"The water," gasped Onawa for the third time. "My throat is on fire."
"Drink and go forth."
Grasping the vessel in both hands, Onawa drained it to the dregs. Then, as her arms fell, and the taste in her mouth became exceeding bitter, and a strange exaltation visited her brain, and her body began to burn, and numbness came into her feet, she bent with one terrible groan, to hide her fear and her shame, and—if it were possible—her awful knowledge of the wolfsbane poisoning that draught, from the calm black eyes which stared at her across the fire.
"Aid whom you will," said the steady voice, which was scarce audible above the furious beatings of the listener's heart. "The day breaks."
A lifeless winter sun was struggling into the hut.
The pride of her race remained with Onawa to the end. She would not show fear, nor useless rage, in the presence of her sister. She would not confess what she knew, nor acknowledge that she had met with the punishment which she deserved and the laws of their race demanded. Passing into a sad beam of light, she drew herself erect and panted:
"I shall go forth."
"Go, sister," said the poisoner. "I too go forth, but we shall not walk together. For you the west and the forest, for me the south and the sea."
"I go among the pines."
"Farewell, sister."