Quickly Clearwater sprung to her feet and re-entered the lodge, from which, half an hour later, she emerged and walked rapidly away.
When she had disappeared, Yucata summoned his sub-alterns to his side, and composedly lit his pipe.
“The white girl sleeps,” he said. “Clearwater has gone to weep over the gave of Omaha, for whom her young heart bled.”
The savages seated themselves on the ground before the lodge, and Yucata led them into an animated discussion of the war which was then raging. The old chief seemed to advance strange ideas, for the sake of argument, and so intently were the Indians engaged in their war-talk, that the dark, girlish figure that glided through a long slit in the rear of the lodge, walked away erect and unnoticed.
The savages continued to talk, and at last a sub-chief, who was relating a story, suddenly paused in the midst of his narrative.
The hoot of an owl which emanated from the adjoining forest had caused the interruption.
Yucata started and raised his head.
“’Tis something,” he whispered. “Yucata will see the eyes of that owl,” and cautioning his braves to watch the lodge, but not to disturb the occupant, he rose to his feet and hurried away.
Once beyond his companions, he walked faster than ever, and all at once turned to the left and ran at the top of his speed. He soon reached the last lodge that stood in the northern portion of the village, and waved a farewell with his hand.
“Yucata traitor to Hondurah,” he said; “but Clearwater brought his oath back, and he could not forget it. Yucata never come back here any more.”