Oluski would have answered his companion’s address, but the same train of disagreeable thought that had entered his mind at the first part of Wacora’s speech held him silent.
Wacora proceeded.
“Enough, uncle. I did not intend to trouble you with my feelings; I meant only to warn you against danger, for danger exists in all dealings with the pale-faces. They, as ourselves, are true to their instincts, and those instincts blind them to justice. Your friend, the White Chief, may be all you think of him. If so, he will rather admire your caution than blame you for mistrust; natural, because not causeless.”
Whatever reply Oluski intended, was postponed by the arrival of a third person, at whose coming Wacora sprang from the ground with a gesture of surprise and admiration.
The new comer was an Indian maiden. A perfect wood nymph.
She was a girl of slight stature, beautifully rounded limbs, with hands and feet unusually small.
Her dress was simplicity itself; yet so gracefully worn that it seemed the result of laboured art.
A tunic of bright-coloured cloth, clasped round her neck by a silver brooch, descended to her ankles, while around her waist was twisted a scarf of many colours; over her shoulders fell a bright cloth mantle, bordered with shells worked into delicate patterns; upon her head was a bead-work cap, trimmed with the plumes of the white eagle, like a fringe of newly-fallen snow; her wrists were encircled with bead bracelets, whilst embroidered mocassins covered her small feet.
She smilingly approached Oluski, and nestled close to the old chief.
Wacora seemed puzzled by the fair presence.