"It is Malaeska, daughter of the Black Eagle."
A murmur of angry surprise ran through the lodge and the women crowded together, menacing her with their glances.
"When my husband, the young white chief, died," continued Malaeska, "he told me to go down the great water and carry my son to his own people. The Indian wife obeys her chief."
A warrior, whom Malaeska knew as the friend of her father, arose with austere gravity, and spoke:
"It is many years since Malaeska took the young chief to his white fathers. The hemlock that was green has died at the top since then. Why does Malaeska come back to her people alone? Is the boy dead?"
Malaeska turned pale in the twilight, and her voice faltered. "The boy is not dead—yet Malaeska is alone!" she answered plaintively.
"Has the woman made a white chief of the boy? Has he become the enemy of our people?" said another of the Indians looking steadily at Malaeska.
Malaeska knew the voice and the look; it was that of a brave who, in his youth, had besought her to share his wigwam. A gleam of proud reproach came over her features, as she bent her head without answering.
Then the old chief spoke again. "Why does Malaeska come back to her tribe like a bird with its wings broken? Has the white chief driven her from his wigwam?"
Malaeska's voice broke out; the gentle pride of her character rose as the truth of her position presented itself.