“Is the Singing Bird sure that she loves another?” continued the chief.
“Yes, I am sure,” said Leona, wonderingly.
“The white squaw loves the young guide who looks like the red chief, and is a prisoner in the village of the Crows?”
“Yes,” answered Leona, mournfully but firmly.
“It is good; does the white hunter love the Singing Bird?” said the chief.
“Yes, loves her as his life.”
“Does the white squaw know that the young hunter will die by the hands of the Crows before the sun rises over the big river?”
Leona hid her face in her hands, sobbing.
“The Singing Bird says she loves the white hunter; if she loves him, will she save him from death?”
Leona, through her tears, gazed in astonishment up at the stolid features of the Indian.