But he was soon to be divested of that consoling thought.
After his wounds were dressed, young Fairfax fell back on the couch, and was soon enjoying the sweetest sleep he had known for many hours.
Once, between midnight and dawn, Alaska’s face looked down upon his, upon which a stray moonbeam fell, bathing its paleness in indescribable beauty.
“Yes, yes,” she murmured, turning reluctantly away, “Co Hago, the King of the Wolves, is Alaska’s little boy, and he who touches a hair of his head shall go to Watchemenetoc from the jaws of her wolves. How good the Great Spirit was to send Alaska her boy! For many moons poor Alaska thought that Newaska was her son, but now she knows that her pappoose had a skin as white as the water-flowers, and little brown spots on his arm. Guard him well, Letheto,” she said, bestowing a look upon the gaunt brute that lay at the entrance of the apartment, where the young hunter slept. “He is your king, now—your king, I say; and if the children of Watchemenetoc walk over you to his heart—if you sleep at his door—Alaska will throw you to your brethren, and they shall devour your heart.”
The animal threw a glance upward, as though he understood her, and resumed his vigil.
A kind spirit was ruling Alaska now, and, for once in many hours, Mayne Fairfax slumbered without fear of molestation, though in the jaws of death.
CHAPTER XII.
NOT YET! NOT YET!
When the door of the strong lodge again closed on Oonalooska and the hermit, the former thrust something into the latter’s hands.
The fingers clutched it with eagerness. It was the hilt of a long-bladed knife!
“Where did you get this, chief?” asked the hermit, in a low tone, which, to the listening guards beyond the wall, was a confused murmur.