The girl looked her interrogator in the face and nodded. Tenskwatawa remained silent. The stillness of the room was oppressive. At last the Prophet removed his hands from her shoulders and, bowing his head, muttered brokenly:
“It is well. Where her heart is, La Violette should be. She is a paleface maiden; she loves a paleface brave. She shall be the light of his lodge—as she has been the light of Tenskwatawa’s life.”
Then, extending his hand to her:
“My daughter, farewell. The Great Spirit gave you to me—he takes you from me. Great is my sorrow; but I will bear it as becomes a Shawnee. My sign is lost; my power has departed. My children spurn my words of advice; the English laugh at my undoing. My sorrow is great. I can bear it—I am a Shawnee. My daughter, farewell—farewell, forever!”
Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed upon his breast.
“Tenskwatawa, my father, you have been kind to me. I have tried to be a daughter to you. Now I am about to leave you forever—to return to my own people. The Great Spirit wills it so. My father, I would exact one promise from you at parting.”
Gently he disengaged himself from her embrace, and answered:
“What my daughter desires, I will do.”
“Then,” she cried, “use all your influence—all your power—to dissuade your children from fighting longer under the English banner. The Seventeen Fires will conquer in the end. The Great Spirit wills it. The redmen will lose their lives and their lands to no purpose. Promise me you will do what I ask.”