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THE

INDIAN QUEEN.

By MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS,

AUTHOR OF “AHMO’S PLOT,” “THE INDIAN PRINCESS,” ETC.

LONDON:

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,

THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.

THE INDIAN QUEEN.

CHAPTER I.
THE STROKE FOR A THRONE.

An Indian council-fire was lighted on the banks of Seneca lake; the flames streamed up cold and white in the radiance of the setting sun, and the heavy clouds of smoke, tinged like rainbows by its beams, rolled away over the forest and floated in transparent mist over the Iroquois village built on a picturesque curve of the shore. The glory of midsummer lighted up the woods and lay warm and bright on the beautiful lake. It was the season when all that was poetical and picturesque in savage life wore its richest charms—when those rude natives forgot all the hardships of the cold, stern winter, and yielded themselves to the indolent enjoyment of the long, sunny days.

A great stillness lay over the Seneca village; the people had come out of their wigwams and were gathered as near the council-fire as they dared approach, their picturesque dresses lighting up the background until they looked like a flock of strange tropical birds hovering around the flames which they dared not approach. About the council-fire were grouped the leading chiefs of the Six Nations’ tribes, who, for several weeks past, had been participants in the unusual feasting and merriment which had made the old forest joyous.

It was a band of noble, stately-looking men, sitting in a circle in the red firelight, grave and dignified as Roman Senators gathered in their forum, listening calmly to the various speeches, weighing carefully each word and bringing all the vivid power of acute minds to bear upon the matters in question.

In their midst stood a woman in the fairest bloom of youth, with her crimson robes falling so royally about her, and her every gesture so full of intellect and refinement that any stranger unacquainted with her history and her designs, might have almost believed with the poor savages, that she was a direct messenger from heaven to work their good. This was Mahaska, the white queen, or Mahaska the Avenger, as she loved to call herself. She was Katharine, daughter of Frontenac, the French Governor-General of Canada, by an Indian woman who was daughter of the Seneca chief Nemono. When, in accordance with the will of their dying prophet, they brought the half-white girl Mahaska to be their principal ruler, most of the chiefs among the nations were so deeply impressed by the last revelations of their beloved prophet that they accepted her presence and the state which she took upon herself with the blind fidelity of humbler members of the several tribes; but there were a few who, either from personal ambition or the contempt for women which made a part of their savage education, opposed her will in every way that they dared, and were trying their utmost to raise up a party which would enable them to counteract her rapidly-increasing influence. Mahaska, perfectly acquainted with their plans, and confident of her power to thwart them, only waited for the best moment to crush their schemes forever by some daring act or some craftily-woven plot, whichever should best suit her purposes and be likely to produce the greatest effect on the tribe.

Mahaska’s present ambition was a desire to wage war against the Delawares—a powerful tribe residing south of the Iroquois territory—who had been known to speak slightingly of her claims. This she deemed a favorable opportunity to prove her warlike powers to the Indians, and stronger still was her desire to avenge the slightest affront offered her by that powerful tribe and to crush any daring spirit among her own people that had the audacity to dispute her power.

As the council-fire flamed up and the chiefs grew more and more attentive, she spoke in her bold, imaginative way, carrying the hearts of the people along with her by her resistless eloquence, and noting the effect she produced by the occasional murmurs which broke from the multitude stationed in the background, in spite of the utter silence and decorum it was their habit to preserve on such solemn occasions.

She ended her thrilling appeal and turned toward the chiefs, folding her statuesque arms over her bosom and with the flame-tinted light quivering like a glory around her.

“Mahaska has spoken,” she said; “let the chiefs weigh well her words.”

“Mahaska’s voice is like the wind sent by the Great Spirit,” returned the oldest chief in the assembly; “it goes straight to the hearts of her brethren.”

“Mahaska speaks only as the Great Spirit commands her,” she said, “from the wisdom of the visions which he sends to her in the night time.”

The little knot of chiefs who were opposed to her whispered ominously among themselves—the woman’s quick eye noticed this.

“Do the braves meet at the council-fire to hold secret consultations?” she demanded, turning toward the old chief Upepah.

“They meet to speak their thoughts and wishes,” he answered; “why is Mahaska troubled?”

She pointed toward the little group and said in a low, silky tone, which, after the savages learned to know her better, they knew covered the fiercest and bitterest anger:

“Because, the Fox whispers among his friends and sneers at Mahaska’s words.”

The chiefs turned toward the little party with frowning brows, and murmurs of disapprobation broke from the people in the background, over whom Mahaska’s influence already was almost boundless.

The braves with whom the Fox had been whispering dropped slowly from his side, not daring to support his cause however strongly their wishes might go with his. He was a middle-aged man, with a peculiar depth of firmness and sullen obstinacy in his face. Though he looked slightly discomposed by this unexpected address, he bore the dissatisfied glances with cold dignity.

“Mahaska came among her people because the Great Spirit sent her, and because the Senecas asked her to come,” continued the woman. “It is not well that, in the very outset of her work among you, designing chiefs should whisper among you like bad spirits to counteract her great purposes.”

A murmur went up from the crowd in echo to her words:

“It is not well, it is not well!”

“Mahaska has obeyed her people’s wishes; she has chosen a husband from among their chiefs; if the Iroquois will listen to her she will lead them on to new glory.”

“They listen and cherish her words,” returned Upepah, the old chief. “Mahaska has seen them rejoice over her coming—she knows that the hearts of our braves and our young maidens have been gladdened by her presence; let her have faith in her people. She is a great chief.”

She turned slowly toward him and lifted her face full upon him and smiled with a power of fascination which lighted up her features into wonderful beauty.

“It has been the dream of Mahaska’s life to be with her people,” she answered; “every wish in her heart has turned toward them as a young bird pines for its nest in the green leaves.”

“They have watched for her coming,” he said; “the young maidens and children have been taught to speak her name with reverence; they will come like children to hear the wisdom which she has learned among the whites.”

“Let the chiefs listen too,” she exclaimed, with the arrogance natural to her; “Mahaska has visions such as never were unfolded to their greatest prophets; she will teach them arts which will make them able to combat the cruel whites who are seeking to tread out the red-man’s footsteps from the broad lands their fathers owned.”

“The Iroquois have not had babes and cowards for their chiefs,” said the Fox, unable to keep silent, however unfit the moment to dispute her wishes, or however dangerous to himself might be the result of bringing the angry feelings between them to an issue before the council.

Mahaska scanned his lofty figure from head to foot; the smile did not leave her features, but it looked on the hardness of her face like sunlight playing over ice, and the light in her eyes deepened and grew vicious like those of a serpent just ready to spring.

“The chief is not content with the woman chief his people have chosen,” she said, in her lowest, softest tone.

“Mahaska mistakes,” he answered; “the Fox welcome her willingly as his brothers, but he never heard that she was to sit at the council-fire and be treated as a chief.”

“When Mahaska is not a chief she leaves the tribe forever,” she replied calmly.

“Mahaska is married; why does not Gi-en-gwa-tah her husband speak for her?”

The young chief to whom he alluded rose on the instant and answered with stately pride:

“Gi-en-gwa-tah is chief of the Senecas, but he can not know the visions which Mahaska sees; the Great Spirit converses with her as he did with our prophet, but her husband is like his brethren, only a warrior; he can not understand words from the Great Spirit.”

Mahaska gave him an approving glance and moved nearer the council-fire.

“Let the Fox speak,” she said; “what are his thoughts?”

Thus unexpectedly confronted by the woman armed with the double spell of her gorgeous beauty and the spiritual influence which she had over the minds of a superstitious people, the chief was at loss to reply. For a few seconds he sat silent while Mahaska watched him with a look of grave expectation.

“Why is the Fox silent?” she cried.

“He is not a woman that his words should fall easily and are lost, like the rain,” he answered.

“No!” she exclaimed, “he is silent because he is true to his name—because he is crafty and wants to work under ground; he wishes to carry on his plans in the dark and uproot the love of the people for Mahaska, but when he looks in her face he has no courage to speak.”

“Is the chief a child that he should fear to look a woman in the face?” the chief returned, contemptuously.

A deadly sweetness deepened the smile that still played over Mahaska’s lips. She evinced no other sign of the fierce passion which raged in her soul and which made her determine that the struggle between them should not be prolonged until the weight of his influence and years should be able to tell against her claims. The strife between them should end then and there—either disgrace or death should be his portion; she would risk all her power in one daring act.

As yet, though her influence was great, she could not count fully upon the savages. A few years later and the slavish submission to which she had reduced them was so entire that if she ever looked back upon that scene she smiled with contempt at the hesitation and caution which she had been constrained to use. Her passion and desire for revenge now overswept all bounds, making her alike insensible to the future, personal safety, every thing that stood between her and the gratification of her unwomanly hate.

The words of the Fox were received with new signs of disapproval by the people; the elder chiefs looked puzzled and surprised; those who had promised to support him kept aloof; but all these things only excited the obstinacy of the Indian—he would not yield then. Gi-en-gwa-tah, Mahaska’s newly-made husband, had started forward at those contemptuous words, but a glance from his wife restrained him and he fell back among the leading chiefs, panting with rage.

Mahaska drew her figure to its full hight. She pointed her finger at the Fox with a look of withering scorn, and her voice rung out over the crowd clear and distinct as the tones of a trumpet:

“The chiefs hear!” she exclaimed; “the people hear; will they be silent? Years ago the Senecas were warned by their prophet that the granddaughter of the great Nemono would one day come among them; he bade them listen and obey her implicitly, and promised that she would make them the greatest tribe among all the Six Nations. Mahaska came—she had been reared by the Great Spirit for that purpose—even in her childhood she had visions such as never came to the wisest of your old men; she obeyed the voice of the prophet—she came among her people to lead them on to power and glory.”

Subdued acclamations went up, but she checked the sound by a gesture.

“Upon the very entrance to her career she is checked by this crafty Fox; he seeks to undermine her power; the Great Spirit has warned Mahaska how he plots against her, but she does not fear his snares. Mahaska must be respected and obeyed; her power is that of a prophet and a chief; she is led by the voice of the Manitou and she can never err. She will not argue with this base dog; she will not stand at the council-fire where he is permitted to stand; she will reveal no wishes of the Great Spirit—hold no communion with her people, until they promise to heed her will in all things.”

Even the presence of the chiefs could not restrain the cry of dismay which went up from the tribe at her words. The Fox heard the ominous sound and knew that his scheme of resistance had failed—the wily woman had forced on the struggle before he was prepared, and was crushing him under the suddenness of the blow; but to yield was not in his nature.

“The Fox was a great brave,” he said, “before Mahaska’s feet had learned to walk alone; her voice is only the voice of a woman; she has still many things to learn.”

There was a murmur from the crowd growing more and more excited; reverence to the girl had been taught them as a part of their religion, and they clung to the faith with all the blindness and intensity of their untutored natures.

Again Mahaska’s voice rung out with something so ominous and deep in its tone that even the obstinate savage quailed:

“Be silent while Mineto speaks through my voice,” she cried. Even her enemy started back and gazed on her with bated breath. “Mahaska came here at the request of her people,” she said, in that deep, persuasive voice that rolled like rich music through the throng. “She has been sent by the Great Spirit to give counsel to her people, to teach them new power and glory. Had she found already disobedience and insult? She will go away—will return to her white brethren. Let a boat be made ready—she will leave her people. Mineto commands it. When a chief of the tribes disputes her power she will not stay.”

There was a universal exclamation of terror at her words, and they crowded about her as if to prevent the fulfillment of her threat.

“The maiden speaks with too much fire,” still persisted the Fox; “her words leap out like a mountain torrent; those who rule should talk slowly and weigh well their words.”

At that instant a black cloud swept up the horizon and hovered directly over their heads; Mahaska was not slow to notice and to work upon their superstitious fears by pointing it out as an omen.

“Behold!” she exclaimed, pointing on high. “The Great Spirit sends a sign; he is angry with his people! Is this the welcome they give his messenger? Let them beware! Famine and pestilence shall weaken their strength; the white men shall take them as slaves; the glory of the Six Nations shall go out forever.”

They fairly trembled at her words, delivered with all the fire of an inspired prophetess. Angry murmurs rose around the chief who had incurred her anger; but with true savage obstinacy he would not yield.

“The Senecas have been a nation of warriors since the Great Spirit sent the red-men upon the earth,” said he; “it is not at the voice of a maiden that he will weaken their braves and destroy their women.”

The half-breed’s fury was now aroused to its deadliest heat.

“Either the lying-tongued warrior is given up to my vengeance,” she cried, “or I quit the tribe forever! Do not think to detain me—the Great Spirit would send down a chariot of fire from yonder cloud and bear me from your sight, did I not execute my wishes.”

“Let Mahaska decide!” exclaimed numberless voices; but the chiefs about the council-fire were silent, scarcely knowing how to act in this strange turn of affairs.

“Mahaska will not wait,” she cried, in a strong voice; “the chiefs hear the voice of the people; let them give up the lying dog or Mahaska leaves them forever. Behold the black cloud—how it spreads and deepens—coming nearer and nearer to snatch Mahaska from her tribe. So Mineto speaks; his voice breaks from the cloud.”

A low roll of thunder preceded her words by a single moment.

“No, no!” shouted the crowd. “Mahaska shall not go—give up the Fox to her—give him up! give him up!”

The doomed man sat motionless in his place; not a muscle quivered; not a line in his face betrayed the terrible suspense which he endured.

“Will the chiefs speak?” cried Mahaska; “are they dumb or do they dare to hesitate?”

She flung up both arms toward the black cloud and muttered words in a language unknown to them. The heavy cloud settled lower and lower as if approaching slowly at some mandate of her own. A quiver of flame ran through it, and the thunder that had but muttered before boomed out fearfully. Chiefs and people were alike terrified at the idea of her being suddenly snatched from among them by supernatural means, and they cried out like the voice of one man:

“Let Mahaska’s will be obeyed. She is our prophet and Gi-en-gwa-tah is our chief.”

Rendered desperate by his situation, the doomed savage exclaimed:

“The Senecas are dogs to be led by a woman. The Delawares were right—they are dogs and cowards.”

A sudden rush was made toward the spot where he stood, but the woman sprung between the savages and her victim.

“Back!” she shouted. “Who dares to come between Mahaska and her prey!”

Her hair had broken loose from its coronet of feathers and streamed heavily over her shoulders; her rich dress flashed out in the firelight as the dusk increased; her face was like that of some beautiful fiend.

Before any one could move again she snatched a tomahawk from the belt of the nearest chief and flung it with unerring aim. A low, dull, horrible swash followed. The Indian gave one terrible cry—a fierce leap into the air, and fell dead upon the ashes of the council-fire.

“Mahaska has obeyed the great Mineto!” she exclaimed; “so perish all her enemies.”

She saw the savages standing stupefied, and pointed again to the cloud, which began to drift slowly away, sending back fiery threads of lightning.

“Behold!” she cried. “The cloud-chariot is floating off—Mahaska will stay with her people, but they must obey her, worship her, for she and Mineto are one!”

She rushed toward the prostrate body—tore off the eagle plume that decorated his head, fastened it in her hair, still crying wildly:

“Mahaska is sister to the Great Spirit; who dares doubt her now? She has killed a warrior and wears his plume. Mineto made her a prophet. She has made herself a chief.”

The warriors gathered in a circle around the council-fire. Mahaska stood in the center with one foot on the breast of her prostrate foe.

“Speak!” she said; “is Mahaska your prophet and your chief?”

“Mahaska is our prophet and our white queen. Gi-en-gwa-tah is her husband and our chief,” was the steadfast reply.

For one moment Mahaska’s face was as the thunder-cloud, but with acute foresight she saw that her power had been tasked to the utmost. The tribe was not prepared to acknowledge her as the supreme head of its warriors, and she was not yet strong enough to brave the band of chiefs that surrounded her.

Her face cleared. She looked down at the body of her foe and spurned it with her foot. With a fierce gesture she wrenched away the tomahawk which the dead chief still clutched in his hand, wielding it aloft.

“Mahaska has won her right to be called a chief,” she cried out, with fierce pride. “Do her people doubt now?”

Again that great shout went up:

“Our queen, our queen! We accept the gift of the Great Spirit. Mahaska shall be our queen forever!”

She stepped proudly into the center of the ring, her hand still grasping the tomahawk.

“Chiefs,” she cried, “behold Mahaska is now indeed a queen. The lightning crowns her. The great Mineto shouted from the sky when she clove that traitor’s skull.”

They crowded about her with subdued acclamations and lowly reverence; and there she stood in the fading glories of the sunset, with that cruel smile upon her lips, that deadly light in her eyes, to receive the homage of her people; yet her bosom heaved in its rage, that they had insisted on sharing her sovereignty with Gi-en-gwa-tah. She was queen, but he was chief and her husband.

CHAPTER II.
THE TIGRESS DALLYING WITH HER PREY.

While the savage enthusiasm of the gathered people was at its hight, Mahaska did not forget to urge anew the wish for a chieftainship, which the dead Fox had opposed. Her set purpose was in no manner changed by the evident decision of the chiefs to consider her their prophet and queen—not their chiefest chief. They said, “Gi-en-gwa-tah is our chief, as he is your husband;” thus implying that she was not supreme. A great throb of pain, the pang of a thwarted ambition, shot through her bosom. Had she, the daughter of the noble Frontenac, deserted her father’s halls of splendor—had she cast her civilization away and wedded, at the command of her Indian half-countrymen, a savage chief—all to be denied the prize for which she had aimed? No! the fierce heart of the woman cried; she would be chief not alone of the Senecas, but chief of her husband—chief of the Six Nations; she would be supreme, or be powerless altogether. She glanced toward Gi-en-gwa-tah, her eyes fairly blazing with indignation. A sense of intense dislike of him surged through her breast.

His brow was overcast with thought; there was a heavy pain in the stern, dark eyes. Love for his beautiful wife had become so strong in his savage nature, that it was absolute idolatry; but, with all his bravery, his heart was gentle and tender almost as a woman’s. It had sent a terrible shock through his whole being when he saw Mahaska, with her own hand, deal that death-blow to his enemy. Not that he loved her less; his savage teachings made him admire her daring; but the pain was at his heart, notwithstanding, and he shuddered when he saw the blood-stain on that slender white hand.

The young chief felt no jealousy of his wife for the supremacy she had gained over the people. He believed, firmly as the others, in her supernatural powers; but the sneers of the murdered man had touched him to the quick—he burned for some opportunity to prove to his people that he did not bury his manhood in the reflected glory of a woman, however much he might bow before her claims as a prophetess and the descendant of their great medicine men, by whom she had been bequeathed to the tribe.

Whatever the feelings might be which actuated him, Mahaska could not afford then to allow any cloud to come between them—hereafter it would matter little; her eagle gaze was looking forward to a future of undivided sway, to which the present was but a stepping-stone.

She motioned the chiefs to approach her, saying:

“The council-fire has been kindled in vain—the braves have forgotten.”

“Mahaska is wrong,” returned Upepah; “the chiefs never forget; let them hear the queen speak.”

“The Delawares are our neighbors, but Shewashiet, a chief of their tribe, has said that the Senecas are cowards, because they have chosen a woman for their great medicine prophet. You have just proclaimed Gi-en-gwa-tah your first chief. Let him take a band of warriors and bring Mahaska her traducer’s scalp. It shall be a proof that he is worthy to share her rule over a great tribe.”

A shout of exultation went up from the body of youthful warriors, checked at once by a sign from the old chief. They looked at her with new pride and wonder. To their savage natures, the bloodthirsty spirit she evinced had nothing revolting in it; they only worshiped her the more for her ferocious decision.

Gi-en-gwa-tah placed himself by her side, uttering a shrill battle-shout. Again there was a consultation about the council-fire, then Upepah said:

“The queen has spoken well. In three days the braves will set out upon the war-path. Our young chief shall earn another plume.”

He turned toward the young men and delivered an address full of fire and passion, calculated to inflame still more their desires and ambition. Then the chiefs rose—the council was broken up.

Mahaska made a proud obeisance of farewell, and passed out of the throng, casting a meaning glance at Gi-en-gwa-tah, who was conversing with Upepah, which he understood as a sign that she desired to speak with him.

The whole band of young warriors filed into procession and followed at a little distance in her footsteps, till she reached her lodge. She turned at the entrance, bowed a last farewell, and disappeared, retiring to her own inner room.

Mahaska now sat down upon a pile of furs, and gave herself up to hard, cruel thought. The straight, black brows contracted, the great eye gleamed out hatefully beneath, and her whole face so changed and darkened under her wicked reflections that it looked years older.

The first obstacle in her path had been swept aside—her first foe had fallen a victim to her vengeance; the gratification of her own evil passions had only strengthened her power.

There was no regret in that cruel heart, even in the solitude of her lodge. Though her half-savage nature had been refined by education, and softened by the best blood of France, every instinct of her soul became barbarous under the reign of her vaunting ambition, and of her desire to avenge supposed wrongs. It seemed as if the white blood in her veins had turned drop by drop to hate. So hideous a transformation it was hard to conceive, but history writes that it was so, and her extraordinary career has left behind records enough to prove her to have been more savage, more treacherous, more relentless, than the untutored barbarian would have been. Katharine Frontenac, when she threw aside her civilized life, became Mahaska, the Avenger. The avenger of what? She forced herself to say that her father, Count Frontenac, had neglected her mother, Chileli, whom he had chosen as his lawful wife, but whom he had killed by neglect. As Katharine Frontenac, she had dared to love, with a fierce, wild love, a French cavalier, but he had spurned her, and had wedded another—her rival sister, a child of Frontenac’s second wife, the beautiful Countess Adèle. It was this rejection which had decided her to cast away all the ties of civilization, to become a tigress in the wilderness—this rejection which had turned all the sweet springs of her spontaneous, exuberant nature into waters not of bitterness alone, but of qualities repulsive enough to slake the thirst of ghouls.

After a time she heard Gi-en-gwa-tah’s step in the outer room; at the sound, her hand instinctively clenched the handle of her tomahawk, in unison with the deadly thought in her mind. The loathing which she first had felt when forced to wed the noble savage, grew every day more deep. She inwardly shrunk from the earnest devotion which beamed in his eyes—from the anxious love with which he watched her every glance; but now that he stood in her path, she began to scorn and to hate him.

For the present it must be endured with that patience and craft which were the inheritance of her Indian blood; but woe to the hapless man when the hour came that should enable her to carry out the schemes which had been in her mind even on the very day when he led her to his lodge.

He swept aside the furs which hung before the entrance to Mahaska’s lodge, and entered the apartment; she sat there so peaceful and calm in her splendid beauty, that it hardly seemed possible she could have been the author of the bloody deed which had filled every heart in the tribe with consternation, scarcely an hour before. Perhaps some such thought was in the Indian’s mind as he stood looking down upon her.

The first sound of her voice was low and sweet as that of some woodland bird hushing her young:

“Gi-en-gwa-tah has left the chiefs’ company for that of Mahaska,” she said. “Mahaska thanks him for it.”

“Mahaska’s wishes are always pleasant to Gi-en-gwa-tah,” he answered; “she signed him to follow as she left the council-fire.”

The woman motioned him to her side with a smile of winning sweetness. For the present she must essay all her arts of fascination to retain him her slave; the day was not far off when she would boldly declare her will, and crush him in her path if he disputed it. But that time had not yet come, and now she was anxious to remove from his mind the impression left there by her cruel murder.

“Have they taken away that dog of a chief?” she asked, as he seated himself at her side.

“The squaws of burthen have carried him into the woods,” he answered, gravely; “there is no burial for a brave dishonored and disgraced.”

The woman laid her hand softly on his arm:

“Gi-en-gwa-tah’s brow is dark; there is a shadow on his heart because Mahaska his queen revenged herself on her enemy. She was warned by the prophet that this man’s death was necessary; he was dangerous to Mahaska; he would have disputed her power, and led his people into great troubles. Mahaska does not love to shed blood, but she must obey her visions; she was warned to do this.”

She spoke in a tone which greatly impressed the brave; he had the most implicit faith in her supernatural communications.

“Mahaska has done well,” he answered; “she is a chief now—she might tread the war-path with the noblest of the tribe.”

“But, Mahaska does not wish Gi-en-gwa-tah to think her cruel,” she said; “she is a woman to him—she loves the chief.”

His dusky face glowed under her words, spoken in that thrilling, impassioned tone. She watched him narrowly. To her crafty nature there was a bitter pleasure in this loathsome deceit; the more fondly he loved her, the sterner the retribution she should be able in the future to bring upon him for having been the man whom fate had assigned as her husband.

“The Fox hated Gi-en-gwa-tah,” she went on; “he was plotting against him; cannot Gi-en-gwa-tah think why? He wanted to be the husband of the queen—he would have used all his arts to put the young chief away, that he might aspire to his place.”

A fierce light shot into Gi-en-gwa-tah’s eye; she had touched the right chord; he forgot every thing, except that the murdered man would have conspired against his happiness with her.

“The dog is dead,” he hissed; “let him lie unburied; his carcass shall become food for the crows. Mahaska has done well; her visions never speak falsely.”

She smiled in his face, with the fascination which, in her past life, had thrilled many a noble white heart.

“Henceforth, even the memory of the Fox shall not desecrate Mahaska’s lodge,” she said; “his spirit is with the dark shadows that can never enter the happy hunting-grounds.”

She changed the subject, and began speaking of the expedition which was to take place.

“Gi-en-gwa-tah will lead the young braves,” she said; “Upepah has promised Mahaska. While he follows the war-path, and brings back her enemy’s scalp, Mahaska will work for him at the council; her chief shall be the greatest of the Six Nations.”

He listened eagerly to the visions of future greatness which she called up.

“Mahaska is happy,” he exclaimed, suddenly, giving utterance to some train of thought which had been called up by her words.

“Happy?” she repeated. “Why does Gi-en-gwa-tah ask idle questions?”

“It was no question,” he replied; “Gi-en-gwa-tah sees that she is content. Once he feared that the dark forest might look dreary to her. Mahaska, in the Governor’s palace, has been reared gently; he feared that she might regret all that she left behind in the white settlements.”

Mahaska’s brow darkened when her life among the whites was spoken of. She had left nothing there but a dead youth, crushed, under terrible hate and thwarted dreams. The dreams were buried deep in the past; the hatred she brought in her heart to the forest, to be nursed and strengthened until she should be able to make the loathed race feel its most deadly sting.

“Mahaska is among her people,” she said, proudly; “she has obeyed the will of the Manitou, and dwells among them as their queen. What should she regret?”

But his words recalled the one era in her life when tender emotions had for a time softened her heart. She looked at the Indian; she remembered the noble pale-face whom she had given a love intense with the passion and fire of her Indian nature; she remembered how she had been scorned and set aside for another: the hatred she had vowed against the man who had preferred another to her, was reflected toward the savage who had come between her and the lonely state which she had struggled to maintain, but which she had to forego in order to gain ascendency over the tribes. It was difficult for her to feign longer; she was young still, and her self-control could sometimes be shaken. At such times it was necessary to be alone, that no human being might suspect the tempest which stirred her whole nature to revolt.

“Let Gi-en-gwa-tah return to the chiefs,” she said; “Mahaska hears the voices of her spirits; they have promised to come to her to-night.”

The Indian rose at once, with a sudden awe settling over the gravity of his countenance; he glanced furtively about, as if almost expecting to see some trace of the supernatural beings of whom she spoke.

“In the morning Mahaska will tell her dreams to the chief,” she said; “many things have been whispered faintly to her which will now be said clearly. Gi-en-gwa-tah will follow their warning?”

“Always,” he answered; “Mahaska is the chosen of the Manitou—her words are full of wisdom.”

He went away softly, as if fearing to disturb the mysterious silence of the lodge by a footfall, and Mahaska sat there in her loneliness until the night was almost spent—communing indeed with spirits, the dark, distorted shapes which rose out of the depths of her now bloodstained soul.

When she threw herself upon her couch, it was only to pursue in sleep those bloody reflections, and if the face of the dead man, the first victim in her path, rose before her, it only brought with it a fiendish exultation at her own success, and a sterner determination to carry out her schemes, however dark the way and fierce the tempest through which they might lead her.

CHAPTER III.
THE REVELATION.

A dark plot lay buried in Mahaska’s soul, of which she had as yet given no hint even to the chiefs. She intended to forsake the alliance with the French and carry the Six Nations over to the service of the English in the war then imminent between the two powers. But the time for that action had not yet arrived, though her thoughts were constantly dwelling upon it, and after that night’s thought she rose up stronger and more determined than ever, as her hatred for the French increased from the reflections which Gi-en-gwa-tah’s words had aroused in her mind.

Before giving any clue to her scheme to the other chiefs, she wished to sound Gi-en-gwa-tah upon the subject and learn if it was possible that he could be brought to second her schemes. She knew how honorable he was, unlike the generality of his nation; in his eyes a pledge was sacred, and the very idea of breaking off the alliance with the French, unless some treachery or ill-treatment on their part gave reason for it, would have been abhorrent to him. Still, with all her wonderful knowledge of human nature, she did not thoroughly understand the chief; she could not give his savage mind credit for all the uprightness which it possessed; so utterly false was she herself that, with the usual weakness of such natures, she believed that every man could be induced to yield to a plan which he felt to be wrong if the personal temptation and reward were sufficiently strong.

Long before she left her girlish home in Quebec to dwell among the Indians, this idea of breaking off the alliance with the French had been paramount in her mind, and it was only the lack of opportunity which had prevented her already making such communications to the English Generals as would induce them to offer overtures to the tribes then comprised in the great Iroquois league known in history as the Six Nations, of whom it was now her scheme to become sole chief. She was not aware how strong a feeling of friendliness Gi-en-gwa-tah held toward the French, and she determined, even before he went away upon the war-path, to give him some idea of the plan in her mind under the promise of inviolable secrecy; well knowing that, however he might regard her design, she could trust his word; the most fearful tortures could not have wrung from him a secret which he had pledged himself to preserve.

There were many things besides her hatred of the French urging her on in this matter, though that was the dark foundation upon which all her plans were laid, and other desires were faint and poor beside the craving for vengeance which filled her soul against her father’s people. She felt certain that the English would aid her in her schemes if she would turn the tribes over to them—they would do their utmost to increase among the Indians a belief in her supernatural gifts, they would lavish upon her rich presents and plentiful sums of money which would make her still more powerful and more firmly settled in her sway.

All these things she was confident an alliance with the English would afford her, and she determined to enter upon her work at once. Difficulties had, for a long time, been frequent between the French and British, and she saw clearly that, ere long, they must ripen into war. It was for that she wished to be prepared.

She wanted so to work upon the minds of the leaders of the tribes that they would be ready to fall into her plans when the moment arrived; she wished the rupture to be sudden; she would deceive the French up to the last moment and then turn unexpectedly against them in some battle, and overwhelm them by this sudden onset of the savages whom they had treated as allies and friends.

Her thoughts rushed forward to the time when she might actually rush into Quebec with her train of bloodthirsty Indians, carrying desolation and death into the city of her birth. She recalled the streets and houses familiar to her girlish years; in fancy she saw them in flames and heard the death-shrieks from scores of voices that had been familiar in the past and had known only accents of friendship and affection for her. But she only remembered, with added hatred, all who had shown her kindness. Every proof of affection had stung her like a wrong. They had dared to pity her for the Indian blood which darkened her veins, and their kindness had sprung out of the commiseration they felt for her condition.

The day would come when they should be repaid with interest—when she would give back dagger-thrusts for every tender smile, and laugh at the death-agonies of those who had sought to brighten her first youth by their sympathy.

Gi-en-gwa-tah was sitting in their lodge during the early part of the day which had crowned her bloodily as queen, when she said, abruptly:

“Mahaska had strange visions last night.”

He turned toward her with a face full of curiosity and interest.

“What did the voices say to Mahaska?” he asked.

“They spoke vaguely,” she replied—“for Mahaska’s ear alone.”

He looked disappointed, and she added, in her softest voice:

“But things which Mahaska would not declare at the council, surely she may whisper to her chief; they did not forbid her to do that. Mahaska knows that she can trust her brave.”

Gi-en-gwa-tah drew himself proudly up:

“The chief has never broken his word,” he said; “that which Mahaska tells him in the secrecy of her lodge shall never be whispered to the wind outside.”

“It is well,” she returned; “better even than his courage Mahaska loves the chiefs honor; she will trust him.”

“She may do so; he will be silent as the grass over the graves of our fathers—let Gi-en-gwa-tah hear the queens visions.”

He liked to call her by that title; his nature was too noble for him to feel the slightest jealousy of her power, and even the thought which had of late crossed him of his own secondary position brought no bitterness toward her; it only made him burn to distinguish himself by greater deeds, that he might win for himself honors which should prove him worthy to have been selected as her husband.

After a few moments’ pause she said, in the deep, impressive tone in which she was wont to relate her visions:

“Mahaska was not alone until almost dawn; all night the voices of her spirits filled the lodge like the sighing of the south wind; many things they told her. They are pleased that the Fox is gone. Mahaska saw him, too, at a distance; he could not approach her for her presence is sacred, but he stood far off, moaning and wringing his hands, full of suffering and misery for the trouble he tried to bring upon her. He took with him no hunting-knife, no tomahawk, into the land of shadow; he suffers from hunger and cold, and there are none to help him. All the spirits say to him: ‘thus shall it befall those who plot against the queen whom Mineto has given to the Senecas.’”

Gi-en-gwa-tah shuddered at the picture she drew. Mahaska noted the effect of every word.

“They have told Mahaska that the expedition against the Delawares shall be successful. When the young men go forth Mahaska will hang a crimson plume in the door of her lodge to be worn by the brave who brings her the scalp of Shewashiet. Let Gi-en-gwa-tah take heed that no other hand than his bears off the prize.”

The chief murmured some unintelligible words, but she saw by the kindling of his eyes that only the loss of his own life would prevent his claiming the guerdon. Even in that busy moment she had time to hope that this might be the end—that the warriors might come back and lay the dead body of her husband at her feet—it was to spur him to new recklessness that she suggested the prize.

“All these things they told Mahaska clearly; they showed her a future for Gi-en-gwa-tah full of glory if he aids the queen—ruin and desolation for him as well as for all who oppose her.”

“The chief loves the queen,” he answered with deep feeling; “the wishes of her heart are his own.”

“It is well,” she said again; “then let Gi-en-gwa-tah listen and heed.”

He bowed his head silently and she went on:

“The voice of the great prophet came after. When he speaks Mahaska knows that the occasion is very solemn. He was angry and spoke harshly.”

“Not angry with the queen?” interrupted Gi-en-gwa-tah.

“Never that” she replied; “he knows that Mahaska will always obey his commands; but the people are blind and deaf, and hard to persuade; he foresees trouble in the carrying out of his desires; but so surely as they are not fulfilled, ruin and woe will fall upon the Senecas and all the nations connected with them.”

She watched him still with her eagle glance; it was necessary to startle him by those warnings before she made known her treacherous project.

“What said the prophet?” demanded Gi-en-gwa-tah.

“He says the people have followed foolish counselors; Mahaska must set them right.”

“They will hear the voice of their queen,” returned the chief; “they know how the prophet loves her.”

“But the prophet does not love the French nation,” she exclaimed, quickly; “he says they are like jays, rich in bright colors, but with many tongues and full of lies.”

Gi-en-gwa-tah looked at her in trouble and astonishment, but did not reply.

“The Nations have been deceived; the French chiefs do not mean fairly by them; they will let the Iroquois fight their battles, and when they are weakened will take away their lands.”

“The French chiefs have kept their word with the Nations,” returned Gi-en-gwa-tah; “did Mahaska hear the prophet aright?”

A thrill of anger burned in her breast; the opposition which she had feared was rising up in the very outset.

“Let Gi-en-gwa-tah listen,” she said, calmly; “he only sees the faces of the French chiefs, the prophet looks into their hearts. The pale-faces will have long and bloody wars between themselves; the Indians have no cause to love either; if they are wise they will join the side which is to prove the most powerful and where they have not already been cheated by false promises.”

“The Six Nations must keep their pledge,” exclaimed the chief; “they have smoked the pipe of peace with the French leaders; they have taken his presents; they would be dogs if they deserted him.”

“The English chiefs are very rich,” said Mahaska; “they would give great sums to the Senecas; they are very powerful and will finally drive the French across the great waters.”

“Gi-en-gwa-tah has found the French men brave,” he replied, firmly; “they fight like great warriors; they will not be conquered nor driven away.”

Mahaska could hardly restrain a movement of impatience, but she controlled herself; even her tutored face gave no sign of the tempest which had begun to rage within.

“Mahaska does not speak her own words,” she said, warningly; “Gi-en-gwa-tah contradicts the words of the prophet.”

“But Mahaska says he did not speak clearly; may she not be mistaken?”

“Only yesterday the chief saw the cloud-chariot which would have borne Mahaska away from her people forever if they had refused her wishes; does he doubt her already?”

“Gi-en-gwa-tah does not doubt; he only asks her to listen well to the voices of her spirits.”

“She listens; she repeats their words; Mahaska can not twist them to please Gi-en-gwa-tah.”

“No, no,” he said, quickly; “Mahaska knows that the chief does not wish that. Speak, Mahaska; the prophet did not bid you tell the Nations to forsake the French?”

The question took her by surprise; she was not prepared to make a direct avowal, and remained silent for a time.

“I was bid to speak as I have,” she said; “this is not the season for more words; by the time the chiefs return, Mahaska will see clearly and will then tell Gi-en-gwa-tah all.”

She dropped the subject and began speaking of other things, artfully making allusions to the English, their growing power, and comparing their magnificent presents to their allies with the meager gifts which the French had bestowed upon the tribes.

Gi-en-gwa-tah was greatly disturbed by all that she had said, and left the lodge to complete his preparations for departure. He believed that Mahaska would yet be convinced of the good faith of the French. Certainly in his opinion, nothing, not even warnings from higher people, could warrant his nation in throwing aside their pacific treaty with them unless some act of faithlessness should render them justified in so doing.

“Go,” muttered Mahaska, as he disappeared; “not long will I argue and barter with that fastidious savage; my foot once on his neck and I can throw off these irksome disguises, and free myself of him forever—fool! blind fool, that he is!”

She stamped upon the ground as if already feeling her victim beneath it; a spasm of fury swept over her features, so darkening and distorting them that the face no longer seemed the same which had looked so smilingly at the deluded chief.

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 have no partner 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, so much 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.

CHAPTER V.
THE PALACE AND ITS FURNITURE.

The chief’s love for his wife was a feeling so powerful that all others had fallen into insignificance beside it. To please and gratify her were the highest wishes he had, and, in spite of her white blood, her education, she might well have been proud of his love.

His personal advantages were very great; he was one of the handsomest men in the tribe, a bold, manly type of beauty, and had always been regarded as the most prominent among the young chiefs. He was open and honest to a degree astonishing in an Indian, with a regard for his word which no temptation could have forced him to break, his whole character presenting a strange contrast to that of Mahaska, whose highest action was dictated by craft, and whose promises were only meant to deceive.

When she first came among them she had ordered the building of a stone mansion, by the lake, which she styled her palace, and had carried out her plans in spite of all difficulties.

“Where should the queen live?” she asked. “Is Mahaska a squaw that Gi-en-gwa-tah should give her a bark wigwam? Yonder by the lake stands the unfinished walls of her lodge; the queen will not have full faith in the chief until he urges on her wishes and makes his lazy people toil to complete it.” She would have no further discussion, and anxious to gratify her the chief urged on the work with new zeal and haste, and every morning when Mahaska looked out upon it, she could see her new mansion assuming habitable shape. At length the palace, as she loved to call it, was completed—the wonder and admiration of the whole tribe, who had labored so faithfully in its construction.

It was now autumn; the forest wore the latest glory of its gorgeous coloring. Already the leaves lay strewn like a rich carpet about the paths of the wilderness; the wind caught a deeper and more mournful tone, but the air was still balmy and soft, for the sunlight lay warm and pleasant over the beautiful lake. It seemed as if the soft autumn weather was lingering to the latest moment, unwilling to yield the last traces of its beauty to the chill embrace and desolation of winter.

Meanwhile Mahaska was floating on toward the full tide of success in her schemes; her control over the people increased a manner that was magical, and the brave Gi-en-gwa-tah, with all his bravery, was chief among her adherents and her servitors. The nature this untutored savage appeared lifted out of itself by the love which filled his heart; reason did not control his feelings, for Mahaska, as a woman, was so entirely set apart from all other women that reverence and worship appeared her due. She was satisfied with her influence over him, but her quick perception perceived one fact—if the fulfillment of her wishes stood between him and that which his stern sense of honor considered just, she was certain to meet the most resolute opposition in her husband. When that reflection occurred, the repulsion which she had from the first harbored toward the chief, gained strength. But there was no trace of these feelings in her manner; she grew more gentle and considerate, and fairly dizzied his strong senses with the numberless fascinations she cast about him.

Gi-en-gwa-tah was sorely troubled in his mind concerning the manner in which the new dwelling was to be arranged. He had visited Quebec, seen luxurious dwellings in several other cities, and knew what Mahaska had a right to expect; but the attainment of his wishes was not easily reached. He consulted with his intimate friends, and they held long conversations, which would have amused and astonished those accustomed only to the stern, hard side of the Indian character.

Gi-en-gwa-tah owned a rich store of furs and sundry valuables which he had received from white traders in return for skins, and it was decided between the two that these should go toward the adornment of the mansion, although the chief was, by no means, satisfied, and his old mother, Meme, who had now become an inmate of his lodge, according to the usage of the tribe, took a true feminine delight in adding to his perplexities. She had promised to keep his secret faithfully, and above all not to reveal to Mahaska the doubts which disturbed his mind; but the old woman soon found an excuse for informing her son’s wife of every word he had said the first time they were alone.

“Gi-en-gwa-tah fears that Mahaska will pine for the luxuries that the pale-faces love,” she said.

“The queen has a right to live like a sovereign,” she answered; “would they have her sit on the ground like a squaw of burthen?”

“Gi-en-gwa-tah has many furs; he will make cushions for Mahaska; the fire-places in her great lodge would each hold a wigwam.”

“The Great Spirit will send all that the queen needs,” said Mahaska.

The old woman looked at her wonderingly. She firmly believed in the supernatural destiny of her new-found daughter.

“The Great Spirit will send power and victories,” she said.

“He will also send all that Mahaska requires,” persisted Mahaska. “Mahaska has her visions; they warn her of all that will happen.”

“And will there come gifts like those of the governor-chief?” she asked, in surprise.

Mahaska made a quick gesture; any allusion to her old life always enraged her—the mention of a single name linked with the past shook her self-control to its center.

“Gi-en-gwa-tah’s mother babbles like a blind squaw,” she said, contemptuously; “is she growing a child again?” then she added, quickly; “let Gi-en-gwa-tah cease to trouble his mind. Such gifts as he has let him carry into the queen’s palace; when the time arrives all that she wishes will follow.”

The woman could not restrain her curiosity.

“When were these things promised to Mahaska?”

“Is it for Meme to question concerning the revelation of the Great Spirit?” she demanded.

“Mahaska speaks wisely,” she replied; “Meme will seek to learn no more.”

“She shall see the palace blossom like the wilderness in summer,” said Mahaska; “it shall become sacred among the Nations because it will be filled with gifts from the Manitou.”

“May Meme repeat these things to Gi-en-gwa-tah?”

“Let her tell him all; what the queen has been promised shall come to pass before he leads her to the dwelling.”

It was the most bewildering thing that had ever happened to the old woman—she could not in the least comprehend it; but she placed the utmost faith in Mahaska’s words and waited patiently for their fulfillment.

She went back to the chief, and, without revealing her betrayal of his confidence, told him of Mahaska’s words, which filled his mind with wonder equal to her own.

Gradually it crept about among the people that the Spirit had promised to send rich gifts to their queen, and they regarded her with new awe and reverence.

There was more truth in the queen’s assertion concerning the promised gifts than appeared probable; although she certainly did not base her expectations upon any supernatural agency. She was left free in her actions; the only person who ever watched her movements was Gi-en-gwa-tah, and he did it only from the restlessness of his great affection. She was accustomed to take long rides in solitude—to row upon the lake night or day; but she did not fail to give even these relaxations a mysterious signification. She told the Indians that spirit-voices spoke to her, and in the wind that rocked her canoe upon the moonlit waters she held communion with the shade of her ancestor, the great prophet, Nemono. By these means she secured herself against intrusion; even Gi-en-gwa-tah would not have ventured to watch her movements at such times, for fear of bringing the anger of the Manitou upon himself by intruding upon those religious rites which he had been taught to venerate.

We have spoken of the plot which from the first had been forming in her mind to win the Six Nations from their alliance with the French, and carry their power over to the English in the warfare then imminent. This desire had been seconded in the most unexpected manner, while she was revolving means for obtaining communication with the English leaders. Her advent among the Indians already was a subject of much curiosity with the whites, and a politic English Governor determined to do every thing in his power to win her good offices in bringing to his side the assistance of the Indian tribes then pledged to the interests of the French.

Mahaska had gone out to ride in the forest; she was miles beyond the Indian village, galloping wildly along, feeling a sort of relief in the swift pace and freedom from all human observation. Suddenly a form started up before her in the path; she checked her horse and instinctively her right hand clenched the tomahawk which she always carried in her girdle, although she supposed it to be some one of her own tribe who had wandered there upon a hunting expedition. The savage, made signs of friendly greeting and approached her horse. As he drew near she recognized a half-breed whom she had known at Quebec—a man afterward discovered to be an English spy, but who had escaped punishment by a dextrous flight.

“Rene,” she called in French; “Rene.”

He bounded toward her, and with elaborate signs of respect began pouring forth a volley of delight at seeing her again.

“What brings you here?” she asked, checking his compliments.

“The desire to see Mahaska once more,” he answered.

She smiled, then darted a stern glance at him.

“You are an English spy,” she said; “the Indians are friendly with the French; have you come to carry back information concerning their movements?”

“No, lady; the Virgin is my witness, no.”

“If you were discovered and recognized they would put you to death.”

“But the queen would protect me; you would not let them harm poor Rene,” he said, humbly.

“Why should I interfere? What interest can I have in your life?”

“Because I have endangered it in seeking you,” he replied; “you would not allow an humble messenger to be molested.”

“You were seeking me?” she repeated.

He made a gesture of assent.