Abigail was no longer afraid, but, dropping into her old position, stood with one hand leaning on the gray stone at the head of her mother's grave.
It was a savage, and yet a white man, who stood before her—a savage, in all the pomp of his war garments, with hostile weapons at his girdle, and a rifle in his right hand. The crest of feathers, with which his hair was knotted, fluttered in the night wind proudly as if it had surmounted a helmet. The warm crimson, that lined his robe of dressed deer-skin, and the many colored wampum that bordered and fringed it, glowed richly in the moonlight. It was a noble figure, and the young girl's face kindled as she measured him with her eyes.
"Whom do you seek, with a tomahawk at your girdle, and a scalping-knife within reach of your hand? I am alone, and there is only an old woman at the house—no help within reach of my voice—but you see I stand still—I am not afraid."
"No—not afraid," answered the savage, with a proud motion of the hand. "Even the women of your race should be brave. Mahaska, step forth, that the moon may look upon your face."
Fearlessly, as if she had obeyed that voice all her life, Abigail stepped out of the pine shadow, and stood face to face with the savage.
"Your hand does not shake—you look into my face—your lip keeps its red—the blood starts to your cheek like sunset upon the snow mountains—you are not afraid of the Indian?"
"No, not afraid."
"The grasp of my hand does not make you tremble?"
"No, it sends the fire back to my heart."
"What brought you to the forest—to this grave?"