not remove her gaze, and fitted another arrow to the string.
Que-la-wah leaped aloft and uttered a terrific yell, and leaving after him his bow and game, fled quickly to the thickest woods. Then Nito-me-ma inscribed a cross upon the tree in token of deliverance, and gathering at its foot the small wild flowers, she bore them home and wove a votive chaplet for her shrine.
The autumn passed away; the falling leaves and sombre skies announced that winter was at hand. Nito-me-ma laid up a great store of brushwood, and dry turf and pitchy bark, and prepared a wadded curtain for the opening in the hollow tree, and made thick brooms of twigs wherewith to sweep away the snows, and little lamps of clay to be used in the long winter evenings, and garments of the furs of rabbits, and a soft couch for her child from the down of the prairie-hen, and treasured up eggs in the waters taken from the salt spring. Thus having done all for safety which her knowledge prompted, she waited without apprehension for the cutting blasts and for thick-falling snows. Beautiful and like a conqueror came on October in the distant west, with gorgeous plumes and purple hues, like hectic flushes of the dying. A thin blue vapor floated over vale and mountain-top; the air was fragrant with the scent of strawberry-leaves, while the still genial sun encouraged vegetation and wooed the prairie-rose to bloom. The wild grapes hung in tempting clusters from the high trees of the forest, as if the produce of the elm and vine. Then often at the hour of sunset, when the birds hid their heads beneath their wings, and all the labors of the day were finished, ​would Nito-me -ma sing an evening hymn, or with a low and plaintive melody, strike into a little voluntary of her own:
At last the snows descended and lay in pyramidal layers on the pines and evergreens, and the air was nipping cold, but it entered not the barken inclosure, nor touched the little nymph at the foot of the oak. Gentle Dove was happy in those dark days. The snow-birds hopped about her abode, to receive crumbs from her humble table, and left their footprints all around. She had no book to read from, nor had she learned the art of reading, but Morning-Glory was an opening and expanding revelation, full of poetry and irradiated with hope. At night, when the winds howled, and, in sympathy with the uplifted head, the sides of the living house in which she dwelt were contorted and sent forth groans as if in pain, she made moccasins by the dim light of her lamp, with her feet near the hot embers, and so beguiled the weary time. She dared not wander during the wintry months, for the wolves were hungry, and their howlings could be heard for miles on the air. Beyond the forests the illimitable prairies were covered with a white mantle, and the Father of Waters was frozen-up.
When the natal day of the Lord came, Gentle Dove adorned her sanctuary with laurel and with green twigs, and out of doors built an altar of pure white snows, and wreathed it round with running vines, and placed thereon the dried-up votive chaplet, and she called it the Altar of Deliverance. It was not destitute of other offerings, for the trees dropped icicles, and covered it with crystal gems. At last the thaws began, and the green blades of grass peeped forth upon ​the sunny knolls, and the blue violets appeared, first heralds of the spring, and the fragrant buds swelled out, and tender leaves appeared. Another ordeal had been safely passed, while new hope and confidence animated the grateful heart of Nito-me-ma. She came forth from her retreat, and erected a summer bower more ample in accommodations than the one which she left, working at it during the intervals in which her child reposed. She bent the crowns of tall young saplings, and fastening them together at the top with strong cords, she interwove the intervals with pliant boughs, and having completed it in a short time moved thither her domestic goods. So sweetly stole the hours away, and never was one more happy in unhappiness, or more supported when support appeared to be withdrawn.
The arrival of the lovely month of May awakened a feeling of ecstasy in the heart of Gentle Dove. In that month she was born and married, and in that her child was born; nay, more, at that season she had been converted to the religion of the Cross, and every fortunate circumstance of her life was connected with it, and it was associated with a thousand happy memories. Its balmy breath infused new life into her system, for she was somewhat pale and wan with watching and confinement, and again she hurried forth with Morning-Glory on her shoulders, to gather flowers in the distant vale. Her provision of maize was still far from exhausted, but she had been obliged to mix the cakes with water, and long ago the bread had become poor to the taste. Her unpampered palate required still the luxury of milk. She was just thinking of this, although by no means murmuring, when, in a grassy nook, she suddenly encountered a female buffalo quietly grazing, with her young by her side. It was as tame as if brought up among the haunts of men. She fed it with hand's-full of green and tender grass, and, unmolested, placed her tiny palms upon its forehead. When she retreated, the cow followed her, and never ceased to track her footsteps until she arrived before her bower. From that time she drained its milk day by day in the hollow of a wild gourd, and it gave sustenance to herself and to her child.
Nito-mo-ma used to rise at day-break, and, after washing herself in the cool brook, and offering up her devotions, she walked within ​sight of her home until the time of her morning meal. In one of these excursions she was elambering up a ledge of rocks when she dipped her hands into some wild honeycomb filled with sweets, and made of the earliest flowers of spring. Thoughtlessly she broke it into fragments, and piled the delicious masses into an apron made of leaves, while all around her head the bees buzzed busily without the infliction of a sting. Although in faith a Christian, Gentle Dove adhered religiously to many customs of her ancestors, so far as they did not conflict with her Christian faith. She loved her tribe and people, and her own dear home, from which she was banished, and she longed to dwell again among her kindred, to assuage their ferocious spirit, and to teach them the offices of kindness and of love. Day after day passed away in her hopeless solitude, and brought no tidings from her distant lord. Yet she had the most manifest proofs of the Divine protection in the little miracles which diversified her lonely career. The courier had taken that lock of hair from her devoted head, and carried it to Omaint-si-ar-nah at his encampment, who supposed that his cruel mandate had been obeyed. Hence he continued to be reckless of life, and did not make haste to return to the homes of his fathers.
In the mean time Morning-Glory increased in stature, and was straight and slender as a reed. So soon as she could be made to comprehend, she was instructed in the first principles of the Christian faith. In the cathedral-like and solemn gloom of primitive woods, each day her little hands were clasped in prayer, and the whole place was rendered consecrate. There was a music in her lisping voice, which rose to heaven with a more buoyant ease than sound of organs and of jubilant anthems in the temple-naves. In the pure waters of the spring, which gushed up hard by, might sometimes be seen a wild little picture, the image of Morning-Glory—her face stained with berries, her hair stuck full of the feathers of gay birds, and her waist wound around with a cincture of flowers. She was already skillful in the use of the bow and in casting a small javelin; she was no longer swung upon her mother's back, nay, in case of danger and attack, Morning-Glory might have been an efficient auxiliary, because she could direct a deadly arrow, and did not know the sentiment of ​fear. But her mother did not permit her out of sight for a moment. Deprived of her sweet child, her sole companion, the spirits of Gentle Dove would have sunk beyond recovery. One morning, having slept soundly, on awaking, she found that Morning Glory had risen before her, and gone out of the house. In dread alarm, she rushed into the wood, and lifted up her voice, and shrieked aloud; but no answer was returned, save the mocking echo, "Morning-Glory! Morning-Glory!" She ran hither and thither, she knew not where, and peered into the thickets with a keen eye, and tried to track her by the footprints of her tiny feet, and kept continually calling her by name, weeping and beating her breast the while, but no Morning-Glory! Exhausted by exertion, and overpowered with grief, Gentle Dove came and cast herself upon her cot in an agony bordering on despair. But as the day declined, and she had given up all for lost, the clear and ringing laughter of the little rover was heard without, and she approached with two young turtle-doves, which she had only slightly wounded. Nito-me-ma clasped her to her bosom, and her convulsions of joy wero almost fatal. When a little recovered, she thought to punish her for so wild and disobedient an act, but she could not find in her heart to lay a finger upon her, and she did nothing but weep upon the head of Morning-Glory a shower of sparkling tears.
The child had, perhaps, attained her sixth year, and the life in the grove was but little varied, when Omaint-si-ar-nah, tired of roaming, returned with his warriors to the place whence they had set out. His wigwam was burned to the ground, his old mother was dead, his Gentle Dove (as he thought) was murdered. He walked apart and spent his days in gloom, while his warriors dared not approach him, for he was more ferocious and hostile in spirit than before. One day he was wandering listlessly on the bank of a stream, waiting for a deer which was swimming with its current, when his attention was attracted by some hieroglyphics on a tree, understood by Nito-me-ma and himself. They were the emblems of true love; and, on close inspection, he discovered that some of them had been freshly made, and signified affection which has changed not, and which is unchangeable. Their time of being made was posterior surely to that when she whom he suspected had been accounted false. Then the sad truth flashed in on ​his benighted soul; he struck his brow with violence, and groaned aloud. He took the raven tresses from his bosom, sole relic of his once-loved wife, and, sitting down upon a fallen trunk, spake to himself in mournful accents, and in the figurative language of the Indian tribes: "O Nito-me-ma, Dove of the Forest, Beautiful Pride of the Prairie, torn away by cruel fate. Her breath was sweeter than the mountain balm; her eyes were like the wild fawn's eyes; and her tooth, white as the snow-flakes newly fallen. Where wanders my love by the crystal rivers of the Spirit-Land? Omaint-si-ar-nah's heart is gloomy as the cypress-grove at midnight when the moon goes down. His arm has lost its strength, and his feet cease from running. O Gentle Dove, come to me from the land of ghosts!"
"The chief walks alone," said a voice almost at Omaint-si-ar-nah's ear. He turned, and Gray-Eagle stood before him, the commissioner of blood.
"Ha!" said the former, clutching in his hand the lock of hair, "you have executed your errand well, and have shed innocent blood." He restored the lock to his bosom, placed his left hand on the hatchet in his girdle, and raising his right arm to heaven, "By the Great Spirit!" he added, "we shall both die, and that before yon sun goes down."
Gray-Eagle stood erect and smiled a moment without reply. He walked slowly down to the margin of the brook, dipped a shell in water, and poured it over his hands.
"Thou art not exonerated," said Omaint-si-ar-nah.
"I am, Chief," replied the Gray-Eagle. Omaint-si-ar-nah grasped his tomahawk, and made a threatening motion as if to strike him dead.
Gray-Eagle smiled again, and did not move.
"Hear me," he said; "I have disobeyed my chieftain, but these hands have not been stained with blood. The Gentle Dove still lives."
"Lives!" said the other, and he clasped his hands and stood a long time rooted to the soil—"lives!" he exclaimed in ecstasy; "then I live; then the sun shines; then the grass grows. Speak on."
"I never slew her. I brought you but the token of unchanged ​affection, and not the stain of blood. I have not made your house desolate, nor your child motherless."
The chieftain struck his javelin in the earth. "My child" he shrieked in a voice which made the woods ring again, a combination of ecstasy and agony and surprise—"my child?"
"Your child!" replied the Gray-Eagle.
"Whither gone?" said Omaltit-si-ar-nah.
"You ask too much of me," answered the Gray-Eagle. "If I did not take away their lives, could I keep them from dying! A man can kill, but the Great Spirit keeps alive, and He only. I know not where they are."
"Enough," said Omainit-si-ar-nah. "All will be well Gray-Eagle sours aloft and stoops not low." With the end of his spear he described a circle on the ground, and, placing the end of it in the centre, he drew many radii. "Tonight," he said, "we sleep as if the sleep of death. When the sun dawns, each man, yea, every woman of the tribe, will start from here, and travel toward the rising and the setting sun, and every point, until she is found whom my soul loveth."
"Stay!" said Gray-Eagle, "you will go too early in the search. Punish traitors first before you haste to seek for the betrayed. Your Faithful Friend is at the bottom of this mischief Que-la-wah strove to win the Gentle Dove. She drove him off with fierce rebuke, and hence he vowed revenge."
Omaint-si-ar-nah grasped the hand of the Gray-Eagle, and while a fierce vindictive look flashed over him, he said, "To-morrow! yes, to-morrow!" then pressed the lock of hair unto his lips, wrapped his blanket round him, and sank upon the ground, even on the very spot where he had stood and slept.
Soon as the first beams of day appeared, the chief went forth alone to punish a man who had betrayed his trust. He found Que-la-wah gathering sticks to make his morning meal. "Base villain," he exclaimed, "thou shalt die." And with that he beat him to the earth, and left his body for the crows and vultures of the air to prey upon. Thus did the spirit of implacable revenge find place in the same heart which was just opening anew to the genial influences of affection. ​Que-la-wah suffered not beyond his just deserts. The ruthless invader of the domestic sanctuary is held a savage among savages, and unworthy to enjoy the boon of life.
Omaint-si-ar-nah dispatched his warriors and chosen men, while he and Gray-Eagle set their faces due north to hunt up the nest of Gentle Dove. A secret voice assured him that she still lived. For three days they travelled to no purpose, calling loudly, wherever they went, the name of Nito-me-ma.
"A cruel husband," said the chief, sorrowfully, "who banishes his wife, puts her, indeed, afar off. Great is the interval betwixt them. Moons wax and wane. Rivers flow. Time and distance interpose their great gulfs. There is no straight line; we wander uncertain, for the ways of the ungrateful are crooked."
On the fourth day, Omaint-si-ar-nah found an arrow sticking in an oak, and beneath it were hieroglyphic symbols lately cut, for the wounded bark had not long healed over them. Here was the spot whore the lurking traitor stood who had since met his doom. The chief examined the inscription carefully, then clapped his hands and uttered a slight yell. Gray-Eagle made a signal from a distance. On the margin of a brook he had discovered the tiny foot-prints of a child, and near by were pebbles and smooth stones arranged upon the sands, while a critical scrutiny of the surrounding places showed that the twigs had been slightly bent aside or broken. Following these indications for several hours, and often losing the faint trail toward sun-down, Omaint-si-ar-nah paused suddenly.
"I smell the smell of smoke," said he. "Wigwams are not far off." He put his ear close to the ground, then rose up, tightened his girdle, and called Gray-Eagle to his side. "Advance," said he, moving with rapidity, "let not the grass grow in the path." As the day declined, they came upon the certain signs of a habitation. The earth was well tracked and beaten in diverging foot-paths, the sound of voices began to be heard, and the low chaunting of an Indian song. At last the bower of Gentle Dove appeared in sight. She sat without it in the shade, engaged in painting and in decorating barken sandals, and busily intent upon her work. Morning-Glory was feeding the tame buffalo with handfuls of the wild clover. Omaint-si-ar-nah ​remained unobserved for a few moments; then he commanded Gray-Eagle to stand at a distance, and, silently approaching, stood before his wife. Confounded at his sudden presence, she rose up, and was deprived of speech. A sudden pallor diffused itself over her features, and she trembled like an aspen leaf in the breeze. The chief lifted her in his arms; he pressed her to his bosom; he kissed her cold brow again and again, and as he smoothed down her glossy locks with his hand, and spoke in the accents of tenderness, big tears rolled down his scarred and furrowed countenance. Nito-me-ma dropped her head upon his shoulder and wept, then beckoning to Morning-Glory, lightly and gracefully the child came leaping to her mother. Omaint-si-ar-nah burst into a loud yell of extreme delight. He caught her in his arms, adorned her neck with tinkling ornaments, and called her Dancing Fawn, and Rippling Rill, and Waving Feather, and all the endearing titles which he knew, but she said her name was Morning-Glory. She did not fear the warrior's savage aspect, and with her earliest speech she had been taught the name of father. Omaint-si-ar-nah beckoned to Gray-Eagle, who still kept aloof, and told him to approach. Then Nito-me-ma prepared a sumptuous entertainment for her guests; smoked meats, and cakes of Indian maize, and snow-white milk, and honey-comb, and dainties long laid up. Pleasantly the time passed in mutual narrative, and on the morrow they pre pared to hurry back to the deserted camp. Great was the joy of the whole tribe on the return of Gentle Dove and Morning-Glory. Three whole days were spent in rejoicing. Feasts were spread in profusion while the young amused themselves with dances and wrestling and ball-play, and the sports adapted to their age.
The second nuptials were never marred by bitterness or grief. Moon followed moon, and plenty blessed the tribe, which laid aside the hatchet as if a peaceful angel came into their midst. A Christian church now stands upon the spot where the poor pilgrim raised her cross within the hollow of the tree, and the sweet sound of Sunday chimes invites the worshippers of God. Omaint-si-ar-nah lost his savage nature, though he did not openly profess the faith of Christ; but when the evening of his days came on, and she who had been true to him till death slept with her fathers in the quiet grave, to children ​grouped around in listening attitudes, the old man loved to call up memories of the past, and tell the story of his long-lost Gentle Dove.
Note.—For many of the facts contained in the above legend, the author is indebted to a poem called "Black Hawk," written by Elbert H. Smith.