Handing an earthen crock to Timid Hare, she turned to her own work—­that of making dye out of the clay she had got the day before.

Timid Hare, holding the big crock as carefully as possible on her shoulder, followed Black Bull out of the tepee.  It seemed good to be outdoors, even in a village of the Dahcotas.  In the doorway of the next lodge stood a young woman with pleasant eyes and beautiful glossy hair.  She looked curiously at the little girl, for she had just heard of her capture.  She must have pitied the child, for she smiled kindly at her.  Black Bull, catching the smile, said, “The Fountain, this is Timid Hare.  Is she not strange to look upon—­so fair?  She must be like the pale-faces I have never seen.”

The Fountain had no chance to answer, for Black Bull now turned to his companion.  “Hurry, Timid Hare, hurry, lest my mother be angry and beat you.”

As the two went on their way, the little girl saw other children like herself, playing together and laughing happily.  One of them had her doll, and was carrying it in a baby-cradle on her back.  She was pretending it was too small to walk, and was singing a lullaby to make it go to sleep.

All the children stopped to look at the little stranger.

“A Mandan!  Oof!” cried one.

“Her hair is not black like ours,” said another.

“Nor is her skin as dark.  She is more like the pale-faces whom we hate,” remarked a third.

Then they turned to their play as if she were not worth noticing, and poor little Timid Hare blushed for shame.  It was hard indeed that even the children should despise her.

A little farther on she noticed a group of men dancing together in the sunlight.  They were much taller than the Mandan braves, and noble to look upon, as Black Bull had said.  But to the little girl holding in mind the capture of the day before, they seemed cruel and fearful even now while they were dancing.

“The Dahcotas dance much—­always,” explained Black Bull, pointing to the men.  “We have many, many dances.  For everything there is a dance.  When we feast, and before we hunt, when councils are held, when guests come among us, we dance.  It is a noble thing to dance.  Sometimes,” he went on, “it is too make us laugh.  Sometimes it is to make our faces grow long—­so!”

At this Black Bull’s face took on a look of sadness as though he were grieving.

Timid Hare was used to the dances of the Mandans, and she loved them.  But they were not so many as those of the Dahcotas, she felt sure.  Why, the night before, whenever she wakened, she heard the sound of dancing in different lodges in the village.

“There is the spring.  Now I go,” said Black Bull, pointing it out half-hidden in a hollow shaded by clumps of bushes.  The youth, with Smoke who had followed close at his heels ever since leaving the lodge, turned back and Timid Hare stooped down to fill the crock.