Polly started, like one waking from a trance, and rushed back to the cradle. The Indian followed. Hearing him, she turned at bay, both arms stretched backward over the cradle as if in protection. He put her aside, and leaned over to look, frowning.
“Ho!” he muttered. “A man-child. The Moonmaid’s son?”
She nodded, fearfully.
“A white child,” he said, still gazing. “And too young. It is not mine. The Moon-maid has lied!”
His hand went to the tomahawk at his belt.
Polly cried out, sank to her knees, her arms embracing his legs.
“No, no! Listen! The baby is mine, mine! But you did not come, they were my people, what was I to do? I but one and they so many! In my heart I waited. Granny! Granny, tell him⸺”
The Indian looked down at her, his face slowly relaxing. He turned to the door again, saying, “Come!”
Polly, with a gasp of relief, bent quickly to pick up the child, but he stopped her with a stern gesture.
“No. It is not my son. Gray Eagle is no thief.”