"The child to whom the power of her curse descends! oh, my God, have mercy—have mercy!"
"Mahaska."
"I hear, oh heavens, I feel that the name was mine!"
"Mahaska, listen: The blood of that brave woman—of that most kingly of kings—both betrayed, both murdered—beats in our veins."
Abigail was cowering upon the ground at his feet; she had no strength to stand, but as he spoke she lifted her face with a dull, hopeless look, which contracted her features into ice.
"Who is it that speaks? who is it that hurls this terrible birthright at me?"
"It is the son of King Philip, the runaway slave, the man whose boyhood has been crucified beneath the driver's lash, while his people were scattered abroad—sold, shot, plundered like mad dogs and wolves. Mahaska, it is your brother!"
Up to this time the girl had been palsied; now a flash of fire kindled through and through her, an intolerable weight seemed flung from her brain, she stood up and held forth her arms.
The young savage took her hands with a grasp of iron, but he did not embrace her.
"Is it the hand of a king's daughter that I hold?" he questioned, with a sort of stern tenderness, but keeping her at arm's length.