“And Gi-en-gwa-tah shall hear their cries of hate,” she answered; “they will tear him limb from limb when Mahaska tells them all.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah will speak for himself; he does not need a squaw to be his mouthpiece.”
He smiled scornfully at her passion.
“On!” she shrieked to her guards. “The queen can not breathe the same air with that dog—on with him to judgment!”
They answered with a fierce shout, in which the chief seemed to hear his death-warrant, but he did not quail.
“These dogs are not chiefs,” he said; “they are only slaves that the squaw has bought with the gifts the English gave her. The chiefs will allow them no voice; they will be driven out of the tribe for their insults to its chief.”
They answered with menacing murmurs. Mahaska’s first impulse was to put him to death on the spot, but she waited; it was better to taste her revenge to the full. He should be punished in the presence of the whole tribe, as a warning to all who might ever after dare her displeasure. Thus she would confirm her power, and in his death, by decree of the council, would she make the chiefs confess her supremacy. After that, her word would be law, and even the council would be harmless.
CHAPTER XII.
THE SPELL BROKEN.
Mahaska and her band of warriors rode into the Indian village with their chief a captive in their midst.
The people came out to meet them, and when the shouts of joy that greeted the queen’s return had died away, Gi-en-gwa-tah lifted his pinioned hands, and cried out: