"The sachem ordered his warrior to speak as he has done," the Indian made answer. "The warrior has obeyed; my mother must not be angry with him."
"I am not angry with you, Indian," she said, less rudely, desiring not to alienate this man, who, ever since he served them, had displayed a species of rough pity. "I do not at all think of making you responsible for orders which you must neither discuss nor hesitate to carry out; still I will remark to you that as we are the prisoners of your sachem, as you term him, we have no means to avoid the interview he requests, and that, consequently, it is unnecessary for him to ask a permission which he can very well do without."
"Good! My mother speaks well; hence the sachem may come after breakfast?"
"He can come when he thinks proper. We will receive him, as he desires it."
The Indian went out, and the two ladies were left alone. "We are going to know our fate at last," Doña Emilia said, with a feigned indifference she was far from feeling.
"Yes," her daughter replied sorrowfully. "Heaven grant that a feeling of pity may still reside in the heart of this savage, and that the propositions he makes us may not be of such a nature that we must decline them."
"Heaven grant it, indeed, my daughter! Alas, who knows what fate reserves for us! Perhaps you will regret that you did not die during your illness." The girl remained silent for a moment, and then a gloomy smile played round her pale lips.
"Mother," she asked, "have you kept your vial?"
"Yes," Doña Emilia answered; "it still contains enough to kill us both."
"In that case rejoice, mother," the maiden answered, almost gaily, "we have nothing more to fear! Whatever proposition this crafty chief may make to us, we are always certain of getting out of his clutches, and finding refuge in death."