Fiery Man pointed the gun, and fired; the birds fell to the ground. The old man laughed, and Fiery Man showed him the powder and shot.
He took the gun and explained to his companion the mode of preparing it to fire. "Ha!" said he, "you cannot shoot as well as I; but try and bring down one." The old man pointed, and fired; his aim was sure: again a bird fell before his astonished gaze.
"It is yours," said Fiery Man, "and the girl is mine. We will go back and tell her mother what we have agreed upon."
Again he led the way, and the old man followed him back to the wigwam. There they found mother and daughter. There were tears upon the cheek of the latter; she was soon to know how vainly they were shed. She turned away from the gaze of her tall lover, and hid her face against her mother's bosom.
"Tell her," said Fiery Man to White Moon's father; but the old man knew of the bitter dregs he would stir up in the fountain of life before him: he could not find words to tell the young maiden her doom.
Fiery Man could not brook the delay. He laid his brawny hand on the young head that had not yet been lifted from its refuge-place. "She is mine," he said to the mother; "I have bought her. That wakun gun is her father's, that red cloth is yours. White Moon must go with me to my lodge: she must give me warriors like myself for sons. She will be obedient and happy, because her husband is powerful, and feared."
White Moon raised her head and looked in his face; for hope? as well might she have asked it in the glancing of the tomahawk of a Chippeway.
That dark, stern face was softened, it is true: but it was from the contemplation of her attractive features; pride was changed to satisfaction: but it was because he knew that the graceful figure which clung to her mother for protection would soon lean only on him. She sighed and turned away her face; she trembled and sank upon the mat with weakness; no hope—all her bright visions changed: darkness and gloom had come where day had presided in all her brightness.
A short time saw Fiery Man lead to his wigwam his sad young wife, wearied to death with her long journey. Could love have consoled her, she had been happy: for she was as dear as life to the heart of the passionate, overbearing man. As he led her into the wigwam, he pointed to its present occupant. He said she was his sister, but the first glance did the same. There was the tall, gaunt figure; the fierce, flashing eye; the passionate, commanding countenance; but far more repelling in her than in him. White Moon read her own fate; she was to endure hatred as well as love. She could see no shelter from the storm that was settling over her head.
CHAPTER III.