“Shame!” she hissed; “will the chief’s daughter expose herself to her father’s braves, like the burden-women of her tribe?”
She flung Tahmeroo aside, as she might have thrown down one of the young panther cubs, which she fed daily from her own hands.
The chief Gi-en-gwa-tah entered the room with his usual stately tread, and in spite of her grandmother’s warning frown Tahmeroo sprang towards him, extending her hands in mute supplication.
“What news does the chief bring to his daughter?” Queen Esther asked in the Shawnee dialect, for she seldom spoke her own language, carrying her hatred of the race even to an aversion of their tongue.
“The white brave is alive,” Gi-en-gwa-tah replied.
“Then, why does he not come?” asked Esther, sternly.
“Speak, father,” pleaded Tahmeroo; “is he sick? where is he? let me go to him!”
“Tahmeroo questions like a foolish maiden,” he said, reprovingly, “and gives the chief no time to answer.”
“The girl is anxious,” Esther said, sternly, with a woman’s true spirit of contradiction, rebuking the chief for severity which she herself would have shown had he remained silent. “Where is the young pale face? speak.”
“A prisoner among the rebels,” returned Gi-en-gwa-tah.