“Kill her! She is a traitress!”
A moment later the skinny bandage fell from the chieftain’s eyes, and he beheld one of the masks pointing to the couch.
His eye followed the scarlet finger, and there, peacefully sleeping, unconscious of danger, lay his hunted daughter—Clearwater.
The eyes that peeped from the round holes in the masks were riveted upon the chief, who could scarcely credit his senses, as his expression indicated.
“Will Hondurah keep his word?” asked the spokesman of the conspirators, breaking the almost palpable silence that reigned throughout the cave.
“Yes.”
The word cut the air like a knife.
An instant later the right hand of the chief was free, and he accepted the long-bladed knife, which his liberator extended, without a word.
“We have guided Hondurah to Clearwater,” said the speaking mask. “He swore that she should pay the penalty of treason by his hand. Now let him rid the nation of a traitress—let Hondurah go to the Great Spirit with a word well kept on his hands.”
The masks drew back now, and with the knife firmly griped, and stern determination written on every lineament, the chief stepped toward his child, whose sleep was the deepest that ever fell to the lot of woman.