The meal was taken in silence, and at its close Red-Bird took Anna by the hand and led her to a soft couch of furs, tastefully spread over with embroidered blankets, side by side with her own.
“The way was long for the weak Lily,” she said in pleasant accents, “she must rest; Weetano will watch her first slumber—it will be secure in the lodge of the Mohawk chief. She will not fear,” added she, in an inquiring manner; and placing her hand at the same time in hers, Anna was struck with its mortal coldness.
“Why, you are cold, Weetano,” said she, pressing the hand affectionately, “it is you who most need rest, and I came to watch beside you—not you with me.”
“Only to-night, white maiden; Red-Bird has spread your couch with her own hands to-day, and when she has seen you sleep she will lie down on her couch beside you happy, though her heart is frozen, and its streams are fast wasting. Slumber will revive the weary Lily, and Weetano will sing her a song of the Great Spirit. She has learned it of her white brother.”
Thus prevailed on, Anna Temple lay down on the downy bed her friend had spread for her, but she felt no disposition to sleep, for too many thoughts came crowding thickly on her mind, and when, to her surprise, the child of the dusky Mohawk half sung, half chanted the “Cradle Hymn of the Shepherds,” in a voice wildly musical, it brought back with overpowering force the hours of her childhood and the dimly remembered tones of her mother’s voice, for that hymn had often been her lullaby. She buried her face in the blankets, but in spite of her utmost efforts her sobs reached the sharp ear of her companion, who paused quickly in her hymn.
“Does the song of Red-Bird make the tired Lily weep? She meant it not so—but the wounded bird has ever a mournful strain. She will sing no more!”
“Nay, nay, dear Weetano, it is not that; but long years ago my mother used to sing me that hymn, and it seemed so very strange that its echo should come back to me far away in these dim old woods. Francois Waldo must have heard it, too, among the Alpine hills.”
At the mention of that name Weetano started slightly, and looking earnestly at Anna, said—“I remember those words—the Frenchman spoke them—they mean my pale brother. You knew him, then, over the great waters?”
“Yes, Weetano. I knew him there. His enemies burnt his home and murdered his parents—then he fled to my country for shelter. Did I not tell you once of the peasant-boy and his poor little sister Christine? He used to be my tutor there, in my first home—that is all, Weetano.”
“Nay, maiden, doth thy heart whisper truly? Listen! When he read the name on the beautiful book which the Lily gave to Red-Bird, his brow grew whiter, and his eyelids quivered like the poplar before the storm. ’Tis not every breath that moves my brother!”