Her bosom rose and fell in short, irregular pulsations. Once or twice, while I was gazing, she half awoke, and muttered some words in the Indian tongue. Her sleep was troubled and broken.
During the journey, Seguin had waited upon her with all the tender solicitude of a father; but she had received his attentions with indifference, or at most regarded them with a cold thankfulness. It was difficult to analyse the feelings that actuated her. Most of the time she remained silent and sullen.
The father endeavoured, once or twice, to resuscitate the memories of her childhood, but without success; and with sorrow at his heart he had each time relinquished the attempt.
I thought he was asleep. I was mistaken. On looking more attentively in his face, I saw that he was regarding her with deep interest, and listening to the broken phrases that fell from her lips. There was a picture of sorrow and anxiety in his look that touched me to the heart.
As I watched him, the girl murmured some words, to me unintelligible, but among them I recognised the name “Dacoma.”
I saw that Seguin started as he heard it.
“Poor child!” said he, seeing that I was awake; “she is dreaming, and a troubled dream it is. I have half a mind to wake her out of it.”
“She needs rest,” I replied.
“Ay, if that be rest. Listen! again ‘Dacoma.’”
“It is the name of the captive chief.”