Anacaona was reclining on a pile of furs, her face buried in her hands, and so 원주스케일링 engrossed in her own sad thoughts that she was unconscious of the entrance of the visiter, until Nainee uttered an exclamation of surprise. She looked up—the sight of her beautiful face filled Nainee with jealousy, and her eyes flashed with unnatural brilliancy; but Anacaona sprung up eagerly, and leading her to the place she had vacated, compelled her to be seated. Then she told her who she was, and the story of her capture, and begged her in soft, plaintive tones to aid her, and restore her to her lover and her tribe. All jealousy vanished from Nainee’s heart, as she listened, and throwing her arms about Anacaona’s neck, when she had ended the story, she promised to help her, and kindly kissing her hand, drew aside the deer-skin door and in a moment stood without at the Indian’s side. But he seemed not to heed her presence, and she threw herself down beside him, and taking some long grass in her hand, she commenced braiding it together, while the words of an impromptu song burst from her lips. She sang of Anacaona’s desolate home—of her broken-hearted mother and brave lover who mourned her loss—of the lone captive girl who longed to look once more on the greenwood, and whose proud spirit pined to be free. Nainee paused a moment to note the effect, and then commenced a low recitation of the former noble bearing and brave deeds of Canabo: He had been called “magnanimous,” and his name was the “Eagle,” but, alas! he had wronged his friend, disgraced his tribe, and had, like the hawk, stolen a dove from its nest; then, turning suddenly to the young Indian, Nainee raising her voice said,

“You will save Canabo—send the girl away—bid her swear by the Great Spirit never to tell where she has been, and let her go to her own people. Canabo will soon forget her, and you will have kept your brother from dishonor.”

But the Indian was true, and would not betray his trust.

The shadows of evening gathered thick about that Indian camp, and the rippling of the river, and the occasional bark of some watchful dog, were all the sounds that were heard, as Nainee took her way to Anacaona’s lodge. Soon the two beautiful girls, followed by the young Indian, were walking side by side along the banks of the Illinois, the moon and the bright stars lighting their way. Anacaona knew that the same stream flowed past her own loved home, and she broke off a branch from one of the trees near by, and throwing it upon the water, bade it take her farewell to her lover. It was late ere they returned. Nainee had brought some bark and paints—these she gave to Anacaona to amuse herself with, and promising to come again the next evening, she took her leave. All the next day Anacaona busily employed herself in making a small bark canoe, on the bottom of which she painted a rude picture of herself, with her hands bound, in token of her captivity; and on the side there was an eagle’s feather, the badge of Canabo’s tribe. At night she went forth again to walk, and under her blanket was hid the little canoe. She watched the moon, and when a cloud shut out its light, she bent down to the river, as if to bathe her face, and slid her canoe into the stream; her heart beat almost audibly—she feared the Indian might see and get it, and then, she knew, her only hope of escape would be blighted; but he did not notice it, and soon it was carried so far down by the current that in the pale moonlight it could not be seen.

On their return, Nainee entered the lodge, and told Anacaona that she would come the next night and engage the Indian’s attention, and while thus engaged, Anacaona could push aside a log of the lodge that was loose, and escape—“The heart of the Golden Flower is strong,” said Nainee, “and to her the night and the lone woods have no terrors; her heart, too, is true and kind, and she will not seek revenge, or cause harm to fall on Nainee’s tribe.”

Anacaona pressed the girl to her bosom, and vowed for her sake to remember only the kindness and forget the wrong. Love, deep and pure, for each other had sprung up in their hearts, and they grieved that they were to part—but they were Indian girls, and no tears were shed, no words wasted; the deep waters of the heart were troubled, but the surface was calm and unruffled, and seemingly unmoved they parted forever.

The next night Anacaona made her escape, and for hours she fled, following the banks of the river. As morning began to dawn, the weary girl threw herself down on the grass, and fell asleep. She knew not how long she slept, but when she awoke, it was with a cry of terror, for the wild whoops of the Indians were ringing in her ears, and she knew that the tribe of her captor were on her track. She listened a moment, but there were no friendly sounds mingling with the savage yell. She looked around, but there was no aid, no refuge near—and on she fled. A huge rock was before her; she saw at a glance that the ascent was difficult, but nothing daunted the fearless girl, and up its steep and rugged side she pushed. The horrid yells of the savages fell more and more distinctly on her ear, and when she reached the summit of the rock, they were close behind. There was no escape, and Anacaona stretching out her arms to heaven, uttered a shriek of despair, and leaped off into the foaming river beneath. Alas! for the unfortunate Anacaona! Had she delayed one moment, she would have heard her father’s and her lover’s loud cry. Her little canoe had fulfilled its mission, and the wild wood was full of armed braves thronging to deliver or avenge her. Wyamoke and his tribe from afar had seen Anacaona’s fatal leap, and all the fierce passions of their nature were stirred within them. Canabo and his warriors were between them and the rock, and were driven up on to it with terrible slaughter. The Coriaks posted themselves at its base in force, and for days and days besieged their foes. Every sortie was successfully opposed, and individual attempts at escape foiled. Cooped up on that rock, starvation stared the Pinxies in the face—despair reigned among them; some of the warriors, resolving both to end their lives and take revenge, rushed down the rock—notwithstanding their efforts they were slain; others sang their death-song, and threw themselves off into the river and perished; others, with Indian calmness, laid themselves down to die of starvation.

On the evening of the fourth day, a young Indian girl came to Wyamoke. She told him she had been kind to Anacaona, and assisted her to escape, and in return she only asked to join her lover on the rock. Way was made for her to pass, and Nainee wound her way up the difficult path, amid the dead and dying of her tribe. Her young lover saw her coming, and met her. They looked over the sad scene and talked mournfully together, she leading him toward the edge of the rock; the brave hesitated a moment—then clasping her in his arms, leaped off into the stream; and the two beautiful Indian girls, Nainee and Anacaona, slept beneath the same bright waters.

Days passed away, and one by one Canabo’s tribe, parched by thirst, wasted by famine, or self-destroyed passed into the spirit-land, till none were left but one old man. He, the last of his tribe, as the Coriaks crowded up the rock to finish their work of revenge, raised his shout of boasting and defiance, and died. No remnant of the tribe was left, even their name is lost, except in the terrible tradition that commemorates their extinction at Starved Rock.