"That is true," the chief answered.
He bent over the warrior, seized his arm, and helped him to get on his feet. By an extraordinary effort of will the Indian succeeded in overcoming his pain. He drew himself up proudly, and turned to the chief.
"Strike," he said in a firm voice, "and may the Wacondah protect you for the service you are doing me at this moment."
The Stag drew his knife, and plunged it into the warrior's heart. The blow was dealt with such certainty and skill that the redskin fell dead at his chief's feet without a sigh.
"Poor wretch!" the latter muttered sadly, as he wiped his knife blade on a tuft of grass, and returned it to his belt. "I could not refuse him this service." After this melancholy funeral speech the Stag began digging a hole, in which to lay his comrade's body, as he did not wish to leave it exposed to the insults of wild beasts. The last duty accomplished, he went down the hill to rejoin his captives.
In the meanwhile the Indians had fled in all directions, suffering from a panic produced by Doña Emilia's energetic action, but the two warriors sent by the Stag in pursuit of them soon caught them up. It took considerable time, however, before they succeeded in making them consent to turn back, and enter again the presence of a woman whom they regarded as an evil genius. It required all the diplomatic skill of the chief's emissaries to convince them, combined with the influence which the son of Running Water, the most revered sachem of the tribe, had over them. When the young chief joined the captives, the warriors were already mounted, and drawn up a short distance off, only awaiting his return. The latter saluted them with a wave of the hand, and then ordered the bridles of the two horses to be removed, after which he went up to Doña Emilia, and pointed to the animals.
"Mount," was all he said.
This order must be obeyed.
"My daughter and I will ride the same horse," she remarked. "My daughter is weak, and I will support her."
"Be it so," said the chief.