"It is King Philip's daughter—try me, brother: lead the way into the wilderness: I will follow: see if I cannot trample down all love for my mother's enemies!"
The chief opened his arms, and drew the young girl to his bosom, as he had done years before, when his mother, striving to introduce some of the amenities of life into the Indian lodge, had given the infant sister up to his caresses.
Then the blood spoke out, her air was proud and firm as his own, she began to realize that she was indeed the daughter of martyrs and kings, that their wrongs were her wrongs—their people her people.
"Take me with you to our people, before my heart softens, or memory comes back. Here I fling away the love of a life-time—uncle, cousin, home."
She spoke wildly, her eye burned, her cheek was like flame; she left her brother's arms, and fell upon her knees between the two graves.
"Mother," she whispered—"mother, hear me; check those sobs on the wind, they break my heart. I am giving myself up to you body and soul; mother, teach me the vow that will content you; I will take it here, while the last of our race looks on!"
The wind swept over her, sighing like a soul relieved from pain—swept over her in sweet, warm gushes, as if it had been asleep in the blossoming trees. Abigail covered her face and wept; when she looked up again the young chief had gone.