“Katharine!” she exclaimed, involuntarily, calling her by the familiar name which she had borne when a child in her father’s castle. “Oh, Katharine, what harm have I done you?”
Mahaska started; wrath surged into her face, but she controlled the rising tempest, looked carelessly about, as if to see whom the lady had thus addressed, and said:
“The pale-face wanders in her mind; there is no one here but Mahaska and her braves.”
“Why have you brought me here?” cried Adèle. “What have I done to you, that you should pursue me with such remorseless hatred? Only set me free, and my husband will pay you any ransom. Name your price—but let me go.”
The smile died from Mahaska’s lips. She leaned forward in her saddle, and hissed from between her clenched teeth:
“He must offer it for your dead body then, for he will have no time to make other terms. All the wealth of France would not purchase your life. Mahaska does not sell her hate.”
Adèle’s overwrought faculties gave way at those fearful words, and, with one low moan, she fell senseless almost under the horse’s feet.
Mahaska motioned the Indians to raise her and turned coldly away. The preparations for departure were going hurriedly on. Gi-en-gwa-tah had been standing near, and being sufficiently familiar with French to understand, had comprehended the conversation that had passed between the two women. He looked pityingly at the white face, so pure and girlish still; then he turned toward the pitiless woman, sitting there so unconcerned, to make one last effort.
“Let the queen reflect,” he said; “she is doing a dangerous thing—”
“Queen Mahaska loves danger,” she interrupted, without even glancing toward him. “Let the fire be put out; let the guard make ready!” she called, in a loud voice.