"Malaeska," he said, raising her hands toward heaven, "swear to me by the God whom we both worship, that you have told me nothing but the truth; I would have no doubt."
There was something sublime in his position, and in the solemn calmness which had settled upon him. The poor woman had been weeping, but the tears were checked in her eyes, and her pale lips ceased their quivering motion and became firm, as she looked up to the white face bending over her.
"As I hope to meet you, my son, before that God, I have spoken nothing but the truth."
"Malaeska!"
"Will you not call me mother?" said the meek woman, with touching pathos. "I know I am an Indian, but your father loved me."
"Mother? Yes, God forbid that I should refuse to call you mother; I am afraid that I have often been harsh to you, but I did not know your claim on my love. Even now, I have been unkind."
"No, no, my son."
"I remember you were always meek and forgiving—you forgive me now, my poor mother?"
Malaeska could not speak, but she sank to her son's feet, and covered his hand with tears and kisses.