Her appearance, so sudden, so unexpected, and at such a time and place, startled the hermit, and he grasped the Indian’s hand, mutely appealing for a solution of the mystery.
Oonalooska was calm.
“Alaska has been to the forest,” he said. “See, her arms are full of plants. They are for the hunter’s wounds. She never gathers plants when the sun is in the sky. The sun dries their sap, and beneath the stars it runs like water.”
“Has she seen us?” queried the hermit.
“She stopped when the Lone Man said ‘Free at last!’” responded the Indian. “Oonalooska saw Letheto prick up his long ears. She sees us now!”
“Then we are hers,” said Hewitt, with despair in his tones.
“No, no,” returned the Indian. “When Oonalooska was a boy, his father taught him to throw the knife. He has not forgotten those lessons. He will throw the knife into Alaska’s heart; then we can frighten Letheto away.”
When the Indian finished he caught the knife by the tip of the dagger-like blade, and drew back for the death-blow.
The mad queen stood scarce twenty feet from them, with her eyes fixed upon their forms. But she could not note their actions, for the shade in which they crouched was too gloomy to be minutely penetrated by the naked eye.
Strange emotions swayed the hermit’s form while he gazed upon Alaska, and listened to Oonalooska’s plan for their escape. One blow would insure their freedom, and rid them of the greatest foe they possessed; but Hewitt vowed that that blow should not be given.