“The chief has chosen a pale-face for his bride, but the tribe like it not. There are maidens fairer among them, than she. If she were gone, the heart of Rushing Water might turn again to them.”
“The words of the Indian woman are those of truth,” exclaimed Ruth, hopefully. “Help me to escape and all may be well.”
“The eyes of Rushing Water are sharp, and his ears are open to the slightest sound. His anger is like the tempest when it is abroad in the forest, and nothing can withstand its fury. But let the white maiden content herself. She shall never become the bride of the chief.”
Could Ruth have seen the malevolent look that was upon the face of her companion at this moment, she would have been struck with horror. But her face was averted, and she thought only of the promise her words implied. The hope so faint within her grew stronger, and she exclaimed excitedly:
“Heaven bless you for your words,” she said. “But let us lose not a moment’s time. Let us flee from this spot while we can.”
“The pale-face maiden can not stir forth to-night. Morning will come too soon, and the chief would be upon her track. When all is well, Nekomis will do what she can for her.”
Though disappointed, Ruth would fain accept this promise. The Indian woman alone could help her now, and she must cling to her, and the hope she gave her, and wait until such time as she should set for her to try for her escape.
“Let the white maiden seek slumber now. She needs it to make her strong. Nekomis will watch by her side and see that no harm shall come to her.”
Ruth sunk down wearily.
“I must trust you,” she said. “I do need sleep, and will try to seek it. But first give me some water. I am very thirsty.”