“The Black Cloud is old—the singing-bird is young. Would her father mate the bounding spring with the chill autumn? It is bad!” and the young brave shook his head sadly.
“The Black Cloud is a great chief,” said the girl.
“When the White Dog comes back from the war-path against the white-skins on the Ohio, he will be a great chief, too. Many white scalps will hang at his belt, and his tomahawk will be red with the blood of the long-rifles,” said the chief, proudly.
Boone, from his hiding-place, listened intently when the warrior spoke of the expedition to Ohio. This was the very information he was after.
“The white-skins are many; the Shawnee chief may fall by their hands,” and a shadow of apprehension passed across the face of the Indian maiden as she spoke.
“Then his spirit will go to the long home beyond the skies, and in the spirit-land will chase the red deer. But, if the White Dog comes back to the banks of the Scioto, then Le-a-pah must be his wife and dwell forevermore in his wigwam.”
“The Shawnee girl will be the wife of the young chief whom she loves as the sun loves the earth, or she will never sing in the wigwam of a chief.”
“Good!”
The young brave drew the slight form of the unresisting girl to his heart.