The two women wept for several minutes, silently mingling their tears, but the Indian, overcoming grief, dried her red eyes with a passionate gesture, and tore herself from the arms that held her.
"Why weep?" she said. "Only cowards and weak people groan and lament. Indian squaws do not weep. When they are insulted they avenge themselves," she added, with an accent full of strange resolution. "My sister must let me depart! I can no longer be useful to her, and other cares claim my attention."
"Go, then, poor girl. Act as your heart orders you. I have no right either to retain you or prevent you acting as you please."
"Thanks," the Indian said. "My sister is kind. The Wacondah will not desert her."
"Cannot you tell me what you intend doing?"
"I cannot."
"At any rate, tell me in what direction you are going?"
The girl shook her head with discouragement.
"Does the leaf detached from the tree by a high wind know in what direction it will be carried? I am the leaf. So my sister must ask me no more."
"As you wish it, I will be silent; but before we separate, perhaps forever, let me make you a present, which will recall me to mind when I am far from you."