That same evening, the old Antoine, after listening to the Chiefs last tale of sorrow, sought Menotah in forest and by river, forgetful of age and weakness. At nightfall he came upon her, tripping lightly along the path, with song on her smiling lips and the usual joy at Tier heart. He stopped and drew her—anxious to please, though unwilling to obey—aside to his own tree-environed hut.

Here, with the dramatic force and fantastic word-painting of his race, amid the long blackening shadows, he disclosed his heart. He spoke of the mysterious death of Muskwah, on the stricken mind of her father, and finally appealed to her, by all she held sacred, to return to the people who were her own, to break from the perfidious white, who would soothe the mind with flattery, while with deceit he broke the trusting heart.

The Ancient spoke without previous reasoning, for he had sufficient knowledge to understand that opposition must ever increase determination. At that hour he entertained but one central thought, namely the freeing of Menotah from the life bondage she was accepting. Here was the single bright spot in a dark heart, the only elevating attribute of an embittered nature, his love for the happy girl, who had sprung among them, as he himself had often expressed it, 'like a solitary flower waving in the heart of the rock waste.'

With her customary careless air, Menotah listened to the Old man's eloquence, hands clasped behind her back, radiant eyes wandering from point to point of interest. When he paused, before a fresh effort, she drew a little away and said quietly, 'I am sorry Muskwah is dead.'

So in truth she was, though with the kind of sorrow that breeds joy. For Lamont had assured her how necessary had been his removal. She understood that the Indian had sworn to take her lover's life; that if one was left the other must go. It was far better to lose Muskwah than her handsome white. So she was resigned, and looked upon the murder as part of the dark lot of necessity.

But when she spoke there was no emotion of the voice, nor tear in the eye. This was so evidently a lip sorrow that Antoine's anger ebbed forth in reproach.

'You say there is grief at your heart, child, yet you will give no sign. The man was your lover, and now is dead. In the camp there are maidens, whom he was never wont to favour more than with the passing glance. But these beat their breasts for the sorrow of his end. You, for whom he would have dared all, stand unmoved, and speak of your grief in tones that well might express joy.'

Menotah's soft brow doubled in a frown. 'You are over-ready with words, old Father. Remember, T have cast aside childhood, and may therefore know my own mind. He, who has gone to the shadows, was no lover of mine.'

'You lie, girl,' cried the Ancient, smiting a feeble palm upon his staff. 'Has not the old Chief, your father, told me of his favour towards Muskwah? More, the young man himself has spoken of his warm hope. Many a time did he tell of his love, beneath the still evening, when he sought me for counsel.'

'Did the Chief also tell you that I looked upon Muskwah with eyes of love? Did the young man come ever with the tidings that I had promised to be his bride? You would ask me riddles, old Father. Now must you also be ready with answers.'