“Forgive our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” observed Mr. Grant, “is the language used by our Divine Master himself, and it should be the golden rule with us, his humble followers.”
The stranger stood a moment lost in thought, and then, glancing his dark eyes rather wildly around the hall, he bowed low to the divine, and moved from the apartment with an air that would not admit of detention.
“‘Tis strange that one so young should harbor such feelings of resentment,” said Marmaduke, when the door closed behind the stranger; “but while the pain is recent, and the sense of the injury so fresh, he must feel more strongly than in cooler moments.
I doubt not we shall see him in the morning more tractable.”
Elizabeth, to whom this speech was addressed, did not reply, but moved slowly up the hall by herself, fixing her eyes on the little figure of the English ingrain carpet that covered the floor; while, on the other hand, Richard gave a loud crack with his whip, as the stranger disappeared, and cried:
“Well, ‘Duke, you are your own master, but I would have tried law for the saddle before I would have given it to the fellow.
Do you not own the mountains as well as the valleys? are not the woods your own? what right has this chap, or the Leather-Stocking, to shoot in your woods without your permission?
Now, I have known a farmer in Pennsylvania order a sportsman off his farm with as little ceremony as I would order Benjamin to put a log in the stove—By-the-bye, Benjamin, see how the thermometer stands.—Now, if a man has a right to do this on a farm of a hundred acres, what power must a landlord have who owns sixty thousand—ay, for the matter of that, including the late purchases, a hundred thousand?
There is Mohegan, to be sure, he may have some right, being a native; but it’s little the poor fellow can do now with his rifle.
How is this managed in France, Monsieur Le Quoi?
Do you let everybody run over your land in that country helter-skelter, as they do here, shooting the game, so that a gentleman has but little or no chance with his gun?”
“Bah! diable, no, Meester Deeck,” replied the Frenchman; “we give, in France, no liberty except to the ladi.”
“Yes, yes, to the women, I know,” said Richard, “that is your Salic law.
I read, sir, all kinds of books; of France, as well as England; of Greece, as well as Rome.
But if I were in ‘Duke’s place, I would stick up advertisements to-morrow morning, forbidding all persons to shoot, or trespass in any manner, on my woods.
I could write such an advertisement myself, in an hour, as would put a stop to the thing at once.”
“Richart,” said Major Hartmann, very coolly knocking the ashes from his pipe into the spitting-box by his side, “now listen; I have livet seventy-five years on ter Mohawk, and in ter woots.
You had better mettle as mit ter deyvel, as mit ter hunters, Tey live mit ter gun, and a rifle is better as ter law.”
“Ain’t Marmaduke a judge?” said Richard indignantly.
“Where is the use of being a judge, or having a judge, if there is no law?
Damn the fellow!
I have a great mind to sue him in the morning myself, before Squire Doolittle, for meddling with my leaders.
I am not afraid of his rifle.
I can shoot, too.
I have hit a dollar many a time at fifty rods.
“Thou hast missed more dollars than ever thou hast hit, Dickon,” exclaimed the cheerful voice of the Judge.
“But we will now take our evening’s repast, which I perseive, by Remarkable’s physiognomy, is ready.
Monsieur Le Quoi, Miss Temple has a hand at your service.
Will you lead the way, my child?”
“Ah! ma chere mam’selle, comme je suis enchante!” said the Frenchman. “Il ne manque que les dames de faire un paradis de Templeton.”
Mr. Grant and Mohegan continued in the hall, while the remainder of the party withdrew to an eating parlor, if we except Benjamin, who civilly remained to close the rear after the clergyman and to open the front door for the exit of the Indian.
“John,” said the divine, when the figure of Judge Temple disappeared, the last of the group, “to-morrow is the festival of the nativity of our blessed Redeemer, when the church has appointed prayers and thanksgivings to be offered up by her children, and when all are invited to partake of the mystical elements.
As you have taken up the cross, and become a follower of good and an eschewer of evil, I trust I shall see you before the altar, with a contrite heart and a meek spirit.”
“John will come,” said the Indian, betraying no surprise; though he did not understand all the terms used by the other.
“Yes,” continued Mr. Grant, laying his hand gently on the tawny shoulder of the aged chief, “but it is not enough to be there in the body; you must come in the spirit and in truth.
The Redeemer died for all, for the poor Indian as well as for the white man.
Heaven knows no difference in color; nor must earth witness a separation of the church.
It is good and profitable, John, to freshen the understanding, and support the wavering, by the observance of our holy festivals; but all form is but stench in the nostrils of the Holy One, unless it be accompanied by a devout and humble spirit.”
The Indian stepped back a little, and, raising his body to its utmost powers of erection, he stretched his right arm on high, and dropped his forefinger downward, as if pointing from the heavens; then, striking his other band on his naked breast, he said, with energy:
“The eye of the Great Spirit can see from the clouds—the bosom of Mohegan is bare!”
“It is well, John, and I hope you will receive profit and consolation from the performance of this duty.
The Great Spirit overlooks none of his children; and the man of the woods is as much an object of his care as he who dwells in a palace.
I wish you a good-night, and pray God to bless you.”
The Indian bent his head, and they separated—the one to seek his hut, and the other to join his party at the supper-table.
While Benjamin was opening the door for the passage of the chief, he cried, in a tone that was meant to be encouraging:
“The parson says the word that is true, John.
If so be that they took count of the color of the skin in heaven, why, they might refuse to muster on their books a Christian-born, like myself, just for the matter of a little tan, from cruising in warm latitudes; though, for the matter of that, this damned norwester is enough to whiten the skin of a blackamore.
Let the reef out of your blanket, man, or your red hide will hardly weather the night with out a touch from the frost.”
CHAPTER VIII.
“For here the exile met from every clime,