The Indian youth came up and, raising her in his arms, looked very sadly into her face. She still breathed, but gave no other sign of life. The youth, therefore, lifted her from the ground. He was tall and strong. She was small in person, and reduced almost to skin and bone. He carried her in his arms as though she had been but a little child, and, an hour later, bore her into the Indian camp, for which for many days past she had been making—straight as the arrow flies from the bow.
He carried her at once to the chief’s tent and laid his burden softly down, at the same time explaining how and where he had found her.
Bearpaw sprang up with an air of excitement which an Indian seldom displays. Evidently his feelings were deeply touched, as he knelt and raised the girl’s head. Then he ordered his chief squaw to supply Rising Sun with some warm food.
It was evening when this occurred. Most of the people were supping in their tents. No one was with the chief save his own family and two of his braves.
When the poor maniac revived under the influence of the warm food, she started up with wild looks and sought again to fly, but was forcibly detained by one of the braves.
“Oh, let me go—let me go!—to his mother!” she wailed piteously, for she felt herself to be helpless in the youth’s strong grasp.
“Has Rising Sun forgotten Bearpaw?” said the chief tenderly, as he stood before her.
“Yes—yes—no. I have not forgotten,” she said, passing her hand over her brow; “but, oh! let me go to her before I die!”
“Rising Sun shall not die. She is among friends now. The pale-faced enemies who killed Little Beaver can do her no harm.”
“Killed him—enemies!” murmured the poor girl, as if perplexed; then, quickly, “Yes—yes—he is dead. Does not Rising Sun know it? Did she not see it with her own eyes? He was killed—killed!”