A mantle hung on the wall. Mary left her sister to the minister, and reached up to take the garment down. Her sleeves broke loose in the effort, and fell back from her arms, exposing the jewelled serpent that Catherine Montour had clasped around it. The missionary saw the jewel, and gave a start that almost dislodged Jane from his hold.
“Where—tell me, child—where did you get that?” he said with a sort of terror, as if he had seen a living snake coiled on the snow of her arm.
“She gave it to me—the white queen whom they call Catharine Montour.”
“Where and when?”
“One night—the very next, I remember now, after Walter Butler tried to persuade her. You know all I would say. This strange lady sent for me to meet her at the spring.”
“And you went—you saw her?” cried the minister, forgetting the danger of the insensible girl in his arms—everything in the question.
“Yes, I saw her. She talked to me—ah, how kindly!—and at the end, clasped this on my arm. Now I remember, she told me if danger threatened me or mine from the Indians, to show them this, and it would save us.”
“Trust to it—yes, trust to it, and remain here in safety. This strange lady is in the valley; her tents are pitched on the little island in the mouth of the Lackawanna. Her jewel must have power among the savages.”
“I feel certain of it,” answered Mary, dropping her arm, and leaving the mantle on the wall. “I would risk more than my life on that noble lady’s word.”
The missionary looked on her earnestly, and evidently without knowing it, for his eyes filled with tears, which he made no effort to hide.