"It is enough. No torture shall cause my lips to be opened to any but you."
He passed out, and as soon as he had disappeared, the squaw took from her neck the richest string of wampum she possessed. She had destined it to be the brightest ornament at her own bridal. It was one she had woven for that express purpose. Muffling it in her blanket, she walked slowly to the home of the Little Raven, and there being no one else in the wigwam, she laid it in the lap of her friend, and said, in a mysterious whisper: "This from the Young Bear!"
The eyes of the Raven flashed with as much delight as surprise. Among all the braves she would have chosen the brother of the Burning Cloud for a lover. She turned the trinket over and over, and the visitor fancied at first it would be rejected; but when she saw it pressed warmly to her lips, and placed next to her heart, she was satisfied, and boldly proclaimed the secret object of her mission.
"The false-hearted pale-faced lover of the Raven is coming back to croak into her ears his lying words. She must meet him, pretend still to love him, lure him on, see that he does not turn aside from the trail, and let the Burning Cloud know all he says and does. Then she will see that no other eyes than hers look into the heart of the Young Bear, and that he sings into no other ears than hers. He will yet be a great chief, and his name be sung in the councils of the nation."
Wild with delight at the prospect, the young and passion-swayed squaw was ready to promise any thing, and, after listening to the instructions of her wiser and sharper sister, she at once took the trail, and was seen no more in the village until she came back bursting with the news of the death of Muck-a-kee, and the capture of the white girl by the renegade lover.
The Burning Cloud inquired very minutely into all the particulars, and her face glowed with gratitude and smiles as she learned how fate had favored her.
"But, will the pale-face sleep until the Raven returns again?" she asked.
"He drank deeply of the leaves that take away all feeling," was the reply, "and the sun will be above the tree-tops before his eyes are open again."
"And the squaw with the skin like the snow?"
"She is worn to a shadow, and so tired, her moccasins would grow faint, be the trail ever so short."