He suddenly paused, for the eyes of Alaska fell upon him.
“Tecumseh will not strike the traitor!” said the great Indian, suddenly lowering the hatchet, and becoming wonderfully calm. “He will see him die in the village—not by fire, no, not by fire, for Tecumseh never burns an enemy.”
Again the march was resumed, with Tecumseh thoughtful, at the head of the band.
By degrees Oonalooska approached the hermit, and at length walked at his side.
“Oona,” said Hewitt, in the lowest of whispers, “when struck Tecumseh’s father a white-face?”
“Many, oh, so many moons ago, when the ground was white with feathers that fell from great birds in the clouds,” was the figurative answer, as softly uttered as the question had been.
“Where is the pale-face now?”
“She walks with her wolves,” was the reply, and the speaker bestowed a look upon Alaska, whose tranquil, almost thoughtful countenance breathed not of insanity.
Hewitt raised his eyes to a contemplation of her face, vividly revealed by the glare of the torch borne by the brave in advance of her.
The workings of his countenance told that memory was busy, and, as he turned his eyes from the lunatic, his lips parted.