“I may not hit it,” said the warrior.
“I will,” said the maiden.
The warrior became confused, and hesitated.
“Will you bring me the bird?” said the maiden.
Still more confused, he bent his bow, and started forward.
“You need not shoot,” said the maiden, and drawing her bow, she let fly an arrow. The bird dropped beneath the tree; then, awaiting the return of Tecumseh, she said, “thinkest thou the Ottawa maiden will want for food?”
“Thou art the daughter of Netnokwa,” said Tecumseh, gently taking her hand; “when the pale-face is no more, we will together hunt the deer and buffalo far from our wigwam.”
With Tecumseh, this at the time was his determination; for never had he seen a maiden more lovely, or one more worthy than Miskwa to become a warrior's bride. Yet, dark as his forebodings were with regard to his country, he saw not how great and deadly was to be the coming struggle, nor how sad its issue, after having worn out in its defence the energies of his own great spirit, and covered its plains with the bones of his warriors.
But the time having arrived for him to set out, as ordered by the prophet, Netnokwa said, “hast thou heard of Pontiac, Tecumseh? His blood flows in my veins; at his name the settlements would tremble, not one, nor two, but all; his voice in battle was like rolling thunder; his path on the frontiers like the whirlwind's sweep; make him thy light, thy guide, thy north-star.”
“It is well,” replied the warrior; “but let Tecumseh live, and his country shall be respected and at peace, of the red torch of war shall blaze from the big lakes to the far south; and the red men from the setting sun shall hurry on to feast in the wigwams of the pale faces; farewell.”