“I came all the way from Seneca Lake to find you,” she said. “No one could help me—our great medicine men could only pity me when asked for counsel. My father had power to revenge his loss, but that did not bring him back. Catharine, my mother, who was once brave as a lion when Tahmeroo was wronged, even in a little thing, now looked on with heavy eyes, and when I pleaded with her, said—oh, with such cruel stillness: ‘It is better thus, my child; his presence here must ever be a curse to me and mine.’ Such words stung me like wasps—my heart burned—I remembered you, a sweet medicine spirit, whom even our enemies love. I left my grandmother’s lodge in the night, caught a horse, and fled.”
“And you will,” she said in conclusion, while the tears of her spent gust of passion rolled slowly down her cheeks; “you will help the Indian girl, for you are good and powerful. When you ask, his enemies will give him up.”
“My poor child!” returned the missionary; “I can see no way to help you.”
“If they will only let her see her husband once more, Tahmeroo would be a slave to his enemies.”
“But he is in prison; you cannot get near him.”
“But the white prophet will ask, and the prison door will be left open, that Tahmeroo may steal in.”
“Yes, I will write to General Schuyler; he will hardly refuse to let a wife see her husband.”
Tahmeroo fell to kissing his hands, while the tears in her eyes flashed like diamonds.
“You will write. They will take pity on me, and let me hear him speak.”
“But they will not let you remain with him.”