with the runner, Whispering Winds
had smiled, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak; but
the dread command that followed paled her cheek. Black paint meant
hideous death. She saw this man so like the white father. Her
piteous gaze tried to turn from that white face; but the cold,
steely eyes fascinated her.

She had saved one only to be the other's doom!

She had always been drawn toward white men. Many prisoners had she
rescued. She had even befriended her nation's bitter foe, Deathwind.
She had listened to the young missionary with rapture; she had been
his savior. And now when she looked into the eyes of this young
giant, whose fate had rested on her all unwitting words, she
resolved to save him.

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. 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 th