"Thou art cold, my mother," said Otaitsa, unfastening her mantle, and throwing it over the old woman; "get thee back with the step of a mole through the most covered ways thou canst find. How far on is the other?"
"More than a mile," replied the old woman; "close at the foot of the rocks."
Otaitsa made no reply, but hastened forward to a spot where some abrupt, but not very elevated, crags rose up out of the midst of the wood. For a moment there seemed no one there; and the trail at that spot divided into two, one running to the right, and the other to the left, at the very base of the rocks.
Otaitsa gazed cautiously about. She did not dare to utter a sound; but at length her eye fixed upon a large mass of stone tumbled from the bank above, crested and feathered with some sapling chestnuts. It seemed a place fit for concealment; and, advancing over some broken fragments, she was approaching carefully, when again a head was raised, and a hand stretched out beckoning to her.
Still she trod her way cautiously, taking care not to set her foot on prominent points where the trace might remain, and contriving, as far as possible, to make each bush and scattered tree a screen. At length she reached her companion's place of concealment, and crouched down behind the rock, by the side of a young woman a few years older than herself.
"Has he passed?" asked Otaitsa. "Which way did he take?"
"To the east," replied the other; "to the rising sun; but it was not the brother of the Snake. It was Apukwa, the Bull-rush; and he had a wallet with him, but no tomahawk."
"How long is it since he passed?" asked the Blossom, in the same low tone which they had hitherto used.
"While the crow would fly a mile," answered the young woman. "Has my husband yet come back?"
"Not so," replied Otaitsa; "but let us both go, for thou art weary for thy home, my sister, and I am now satisfied. Their secret is mine."