Women with red-painted cheeks and long, braided hair sit in a large half-circle against the willow railing.  They, too, join in the singing, and rise to dance with their victorious warriors.

Amid this circular dance arena stands a prisoner bound to a post, haggard with shame and sorrow.  He hangs his disheveled head.

He stares with unseeing eyes upon the bare earth at his feet.  With jeers and smirking faces the dancers mock the Dakota captive.  Rowdy braves and small boys hoot and yell in derision.

Silent among the noisy mob, a tall woman, leaning both elbows on the round willow railing, peers into the lighted arena.  The dancing center fire shines bright into her handsome face, intensifying the night in her dark eyes.  It breaks into myriad points upon her beaded dress.  Unmindful of the surging throng jostling her at either side, she glares in upon the hateful, scoffing men.  Suddenly she turns her head.  Tittering maids whisper near her ear: 

“There!  There!  See him now, sneering in the captive’s face.  ’Tis he who sprang upon the young man and dragged him by his long hair to yonder post.  See!  He is handsome!  How gracefully he dances!”

The silent young woman looks toward the bound captive.  She sees a warrior, scarce older than the captive, flourishing a tomahawk in the Dakota’s face.  A burning rage darts forth from her eyes and brands him for a victim of revenge.  Her heart mutters within her breast, “Come, I wish to meet you, vile foe, who captured my lover and tortures him now with a living death.”

Here the singers hush their voices, and the dancers scatter to their various resting-places along the willow ring.  The victor gives a reluctant last twirl of his tomahawk, then, like the others, he leaves the center ground.  With head and shoulders swaying from side to side, he carries a high-pointing chin toward the willow railing.  Sitting down upon the ground with crossed legs, he fans himself with an outspread turkey wing.

Now and then he stops his haughty blinking to peep out of the corners of his eyes.  He hears some one clearing her throat gently.  It is unmistakably for his ear.  The wing-fan swings irregularly to and fro.  At length he turns a proud face over a bare shoulder and beholds a handsome woman smiling.

“Ah, she would speak to a hero!” thumps his heart wildly.

The singers raise their voices in unison.  The music is irresistible.  Again lunges the victor into the open arena.  Again he leers into the captive’s face.  At every interval between the songs he returns to his resting-place.  Here the young woman awaits him.  As he approaches she smiles boldly into his eyes.  He is pleased with her face and her smile.

Waving his wing-fan spasmodically in front of his face, he sits with his ears pricked up.  He catches a low whisper.  A hand taps him lightly on the shoulder.  The handsome woman speaks to him in his own tongue.  “Come out into the night.  I wish to tell you who I am.”