Mahaska clenched her hands in the loose sleeves of her robe and cried in a terrible voice:
“Yes, I have a son, and thanks to you and yours, his father is an Indian! Your cowardly prayers can not touch my heart! I tell you, before three days are gone, the winds shall bear the smoke of your funeral-pile toward the husband and child of whom you boast.”
Adèle sunk back in her seat and covered her face with the folds of her mantle. Mahaska stood for an instant, regarding her with fierce joy. Then she turned to move away. When Adèle heard the rustle of her robes and comprehended that she was leaving her without a word, she flung out her hands and cried:
“Stay, stay—hear me yet!”
Mahaska paused and looked down upon her with the same scornful smile wreathing her lips.
“Let the pale-face speak quickly, Mahaska has no time to waste in hearing complaints.”
“Your nation is at peace with the French,” said Adèle, eagerly; “this act will break off all friendship between you—”
“Does the pale-face threaten?” demanded Mahaska, with a calmness more appalling than her rage.
“No, no! But you would not be guilty of an art of treachery—”
“Enough!” interrupted she. “The Six Nations are no longer at peace with the cowardly Frenchmen; they are weary of being cajoled and treated like slaves; the hate that fills their queen’s heart now inspires the tribes. We are your enemies and fear not!”