“Tegakwita does not understand. The white brave was foolish. He is a young warrior. He does not know the use of patience. He first escaped against my orders. The word I sent by your sister was a command to be patient. He went alone, my brother. He has 176 gone forever from my camp. It cannot be that she––”
“The Big Buffalo speaks lies. Who came to cut the white brave’s bonds? Who stole the hunting coat, the leggings of Tegakwita, that her lover might go free? Who has dishonoured herself, her brother, the father that––” Words failed him, and he stood facing them with blazing eyes.
Menard glanced at the maid, but she had passed the point where a shock could sway her, and now stood quietly at the door, waiting to hear what more the warrior would say. But he stood motionless. Father Claude touched his arm.
“If this is true, Tegakwita, the Big Buffalo must not be held to blame. He has spoken truly. To talk in these words to the man who has been your brother, is the act of a dog. You have forgotten that the Big Buffalo never speaks lies.”
The Indian gave no heed to his words. He took a step forward, and raised his hand to his knife. Menard smiled contemptuously, and spread out his hands; he had no weapon. But Tegakwita had a second thought, and dropped his hand. 177
“Tegakwita, too, never speaks lies,” he said. “He will come back before the sun has come again.”
He walked rapidly out, crowding roughly past the maid.
Menajd leaned against the wall. “Poor boy!” he said, “poor boy!”
The maid came slowly in, and sat on the rude bench which leaned against the logs near the door. The strain of the day was drawing out all the strength, the womanhood, that lay behind her buoyant youth. Already the tan was fading from her face, here in the hut and under the protecting elms; and the whiteness of her skin gave her, instead of a worn appearance, the look of an older woman,––firmer, with greater dignity. Her eyes had a deeper, fuller understanding.
“I suppose that there is nothing, M’sieu––nothing that we can do?”