“And the Black Eagle?”
“Will never find her. But she trusts no Indian face, she fears Osse ’o. He means her no harm.”
“No, I do not; but—”
“The tongue speaks, but the heart feels.”
“I will trust you, for you have been very kind to me. Still, you are an Indian, and a stranger.”
“I am a MAN!” was the proud reply, and taking her hand, he led her, unresisting, into the cavern of the mountain.
As if touched, insulted, by her doubts, he spoke no further, but hastily collecting the remnants of a former fire that lay scattered around the floor, and had been effectually protected from the storm, he very soon kindled a blaze that was grateful indeed to the shivering girl. Then leaving her, he hastened to the thicket and soon returned loaded with fragrant pine-boughs, and after carefully arranging and covering them with smaller and softer ones, he motioned her to rest. From some clear spring near the cave, he brought, in a hastily improvised cup of leaves, a cool draught, and held it to her lips, as one would have given drink to a child, for he saw that reaction was taking place, and her trembling hands almost refused their office. From a pouch that hung on the wall, he took dried deer meat and pounded corn, and after boiling the former carefully, placed it in her lap upon a plate of bark.
“My horse,” he said, turning to go.
“Oh! forgive me for having doubted you. I was mad with that fearful ride,” she pleaded, touched to the heart, not only by the care he had bestowed on her, but by the truly gentle and respectful manner in which it had been performed, so entirely different from any thing she had before seen among the Indians.
But he either did not heed or cared little for her words, for he abruptly left her side, and then, apparently touched by the tears that had gathered in her eyes, and the sad shadows upon her face, returned, and almost whispered, in his strangely thrilling voice: