Therefore, when the Indian’s muscles flew to the work of speeding the knife to Alaska’s heart, Hewitt’s hand closed around his wrist.
“What means the white man?” questioned Oonalooska, throwing a strange look into the giant’s eyes. “Is his head cracked?”
“No, no,” he answered, calmly. “Long ago the Lone Man loved a woman who looked like poor Alaska; but she has long been absent from him. Oonalooska shall not throw the knife. If he would escape, let him glide away. I will become her prisoner. Perhaps—yes, yes, she may be—”
He said no more, for the Wolf Queen was approaching them.
“Oonalooska pities the Lone Man,” said the Indian. “He will remain with him, though his path leads from freedom to the stake.”
They rose to their feet, and, with a word to the wolf, Alaska sprung forward.
“Ha! ha! ha!” she laughed, not in anger, but in triumph, “the Great Spirit has guided Oonalooska and the Lone Man to Alaska. The Great Spirit is good to poor Alaska; he guided her little boy to her lodge, and she is happy once more. She will take the pale-face and red-skin back to the strong lodge.”
At her bidding, our friends turned toward their prison again.
As they walked through the rays of the morn that had just clambered over the eastern hills, Hewitt studied the face of the Wolf-Queen. The scrutiny took him back to the days of his youth, and, in vision, he saw the face that he had kissed at the altar.
The Indian walked along, dogged and sullen.