“Slaves like the others. I see you are astonished. They are not of our tribe—they are Yamassees. Our people conquered them long ago; and many of them still remain slaves.”
We had arrived at the house. His mother met us by the door—a woman of pure Indian race—who had evidently once possessed beauty. She was still agreeable to look upon—well-dressed, though in Indian costume—maternal—intelligent.
We entered—furniture—trophies of the chase—horse accoutrements in the Spanish style—a guitar—ha! books!
My sister and I were not a little surprised to find, under an Indian roof, these symbols of civilisation.
“Ah!” cried the youth, as if suddenly recollecting himself, “I am glad you are come. Your moccasins are finished. Where are they, mother? Where is she? Where is Maümee?”
He had given words to my thoughts—their very echo.
“Who is Maümee?” whispered Virgine.
“An Indian girl—his sister, I believe.”
“Yonder—she comes!”
A foot scarce a span in length; an ankle that, from the broidered flap of the moccasin, exhibits two lines widely diverging upward; a waist of that pleasing flexure that sweeps abruptly inward and out again; a bosom whose prominence could be detected under the coarsest draping; a face of rich golden brown; skin diaphanous; cheeks coral red; lips of like hue; dark eyes and brows; long crescent lashes; hair of deepest black, in wantonness of profusion!