“Mahaska would have come to you,” she said, kindly; “Ahmo is feeble; she should not be out in the chill air.”
The old woman sunk down on a pile of furs near Mahaska and began muttering to herself.
“Ahmo is tired, very tired,” said Mahaska, compassionately.
“Ahmo is dying,” replied the old woman, calmly.
Mahaska started; the idea of death was terrible to her then; she could have met it once with fortitude, but now blankness and desolation were abhorrent to her proud nature.
“All night she heard the voices of Nemono and her daughter Chileli,” continued the old woman; “they are waiting for Ahmo; they have made ready her lodge in the happy hunting-grounds.”
“Ahmo will stay yet with Mahaska, and watch her greatness increase till it is beyond that of all the chiefs,” said the white girl.
The old woman shook her head.
“Three generations have blossomed before Ahmo’s eyes; she is very old and wants rest.”
“Can she not rest in Mahaska’s lodge?”