“No praise like that should reach an Indian maiden’s ear,” said Oluski, with a smile; “nevertheless, Sansuta is as the Great Spirit has made her, that is sufficient.”
The girl did not seem to share her father’s sentiments; a slight pout of her beautiful lips implied that the compliment was by no means unpleasant.
Wacora was again dumb, as if half regretting what he had said.
Such is the power that beauty exercises over bravery.
The young Indian warrior actually blushed at his boldness.
“But what brings you here, Sansuta?” asked her father. “Did you not know that your cousin and myself were in council?”
The pretty Sansuta had recovered her composure.
The pout had disappeared from her lips, which, opening to answer her father’s question, revealed two rows of teeth of a dazzling whiteness.
“I am here to bid you both to the evening meal,” she said.
Her voice, melodious and soft, struck upon Wacora’s ear like the music of the mocking-bird.