“Go, then, quickly, and tell John Elmer, that a man, wounded by a gun, is lying in my hut, and I desire him to come instantly.”

The squaw again nodded, and, without making an inquiry, with the natural apathy of her race, she said—­

“What Father Holden say, I do.”

The Indian, who, until now, had been silent, here addressed her in his own tongue.

“Can the Partridge,” he said, “use her wings to no better purpose than to fly upon the errands of her white master?”

“Ohquamehud,” said the squaw, “is a wise warrior, and his eyes are sharp, but they see not into the heart of a woman.  If the sunshine and the rain fall upon the ground, shall it bring forth no fruit?”

“It is well,” said the Indian, in a sarcastic tone; “Peena is well named; and the Partridge, though the daughter of a Sachem, shall flutter through the air to do the bidding of the white man.”

The eyes of Peena, or the Partridge, flashed, and she was about to return an angry reply, when she was prevented by the man whom she had called Father Holden.

“Hasten!” he said, in the same language, forgetting himself, in the excitement of the moment, and unconsciously using the same figurative diction, “or the fountain of the red stream may be dried up before the medicine-man comes.  Hasten!  It is noble to do good, and the Great Spirit shall bless the deed.”

Great was the astonishment of the Indians at discovering they had been understood, and hearing themselves addressed in their own tongue.  But only an expressive hugh! and an involuntary stroke of the paddle, which sent the canoe dancing over the water, betrayed their surprise.  Holden stood for a moment gazing after them, then turning, directed his steps towards the hut.  We will not follow him, but pursue the departing Indians.

For five minutes, perhaps, they paddled on in silence, each apparently unwilling to betray any curiosity about a circumstance that engrossed the thoughts of both.  At last the woman spoke.

“The Great Spirit has taught the words of the wigwam to the man with the Long Beard.”

A shrug of the shoulders and another hugh! were the only notice taken by her companion of the observation.  Again a silence followed, which was broken this time by the man.  As if to express his dissent from the conjecture of the squaw, he said,

“The Long Beard has drunk of the streams that run towards the setting sun, and there he learned the speech of warriors.  Did he charm the ears of Peena with their sounds when he taught her to run his errands?”

The blood crimsoned deeper into the cheeks of the woman, but with an effort she subdued the rising feeling of resentment, while she answered,