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Updated: June 6, 2025
The sight of his mother in such a situation, stirred up daring thoughts in the bosom of the heroic boy but he laid powerless in his uncle's naked brawny arms. He tried to disengage himself, but at the slightest movement, Mecumeh, though still sleeping, seemed conscious, and strained him closer to him.
The young Garanga, or, to call her by her baptismal name, Marguerite, was bound by a threefold cord her love to her husband, to her son, and to her religion. Mecumeh, finding persuasion ineffectual, had recourse to stratagem.
After the supper, the indians stretched themselves before the fire, but not till they had taken the precaution to bind Marguerite to a tree, and to compel Louis to lie down in the arms of his uncle Mecumeh. Neither of the prisoners, as you may imagine, closed their eyes. Louis kept his fixed on his mother.
"The distance," continued the stranger, "from the fort to the place where the commandant moored his canoe was trifling, and quickly passed. Marguerite and Louis flew along the narrow foot path, reached the shore, and were in the arms of Mecumeh and his fierce companions. Entreaties and resistance were alike vain.
They stood for a moment, as if deliberating what next to do; Mecumeh maintained an undaunted and resolved air but with his followers the aspect of armed men, and a force thrice their number, had its usual effect. They fled. He looked after them, cried, 'shame! and then, with a desperate yell, leaped into the water and stood beside Marguerite.
I do not see how Marguerite could leave him without finding out, for after all, he was her brother." "Marguerite," replied the stranger, "justified your opinion of sisterly duty. Mecumeh was conveyed to the fort the arrow was withdrawn, and after a tedious illness, he recovered from the wound.
You have now my whole story," concluded the stranger; "and though I cannot vouch for its accuracy, many similar circumstances must have occurred, while this country was a wilderness, and my tradition is at least supported by probability." "You have not told us, sir," said Julia, "whether Mecumeh was really killed.
Resistance was made, with a manly spirit, by young Louis, who drew a knife from the girdle of one of the indians, and attempted to plunge it into the bosom of Mecumeh, who was roughly binding his wampum belt over Marguerite's mouth, to deaden the sound of her screams. The uncle wrested the knife from him, and smiled proudly on him as if he recognised in the brave boy, a scion from his own stock.
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