She stooped and picked from the ground a withered leaf, holding it out in her small, pink palm.
"Like this withered leaf is your understanding. It is for a maid to quicken you to life, ... as I restore this last year's leaf to life," she said, deliberately.
In her open palm the dry, gray leaf quivered, moved, straightened, slowly turned moist and fresh and green. Through the intense silence the heavy, gasping breath of hundreds of savages told of the tension they struggled under.
She dropped the leaf to her feet; gradually it lost its green and curled up again, a brittle, ashy flake.
"O you Oneidas!" she cried, in that clear voice which seemed to leave a floating melody in the air, "I have talked with my Sisters of the Murmuring Skies, and none but the lynx at my feet heard us."
She bent her lovely head and looked into the creature's blazing orbs; after a moment the cat rose, took three stealthy steps, and lay down at her feet, closing its emerald eyes.
The girl raised her head: "Ask me concerning the truth, you sachems of the Oneida, and speak for the five war-chiefs who stand in their paint behind you!"
An old sachem rose, peering out at her from dim, aged eyes.
"Is it war, O Woman of the Rose?" he quavered.
"Neah!" she said, sweetly.