Yet he felt the warm, soft pressure of a little hand.
Surely this slender, graceful figure was real.
She bade him enter a lodge of imposing proportions. Still silent, in
amazement and gratitude, he obeyed.
The maiden turned to Joe. Though traces of pride still lingered, all
her fire had vanished. Her bosom rose with each quick-panting
breath; her lips quivered, she trembled like a trapped doe.
But at last the fluttering lashes rose. Joe saw two velvety eyes
dark with timid fear, yet veiling in their lustrous depths an
unuttered hope and love.
"Whispering Winds--save--paleface," she said, in a voice low and
tremulous. "Fear--father. Fear--tell--Wingenund--she--Christian."
* * *
Indian summer, that enchanted time, unfolded its golden, dreamy haze
over the Delaware village. The forests blazed with autumn fire, the
meadows boomed in rich luxuriance. All day low down in the valleys
hung a purple smoke which changed, as the cool evening shades crept
out of the woodland, into a cloud of white mist. All day the asters
along the brooks lifted golden-brown faces to the sun as if to catch
the warning warmth of his smile. All day the plains and forests lay
in melancholy repose. The sad swish of the west wind over the tall
grass told that he was slowly dying away before his enemy, the north
wind.
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