He turned again from the lodge to seek his wife and child,—the former with her timid and almost fearful salutation, the latter with his merry infant laugh, as he reached forth his hands to be taken close to his father's heart.
He looked around among the groups talking here and there. They were gazing at him, with doubt and consternation in every countenance; for who would dare tell him of all?—who would expose himself to the violence of his wrath?—who but feared to see that iron frame bowed with the tale of horror he must hear?
He hastened towards them, and shook Harpstinah roughly by the arm. "Where is my wife?—my child? Speak!" he said, as the woman, in her fright, seemed to have lost the power of speech.
An old man, who had not accompanied the hunting party, on account of his age, came forward. "There is your son," he said, pointing to the burial-ground. "Your wife left him asleep, and your sister—"
Harpstinah, having recovered herself, interrupted him: he had but a confused notion of the state of things. She told Fiery Man all the circumstances, even to her going to the lodge, drawn thither by the continual crying of the dog, and finding his sister there in her death-pangs. She had tried to make Harpstinah comprehend a message to her brother, but had expired with the effort. Previous to that she had told several persons that White Moon had killed her child, but no one believed it. The affectionate care of the mother was too well known; besides, the girl who had been left in charge of her, said the infant had awakened a short time after White Moon had left, and had then fallen asleep again.
White Moon had been seen as she hurried from the village, but no one had seen her return. Harpstinah had heard angry words passing between them, but did not know that anything more serious had occurred, until some time after, when she entered the lodge, as she had before described. All presumed it must have been the act of White Moon, as she had expressed previously her intention of remaining at home, in order to finish her lodge.
This was the substance of the intelligence, to which Fiery Man listened with an ashy countenance and a trembling frame. His wife, whom he had so loved—his boy, the noble, healthy child, whose growth he had watched day by day! As he bent forward to listen, large tears rested on his cheek. The women moved off affrighted at the spectacle, that tears, such as women shed, should be seen there.
There was one who still remained beside him. Fiery Man had not heard the charge brought against his wife of the murder of her child. So stricken was he, that he only heard and felt that they were gone. The Fawn still remained beside him: she had loved Fiery Man, and had hoped to be his wife. She waited to speak when he should arouse from the first stupor of his grief. He turned to go, he knew not where; he heard his name called, and saw the Fawn beside him. "Your sister said that White Moon had never loved you, and was now revenged; that you had torn her from all she had loved; that even her old mother had wept, and asked you to leave her with her, but in vain; and it was for this White Moon had killed your child, that you might have sorrow too."
Then came back the colour to the bronzed cheek of Fiery Man, and the flashing to his eye. Then did he stand erect, like one that had never known grief—then did love change to bitter hatred. The wife of his bosom was his worst enemy. There were no more tears, but loud threats of vengeance—no trembling, but firm purposes of revenge.
He went again to the lodge, to look at his sister's body. He left her, and stood by the grave of his child. He laid his hand upon the little body, and stood thus while he decided what to do. He shouted for the young men, and told them to go and hunt for his wife, and bring her back to him.