“Again, Ma'amselle!” he cried, with the old magic of his smile. “Do you bring by any chance a red flower to the council of the Nakonkirhirinons?”
But the Indians closed in around her, pulling and plucking at her with eager fingers, and they saw her fighting among them like a man.
McElroy for the first time loosed his tongue in blasphemy and cursed like a madman, tugging at the bonds which held him.
“'Tis all in a day's march, M'sieu,” said De Courtenay, “and the sweet spirit of Ma'amselle is like to cross the Styx with us.”
But for the first time, also, there was in his tone a note of weariness, a breath of sadness that sang under the light words with infinite pathos.
The new attraction drew the crowd, and the old ones were left in solitude, while the Nakonkirhirinons surged and scrambled for a look at the white woman fallen from a clear sky, leagues from where they had seen her. Half-breeds, dissolute renegades, and Indians, they pushed and peered and in many a face was already burning the excitement of her beauty, especially those of the savage Bois-Brules.
McElroy prayed aloud to God for the heavens to fall, for some great disaster.
But soon it became apparent that something of importance was to take place. A hundred headmen gathered in knots and there was dissension and brawling and once near a riot, while the girl stood in a circle of malodorous, leering humans with her back against a tree, warding off hands with man-like blows.
There was no order in the tribe. Negansahima, whose iron hand had ruled with power and justice above the average, was dead. The new chief had not yet come into power with fitting ceremony, and thus the old men of the tribe were for the moment authority, and, as too many cooks spoil the broth, so too many rulers breed dissension.
But finally a conclusion was reached.