CHAPTER IV.THE TEST OF HONOR.
On the morning appointed, the great body of warriors departed upon their expedition, commanded by Gi-en-gwa-tah, who already had won so much distinction by his courage and success.
From the threshold of her lodge Queen Mahaska saw them file past her. She stood there, surrounded by the old chiefs, and something in the scene suggested to her mind, stored with the records of olden times, the descriptions she had read of armies in the middle ages, going forth to vindicate the cause of beauty. She smiled bitterly as the conceit passed through her thoughts, then she took a long crimson feather from her coronet, and wove it among the boughs drooping over the door of the lodge. It was a sign they all understood: the warrior who returned with the bloody trophy she had demanded, could claim the crimson plume.
When the band had disappeared, the people returned to their usual indolence, and Mahaska was left to the solitude of her lodge.
A week passed, but there was no intelligence from the absent warriors. The people began to look for their return, but Mahaska asked no questions and betrayed no interest.
At last a swift runner brought back the expected news that the Delawares had been defeated—their chief slain. The shouts of the Indians penetrated to the apartment where Mahaska was seated; she knew what they portended, but did not move. An old Indian woman, who waited upon her, swept back the draperies hastily, and looked in; but Mahaska did not appear to notice her presence, and she retreated without a word.
There she sat and waited; it mattered nothing to her upon whom the victory had fallen, so long as her husband was alive. He must henceforth be no stumbling-block in her path. She would permit nothing to mar her plans.
At length the curtains were again swept back, and the mother of her husband appeared at the opening.
“The chiefs await Queen Mahaska,” she said, as her old face lit up with animation.
Mahaska rose and passed into the outer apartment, where several of the chiefs were standing.
“The people shout the name of our young chief,” said Upepah; “double-tongued Shewashiet will speak no more lies.”
“It is well,” she answered, briefly.
“The young brave has earned a right to the chieftainship of his tribe. Mahaska is his prophet,” continued the old warrior.
“The crimson feather hangs over the door of Mahaska’s lodge,” she answered.
“It is the sign of a united power,” replied the warrior.
“Mahaska will rejoice when she sees the chief whose hand will take down the plume she fastened among the leaves.”
“It is Gi-en-gwa-tah’s, then.” The chief retired with mingled feelings of disappointment at her want of eagerness, and admiration for the pride which filled her manner.
Mahaska had been in no haste to know the name of the chief who had gained her lasting hate by fulfilling her behest. Never a warrior brought home a trophy from the war-path so dangerous and full of retribution to himself as would be Shewashiet’s scalp; never a young brave snatched a token from maiden’s hand so full of evil and death. The venom of the rattlesnake would not be more fatal than the doom it portended, for Mahaska was resolved to havenopartner in her greatness.
The afternoon passed; an eager crowd went out to meet the expected band. Mahaska put aside her reflections to play her part in the scene before her. She knew well the effect that any thing attractive to the eye produced upon the savages, and never neglected an opportunity to essay it; she did not now, even in the repulsion and scorn with which her mind dwelt upon the nearing destiny before her, forget the picturesque and beautiful.
The furs hung before the opening of the lodge were thrown back, and Mahaska seated herself there, richly attired, and surrounded by the old chiefs. They all waited in silence, somuch impressed by her appearance and state that they could only watch her in mute wonder.
Again the shouts of the people went up; the chiefs leaned eagerly forward; the throng pressed more eagerly in advance; but Mahaska sat there immovable as before. The band of warriors emerged from the forest; the leader urged on his horse with all speed, and rode furiously toward the lodge. The rest of the warriors remained at a little distance; a breathless silence crept over the people, while every eye was turned upon Mahaska. She had not moved—had not even looked up.
Her young husband sprung from his horse—stood upon the threshold of the lodge and grasped the crimson plume. Mahaska raised her eyes as he took from his belt a scalp and extended it toward her, the long hair fluttering in the wind.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah brings the queen his gift,” he said, in a voice trembling with emotion; “will she take it from his hand?”
She reached forth that slender, delicate hand, grasped the gory trophy, held it aloft, and exclaimed:
“So perish all our enemies!”
The throng answered with exultant exclamations. The young chief stood before her, holding the crimson feather in his hand, unable to control the eagerness which shook his frame. Mahaska turned toward the group of old men about her:
“The chiefs behold,” she said; “the Great Spirit has favored Gi-en-gwa-tah! So shall it be with all who obey Mahaska, and who seek to work her bidding out of love.”
She stood smiling up in the face of her husband, while many a murderous thought seethed through her brain. The delicate fingers that held the scalp quivered with eagerness to hold a yet dearer trophy, which, once in her grasp, would leave her pathway unfettered.
The warriors left the two standing on the threshold of their lodge, and marched away toward the village, raising a shout of triumph that echoed across the lake, and died like a wind in the depths of the wilderness.
“Is Mahaska glad that her chief won her prize?” he asked, holding up the graceful feather.
“Does not Gi-en-gwa-tah know her heart?” she asked. “Mahaska can not make vows and use childish words like common women; she is set apart from them by a sacred spell; let Gi-en-gwa-tah be content that she sits beside him in his lodge.”
“The chief’s heart has been lonely without her,” he said, earnestly; “he knows her to be a great prophetess, but, to his love she is a woman, and he pines for her presence as he would for the sunshine during a long night.”
She was in no mood for listening to such words; she had been buoying herself up with false hopes too long not to feel their disappointment; it was enough to have the misery of seeing him return a victor without being obliged to submit to evidences of his affection.
“The queen has many things on her mind,” she said, coldly; “she can not talk with Gi-en-gwa-tah now.”
He looked at her in sorrowful surprise.
“Is Mahaska in haste to quit the chief?” he asked. “He has been gone so many days, and she sends him from her now.”
She made an impatient gesture.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah must pay the penalty of his greatness,” she said; “is there a chief in the tribe that would not obey Mahaska’s wishes to be in his place? Mahaska hears voices—she must obey them.”
Without another word she left him alone, so full of sad thoughts after the triumph he had expected, that his heart was chilled to the core.