At length her father returned from the warpath, and, after much persuasion, consented to go forth and seek for tidings of the absent husband. Even his stern nature was moved by his daughter’s suffering, and, collecting a band of his warriors, he set forth, promising ere long to return with tidings which should relieve the girl’s wretchedness.
On the fourth day of his absence Tahmeroo went up to the great stone house where Queen Esther dwelt in almost regal state. The old woman was absent, and Tahmeroo sat down in a deserted apartment, to await her return. She crouched upon a low stool in a darkened corner, not weeping, but hiding her face in her hands, and bearing her suffering with the silent endurance natural to her Indian blood. She could not believe that Butler had deserted her, and, still confident of his love, could she but discover his residence, would gladly have crept to him with the affection which nothing could shake, and besought him to return. That strong love had completely subdued the passionate pride of her nature, and, rather than be parted from him, she would have sold herself a slave in his behalf, asking only the sunshine of his presence and the glory of his love. That wild devotion had so mingled itself with the religious creed her mother had taught the girl that it became a part of her religion, and only death could have torn it from her heart.
There she sat in the gloomy chamber, motionless as a figure carved from stone, her garments falling over her bosom in stirless folds, as if no pulse beat beneath. A touch roused her, she sprang to her feet and glared around with her feverish eyes, thinking it might be her father who had returned, but when she met her granddame’s steely glance she fell back to her seat in the apathy of deeper despair.
Queen Esther had entered the room with her usual panther-like movement and approached her unheeded. She stood for a moment regarding her in silence, her withered hand still resting upon the girl’s shoulder. If any feeling of sympathy stirred in that stony bosom her hardened features were incapable of expressing it, and her cold eyes looked down upon the unhappy girl in unmoved sternness.
“Arise, Tahmeroo,” she said at length, in her clear, metallic voice; “a chief’s daughter should not crouch down and weep like a puny pale face. Wrestle with your sorrow, and if you cannot cure it, tear the heart from your bosom.”
“I am not weeping,” replied the girl, sullenly; “Tahmeroo has no tears, and she is not afraid to meet her grief—is not Queen Esther’s blood in her veins?”
“Brave girl! Wait—wait—we will lie in ambush for our prey, and when we catch him, Esther’s knife shall avenge her grandchild’s wrongs.”
“No, no!” shrieked the affrighted creature, grasping the old woman’s uplifted arm; “you will not harm him, promise me that you will not—have mercy!”
“Did Esther ever fail to avenge a wrong? Does Tahmeroo think the old queen in her dotage that she talks to her of mercy? To an insult there is but one answer—a bullet, flames, or the knife!”
“Then I swear by the Great Spirit that you shall kill me, too; the knife that drinks his blood shall be sheathed in mine; then let Queen Esther carry it next her bosom, if she will.”