“Are you determined?”
“Yes—for sure.”
“Then so am I,” said Cheenbuk, taking hold of the canoe and turning the bow up-stream. “Get in, Adolay, and we will return to the lodges of your people and die together.”
Cheenbuk had a way of saying and doing things that convinced his hearers that he was thoroughly in earnest. The Indian girl felt this, and regretted much that she had said anything at all about her danger. She now tried to counteract the evil.
“What do you mean?” she said, anxiously.
“I mean that I am not afraid to go back and die with you.”
“But it is not certain,” she replied, “that they will kill me. If my father was at home they would not dare to do it, and perhaps they will be afraid of his revenge when he comes back. But for you there is no chance at all. They will be sure to kill you with slow tortures.”
“I care not. If I go back they will not be so likely to kill you. But listen to me, Adolay. I have a thought. If you come with me to my home in Waruskeek I will take you safe to my father’s igloe, and you shall live with my mother and sister. I will not ask you to be my squaw, but you will stay with them till we collect a strong band of young men, when we will go to visit your people and take you with us. If they are friendly—well, and we can traffic together. If they receive us ill there will be a fight—that is all. I do not like fighting—but whatever happens I promise that you shall be restored to your father and mother. Now, will you go?”
Adolay looked up earnestly into the grave countenance of the young man. There could be no doubt of his thorough sincerity—she felt that—still, she hesitated. It was a bold step to take—even for an Indian heroine!
At that critical moment there broke upon their ears a distant sound that caused them both to start and look round anxiously. It was faint, and so far away that at first they could make nothing of it. A few seconds later it was repeated louder than before. Then a look of intelligence broke over Adolay’s countenance.