“What proof have we that you will return?” asked Wahlaga, who was present.
Orianna’s lip curled haughtily as she answered, “Orianna has never yet broke her word.”
“The tomahawk and death to those you love, if you fail in coming,” continued the savage, and “Be it so,” was the reply.
Old Narretta with streaming eyes would fain have interposed a word for her beloved child, but aught from her would have been unavailing. So on the poor girl’s head, which drooped heavily upon her lap, she laid her hard, withered hands, and her tears fell soothingly on the troubled heart of one who stood in so much need of sympathy.
With the coming of daylight Orianna departed. Narretta accompanied her a short distance, and learned from her how much more than her life she loved the white man, and that were it not for this, not half so terrible would be her marriage with Wahlaga.
“I would help you if I could,” said Narretta, “but I cannot, though each night I will ask the Great Spirit to take care of you.”
So they parted, Narretta to return to her lone cabin, and Orianna to pursue her way, she scarce knew whither. For many days they missed her in the sick-room, where all but Charlie wondered why she tarried, and he finally succeeded in convincing them that she had really gone for Ella, though at what a fearful sacrifice he knew not.
CHAPTER XII.
ELLA.
The town of P—— is almost exactly east of Glen’s Creek, and by keeping constantly in that direction, Orianna had but little difficulty in finding her way. In twelve days’ time she accomplished her journey, stopping for food and lodging at the numerous wigwams which lay on her road.
It was near the middle of the afternoon when, at last, she entered the woods on the borders of which lay the settlement of P——. Wearied with her day’s toil, she sought a resting-place beneath the same old oak where, seventeen years before, Mr. Gorton had laid his little Madeline; and the same large, rough stone which he had placed there to mark the spot, and which had since fallen down, now served her for a seat. But Orianna knew it not, nor ever dreamed that often had Robert and Marian stood there, the one listening tearfully, while the other told her all he could remember of the sister who, in childish playfulness, he had often called his little wife.