Oh! let me only breathe the air, The blessed air that's breath'd by thee;And, whether on its wings it bear Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!
MOORE.
Pathfinder was accustomed to solitude; but, when the _Scud_ had actually disappeared, he was almost overcome with a sense of his loneliness.Never before had he been conscious of his isolated condition in the world; for his feelings had gradually been accustoming themselves to the blandishments and wants of social life; particularly as the last were connected with the domestic affections.Now, all had vanished, as it might be, in one moment; and he was left equally without companions and without hope.Even Chingachgook had left him, though it was but temporarily;still his presence was missed at the precise instant which might be termed the most critical in our hero's life.
Pathfinder stood leaning on his rifle, in the attitude described in the last chapter, a long time after the _Scud_had disappeared.The rigidity of his limbs seemed per-manent; and none but a man accustomed to put his mus-cles to the severest proof could have maintained that pos-ture, with its marble-like inflexibility, for so great a length of time.At length he moved away from the spot; the motion of the body being preceded by a sigh that seemed to heave up from the very depths of his bosom.
It was a peculiarity of this extraordinary being that his senses and his limbs, for all practical purposes, were never at fault, let the mind be preoccupied with other interests as much as it might.On the present occasion neither of these great auxiliaries failed him; but, though his thoughts were exclusively occupied with Mabel, her beauty, her pref-erence of Jasper, her tears, and her departure, he moved in a direct line to the spot where June still remained, which was the grave of her husband.The conversation that followed passed in the language of the Tuscaroras, which Pathfinder spoke fluently; but, as that tongue is understood only by the extremely learned, we shall trans-late it freely into the English; preserving, as far as possi-ble, the tone of thought of each interlocutor, as well as the peculiarities of manner.June had suffered her hair to fall about her face, had taken a seat on a stone which had been dug from the excavation made by the grave, and was hang-ing over the spot which contained the body of Arrowhead, unconscious of the presence of any other.She believed, indeed, that all had left the island but herself, and the tread of the guide's moccassined foot was too noiseless rudely to undeceive her.
Pathfinder stood gazing at the woman for several min-utes in mute attention.The contemplation of her grief, the recollection of her irreparable loss, and the view of her desolation produced a healthful influence on his own feel-ings; his reason telling him how much deeper lay the sources of grief in a young wife, who was suddenly and violently deprived of her husband, than in himself.
"Dew-of-June," he said solemnly, but with an earnest-ness which denoted the strength of his sympathy, "you are not alone in your sorrow.Turn, and let your eyes look upon a friend.""June has no longer any friend!" the woman answered.
"Arrowhead has gone to the happy hunting-grounds, and there is no one left to care for June.The Tuscaroras would chase her from their wigwams; the Iroquois are hateful in her eyes, and she could not look at them.No!
leave June to starve over the grave of her husband.""This will never do -- this will never do.'Tis ag'in rea-son and right.You believe in the Manitou, June?""He has hid his face from June because he is angry.
He has left her alone to die."
"Listen to one who has had a long acquaintance with red natur', though he has a white birth and white gifts.
When the Manitou of a pale-face wishes to produce good in a pale-face heart He strikes it with grief; for it is in our sorrows, June, that we look with the truest eyes into ourselves, and with the farthest-sighted eyes too, as re-spects right.The Great Spirit wishes you well, and He has taken away the chief, lest you should be led astray by his wily tongue, and get to be a Mingo in your disposition, as you were already in your company.""Arrowhead was a great chief," returned the woman proudly.
"He had his merits, he had; and he had his demerits, too.But June you are not desarted, nor will you be soon.
Let you; grief out -- let it out, accordiug to natur', and when the proper time comes I shall have more to say to you."Pathfinder now went to his own canoe, and he left the island.In the course of the day June heard the crack of his rifle once or twice; and as the sun was setting he re-appeared, bringing her birds ready cooked, and of a deli-cacy and flavor that might have tempted the appitite of an epicure.This species of intercourse lasted a month, June obstinately refusing to abandon the grave of her hus-band all that time, though she still accepted the friendly offerings of her protector.Occasionally they met and con-versed, Pathfinder sounding the state of the woman's feel-ings; but the interviews were short, and far from frequent.
June slept in one of the huts, and she laid down her head in security, for she was conscious of the protection of a friend, though Pathfinder invariably retired at night to an adjacent island, where he had built himself a hut.
At the end of the month, however, the season was getting to be too far advanced to render her situation pleasant to June.The trees had lost their leaves, and the nights were becoming cold and wintry.It was time to depart.
At this moment Chingachgook reappeared.He had a long and confidential interview on the island with his friend.June witnessed their movements, and she saw that her guardian was distressed.Stealing to his side, she en-deavored to soothe his sorrow with a woman's gentleness and with a woman's instinct.
