Later, on that same dark night of sorrow, the aged Chief lay in his miserable hut, dying. By his side stood Antoine, more withered and time-stricken than even his fast fading companion. Behind, at a short interval, appeared the heavy countenance of Menotah.
Outside, within the ruddy circle of the smoke fires, squaws squatted in statuesque positions, softly beating at drums to keep aloof the evil spirits. Also, many dark shadows of warriors crossed and recrossed, muttering incantations to the weird cadence of the music, as they passed round the enclosure with arms waving wildly above their heads. The strangely coloured scene was unnaturally impressive.
The tale of Menotah's grief was known, even to the dying Chief. For he had heard a muttered conversation at his side, and had prayed Antoine to tell him all. The news, expected though it was, convulsed his feeble frame with a last passionate fury. He drew himself frantically upright, and stretched out a claw-like hand.
'Why did we not slay him? That would but have called down the wrath of others. Better their vengeance than my daughter's despair. Antoine, why did you not poison him with strong drugs?'
The Ancient stood motionless, though his lips trembled as he mattered fierce words of execration. He had looked for this end from the first days of opening passion. He had besought the girl he loved to learn the lesson of hating the perfidious white, even as he did. Words had been useless; no prayers might avail against the will of the stubborn heart.
'Trouble not, my father,' said Menotah. 'I have knowledge now, and can avenge myself.'
A dull light crawled into Antoine's eyes as he raised his head and noted her expressionless face. 'You speak like a daughter of the tribe, child—as one that I have taught. 'Tis well. You must live for vengeance. Before this night I told you thus. Behold it is true.'
'Vengeance! Vengeance!' came in thick utterance from the now prostrate figure.
'You shall look from the hunting lands, old friend, and behold your daughter avenging herself upon enemies. The sight will gladden your heart, as you sweep over the fields, and slay the buffalo with hand that misses not its aim.'