The missionary started, and echoed the words “Your mother?”
“Catharine Montour is well, though she may be pining for her child; but he, my husband, they have taken him prisoner; Tahmeroo has not seen him for months; they will kill him, perhaps, before she can reach the spot. No one would help save him, not even my mother, so I fled hither.”
“I had heard of this,” whispered the missionary; “he was taken nearly a year since, and put in prison as a spy.”
“A spy!” repeated Tahmeroo, overhearing the last word; “he serves his king. Those that have captured him are miserable rebels. But let them beware—it is Gi-en-gwa-tah’s son that they have imprisoned; the children of Queen Esther never forget nor forgive.”
Her face darkened with passion, and would have been absolutely forbidding, had not womanly tenderness for her husband softened its hardness.
“Shame, Tahmeroo!” exclaimed the missionary. “You must know that such thoughts are wrong; your mother has taught you that they offend the Great Spirit.”
“Forgive me, oh forgive Tahmeroo!” she cried, throwing herself on the ground at his feet, and clasping his knees with her wasted arms. The missionary struggled for an instant, as if her touch were unpleasant to him, but she held him firmly. “Tahmeroo is very wretched, oh speak some comfort to her—a good prophet finds consolation for every one, Catharine Montour says—oh, take pity on her child.”
The missionary raised her gently, and for the first time held her hand firmly in his clasp, though his form shook with emotion. Mary’s tears were falling like gentle rain as she bent over the suffering girl, and the missionary placed Tahmeroo’s head upon her bosom, saying, softly:
“Ay, comfort her, little one; it is but right!”
Tahmeroo remained motionless for many moments; at length she raised her head, and wiping away the teardrops with her long black hair, strove to relate her story more connectedly.