Ichabod was about to give way to a burst of indignation at this treacherous proposal; but he saw that by so doing he should defeat his own ends. He had also learned, to his great satisfaction, that the Tuscarora had not been captured. It was with great difficulty that he could conceal his joy from the inquisitorial eyes of the Senecas; but at length, with an appearance of hesitancy, he answered.
"I can't say, now, whether I will do as you wish or not. I want little time to think about it. Speculating in flesh and blood, in that way, and with a friend, too, is a kind of business I never yet undertook; but I suppose one may get used to it. A little practice will blunt the feelings, until one can come to bartering off friends—aye, one's own flesh and blood, too." Then, as if suddenly remembering the declaration of Snake-tongue, that Singing-Bird was reconciled to her captivity, he added, "you see, if the Tuscarora knew that Singing-Bird had forgot him, and had chosen the young chief of the Senecas for her husband, I calculate he wouldn't care much whether he was here or there. Now if that's true, I rather reckon, I'll do as you want me to, though I look upon it as a rascally mean trick towards a friend."
"It is true, what my brother has heard," said Panther: "Singing-Bird will sing in the wigwam of Panther."
"Now, I don't mean any disparagement to the Senecas, and you in particular," said Ichabod; "I am beginning to think that you may be gentlemen, after all; but that is a matter I can't take anybody's word for. I want to know that it is true."
"My brother shall hear with his own ears," said Panther. "He shall know that the words of Panther are true; he shall see Singing-Bird, and ask her if Panther has lied."
This was just what Ichabod had desired. If he had made the proposition himself, it was doubtful whether some ulterior purpose would not have been suspected; but his seeming willingness to comply with the wishes of Panther, had led the Seneca to suggest this as the surest mode of dispelling his doubts.
"My brother shall see Singing-Bird alone," said Panther, "we have not got forked tongues, or we would not let him do so."
The two Indians departed. Their willingness to allow this interview was, for a moment, almost sufficient to induce Ichabod to believe that Singing-Bird had become faithless to the Tuscarora. But he knew enough of Indian character to know that Singing-Bird might have adopted this line of conduct as the best mode of effecting her escape. With this belief, he silently awaited the interview, determined not to believe otherwise unless he received positive proof from Singing-Bird herself. Scarcely five minutes had elapsed after the departure of the Seneca, before a shadow again darkened the doorway of the hut, and the young squaw stood before him.
Singing-Bird—for she it was—was apparently not more than two-and-twenty years of age. She was of small, light stature, yet with a full and healthy development of body. Her features, although they possessed the distinctive Indian cast, were moulded into a beauty admirable to behold. Her complexion was a softening of the tawny-red of the warriors into a delicate tint, while her large, dark eyes were full of a gentle expression, that might, if need be, be exchanged for a wild and passionate fire. Her long, dark, glossy hair flowed in graceful waves down her neck, and were gathered in rich folds over her brow. Her costume was that of a young Indian female of the period, beautifully and tastefully decorated with ornaments of beads and flowers. As Ichabod first beheld her, the prevailing expression of her countenance was that of a gentle sorrow.
Ichabod was surprised. He had never beheld the wife of Eagle's-Wing, and never before had he beheld a female figure the beauty of which so much surprised and delighted him. He gazed at her with a pleasure he could not conceal, and then, while a melancholy smile passed over her countenance, he said—