The White Squaw

And thus was their time tranquilly passed, while war was raging around them.

But the first storm of conflict had been passed, and was succeeded by a temporary calm.

The pale-faces had abandoned the smaller settlements and detached plantations, and in the neighbouring towns awaited the arrival of the Government troops on their way to prosecute the campaign throughout the whole peninsula.

The Indians had sought their respective rendezvous, there to mature plans for a more perfect organisation.

Nelatu and Wacora had returned home, for such was the title Wacora now gave to the place where Oluski’s tribe had their permanent residence.

The exigencies of the contest had compelled the withdrawal of his own warriors from his father’s town, and the two tribes, Oluski and his own, had become fused into one powerful community.

The chief’s views towards his captive had undergone a marked change.

He no longer wished to harm her, and had she demanded from him her liberty, he would have granted it freely.

Of what use is liberty to the homeless?

Alice Rody had become careless of her freedom – nay, in a manner, preferred her captivity to the uncertainty of an unknown future, where no kindred awaited her return, no friend stood expectant to receive her.

A sense of security – almost contentment – had stolen into her heart.

Time had done much to assuage the terrible sorrow from which she had suffered.

It was a wonderful transformation to the once high-spirited girl who had shown such energy and fortitude in the midst of danger.

So thought the young chief, Wacora.

To Nelatu it was a negative happiness. She had not energy to chide his ardent devotion, but submitted to it passively, without bestowing the slightest encouragement.

One lovely afternoon Sansuta, conducted by Alice, strolled to the ruined fort.

Arrived there, Sansuta proceeded to embroider a pouch she had commenced to make.

Alice, seated on a fragment of stone, watched her companion’s trivial employment.

As the Indian girl nestled close to the pale-faced maiden, she seemed on the point of fainting.

She had grown thinner during the last few weeks, and her hollow cheeks were tinted with a hectic flush.

“Rest your head on my lap, Sansuta.”

As Alice spoke, she gently caught the poor girl in her arms.

“I am tired, oh, so tired!” said Sansuta.

“You must not walk so far as this another time. We must seek some place nearer to the town.”

The Indian girl did not appear to heed her, but commenced singing softly to herself.

She paused abruptly in her song, and looked up into her companion’s face.

“Last night I dreamed I was in another land, walking along a footpath. It was strewn with lovely flowers. On both sides were beautiful creeping plants, over which bright butterflies sailed. There were two birds – such birds – their plumage of silver and gold. I heard music. Was it the land of the Great Spirit? Do you think it was?”

“Who knows? it might have been!”

“There I met my father. Not stern as our warriors are, but sad and weeping. Why did he weep?”

Alice was silent. Her own tears hindered her from making answer to the artless question.

“When I saw him weeping, I, too, wept, and kissed him. He spoke kindly to me; but why did he weep?”

Still no answer from her listening companion.

“Then I dreamt – no, I cannot remember what else I dreamt – yet there was some one else there. I seemed to know his face, too; but a great storm arose, and all became dark, and I grew frightened. What was that?”

“Alas! Sansuta, I cannot read my own dreams, far less yours.”

But Sansuta had already forgotten her question, and was again singing softly to herself.

Presently she stopped once more, and putting both arms around Alice’s neck, murmured that she was tired.

The pale-faced maiden kissed her, and, as she did so, the tears from her eyes fell on Sansuta’s cheek.

“Why do you weep? Who has injured you?”

Had Alice framed her thoughts into words she would have answered, the whole world; but, instead, she only replied to her companion with gentle endearments, and, at length, caressed her into a gentle sleep.

It was a beautiful tableaux for a painter to delineate – beautiful – but at the same time sadly impressive.

A young Indian chief, who had been a silent witness to it, must have thought so, by the sigh that escaped him, as he turned his face away.

Wacora was the chief who thus sighed.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Strange Changes

Wacora’s love for Sansuta had long since changed into pity.

A new feeling now possessed his heart.

A new love had arisen from the ashes of the past:

Alice Rody was the object!

He had at first been struck with admiration at her courage; afterwards he had witnessed her discretion and tenderness, and then noted her beauty.

His thoughts, thus stirred; soon ripened into a passion far stronger than respect.