Cousin’s hands slowly advanced and pushed back the long locks. He advanced his face close to hers, and I knew his slight form was trembling. Then he staggered back and jerkily brought his arm across his eyes.
“God! It’s my sister!” I heard him mutter.
I leaped to my feet, crying out for him to be a man. He remained motionless with his arm across his face, helpless to defend himself. I turned to the woman. Whatever light had shone in her eyes when memory forced his name from her lips had departed.
Her face was cold and immobile as she met my wild gaze. There was a streak of yellow paint running from the bridge of her nose to the parting of her brown hair. Her skin was as dark as any Shawnee’s, but her eyes held the blue of the cornflower.
I tried to discover points of resemblance between her and the boy and succeeded only when she turned her head in profile; then they were very much alike. He lowered his arm to look over it, and she watched him without changing her expression.
With a hoarse cry he straightened and answering the impulse in his heart, sprang toward her, his arms outstretched to enfold her. She gave ground, not hastily as though wishing to avoid his embrace, but with a sinuous twist of her lithe body, and she repulsed him by raising her hand. He stared at her stupidly, and mumbled:
“You remember me. You called my name. You know I am your brother. You know we lived on Keeney’s Knob. You remember the creek——”
“I remember,” she quietly interrupted. “A very long time ago. Very long. I am a Shawnee now. My heart is red.”
Her words stunned him for a bit, then he managed to gasp out, “Who is this man?” And he glared at the warrior seated at the foot of the tree.
“My husband.”