“It good to be with you—anywhere, my Nevil,” she said, in her quiet way.
The man turned to the door.
He raised the latch and threw it open. He stood speechless. A panic was upon him; he could not move, he could not think. Little Black Fox was standing in the doorway, and, behind him, two of his war-councilors leaning on their long, old-fashioned rifles.
Without a word, the chief, followed by his two attendants, stepped within. The door was closed again. Then Little Black Fox signed to Wanaha 352 for a light. The squaw took the oil-lamp from a shelf and lit it, and the dull, yellow rays revealed the disorder of the place.
The chief gazed about him. His handsome face was unmoved. Finally he looked into the face of the terror-stricken renegade. Nevil was tall, but he was dwarfed by the magnificent carriage and superb figure of the savage.
It was the chief who was the first to speak. The flowing tongue of the Sioux sounded melodious in the rich tones of the speaker’s voice. He spoke without a touch of the fiery eloquence which had been his when he was yet the untried leader of his race. The man seemed to have suddenly matured. He was no longer the headstrong boy that had conceived an overwhelming passion for a white girl, but a warrior of his race, a warrior and a leader.
“My brother would go from his friends? So?” he said in feigned surprise. “And my sister, Wanaha?”
“Wanaha obeys her lord. Whither he goes she goes. It is good.”
The squaw was alive to the position, but, unlike her white husband, she rose to the occasion. The haughty manner of the chief was no more haughty than hers. She was blood of this man, and no less royal than he. Her deep eyes were alert and shining now. The savage was dominant in her again. She was, indeed, a princess of her race.
“And whither would they go, this white brother 353 and his squaw?” There was a slight irony in the Indian’s voice.