Netnokwa had not yet reached her place of destination, and being prevented from journeying farther by the intense cold of the weather, had here stopped to wait for a more auspicious season. Her conduct to the captive maiden had been marked in its kindness, and the attention of Miskwa might be regarded as sisterly, so freely, and with so much apparent pleasure did she seem to bestow it. They treated her not as a prisoner, they required no offices of drudgery from her, but supplied all her wants, and endeavoured to make her as comfortable as possible. This disposition on their part to please, sprung up from the meek and unoffending manner of the captive, from the gentleness and timidity which encircled her, and from the uncomplaining silence with which she bore her misfortunes. She was an object of sorrow, and Netnokwa and Miskwa pitied her, and regretted that she had not been permitted to escape to the settlements, and would at that time have restored her to her friends but for the dread fear of calling down upon their head the wrath of the Prophet. Another reason was, that both Netnokwa and Miskwa from their intercourse with the traders in selling their peltries, had learned the meaning of a few English words, which enabled them to comprehend the wants of the captive, and to make themselves acquainted with many of the sad particulars of her story, which, savage as the Indians may generally be deemed, only served to awaken in their breasts feelings of the deepest sympathy.
As I have no fancy for broken dialects, I shall in the further developement of this story, give a free translation to such conversations as may occur between the captive and the two Indians who have her in charge, and if in this I err, my apology must be, that it is done with a hope, that on that account they may prove more interesting to the reader.
As the life of one who depends on the casualties of the chase for support is frequently one of great hardship and suffering, we must not imagine an exemption in the case of Netnokwa and Miskwa, accustomed as they were to the woods, and skilled as was the latter in the use of her bow. No, far from it.
But to return to the captive, situated as we have described her. She was alone. No living thing was at that time an inmate of her lodge, and even if there had been, there were no means of sustaining life. The last particle of food had been eaten hours before, and nothing now remained but a few dried skins. About the centre of the cabin were the embers of a dying fire, which she now proceeded to rebuild. While engaged in this duty, there entered a light, graceful figure, clad in rich skins, which fitted closely, and imparted to their wearer somewhat the appearance of an Indian boy. A small rifle hung at his back, yet a single glance at the delicate formation of his features proclaimed him of a different sex. Gazing around but for an instant, “where is my mother, Sweet Flower?” she said.
“I have not seen her since the morning,” replied the maiden, and a partial gleam of joy shone for an instant on her wasted countenance, upon the entrance of her friend.
“The storm hurries on, the snow is drifting fast in heaps, and mother's blood courses slowly through her veins; I will go seek her.”
“Oh! do not, Miskwa, do not leave me,” cried the maiden, “you can render no service this dark night, and will most probably be lost in the snows. Oh! you know not how anxiously I have watched for you. Now will you leave me? Let us raise a large fire; Netnokwa is wise in her knowledge of the woods, and will be here presently.”
Yielding to the persuasion of the captive, Miskwa laid aside her cap and rifle, and seated herself near the fire. Her dress consisted of a kirtle or short frock, of English manufacture, fitting closely to her chest, and extending down to her knees. Her feet were encased in moccasins beautifully embroidered; the embroidery, the work of her own hands, and tightly laced they displayed the proportions of a foot and ankle which many a fairer face would envy. Her hair was simply parted in front, and drawn behind her ears, it floated loosely over her shoulders. She was beautiful, and withal, she was sprightly, and playful, and seemingly unconscious of her situation.
“Did you kill any game to day, Miskwa?” inquired the captive.
“No,” said Miskwa, “not a foot print have I seen to day. The game is wise, and the falling snow has driven it to its cover.”