“Six of those you counted are our own people. They are whites and Mexicans.”
“Six whites!” retorted the savage; “there are but five. Who is the sixth?”
“Perhaps it is our queen; she is light in colour. Perhaps the pale chief has mistaken her for a white!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the savages, in a taunting laugh. “Our queen a white! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Your queen,” said Seguin, in a solemn voice; “your queen, as you call her, is my daughter.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” again howled they, in scornful chorus; “your daughter! Ha! ha! ha!” and the room rang with their demoniac laughter.
“Yes!” repeated he, in a loud but faltering voice, for he now saw the turn that things were taking. “Yes, she is my daughter.”
“How can that be?” demanded one of the braves, an orator of the tribe. “You have a daughter among our captives; we know that. She is white as the snow upon the mountain-top. Her hair is yellow as the gold upon these armlets. The queen is dark in complexion; among our tribes there are many as light as she, and her hair is like the wing of the black vulture. How is that? Our children are like one another. Are not yours the same? If the queen be your daughter, then the golden-haired maiden is not. You cannot be the father of both. But no!” continued the subtle savage, elevating his voice, “the queen is not your daughter. She is of our race—a child of Montezuma—a queen of the Navajoes!”
“The queen must be returned to us!” exclaimed several braves; “she is ours; we must have her!”
In vain Seguin reiterated his paternal claim. In vain he detailed the time and circumstances of her capture by the Navajoes themselves. The braves again cried out—