Her form was thrown back in wild energy, all the fire and beauty returned to her face, before so pale and spiritless. The woman looked at her with exultation which she seldom exhibited.
“The blood of the Shawnee chief is hot in his daughter’s bosom,” she said, proudly. “Let Tahmeroo have patience, the white brave may yet return; he is no traitor, and he loves our wandering life; he hates the rebels, too, and in his cabin hang many war-scalps, with pale hair streaming from them.” Tahmeroo heard only a portion of these words and her heart clung to that cold assurance as if it had been a prophecy.
“He will return!” she exclaimed; “I know he will return—perhaps he may come back with the chief; he has been delayed by sickness, or——”
“Death!” said Esther.
The word fell like a blow on the heart of her listener.
“No, he is not dead,” she sobbed. “Tahmeroo would have known it; the dream-spirit would have revealed it to her—say that he is not dead.”
A wild animal would have been softened by the anguish of her tone, but Esther only waved her off, saying, coldly:
“We shall know; let Tahmeroo be patient.”
The tramp of horses sounded from without, and through the casement Tahmeroo saw her father dismounting before the door, in the midst of his warriors.
She rushed into the broad hall, but Queen Esther drew her back with a fierce grasp.