“What's your name?” asked Hetty, with the simplicity of a child.
“Wah-ta-Wah. I no Mingo—good Delaware—Yengeese friend. Mingo cruel, and love scalp, for blood—Delaware love him, for honor. Come here, where no eyes.”
Wah-ta-Wah now led her companion towards the lake, descending the bank so as to place its overhanging trees and bushes between them and any probable observers. Nor did she stop until they were both seated, side by side, on a fallen log, one end of which actually lay buried in the water.
“Why you come for?” the young Indian eagerly inquired—“Where you come for?” Hetty told her tale in her own simple and truth-loving manner. She explained the situation of her father, and stated her desire to serve him, and if possible to procure his release.
“Why your father come to Mingo camp in night?” asked the Indian girl, with a directness, which if not borrowed from the other, partook largely of its sincerity. “He know it war-time, and he no boy—he no want beard—no want to be told Iroquois carry tomahawk, and knife, and rifle. Why he come night time, seize me by hair, and try to scalp Delaware girl?”
“You!” said Hetty, almost sickening with horror—“Did he seize you—did he try to scalp you?”
“Why no? Delaware scalp sell for much as Mingo scalp. Governor no tell difference. Wicked t'ing for pale-face to scalp. No his gifts, as the good Deerslayer always tell me.”
“And do you know the Deerslayer?” said Hetty, coloring with delight and surprise; forgetting her regrets, at the moment, in the influence of this new feeling. “I know him, too. He is now in the Ark, with Judith and a Delaware who is called the Big Serpent. A bold and handsome warrior is this Serpent, too!”
Spite of the rich deep colour that nature had bestowed on the Indian beauty, the tell-tale blood deepened on her cheeks, until the blush gave new animation and intelligence to her jet-black eyes. Raising a finger in an attitude of warning, she dropped her voice, already so soft and sweet, nearly to a whisper, as she continued the discourse.
“Chingachgook!” returned the Delaware girl, sighing out the harsh name, in sounds so softly guttural, as to cause it to reach the ear in melody—“His father, Uncas—great chief of the Mahicanni—next to old Tamenund!—More as warrior, not so much gray hair, and less at Council Fire. You know Serpent?”