Catharine looked up and saw that his eyes were full of tears; her own face was fearfully agitated, and she went on with a degree of energy but little in keeping with the pathos of her last broken speech.
“A white, one of my own race, came to the forest stealthily, like a thief, and with our Indian forms, which he taught her to believe were a bond of marriage among his people, also lured the heart of my child from her mother. Now, I beseech you, for I see that you are kind and feeling—I was wrong to command—come to the camp at nine to-night, for then and there shall my child be lawfully wedded.”
“I will be there at the hour,” replied the missionary, in a voice of deep sympathy. “Heaven forbid that I should refuse to aid in righting the wronged, even at the peril of life.”
“My own head shall not be more sacred in the Shawnee camp than yours,” said Catharine, with energy.
“I do not doubt it; and were it otherwise I should not shrink from a duty. I owe an atonement for the evil opinion I had of you. A heart which feels dishonor so keenly cannot delight in carnage and blood.”
“Can they repeat these things of me?” inquired Catharine, with a painful smile; “they do me deep wrong. Fear not; I appear before you with clean hands. If the heart is less pure it has sufficiently avenged itself; if it has wronged others, they have retribution; has not the love of my child gone forth to another? Am I not alone?”
“Lady,” said the missionary, with deep commiseration in his look and voice, for he was moved by her energetic grief, “this is not the language of a savage. Your speech is refined, your manner noble. Lady, what are you?”
There are seasons when the heart will claim sympathy, spite of all control which a will of iron may place upon it. This power was upon the heart of Catharine Montour.
“Yes, I will speak,” she muttered, raising her hand and pressing it heavily to her eyes. The motion flung back the drapery of the sleeve, and the light flashed full on the jewelled serpent coiled around her arm. The missionary’s eyes fell upon it, and he sallied back against the logs of the hut, with a death-like agony in his face.
Catharine Montour was too deeply engrossed by her own feelings to observe the strange agitation which had so suddenly come upon the missionary. She seated herself on the stool, and with her face buried in her robe remained minute after minute in deep silence, gathering strength to unlock the tumultuous secrets of her heart once more to a mortal’s knowledge.