"And you won't let her see him, general. No good can come from it. She declares she will go to him in the morning, if you prohibit it to-night," and the richly jewelled hands of the unhappy woman were clasped almost in supplication.
"By morning he will be beyond her reach. The escort starts at six."
"And—these gentlemen here—" She looked nervously, appealingly about her. "Must they—all know?"
"These and the inspector general. He will be here in a moment. But, indeed, Mrs. Hay, it is all known, practically," said the general, with sympathy and sorrow in his tone.
"Not all—not all, general! Even I don't know all—She herself has said so. Hush! She's coming."
She was there! They had listened for swish of skirts or fall of slender feet upon the stairway, but there had not been a sound. They saw the reason as she halted at the entrance, lifting with one little hand the costly Navajo blanket that hung as a portière. In harmony with the glossy folds of richly dyed wool, she was habited in Indian garb from head to foot. In two black, lustrous braids, twisted with feather and quill and ribbon, her wealth of hair hung over her shoulders down the front of her slender form. A robe of dark blue stuff, rich with broidery of colored bead and bright-hued plumage, hung, close clinging, and her feet were shod in soft moccasins, also deftly worked with bead and quill. But it was her face that chained the gaze of all, and that drew from the pallid lips of Lieutenant Field a gasp of mingled consternation and amaze. Without a vestige of color; with black circles under her glittering eyes; with lines of suffering around the rigid mouth and with that strange pinched look about the nostrils that tells of anguish, bodily and mental, Nanette stood at the doorway, looking straight at the chief. She had no eyes for lesser lights. All her thought, apparently, was for him,—for him whose power it was, in spite of vehement opposition, to deal as he saw fit with the prisoner in his hands. Appeal on part of Friends Societies, Peace and Indian Associations had failed. The President had referred the matter in its entirety to the general commanding in the field, and the general had decided. One moment she studied his face, then came slowly forward. No hand extended. No sign of salutation,—greeting,—much less of homage. Ignoring all others present, she addressed herself solely to him.
"Is it true you have ordered him in irons and to Fort Rochambeau?" she demanded.
"It is."
"Simply because he took part with his people when your soldiers made war on them?" she asked, her pale lips quivering.
"You well know how much else there was," answered the general, simply. "And I have told you he deserves no pity—of yours."