“Mother, I will preserve her life with my own—let us go, for this will be a terrible day. Come, mother, come!”
“Listen!” exclaimed Catharine; “I hear the sound of oars.”
“It may be Butler—oh, if it is!” cried Tahmeroo, the thought of her husband always uppermost in her mind.
Catharine hastened towards the entrance of the tent, but at that moment the hangings were put aside, and the missionary stood before them.
“Woman—Lady Granby!” he exclaimed, “what do you here?—death and blood are all around—beware that it does not rest on your soul. Stop the progress of your savages—save the innocent.”
“My God! I am helpless!” broke from Catharine’s lips. “Go, Tahmeroo, go at once and find the queen or the chief—hasten, if you would not have this murder on our heads. Oh, sir, I am almost powerless here; but what a weak woman can do, I will.”
Tahmeroo bounded away like a wild animal, while Catharine sank into a seat, unnerved as she had not been for years.
“This is no time for weakness,” exclaimed the missionary, almost sternly; “you have grown too familiar with scenes of blood to shrink here, ‘lady.’”
“But I am unusually helpless now,” she said, despondingly; “my power is gone.”
“Is not Gi-en-gwa-tah your wedded slave?—is not your will a law among his people?”