She moaned. “You mean, I am to leave him? But how can I, how can I? Not yet! He will be hungry.” Her two hands went with a piteous gesture to her breasts.
Gray Eagle said: “Choose.”
He stalked to the door and out. The other Indians followed. Polly stared after them, wringing her hands, whimpering like an animal. She met the intent gaze of her grandmother fixed upon her.
“What shall I do? What shall I do! You tell me! I knew it would be so. He will not come again—unless—to kill! And how shall I find him? How shall I ever go to him? Yet my baby, my little son—”
Slowly, stiffly, the old woman’s head turned until her eyes indicated the door through which the Indian had gone. Polly covered her face with her arms. “You mean, I am to go? You tell me that?” She went to the old woman, stroking the wrinkled cheeks, the hands, desperately. “It is good-by, then! Ezra—you will make him understand, remind him of what he said about the prior claim? Tell him—tell him I would have stayed, perhaps—if I could⸺”
Without another glance at the cradle, she ran out. The old woman’s eyes closed, as if in unbearable pain. Then they opened again, suddenly, for Polly was back.
“I cannot. I cannot!” she whimpered, running to the cradle. She lifted the baby, rolled it close in a blanket as if to hide it, and ran out, holding it close.
Granny strained forward, listening intently. Then after a moment came a wild wail:
“No, no, you shall not! Give him to me, give him. He is mine! I beg, I beg you not⸺ Nenemoosha, Nenemoosha⸺”
The old woman’s eyes almost started out of their sockets, two great tears burst from them—and then the door opened and Gray Eagle re-entered, carrying the rolled blanket. He laid it in the cradle without comment, and went out, closing the door behind him.