CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE THIRST.
Onawa, daughter of Shuswap, vagrant and traitress, she who had broughtdisaster upon her own people, continued to reap the reward of all herconstancy to the enemy of her race. Famished and parched, she sankinto a bed of snow, and rested her wildly throbbing head against afrosted tree. She had not eaten for many hours, her shelter was morethan a league away, and her strength was gone. Her reward also was amaddening thirst.
After tracking down the Englishmen, watching them in the fall of thesnow, enduring every privation until she had learnt their strength, shehad gone at full speed to the settlement, madly hoping even then thatLa Salle might look on her with favour, despite her branded cheeks andmutilated face. His reward was to give her over to the soldiers, whohad mocked her because she was of the hated race, a savage in theireyes, and had bound her with a rope and scourged her with the end ofit, and had even struck her with their fists when she halted fromexhaustion, and would have stabbed her to death had she refused toobey. Thus she received her full reward. And now she could do no more.
Neuralgic pains coursed through her head, until the weight of her hairbecame a torment. Feverishly she sucked a handful of snow, but theawful thirst remained unquenched. The sounds of the chase entered herears dimly from that half-lit region ahead, until drowsiness passedinto her body, and her head dropped, and her eyes closed, and the sleepwhich moves imperceptibly into death came upon her. Her passionateheart lowered its beat, her pulses throbbed more sluggishly, as shedrew close to the threshold which separates life and its object fromthe world of dreams. Her body collapsed, her head slid down; the softsnow sucked her in like quicksand.
A figure passed among the slim terebinth columns. Though the sleeperhad brought down her father into dishonour, had betrayed her tribe, andcalled the shadow of death across the home of her kindred, her sisterhad not forgotten her. The figure approached, bent over the huddledshape, and shook it roughly back to life.
"Tuschota!" muttered the girl, as her eyes opened upon the immobilebrown face.
"Rise," said the woman. "Lean on me, and I will take you to my hut."
"Leave me here," moaned Onawa. "I would lie until the great sleepcomes."
"I am your sister. I may not leave you thus to die. Yonder foodawaits you, and drink, and the warmth of burning logs."
She assisted Onawa to rise. The girl staggered and clung with deadhands. Together they passed down the slope, and so came to the cabincunningly hidden amid snowy bush. A fire burnt redly, and hard bystood a stone vessel filled with rice-water. Towards this Onawareached her hands, with the cry:
"I am tortured with thirst."
Without a word her sister gave her drink, and watched her while shegulped at the tepid liquor. Suddenly she put out her hand, and graspedthe vessel, saying:
"See! I have meat ready for you."
Onawa partook of the food like a famished beast, and as strengthreturned the former love of life awoke, and she longed to go forth torenew the hopeless quest; but she felt her sister's eyes reading herthoughts, and presently she heard that sister's voice:
"It is good to live, Onawa."
She made no reply, but leaned forward, thrusting her hands against thescarlet wood.
"Even when son and husband are taken away, and the light fails, and allthe ground is dark, it is still good to live," went on the voice. "Whythe good God gives this love of life we may not know."
"Give me more drink," the girl panted.
"Our father shall soon pass into the spirit land," went on the sternwoman, unheeding her request. "He is old, but 'tis not age that sapshis strength. Honour has departed from him. He has lost the headship,and another fills his office."
Onawa stared sullenly into the leaping heart of the fire.
"As this life continues we find trouble. You have lost beauty, and I ason. We shall not regain that which we have lost. Sisters in blood weare, and sisters in unhappiness also."
"I have brought sorrow into your life," muttered Onawa, less inpenitence than defiance.
"And shall do so again. This night you have brought the enemy of mypeople out from Acadie. There was a time when you betrayed my son intothe hands of him who now spurns you from his side. That which is donecannot be undone, and God shall punish."
"Why, then, have you brought me here?" cried Onawa fiercely. "Why didyou not leave me to perish, that you might be rid of me for ever?"
"Remember you not the words that I spoke to you in the grove? I badeyou have in mind that in the time when you should hunger and thirst youmight turn to me. I have not forgotten, though you turned against mewhen your heart followed its own longing.
"I grieved for your Richard."
"So the hunter grieves when he by mischance has slain the bear cubwhich has strayed. And so he avoids the mother if he loves his life."
At that moment there rang in her steady voice a threat. Onawa lookedup and met a suffering brown face and large quiet eyes. There was nomenace there, nothing but longing for the dead and charity for theliving.
She pressed a hand upon her burning throat. "Give me drink," shegasped.
Her sister poured some of the rice-water into a smaller vessel. Thisshe stirred gently with a stick, watching the ruined face of Onawa withthe same patient eyes. Outside the hut a flight of snow birds whirredfrom side to side.
"When you have drunk you shall go forth," said Mary Iden deliberately."You shall seek to aid my enemy when he strives to strike down myhusband."
Onawa gave a cry. In wondering over her sister's forgiveness she hadforgotten La Salle.
"They may already have met," she muttered.
A stern smile crossed her sister's face.
"Can you not hear?" she whispered. "Yet you say you love the whitepriest. I have heard this long while the noise of sword strikingsword. I listen without fear, knowing that no man can conquer myhusband when no treachery hangs behind. Can you not hear the sounds ofthe fight?"
"My ears burn," cried Onawa. "I hear only the cold wind passing amongthe pines."
"They fight!" exclaimed her sister triumphantly. "My Richard shallrest to-day."
"The water," gasped Onawa for the third time. "My throat is on fire."
"Drink and go forth."
Grasping the vessel in both hands, Onawa drained it to the dregs.Then, as her arms fell, and the taste in her mouth became exceedingbitter, and a strange exaltation visited her brain, and her body beganto burn, and numbness came into her feet, she bent with one terriblegroan, to hide her fear and her shame, and--if it were possible--herawful knowledge of the wolfsbane poisoning that draught, from the calmblack eyes which stared at her across the fire.
"Aid whom you will," said the steady voice, which was scarce audibleabove the furious beatings of the listener's heart. "The day breaks."
A lifeless winter sun was struggling into the hut.
The pride of her race remained with Onawa to the end. She would notshow fear, nor useless rage, in the presence of her sister. She wouldnot confess what she knew, nor acknowledge that she had met with thepunishment which she deserved and the laws of their race demanded.Passing into a sad beam of light, she drew herself erect and panted:
"I shall go forth."
"Go, sister," said the poisoner. "I too go forth, but we shall notwalk together. For you the west and the forest, for me the south andthe sea."
"I go among the pines."
"Farewell, sister."
"Farewell."
Erect and proud, Onawa passed out with her awful sorrow, through theopening morning, and so among the trees, still dignified and unbendingbecause she knew those calm black eyes followed all her movements. Onshe went into the increasing gloom, until the snow carpet appeared togrow hot, and opalescent colours fringed the trees, and sounds ofsleepy music hummed around her head. The red and green lights flashedup and down; solitude closed behind her; the pine-barrens were on fire.The world was gone.
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