The sound of dropping nuts was heard under the motionless
trees.
For Joe the days were days of enchantment. His wild heart had found
its mate. A willing captive he was now. All his fancy for other
women, all his memories faded into love for his Indian bride.
Whispering Winds charmed the eye, mind, and heart. Every day her
beauty seemed renewed. She was as apt to learn as she was quick to
turn her black-crowned head, but her supreme beauty was her loving,
innocent soul. Untainted as the clearest spring, it mirrored the
purity and simplicity of her life. Indian she might be, one of a
race whose morals and manners were alien to the man she loved, yet
she would have added honor to the proudest name.
When Whispering Winds raised her dark eyes they showed radiant as a
lone star; when she spoke low her voice made music.
"Beloved," she whispered one day to him, "teach the Indian maiden
more love for you, and truth, and God. Whispering Winds yearns to go
to the Christians, but she fears her stern father. Wingenund would
burn the Village of Peace. The Indian tribes tremble before the
thunder of his wrath. Be patient, my chief. Time changes the leaves,
so it will the anger of the warriors. Whispering Winds will set you
free, and be free herself to go far with you toward the rising sun,
where dwell your people.
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