"A chief—a great chief—who shall go to the war-path and fight battles."
"Ah, I should like that, with your pretty bow and arrow, Malaeska; wouldn't I shoot the wicked red-skins?"
"Ah, my boy, don't say that."
"Oh," said the child, shivering, "the wind is cold; how it sobs in the pine boughs. Don't you wish we were at home now?"
"Don't be afraid of the cold," said Malaeska, in a troubled voice; "see, I will wrap this cloak about you, and no rain can come through the fur blanket. We are brave, you and I—what do we care for a little thunder and rain—it makes me feel brave."
"But you don't care for home; you love the woods and the rain. The thunder and lightning makes your eyes bright, but I don't like it; so take me home, please, and then you may go to the woods; I won't tell."
"Oh, don't—don't. It breaks my heart," cried the poor mother. "Listen, William; the Indians—my people—the brave Indians want you for a chief. In a few years you shall lead them to war."
"But I hate the Indians."
"No, no."
"They are fierce and cruel."