A serpent, mate to the one on her head, but glowing with still more costly jewels, coiled around the graceful swell of her right arm, a little below the elbow, but its brilliancy was concealed by the drapery of the sleeve, except when the arm was in motion. She wore elaborately wrought moccasins lined with crimson cloth, but the embroidery was soiled with dew, and the silken thongs with which they had been laced to the ankle had broken loose in the rough path through which she had evidently travelled.
The missionary stood by the table, while his visitor cast a hasty glance around the apartment and turned her eyes keenly on his face.
“I am not mistaken,” she said, slowly withdrawing her gaze. “You are the godly man of whom our people speak—the Indian missionary?”
The man of God bent his head in reply.
“You should be, and I suppose are, an ordained minister of the church?” she resumed.
“I am, madam.”
His voice was deep-toned and peculiarly sweet. The woman started as it met her ear; a gleam of unwonted expression shot over her features, and she fixed another penetrating glance on his face, as if some long-buried recollection had been aroused; then, satisfied with the scrutiny, she turned her eyes away, and drawing a deep breath spoke again.
“I ask no more than this; of what church matters little. But have you authority to perform marriages after the established law?”
“I have; but my services are seldom required. I mingle but little with the whites of the settlement, and Indians have their peculiar forms, which, to them, are alone binding,”
“True,” replied the woman, with a slight wave of the hand; “these forms shall not be wanting; all the bonds of a Christian church and savage custom will scarcely yield me security.”