“Now,” said he, “Newaska will throw the venison to Alaska’s children, and step from her lodge.”
“When does it send them on the trail of death?” asked the young brave, thrusting the meat into a pouch beneath his robe.
“Before Newaska can repeat the names of the chiefs of his nation,” was the reply. “He must get Alaska beyond his sight before he feeds her children.”
“Newaska will work like the serpent,” said the brave, and glided from the Prophet’s lodge.
Meanwhile the day passed quickly to the doomed prisoners in the strong lodge. They saw no hope with cheering lay ahead.
Oonalooska was sullen and silent; and, weakened by the scenes through which he had passed within the last twenty-four hours, and his wounds irritated by fatigue, Mayne Fairfax slumbered.
The hermit’s spirits did not desert him. Now and then he would walk to the heavy oaken door, shaped and hung by Girty’s hands, whence he would shower defiant words upon his guards.
“I say,” he cried once, “did I choke the white devil to death?”
“No,” answer the only guard who replied to him; “the White Chief is in the Prophet’s lodge.”
“Still at his old trade!” returned Hewitt, “plotting chief. I want another chance at him to-night, and I hope and pray that I may get it.”