Aniwee had however the important duty to perform of arraying herself in warrior attire.
“Graviel,” she called; and as she spoke a tall slim Indian youth arose from the side of the baby Cacique’s bed, by which he had been keeping watch. Whenever Aniwee left the child she always placed it in the care of this boy, for she knew that she could trust him. He had been Piñone’s favourite attendant, and Graviel worshipped the very ground that Aniwee trod on. He would have died before harm befel his charge.
“Graviel, take the Cacique,” observed Aniwee gravely, “and amuse her.”
The Indian youth obeyed, handling his baby chieftainess with the greatest care, and in a few moments he had completely engrossed her attention by singing to her in a low chanting voice.
Meanwhile Aniwee turned her attention to her attire. Drawing aside a silken curtain, she entered an alcove in the tolderia, which was reserved as her robing room, and was soon busy, aided by her Indian women. When she issued therefrom she looked splendid indeed. A magnificent crimson poncho hung over her shoulders adorned with sparkling golden threads, and she had on snowy-white drawers and neat potro boots, upon which silver spurs jingled. A short sword in a bright silver scabbard hung by her side, and on her head, poised slightly on one side, was a cap of crimson velvet encircled by a band of massive silver, from which drooped two grey ostrich feathers. Decidedly Aniwee looked very handsome, and every inch a Queen.
Under the soothing influence of Graviel’s chant the baby Queen had fallen asleep, and lay peacefully in the arms of her faithful young retainer. Bending over her, the girl mother imprinted a gentle kiss on her forehead. Even as she did so, the far-off sound of a bugle-call penetrated to the tolderia, and brought Aniwee at once to attention.
“Quick, Graviel!” she exclaimed. “Take the Cacique to Blancha, and bid her put the child to rest, and do you keep watch on the tolderia. Yonder bugle heralds the approach of the great British Caciques, whom Aniwee must hasten to welcome.”
A loud shout from three hundred warrior throats greeted her appearance. A milk-white horse waited her in front of the tolderia. In a moment Aniwee was in the saddle, and looking eagerly ahead. Ah! yes, indeed, her white friends were near. There was no mistaking Harry Vane’s loud and familiar “whoo whoop.” The next instant the white horse swept up the valley at full speed in the van of three hundred shouting warriors, brandishing their spears, firing off their guns, and charging upon the advancing party.
