The reason
he was obliged to go, was, that his tribe felt his affections were so
engaged, that his self-command could not be depended on to keep their
secret. Their promise was not carefully observed, and, in consequence of
the baseness of a French Canadian in whose house Henry took
refuge,--baseness such as has not, even by their foes, been recorded of
any Indian, his life was placed in great hazard. But Wawatam returned in
time to save him. The scene in which he appears, accompanied by his
wife--who seems to have gone hand in hand with him in this matter--lays
down all his best things in a heap, in the middle of the hall, as a
ransom for the captive, and his little, quiet speech, are as good as the
Iliad. They have the same simplicity, the same lively force and
tenderness.
Henry goes away with his adopted brother, and lives for some time among
the tribe. The details of this life are truly interesting. One time he
is lost for several days while on the chase. The description of these
weary, groping days, the aspect of natural objects and of the feelings
thus inspired, and the mental change after a good night's sleep, form a
little episode worthy the epic muse. He stripped off the entire bark of
a tree for a coverlet in the snow-storm, going to sleep with "the most
distracted thoughts in the world, while the wolves around seemed to know
the distress to which he was reduced;" but he waked in the morning
another man, clear-headed, able to think out the way to safety.
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