"No, no,—it is only a whippowil singing to the night."
"A whippowil? Is that a little boy, Malaeska? Let us bring him into the boat."
"No, my child, it is only a bird."
"Poor bird!" sighed the boy; "how it wants to get home."
"No, it loves the woods. The bird would die if you took it from the shade of the trees," said Malaeska, striving to pacify the boy, who crept upward into her lap and laid his cheek against hers. She felt that he trembled, and that tears lay cold on his cheeks. "Don't, my William, but look up and see how many stars hang over us—the river is full of them."
"Oh, but grandfather will be missing me," pleaded the boy. Malaeska felt herself chilled; she had taken the boy but not his memory; that went back to the opulent home he had left. With her at his side, and the beautiful universe around, he thought of the old man who had made her worse than a serf in his household—who had stolen away the human soul that God had given into her charge. The Indian woman grew sad to the very depths of her soul when the boy spoke of his grandfather.
"Come," she said with mournful pathos, "now we will find an open place in the woods. You shall have a bed like the pretty flowers. I will build a fire, and you shall see it grow red among the branches."
The boy smiled in the moonlight.
"A fire out of doors! Yes, yes, let's go into the woods. Will the birds talk to us there?"
"The birds talk to us always when we get into the deep of the woods."