“Could you find it again?” she cried, eagerly.
“Dohma go right to it. It near two big oaks, close to Gitche Gumee.”
“Then we’ll find it!” cried the girl. “Soon I will know who I am; soon I’ll lift the vail of mystery that enwraps my birth. How came the ring in the forest? Have the Indians killed the White Tiger? or did he drop the ring?”
“White Tigers live,” said the Indian.
“There is but one, Dohma.”
“Dohma saw two White Tigers last dark. One was not white like his brother.”
“The youth’s mind is wandering,” mused Silver Rifle. “There is but one White Tiger, and he is a half-breed.”
“Half-breed and White Tiger dress alike. Make Indians think there is but one,” said Dohma, who had caught Silver Rifle’s last words. “But,” and he raised his hand to the frightful wound inflicted by his rival’s tomahawk, “Renadah struck deep. Dohma feel sick now. Hatchets bad medicine.”
The girl saw an ashy pallor sweep over the Chippewa’s face, and reached forth her hands to support him. But he eluded them, and fell backward with a groan.
“Oh, heavens! is he dead?” she cried; “and has the secret of the ring’s hiding-place died with him?”