"Does she?" asked the chief, turning with a scornful gesture towards Mahnewe.
The squaw rising from the bank where she had been sitting advanced with the look of sadness entirely dispelled from her face, which was now sunny and radiant with joy.
"Mahnewe," said she, speaking earnestly and rapidly, "is the friend of the white man, and so are her people. Over the hills yonder is their village and these are their hunting grounds. Let not the white man fear; he has saved the life of a wife of the chief, and Mahnewe will answer for his safety."
"Are you sure of what you say?" asked Jane, whose dread of cannibals was the torture of her life.
"Mahnewe cannot mistake the place of her people," said the squaw, looking amused at the evident fright of the young girl.
"I mean of what tribe are they,—are you, Mahnewe?"
"The squaw will not tell," said the chief, tauntingly. "She knows they are the enemies of the Arapahoes. The Snake fears the Eagle."
"Mahnewe is the daughter of a chief, and the wife of a chief. She is not a coward; red blood is in her veins. She is a Snake, and fears not the Arapahoe!"
"Come, this will never answer, chief! Leave Mahnewe to me. Now, tell me truly,—are we on the hunting-grounds of the Snakes, and are you one of that tribe?"
"Mahnewe has said it, and cannot lie," returned the woman earnestly, and with great dignity of manner.