"Where thou hast permitted me to go, my father," she answered, with a smile so bland and sweet that a momentary suspicion crossed her father's mind.
"Thou dost not forget thy promise, my Blossom," he said, in a tone as stern as he ever used to her.
"Oh no, my father," answered Otaitsa; "didst thou ever know me do so? To see him, to be with him in his long captivity--to move the rock between us, and to let some light into his dark lodge--I promised that if thou wouldst let me stay with him even a few hours each day, I would do naught, try naught, for his escape. Otaitsa has not a double tongue for her own father. Is Black Eagle's eye dim, that it cannot see his child's heart? Her heart is in his hand."
"How fares the boy?" asked her father. "Is there sunshine with him, or a cloud?"
"Sunshine," said Otaitsa, simply. "We sat and talked of death. It must be very happy."
The chief gazed at her silently for a few moments, and then asked--"Does he think so too?"
"He makes me think so," answered the Blossom. "Must it not be happy where there is no weeping, no slaughter, no parting of dear friends and lovers; where a Saviour and Redeemer is ever ready to mediate even for those who do such deeds as these?"
"The Great Spirit is good," said Black Eagle thoughtfully; "the happy hunting-grounds are ever ready for those who die bravely in battle."
"For those who do good," returned Otaitsa, with a sigh; "for those who spare their enemies, and show mercy to such as obey the voice of God in their own hearts, and are merciful and forgiving to their fellow-men."
Black Eagle smiled. "A woman's religion," he said. "Why should I forgive my enemies? The voice of God you speak of in my heart teaches me to kill them; for, if I did not, they would kill me."