“June, this is not yourself. I cannot, will not believe that you wish to see our men murdered!”
June turned her dark eyes quietly on Mabel; and for a moment her look was stern, though it was soon changed into one of melancholy compassion.
“Lily, Yengeese girl?” she said, as one asks a question.
“Certainly, and as a Yengeese girl I would save my countrymen from slaughter.”
“Very good, if can. June no Yengeese, June Tuscarora—got Tuscarora husband—Tuscarora heart—Tuscarora feeling—all over Tuscarora. Lily wouldn't run and tell French that her fader was coming to gain victory?”
“Perhaps not,” returned Mabel, pressing a hand on a brain that felt bewildered,—“perhaps not; but you serve me, aid me—have saved me, June! Why have you done this, if you only feel as a Tuscarora?”
“Don't only feel as Tuscarora; feel as girl, feel as squaw. Love pretty Lily, and put it in my bosom.”
Mabel melted into tears, and she pressed the affectionate creature to her heart. It was near a minute before she could renew the discourse, but then she succeeded in speaking more calmly and with greater coherence.
“Let me know the worst, June,” said she. “To-night your people are feasting; what do they intend to do to-morrow?”
“Don't know; afraid to see Arrowhead, afraid to ask question; t'ink hide away till Yengeese come back.”