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 the fluttering lashes rose.  Joe saw two velvety eyes dark with timid fear, yet veiling in their lustrous depths an unuttered hope and love.

“Whispering Winds—­save—­paleface,” she said, in a voice low and tremulous.  “Fear—­father.  Fear—­tell—­Wingenund—­she—­Christian.”

* * *

Indian summer, that enchanted time, unfolded its golden, dreamy haze over the Delaware village.  The forests blazed with autumn fire, the meadows boomed in rich luxuriance.  All day low down in the valleys hung a purple smoke which changed, as the cool evening shades crept out of the woodland, into a cloud of white mist.  All day the asters along the brooks lifted golden-brown faces to the sun as if to catch the warning warmth of his smile.  All day the plains and forests lay in melancholy repose.  The sad swish of the west wind over the tall grass told that he was slowly dying away before his enemy, the north wind.  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