So, as Silver Rifle rose to greet the dazzling vision of aboriginal loveliness, he parted the curtains and disappeared.
Silence reigned between the two girls for several moments.
The pale captive saw that sadness tugged at Clearwater’s heart-strings and kept her silent.
“Why is Clearwater sad when the skies are so bright, and the birds sing so beautifully?” asked our heroine.
The Indian girl looked up, and nestled closer to the bosom on which she had laid her head.
“The light has left Clearwater’s heart,” she said, softly, sadly. “Silver Rifle, he is dead.”
The last words struck a sad, sympathetic chord in our heroine’s heart, and she echoed the words, mournfully—“He is dead!”
“They killed him in the big woods,” continued Hondurah’s daughter. “The mad young braves, headed by Omaha, took him from the prison-lodge last sleep, and put fire about him.”
Silver Rifle started.
Was the girl referring to Ahdeek, the half-breed?