Still, with slow, and timid, and undecided step, he approached the tent of the great chief. The latter motioned him to be seated. Wawandah, who, on entering, had seen in a corner of the tent a muffled figure, which his beating heart told him was the wife of the White Bear, silently obeyed, and waited until the chief had finished his pipe. Wawandah now and then turned his eyes furtively in the direction of the squaw who was embroidering moccasins with the dyed quills of the porcupine, and could perceive that she, too, occasionally glanced at him in the same furtive manner. The heart of Wawandah was troubled yet full of gladness. To be looked at with interest by the Sunflower had been the summit of his highest ambition.
“Wawandah,” said the White Bear, who had finished his pipe, and was now emptying the bowl of its ashes, “the chief, your father, was a great warrior in the tribe; and when, a year after his death, you slew the white bear that was about to kill a young girl, all the tribe thought that you too would become a great warrior. What says my son—why is this?”
“Ugh!” was the sole and assentient reply of the youth.
“The braves say you cannot shoot, and that your arm is wide as that of a squaw from the buffalo or the deer—that every papoose can beat you in the race—that you cannot wrestle, and that the ball never rebounds from your foot. Is this true? Are you no longer a warrior? Why is this, my son?”
Wawandah was silent for a moment, and then placing his palm over his heart, he said in so mournful a tone, that the Sunflower suddenly started and looked up. “Very sick here. Wawandah wishes only to encounter another bear. The victory would not be the same.”
As he uttered these words, his eyes beaming with melancholy tenderness were turned upon the wife of the White Bear. It was just at that moment she looked up. Their glances met. His dark and handsome features became flushed with crimson, as he traced in hers he thought, pity, sorrow, and a full understanding of his position. A thousand delicious thoughts possessed his being. That look of commiseration had repaid him for every insult he had endured. To be rewarded by another, he would have subjected himself to the same a thousand fold. As for the Sunflower, she could not tell wherefore, but it seemed to her as if a new light had dawned upon her being.
“My son,” said the chief, presenting his hand, “I pity you, for I see it all. You love a squaw, who does not love you—and that I know is enough to turn the rifle aside, and check the speed of the race. When the heart is sick the body is sick also. I am old, Wawandah, but I know it—
“See!” he continued, after a short pause, “there is one who ought to be your sister. The White Bear owes her life to you. Without your arm his wigwam would be as a desert. Taken from the fangs of one white bear, you have preserved her for the arms of another.”
The Sunflower and Wawandah looked this time fully, tenderly into each other’s eyes—a new affinity had been created—a new tie mutually acknowledged. It was the first time they had been made aware that she was the young girl thus saved. They both colored deeply, and with a consciousness that that information was fraught with good or evil, for the future, to themselves. Both awaited with interest and impatience what was to follow.
“Wawandah,” pursued the chief, “I feel that I have wronged you by neglect. But I will make amends for it. Once more you shall be a man—a hunter—a warrior. You shall abandon your tent and live in mine. It is large enough for us all. The Sunflower will be glad to receive him who saved her life in the most daring manner. Her smiles will make you forget your hopeless love, and when her hands have prepared the morning meal, we shall go forth to the chase, for I, too, feel that my pretty Sunflower too often dazzles my path with its brightness, and keeps me from the tracks of the deer and buffalo.”