A week passed, but there was no intelligence from the absent warriors. The people began to look for their return, but Mahaska asked no questions and betrayed no interest.
At last a swift runner brought back the expected news that the Delawares had been defeated—their chief slain. The shouts of the Indians penetrated to the apartment where Mahaska was seated; she knew what they portended, but did not move. An old Indian woman, who waited upon her, swept back the draperies hastily, and looked in; but Mahaska did not appear to notice her presence, and she retreated without a word.
There she sat and waited; it mattered nothing to her upon whom the victory had fallen, so long as her husband was alive. He must henceforth be no stumbling-block in her path. She would permit nothing to mar her plans.
At length the curtains were again swept back, and the mother of her husband appeared at the opening.
“The chiefs await Queen Mahaska,” she said, as her old face lit up with animation.
Mahaska rose and passed into the outer apartment, where several of the chiefs were standing.
“The people shout the name of our young chief,” said Upepah; “double-tongued Shewashiet will speak no more lies.”
“It is well,” she answered, briefly.
“The young brave has earned a right to the chieftainship of his tribe. Mahaska is his prophet,” continued the old warrior.
“The crimson feather hangs over the door of Mahaska’s lodge,” she answered.