“Tegakwita’s arms are weary.”
“Are they?” said Menard, dryly.
“Tegakwita has not slept for many suns.”
“Neither have I.”
The Indian started as a rustle came from the forest. Menard watched him curiously. The whole proceeding was too unusual to be easily understood. Tegakwita’s nervous manner, his request that the Captain accompany him to the mound, the weapons that never left his side,––these might be the signs of a mind driven to madness by his sister’s act; but Menard did not recollect, from his own observation of the Iroquois character, that love for a sister was a marked trait among the able-bodied braves. 299 Perhaps it was delay that he sought. At this thought Menard quietly moved farther from the undergrowth. Tegakwita’s quick eyes followed the movement.
“Come,” said the Captain, “the night is nearly gone. I cannot wait longer.”
“Tegakwita has worked hard. His heart is sick, his body lame. Will the Big Buffalo help his Onondaga brother?”
“Yes.”
The Indian rose with too prompt relief.
“Your muscles need only the promise of help to give them back their spring, Tegakwita.”