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Updated: May 11, 2025
Beckoning to his grim attendants to move behind the tree, he turned and walked aside, with the noble air of a savage, when influenced by his better feelings. Then light shot into the clouded countenance of Conanchet. His eyes sought the face of his stricken and grieved consort, who mourned less for his danger than she grieved for his displeasure.
Conanchet had led the way over a thousand forest knolls, across water-courses, and through dark glens, followed by his silent partner, with an industry that would have baffled the zeal of even those from whom they fled. Whittal Ring, bearing the infant on his back, trudged with unwearied step in the rear. Hours had passed in this manner, and not a syllable had been uttered by either of the three.
"What does Conanchet wish?" he said. "Twice have his warriors broke into this valley, and twice have the tomahawks of his young men been redder than the head of the woodpecker. The fire was not good fire; the tomahawk will kill surer. Had not the voice of my brother said to his young men, 'let the scalps of the prisoners alone, he could not now say 'yet do they now stand here!"
Narra-mattah loves to listen, for the words seem to her like the Wish-Ton-Wish, when he whistles in the woods." Conanchet had fastened a look of deep and affectionate interest on the wild and sweet countenance of the being who stood before him.
Cities have appeared where the wilderness then covered the ground, and there is good reason to believe that a flourishing town now stands on, or near, the spot where Conanchet met his death. But, notwithstanding so much activity has prevailed in the country, the valley of this legend remains but little altered.
One tongue can say all she wishes to speak to Conanchet; why should she look back in dreams, when a great chief is her husband?" The eye of the warrior, as he looked upon the ingenuous and confiding face of the speaker, was kind to fondness.
"The fire was kindled in a well; it did not burn bright. What I see, is blood." "Wampanoag," rejoined Conanchet, fiercely, "I have scorched the spot with the lodges of the Yengeese. The grave of my father is covered with scalps taken by the hand of his son Why does Metacom look again? What does the chief see?"
Though its glance was weakened by infancy, the dark glittering eye of Conanchet was there; there were also to be seen the receding forehead and the compressed lip of the father; but all these marks of his origin were softened by touches of that beauty which had rendered the infancy of her own child so remarkable.
Age and youth alike acknowledged its potency, and recent alarms were overlooked in the pure joy of such a moment. The spirit of even the lofty-minded Conanchet was shaken. Raising the hand, at whose wrist still hung the bloody tomahawk, he veiled his face, and, turning aside, that none might see the weakness of so great a warrior, he wept.
"Wampanoag, I have followed the trail, that your ears may listen to the talk of a Pale-face." The third person in this interview was Metacom He shot a haughty and fierce glance at the stranger, and then turned to his companion in arms, with recovered calmness, to reply. "Has Conanchet counted his young men since they raised the whoop?" he asked, in the language of the aborigines.
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