Then through the wood they urged the chief, and, after two hours’ tramp, descended to the stormy lake shore, and filed into a cave whose mouth, so densely packed with young shrubbery, indigenous to the climate, was not visible at a distance of ten feet.
Hondurah could not get a word from his captors, who he felt were the young chiefs whom he had dishonored; but he held his peace, and did not venture to accuse one.
They conducted him a long distance underground, and at last halted in a place which seemed to be quite large.
Presently a torch was introduced, and when the light penetrated the apartment, several savages simultaneously shrunk back, and stared at the figure of a young Indian girl, asleep on the couch.
Hondurah knew that the warriors were excited, and his impatience to learn the cause of that excitement continually increased.
All at once a hand was laid on his arm.
“Hondurah stands over his grave,” said one of the masked Indians, in a disguised tone. “Who would he see before he dies?”
The answer came quickly:
“Clearwater.”
“And what would he do, then?”