"Mahaska, the Avenger."
"The avenger! Alas! alas! it is a fearful name; but what signifies that? The consecrated waters of baptism have washed it away."
The young Indian sprang to his feet.
"Washed it away? Washed the name of our fathers from your forehead? I tell you, girl, it is burning there in the red blood of a kingly sire—in the flames which devoured the old men and little children of our tribe—rusted in by the iron that held a king's son in bondage under the hot sky of the tropics. Look, maiden, look where the ocean heaves and rolls beneath the moon: there is not enough water in all that to wash the name from your brow. Look upward, where the Great Spirit hath kindled his camp-fires in the sky: you will not find flame enough to burn it out. Look yonder, where the thick forest covers the earth—roll all its shadows together, and through their blackness all the world would read that name!"
Abigail covered her affrighted face with both hands. Her brain was confused—the heart quaked in her bosom—all the traditions of her life were uprooted in a moment. Who was she? Who was the man, garbed like a savage, but who spoke the English tongue as if it were his own? Was the grave at her feet really that of her mother? What did the young savage mean by that haughty air—those proud words?
The Indian came closer to her, withdrew the hands from her face very gently, and held them with a tender clasp.
"Mahaska!"
Abigail looked at him steadily, till the tears rose to her wild eyes; then, as his hand grasped hers faster and tighter, she made an effort to wrench herself away.
His hands dropped, his face bent downward.
"Mahaska!"