“It is the sign of a united power,” replied the warrior.
“Mahaska will rejoice when she sees the chief whose hand will take down the plume she fastened among the leaves.”
“It is Gi-en-gwa-tah’s, then.” The chief retired with mingled feelings of disappointment at her want of eagerness, and admiration for the pride which filled her manner.
Mahaska had been in no haste to know the name of the chief who had gained her lasting hate by fulfilling her behest. Never a warrior brought home a trophy from the war-path so dangerous and full of retribution to himself as would be Shewashiet’s scalp; never a young brave snatched a token from maiden’s hand so full of evil and death. The venom of the rattlesnake would not be more fatal than the doom it portended, for Mahaska was resolved to have no partner in her greatness.
The afternoon passed; an eager crowd went out to meet the expected band. Mahaska put aside her reflections to play her part in the scene before her. She knew well the effect that any thing attractive to the eye produced upon the savages, and never neglected an opportunity to essay it; she did not now, even in the repulsion and scorn with which her mind dwelt upon the nearing destiny before her, forget the picturesque and beautiful.
The furs hung before the opening of the lodge were thrown back, and Mahaska seated herself there, richly attired, and surrounded by the old chiefs. They all waited in silence, so much impressed by her appearance and state that they could only watch her in mute wonder.
Again the shouts of the people went up; the chiefs leaned eagerly forward; the throng pressed more eagerly in advance; but Mahaska sat there immovable as before. The band of warriors emerged from the forest; the leader urged on his horse with all speed, and rode furiously toward the lodge. The rest of the warriors remained at a little distance; a breathless silence crept over the people, while every eye was turned upon Mahaska. She had not moved—had not even looked up.
Her young husband sprung from his horse—stood upon the threshold of the lodge and grasped the crimson plume. Mahaska raised her eyes as he took from his belt a scalp and extended it toward her, the long hair fluttering in the wind.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah brings the queen his gift,” he said, in a voice trembling with emotion; “will she take it from his hand?”
She reached forth that slender, delicate hand, grasped the gory trophy, held it aloft, and exclaimed: