“Red Sky of the morning hath travelled far;” said a warrior, “her step is like that of the bounding roe; her moccasin leaves no print on the grass; her voice is sweet as the singing of birds. There is nothing like her in the forest. A maiden likes not to be turned away.”
“I have not seen her,” said Tecumseh, “and though she be beautiful as the sun when first he rises up from the prairie, and walks out to make every thing glad, yet, I want not a wife.”
“Shall she be laughed at by the chieftains of her own tribe,” said a warrior, “for having been refused by a Shawanee brave? She is young; her heart will bleed.”
“Tecumseh is sorry,” was the reply, “but he has spoken. The maiden must return to her own lodge.”
“Stay,” said a warrior, whose years entitled him to great respect, “will Tecumseh listen? My eyes have seen many snows, and my ears have drunk in many sounds:—something whispers me put it off.”
“Tecumseh would be glad if he could do so,” was the reply. “If the tomahawk were deep buried, and the pale faces would let it stay there, the daughter of Netnokwa should live in his wigwam. But it cannot be, and it is better to refuse at once, than to delay until the long shadows fall and then refuse. The maiden would dream she was a chieftain's bride. No.”—Then, turning to a warrior, he said, “get ready the presents, let them be rich, and such as should belong to a chieftain's daughter. To-morrow the maiden returns to her own country.”
The preparations were soon made, and “Red Sky of the morning” was seen coming towards Tecumseh's tent, leaning for support on the arm of her mother. As they approached, they were met by Tecumseh, who treated them with great courtesy; nothing indicated his purpose, no marked dislike, or even coldness of manner told that the maiden was to be refused. Never was a girl of the forest more fair, and never did so much delicacy and timidity encircle a dusky form. Shrinking from the ardent gaze of the chieftain, she caused her hair to fall over her face, serving as a veil behind which her virgin modesty retreated, while she awaited his advances. Tecumseh had never seen any thing so beautiful, and for a moment faltered in his determination; yet, with a recollection of the situation of his country, he was himself again, and taking the maiden by the hand he led her towards his tent, that he might accompany his refusal with a sufficient number of presents.
Netnokwa, during this time, calm, dignified, and majestic, had been supporting her daughter, without ever for a moment dreaming, that she was to be refused; and when Tecumseh, taking hold of her hand, led her on to his tent, she observed, “‘Red Sky of the morning’ will be the bride of the greatest brave.”
Tecumseh heard the remark, and felt deeply; for besides the passions of the mother which were now to be aroused, there was the daughter so retiring, modest, and gentle, that he was pained to give a pang to one so good. How sadly would she be mortified, not because she loved him, for until the present moment her eyes had never beheld him, but because of the ridicule which would be cast on her by the chieftains of her own tribe, for having been refused by the Shawanee. Without her consent, her mother had projected this match, in order to secure a strong ally; she was likewise apprised of the growing reputation of the Shawanee chief, and doting upon her daughter, had been anxious to connect her with one, whom fame had already exalted far above his companions.
Tecumseh, accompanied by Netnokwa and her daughter, had now nearly reached his tent; another moment and the costly pile of presents would have told his determination, when suddenly there arose a cry, that a runner was coming. The camp was instantly in motion, and all minor things forgotten in a general desire to hear tidings, whose import none could conjecture. Great was the relief to Tecumseh; it enabled him for a time to postpone the ceremony, and flattered him with the hope, that its purport would compel him to defer it until some more opportune occasion.