The other chiefs who had approached near enough to hear her answer received it with favor.
“How many men are encamped there?” she asked.
The answer was, two or three hundred—a small force compared to their own.
“And how many hours’ march?” she questioned.
“If the braves start an hour before sunset they will reach the spot by the time the enemy lie down to rest,” replied Gi-en-gwa-tah.
“So be it,” she returned.
She glanced at the little watch which she always carried; there were still several hours to wait.
“Let the queen’s tent be pitched,” she said; “she has need to commune with the great prophet.”
Her orders were obeyed with the alacrity which followed her slightest wish. The tent had been one of the last gifts of the English, and was made very comfortable by furs and blankets. She alighted from her horse when the work of spreading it was completed, and retired to its privacy, not even glancing toward the chief.
She remained alone there during the whole afternoon, busy with her own thoughts—her face at times looking as dark and terrible as if she were indeed holding communion with some invisible presence that filled her soul with gloom.