“Fire and hot blankets must be had instantly,” said he, in the tone of one accustomed to command. “Where is the old woman, Zohah? Summon her again—the maiden must not die!”
His directions were promptly obeyed. But the red men looked sullen and displeased to see the young captive employed in the service of their chief. The old Indian nurse-woman, too, had come again, and seeing the preparations, she muttered—
“No good! No good! Bad Spirit will not submit, and Good Spirit has forsaken Weetano! Zohah has used all healing herbs, but—bad, bad. Zohah’s arts cannot hush the voice from the far south-west! The maiden has heard the call! She will die!”
“Perhaps, not, mother,” said the young physician, soothingly. “The Great Spirit can hush the voice. Will you not lend your aid, that the daughter of your chief may live?”
Thus addressed, old Zohah seemed pleased to follow his directions, and after the patient had been carefully wrapped in the heated blankets, and a few more drops of the brandy put into her mouth, they sat down to watch for its effects, on the unconscious girl. Long, long seemed the moments of that weary watch, and yet the anxious prisoner could discern no change. He took her hand in his, and counted the feeble pulsations—it was still chill and cold, yet his heart encouraged him on in his ministry of mercy.
“Some herbs, good Zohah. Put some herbs on her feet—the long dock-leaves will do, if bruised and withered. She must have some more of the liquid, too,” and for the third time the red beverage was put to her lips. She now swallowed with less difficulty, and her breath was not so hurried and faint; still there was no sign of consciousness, and her attendant relapsed again to his watch, still retaining the wrist of the sufferer in his hand.
The old chief stood a little apart, gazing with an eagle-eye on every movement, but not a word had escaped his lips since his first orders had been obeyed, and he betrayed no sign of weariness, though he had not been seated since his long march.
An hour afterward, the low moaning had died away, and the voice of the captive youth whispered in the ears of Oliwibatuc—
“She sleeps: thy daughter sleeps!”
“Seven suns have set, and this is the maiden’s first quiet sleep,” said old Zohah. “The Pale Face brings witch-water.”