“When was that, mother?” asked Mayne, anxious to fathom the story of her life, before insanity swayed her mind.
A smile illumined her face at the word “mother,” and she imprinted a kiss on the Virginian’s forehead.
“Alaska was a little girl when she sung with the birds by the great tree, split by the Great Spirit’s fiery ax.”
“How singular!” mused Mayne Fairfax. “Not far from my home, where once a cabin stood, stands a great lightning-riven oak. Can it be that this poor mad-woman once lived so near Fairfax manor?”
The crazy queen watched him narrowly, as he communed with himself.
“Did Alaska—my mother, dwell near the riven oak? Why did my mother come to the Shawnees?”
“Alas! Alaska forgets every thing save the big tree and her boy,” said the woman. “Some day the Great Spirit will chase the pain from this head, as the Shawnees chase the deer from their coverts.”
The young hunter was almost satisfied that Alaska, in the days of sanity, had dwelt near his own home; but her chaotic mind refused her the recollection he coveted.
Again and again he questioned her; but, learning nothing, at last gave up in despair.
He hoped that the “some day” to which she referred with prophetic mien, would soon arrive, and he prayed that he might witness its arrival.