“Mahaska has decided well,” he answered; “but even the lodge that holds the chief and his wife should never hear such words.”
She clenched her hands together in her loose sleeves, feeling the necessity of some physical struggle to restrain the insulting epithets which sprung to her lips.
“What is passed is passed,” she said; “let there be no more talk of these things; Mahaska goes to consult her spirits.”
He bowed assent to her wishes, but made no movement to leave the room. She must have him out of the way if she would succeed in her project.
She turned toward him with a change of manner and face so sudden and entire that it was really marvelous, and he stood bewildered before the coming forth of her beauty from its black cloud of anger—bewildered and fascinated, but not with the faith and weakness of the past; through it all pierced the fierce pain which had smitten his heart when she uttered her vows of vengeance against the French Governor.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah promised Mahaska fresh salmon from the lake,” she said, and a sweet, girlish laugh, rung from the lips that had before trembled with bitter denunciations; “let him bring them to-night, that she may know her peace is made with the chief.”
“Gi-en-gwa-tah will go,” he replied, gravely, anxious to be alone that he might reason away the cruel thoughts which struggled in his heart.
“And when will the chief return?” she demanded, carelessly playing with the fringe of her girdle, as if she had absolutely forgotten her passion, so changed and smiling that it seemed hardly possible she could be the woman who had raged there like a chained tigress only a few moments before.
“He must go miles up the lake,” replied Gi-en-gwa-tah; “it will be after nightfall when he returns.”
“Mahaska will wait for the evening meal till he returns,” she said; “wait for the chief’s peace-offering,” and she smiled again, with such frank sweetness that eyes more skilled than those of the Indian would have failed to detect the danger in its depths.