“Husband! child!” was the agonized moan that broke from her lips; their sufferings made her forget her own.
Mahaska caught the convulsed cry.
“Let the pale-face shriek,” she said; “the flames of her death-fire will soon scatter the darkness she dreads so much.”
So they rode on. The cold stars looked pitilessly down; the wind shivered by, seeming to bear her the moans of her loved onces, and at intervals the voice of that dreaded woman struck her ear like a warning of the terrible doom of the stake and the death-fire.
CHAPTER XIV.
IN BONDS AND OUT OF THEM.
All that night and the next day, the savage troop sped on through the forest. When twilight came, Mahaska issued orders for a halt. She had paid no attention to Gi-en-gwa-tah after their conversation the night before, and he had ridden on almost unnoticed, keeping close to the white captive. The mingled wrath, indignation and sorrow which filled his mind it were not in the power of words to describe. But all the while his pity for the unfortunate captive rose more strongly than those harsher feelings. He was horrified by Mahaska’s base treachery; every instinct of his honorable nature rose up against it. He knew that his expostulations would only increase the dangers that menaced the captive, and might, indeed, lead to her instant death. He foresaw that when they reached the tribe, Mahaska’s will might not be disputed, and that any arguments he could employ would be treated with disdain by the chiefs, so completely were they under the control of the imperious woman. For the first time he fully realized the extent of Mahaska’s power. He now only became fully conscious of the terrible uses she would make of it. Warfare and strife were the rightful inheritance of his savage nature, but uprightness and truth were equally well rooted there, and he shrunk in abhorrence from the unscrupulous path along which she intended to lead his people. There was but one way open to him—he might be able to effect Adèle’s escape. He would bend all his energies to accomplish that, and thus save any further open conflict with his wife.
When the second evening came, the Indians proposed to encamp for the night. Adèle became so exhausted by the hard journey, that her guard was obliged to support her on her horse. She had sunk into a state of passive misery, from which, at intervals, a keen pang would rouse her as some recollection of her husband or child intruded like the sudden thrust of a dagger. Mahaska rode all day a little in advance of her prisoner. She was in one of her most agreeable humors, conversing gayly with those about her, and ever and anon her clear laugh would ring on the air, mocking Adèle with recollections of the time when that sound had been full of pleasure to her ear.
Gi-en-gwa-tah had on the previous evening effected a reconciliation with Mahaska. Not that she forgave him for venturing to oppose her, or had, in the least, resigned her revengeful determination; but, like Catharine De Medicis, she loved to bestow her softest smiles and blandest words upon those whose destruction she was plotting.
Once or twice during the journey, the chief had found an opportunity to make a slight sign to Adèle which filled her heart with a hope, only to die out in new agony as the hours wore on and the distance lengthened between her and all prospect of deliverance.
“We will rest here to-night,” Mahaska said, as she dismounted from her horse. “Let the tent be spread, but, before the dawn, all must be ready for departure.”