“Why does the Singing Bird weep?” asked the “White Vulture,” in soft tones, and speaking English plainly, and with a very slight Indian accent.
“Because I am unhappy,” truthfully answered the maiden.
“Why? No harm shall come to the white squaw.”
Leona shook her head sorrowfully, as if in doubt.
“The wigwam of the ‘White Vulture’ is empty; will not the white bird come and sing in the lodge of the Crow chief?”
“What, I?” For the first time Leona guessed the fate that was intended for her, and her heart sunk within her at the very thought.
“Yes, you! The ‘White Vulture’ is a great chief of the Crow nation; he loves the Singing Bird of the whites; he would take her to his wigwam; she shall not work like the red squaws: she shall be the Singing Bird of the greatest chief in the Crow nation. Will the white squaw come?”
“No! no! I can not!” cried Leona, looking pleadingly into the face of the “White Vulture.”
“The Singing Bird loves another?” asked the “White Vulture,” in his calm, clear tones.
“Yes,” replied Leona.