“Nay, Mamalis,” said Bernard, “the creed of your fathers taught not thus. I thought the Indian maxim was that blood alone could wipe out the stain of blood.”
“I love the Christian lesson better,” said Mamalis, softly. “And you, Mr. Bernard, should not try to shake my new born faith. 'Love your enemies—bless them that curse you—pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you—that you may be the children of your Father which is in heaven.' The orphan girl on earth would love to be the child of her father in heaven.”
The sweet simplicity with which the poor girl thus referred to the precepts and promises of her new religion, derived more touching beauty from the broken English with which she expressed them. An attempt to describe her manner and accent would be futile, and would detract from the simple dignity and sweetness with which she uttered the words. We leave the reader from his own imagination to fill up the picture which we can only draw in outline. Bernard saw and felt the power of religion in the heart of this poor savage, and he hesitated what course he should pursue. He knew that her strongest feeling in life had been her affection for her brother. That had been the chord which earliest vibrated in her heart, and which as her heart expanded only increased in tension that added greater sweetness to its tone. It was on this broken string, so rudely snapped asunder, that he resolved to play—hoping thus to strike some harsh and discordant notes in her gentle heart.
“You had a brother, Mamalis,” he said, abruptly; “the voice of your brother's blood calls to you from the ground.”
“My brother!” shrieked the girl, startled by the suddenness of the allusion.
“Aye, your murdered brother,” said Bernard, marking with pleasure the effect he had produced, “and it is in your power to avenge his death. Dare you do it?”
“Oh, my brother, my poor lost brother,” she sobbed, the stoical indifference of the savage, pressed out by the crushed heart of the sister, “if by this hand thy death could be avenged.”
“By your hand he can be avenged,” said Bernard, seeing her pause. “It has not yet been done. That stupid knave, in a moment of vanity, claimed for himself the praise of having murdered a chieftain, but the brave Manteo fell by more noble hands than his.”
“In God's name, who do you mean?” asked Mamalis.
“I can only tell you that it is now in your power to surrender his murderer to justice, and to his deserved fate.”