“It is hard for the chief to speak; the red-men called him Willow Bough; his nation called him—”
He was hesitating over the word, when a sound from Mahaska made him look up; it was like no human cry—a strangled tiger might have uttered such a moan.
He looked at her in horror. She was pale as a corpse, her features so convulsed that they looked scarcely human—her arms were stretched out, her fingers knotting themselves together, as if crushing some unseen object.
“De Laguy,” she cried, “Gaston De Laguy?”
The chief called her name in accents of vague terror, but she did not appear to heed; still the long fingers writhed and the lips muttered:
“Gaston De Laguy.”
Strange thoughts flashed across the mind of the chief, thoughts which he could not explain, but which stung like a knife. Her terrible agitation, the tone of deadly agony and hate in which she pronounced that name, all carried his fancy to what he had known of her past life, and connected her fierce hatred toward the French with that man.
He had little time to indulge these painful reflections; Mahaska tottered into a seat, her hands fell to her side, and her strong self-control began to exert itself.
“You bring me this news,” she exclaimed, at length, in a voice worn and hollow from her passion; “you say there is nothing to fear now? Blind fool, there is every thing to fear!”
“Is the young brave false, too?” he asked.