Butler started back almost to the verge of the precipice, when he found himself thus unexpectedly confronted. His face became crimson to the temples, and he looked with an air of extreme embarrassment, now on the strange woman, then on the path which led from the precipice, as if meditating an escape. The strange woman kept her eyes fixed keenly upon his movements; when he stepped a pace forward, as if about to leave her presence, she made a detaining motion with her hand.
“You were expecting Tahmeroo, the Shawnee maiden. I am Catharine Montour, her mother.”
The blood suddenly left the young man’s face. He bit his lips impatiently, for a half-checked oath trembled upon them; but his confusion was too overwhelming for any attempt at an answer. After a moment’s pause, Catharine, who kept her piercing gaze steadily fixed on his face, drew forth the string of red coral which had been given to her daughter, and said:
“Last night my daughter told me all that you bade her conceal; from your first meeting on the shores of Seneca Lake, down to the crafty falsehood of this pledge, I know everything.”
The crimson flush again spread over the young man’s face, his eyes sunk beneath the scrutiny fixed upon him, and he turned his head aside, muttering:
“The beautiful witch has exposed me at last,” then he looked Catharine Montour in the face with an affectation of cool effrontery, and said:
“Well, madam, if Tahmeroo has chosen to confide in her mother, I do not see anything remarkable in it, except that I should be sought out as a party in the affair.”
“Young man,” exclaimed the unhappy mother, in a voice of stern and bitter anguish, which made even his heart recoil, “you know not what you have done—you cannot dream of the wretchedness which you have heaped on a being who never injured you. I can find no words to tell how dear that child was to me, how completely every thought and wish was centred in her pure existence. I had guarded her as the strings of my own heart—every thought of her young mind was pure—every impulse an affectionate one—I will not reproach you, man! I will try not to hate you, though, Heaven is my judge, I have just cause for hate. Listen to me—I did not come here to heap invectives on you——”
“May I be permitted to ask what you did come for?” interrupted Butler, with a cool effrontery, which was now real, for his awe of Catharine Montour abated when he saw her sternness giving way to the grief and indignation of a wronged mother. “I really am at a loss to know why you should address me in this strange manner. I have not stolen the girl from your wigwam, nor have I the least intention of doing so foolish a thing. You have your daughter, what more do you require?”
Catharine Montour drew her lips hard together, and her frame shook with a stern effort to preserve her composure.