“And was that the man who holds my husband in prison?” said Tahmeroo, flushing with indignation. “By what right—how dares he?”
“Hush—hush!—that talk’ll never do; soft words are better than bullets here; just let them bright tears creep into your eyes again, if you can just as easy as not; they’ll do more for you than a hull artillery of curses.”
Tahmeroo scarcely heard his advice, but stood with the letter in her hand, keenly watching the door. She placed herself directly between the restive war-horse and the entrance to the jail. At last there was a clang of bolts, a sudden swing of the ponderous door, and Tahmeroo saw in the darkness beyond two men who paused together in that gloomy arch for a moment’s conversation.
One of these men the Indian girl recognized at once, by the glitter of his uniform and the singular dignity of his countenance, which in breadth of forehead and the grave composure, which marks a well-regulated character, was not unlike that of General Washington himself.
After a moment Schuyler stepped out of the darkness. He was then forty-four years of age; a period when the impulses of youth are mellowed, but not hardened, in the bosoms of truly great men.
“Now—now!” whispered the attendant.
Tahmeroo held her breath, and went slowly forward, her bright, steady glance fastened on the general’s face, till their very intensity drew his glance that way.
“What is this?” he said, stopping short with the missionary’s letter in his hand, but perusing that young face with a penetrating glance before he opened it. “A letter from——, ha! I understand it now—and have you come all this distance to see your husband? so young, too!”
Tahmeroo could only point to the door with her trembling finger.
“My husband—he is there—oh, make them open the door. Tahmeroo has no breath to speak with till they let her in yonder.”