# The Female Prose Writers of America/Mary Spenser Pease/The Witch-hazel

published in The Female Prose Writers of America
THE WITCH-HAZEL.
Early in the afternoon of a warm June day, in the year 17—, a solitary horseman was riding leisurely along the rough road leading to Norwood from the north.
Both horse and rider seemed decidedly to belong to the “upper class”—for the animal was sleek and well-conditioned, seeming altogether as fine and spirited a piece of horseflesh as could well have been found; while the man—young, well-formed, and handsome, with eyes as dark as the blackest thunder-cloud, and looking as though their flash might be very much like that cloud’s lightning—had altogether that indescribable air of grace and ease about him that comes only to the travelled and highly cultured.
As the young man proceeded thus lazily on, buried in a pleasing revery, a slight rustling noise caused him to look around. A dozen dark faces, fierce with paint and scowling eyes, glaring on him, met his startled gaze. Still he would have felt no other emotion than surprise, at seeing so many around him and so suddenly, had he ​not found himself, before he was aware of their intent, firmly and securely bound to his horse with strong ropes of twisted bark. Resistance was vain. He therefore quietly allowed himself to be led to the Indian encampment, concealed in the heart of the old forest, and very shortly he found himself arraigned before the grim tribunal of the Indian chief, as a spy. With the quiet simplicity of truth, he denied the charge, stating that he was an Englishman—a friend to the red man; travelling solely for his own pleasure, gratifying his love of the beautiful, in studying the wild and picturesque scenery of America, as well as his love of novelty in the men and manners of the new country.
The chief, who spoke English very tolerably, listened gravely to the young man’s words, and at the conclusion, wisely shook his head, and scowling until the bright vermilion stripes over each eye met in one bloody line, abruptly said: “Pale-face cannot deceive Pontiac. You see before you that great warrior. Pontiac likes the English pale-face not at all; for has he not found the pale-face tongue ever fair and false? Where are the lands of our fathers? Did they not reach from the ocean beyond the big river of the Mississippi? Pontiac’s tribe very great. His chiefs have ever been renowned in council and in war. Were not our braves as numerous as the leaves of the forest? Were not peace and plenty ours until the white man came among us? Pale-face have smooth tongue and sharp sword.”
“You may have received many wrongs from some of my countrymen, but others there are who regret those wrongs, and none more than myself. I would see my red brothers of the forest receive always justice and mercy from the invaders of their soil.”
“White brother’s tongue very soft. Indian eyes wide awake; Indian eyes never deceive. White brother come as friend;—why does white brother ride on enemy’s horse? Major Gladwin a snake in the grass—Pontiac hate him.”
The Indian concluded his sentence with one of his peculiar scowls, his small black eyes glistening like burning coals under the frowning paint. The prisoner started. A choking and chilling sensation of dread crept through his veins; at a glance he saw why ​he, alone as he was, had been taken captive. The horse had belonged to that celebrated major, his friend, until, on account of his sagacity, and capacity of endurance, Gladwin had presented the animal to him. Until now during the short peace with the English and the numerous tribes who owned Pontiac as their leader, the young man had travelled much through the interior of New York and the New England States, and had ever been treated with the greatest respect and kindness by the Indians. But the times were again becoming troublous. Several outrages, both on the part of the English and the Indians, had reached him, and rumours of war were afloat. Still had he continued to journey fearlessly on, with the hope of youth before him, with no particular object in view, save that of gratifying his thirst for the beautiful, in looking upon nature in this her new phase—her sublime old forest—her ocean lakes—her towering mountains and giant waterfalls.
He had now full leisure to contemplate the sublimity of an American forest, in all the grandeur of its antiquity; and as the shadows among those venerable old trees began to lengthen and deepen, and as night crept softly down through that heaven-high canopy of leaves, the heart of the young man beat thick within him, as much in awe of the solemn tale whispered to him by that dim old forest, as in fear of the fierce savages. As those shadows grew more and more black, the flickering fire-light grew brighter, and the strange-looking Indians, in their fantastic dress and unchristian paint, as they flitted back and forth between him and the gleaming tongues of forked light, began to assume shapes weird and mysterious. The Indian encampment became a magic dream. The Indians were demons and gnomes, practising their unlawful rites.
A light whisper in his ear awoke him to the consciousness that he had been sleeping. The silence of the grave had taken the place of the Indian’s rude mirth. The full moon overhead showed the time to be past midnight; its soft light revealed the lovely face of an Indian maiden bending low over him.
With his habitual instinct for the beautiful, Clarence had watched the lithe forms and free graceful motions of the young Indian ​girls; for Indian maidens before they become wives, and are compelled to hard labour in field and tent, are generally as delicate in form and beautiful in face as their civilized sisters. Their beauty is in fact often more striking and symmetrical.
A face more full of heaven’s beauty than the one now kneeling over him, the young man had scarcely seen; and as she knelt, low, soft Indian accents sank into his ear so sweet and dreamlike, that he almost fancied he still slept.
“Would the young Antelope love to be free? Liberty is sweet. Shall the Indian maiden loosen the cords of her pale-face brother? Our braves think the dark-eyed Antelope an enemy—”
“Thy braves mistake me—”
“Hist! Tomahawk sharp. English scalp bring much gold in the French Canada. White brother’s hair fine and soft—too pretty to hang up scalp by—”
“Thy chiefs would not dare—”
“Hist! Red man dare anything. Red man sleeps now. Red man ears very long. Witch-Hazel put poppy-juice in the sentinel’s drink; he sleep very sound. Can the young Antelope run?”
“Swift as the deer, swift as the lightning that follows thy Manitou’s dread voice.”
“Good! When the dark-eyed Antelope is far over the mountain, let him thank the Witch-Hazel for his liberty.”
“The Witch-Hazel shall have beads and feathers, and fine silk,” said the young man, as he felt his bonds loosened.
“Let the young Antelope turn his dark eyes to the moon. The Great Spirit speed him, and in a few hours he will come to pale-face lodge.”
The “young Antelope” did not wait for a second bidding, but pressing the little brown hand of his beautiful friend, he noiselessly and fleetly sped on in the direction named.
The dawn of the day found him far from the pretty Witch-Hazel, and still hastening on in the ragged, tangled road.
The soft, gurgling voice of an unseen Undine called pleasantly to him from the low meadow beyond; and being unable to resist the sweet, pleading sound, and feeling himself at a safe distance ​from his scalping friends, he wandered into the meadow, and sitting down beside the clear, cold stream, he first slaked his thirst, and withdrawing his boots he dipped one foot, then the other, into the refreshing water;—then he laved his whole person, the merry, laughing sprites, meantime, splashing and dashing him with the white spray from over the great rocks, down which the glittering waters foamed and danced.
A most plentiful breakfast had he there from the sweet, wild strawberries, which grew around him in the utmost luxuriance, upon that fertile meadow-land.
The wood-robin, the wren, and the blue-bird, sang for him their sweetest songs while he tarried among them. Feeling himself fully rested, at length he sought, with a new life, the road again, and proceeded on toward the settlement.