Mile after mile Varnham carried his marble burden through the forest and across a bend of the lake, till he stood, in the grey of that cold winter’s morning, in the hall of Queen Esther’s dwelling.
A troop of Indians, fresh from the warpath, were drawn up before the entrance, and among them was Gi-en-gwa-tah, mounted on his war-horse. The chief never would wear paint, like meaner men of his tribe, and those who looked on him attentively, saw that his face was haggard and his eagle eyes heavy.
Queen Esther met him at the door.
“Mother,” he said, “you and the young brave have talked with serpent tongues. The Great Spirit has been whispering in my heart, and it beats loud. Gi-en-gwa-tah will be just. Let his white queen speak for herself.”
As he spoke, Varnham glided by him, bearing the dead body of Catharine Montour in his arms. The Indians who had come out of the lodge with Esther sat down and covered their faces with signs of penitence, but the old queen stood up, cold and firm as a rock.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is weak, like a girl, but Queen Esther can take care of her son’s honor. See, yonder is the woman whose serpent words killed his brother. Last night the Council drove her out to die like a wolf.”
The chief sprang from his horse, and, striding into the hall, fell down before the body of Catharine Montour; the anguish quivering in that stern face struck pity even into those savage bosoms; his chest heaved, his eyes grew large, wandering from the dead to his mother, with such wild sorrow that even she turned away, half-repenting what she had done.
All at once he fell upon his face, and burst into a passion of grief which shook his frame like a thunder gust. Once and again the storm swept over him, then he arose, terrible in the majesty of his grief, and, passing the old queen, mounted his war-horse. A small golden bugle, the gift of Catharine Montour, hung over his bosom; he lifted it and sent forth a blast which brought every warrior in the settlement around him.
“Warriors,” he said, “this is no longer my home. That woman is not my mother, but the murderess of my wife. Let every man who went with her into the forest last night step to her side. Neither they nor their leader are longer of our tribe. I leave her to the Great Spirit, whose curse shall hang about her as lightning strikes an old hemlock dead at the top. Warriors, let us depart.”
The chief wheeled his horse, the tribe fell into order, and while Queen Esther stood like a pillar of stone, with the last human feeling in her bosom struck dead at the root, the whole tribe save those who had partaken of her crime, filed into the war-trail, from which they never returned again.