At last Baroma went to Siena. “Siena may save his people and the Crees.”
Siena regarded him long, then replied: “Siena waits.”
“Let Baroma know. What does Siena wait for? While he waits we die.”
Siena smiled his slow, inscrutable smile and turned away.
Baroma sent for his daughter and ordered her to plead for her life.
Emihiyah came, fragile as a swaying reed, more beautiful than a rose choked in a tangled thicket, and she stood before Siena with doe eyes veiled. “Emihiyah begs Siena to save her and the tribe of Crees.”
“Siena waits,” replied the slave.
Baroma roared in his fury and bade his braves lash the slave. But the blows fell from feeble arms and Siena laughed at his captors.
Then, like a wild lion unleashed from long thrall, he turned upon them: “Starve! Cree dogs! Starve! When the Crees all fall like leaves in autumn, then Siena and his people will go back to the north.”
Baroma’s arrogance left him then, and on another day, when Emihiyah lay weak and pallid in his wigwam and the pangs of hunger gnawed at his own vitals, he again sought Siena. “Let Siena tell for what he waits.”