“So perish all our enemies!”
The throng answered with exultant exclamations. The young chief stood before her, holding the crimson feather in his hand, unable to control the eagerness which shook his frame. Mahaska turned toward the group of old men about her:
“The chiefs behold,” she said; “the Great Spirit has favored Gi-en-gwa-tah! So shall it be with all who obey Mahaska, and who seek to work her bidding out of love.”
She stood smiling up in the face of her husband, while many a murderous thought seethed through her brain. The delicate fingers that held the scalp quivered with eagerness to hold a yet dearer trophy, which, once in her grasp, would leave her pathway unfettered.
The warriors left the two standing on the threshold of their lodge, and marched away toward the village, raising a shout of triumph that echoed across the lake, and died like a wind in the depths of the wilderness.
“Is Mahaska glad that her chief won her prize?” he asked, holding up the graceful feather.
“Does not Gi-en-gwa-tah know her heart?” she asked. “Mahaska can not make vows and use childish words like common women; she is set apart from them by a sacred spell; let Gi-en-gwa-tah be content that she sits beside him in his lodge.”
“The chief’s heart has been lonely without her,” he said, earnestly; “he knows her to be a great prophetess, but, to his love she is a woman, and he pines for her presence as he would for the sunshine during a long night.”
She was in no mood for listening to such words; she had been buoying herself up with false hopes too long not to feel their disappointment; it was enough to have the misery of seeing him return a victor without being obliged to submit to evidences of his affection.
“The queen has many things on her mind,” she said, coldly; “she can not talk with Gi-en-gwa-tah now.”