They hurried on through the gathering twilight, every breast tortured with anxiety. The child awoke and moaned piteously for his mother. The sound was a new agony to her friends, for but few of that little party ever expected to see the Governor’s wife alive.
The queen’s body-guard bore the hapless lady swiftly along through the forest, answering neither her cries or supplications. After the first moments of agonizing fear, her thoughts were of her child. Anxiety kept her senses all acute; she had not even the blessing of insensibility. Once or twice she caught glimpses of men on horseback galloping before them through the windings of the forest; but she could distinguish nothing more. No one spoke to her. She was a prisoner. Mahaska was one of the riders—she urged her horse forward into the camp. Gi-en-gwa-tah met her, but before he could speak, she exclaimed:
“Prepare every thing for our departure; we must be miles away before the dawn breaks.”
“Our queen rides fast,” he returned, with a feeling that she had been upon some lawless errand. “Whence comes she in such haste.”
“Let Gi-en-gwa-tah keep silent,” she exclaimed; “it is not for him to question the descendant of the prophet.”
She turned to the Indians, and issued her commands for an instant departure.
“Where are the rest who went out with the queen?” demanded the chief.
“They are coming through the forest,” cried Mahaska.
She pointed down the path. As the chief looked, the party carrying Adèle appeared in sight.
“A prisoner!” he exclaimed. “What has the queen done?”