She had been a shy, shrinking creature, fearing to lift her eyes to
a paleface's, but now they were raised clear and steadfast.
As she stepped toward the captive and took his hand, her whole
person radiated with conscious pride in her power. It was the
knowledge that she could save. When she kissed his hand, and knelt
before him, she expressed a tender humility.
She had claimed questionable right of an Indian maiden; she asked
what no Indian dared refuse a chief's daughter; she took the
paleface for her husband.
Her action was followed by an impressive silence. She remained
kneeling. Wingenund resumed his slow march to and fro. Silvertip
retired to his corner with gloomy face. The others bowed their heads
as if the maiden's decree was irrevocable.
Once more the chieftain's sonorous command rang out. An old Indian,
wrinkled and worn, weird of aspect, fanciful of attire, entered the
lodge and waved his wampum wand. He mumbled strange words, and
departed chanting a long song.
Whispering Winds arose, a soft, radiant smile playing over her face,
and, still holding Joe's hand, she led him out of the lodge, through
long rows of silent Indians, down a land bordered by teepees, he
following like one in a dream.
He expected to awaken at any minute to see the stars shining through
the leaves.
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