He urged his horse on, and the Governor’s band turned back upon their homeward route in all haste.
It was sunset, and the chief paused a few moments to rest his weary horse.
He foresaw clearly the peril in which he had placed himself by the act he had committed, but it did not shake his firmness—he had acted as his conscience urged—he hoped, too, that the chiefs would yield to the justice of his report, and the queen would submit herself to their decision; for he now saw clearly that he must dispossess her from power to save the ruin of his tribe.
It was not till morning that Mahaska learned what had happened. The potion had worked well, and all through the night she had remained in deep, dreamless slumber. Her fury burst forth like a torrent, and when told that the chief was gone, she understood every thing. After the first spasm of passion she calmed herself, and, followed by her retinue, started off in pursuit; but they rode all day without discovering any trace of the fugitives, beyond the occasional footprints of their horse.
In the glory of the sunset the band galloped toward the spot where Gi-en-gwa-tah had paused. When Mahaska saw him she grasped her tomahawk as if to hurl it at his head; but, his calm courage checked her presumption, and she dashed toward him, crying out:
“What has Gi-en-gwa-tah done with the pale-face?”
He evinced no emotion at her sudden approach, and answered, quietly:
“She is safe with the Governor-chief. Gi-en-gwa-tah has kept the queen from doing a great wrong and bringing much harm upon her people!”
“Coward!” shrieked Mahaska. “Dog! you shall die with all the tortures reserved for her! Secure him—bind him, hand and foot, and drag the traitor before his chiefs.” Her guard sprung forward to obey her order, but the chief lifted his musket and called out:
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is your chief. The first brave who touches him, dies. He will go before his people—they shall judge him—not you, who are slaves of this woman.”