"So the haughty pale-face disdains to eat after the red child's hand," cried the squaw, in a loud, shrill tone; "but no well-made broth, like that, is to be wasted here. Let her drain the bottom of the bowl before I look in her eyes again."
The squaw turned toward the fire, and Nattie sat trembling, but still the bowl was not raised to her lips. The old Indian now arose, and, lifting a glistening tomahawk which lay on the ground by his side, he swung it wildly in the air above his head, and sent it flying in Nattie's direction. It did not hit her, nor did he wish it to do so; but it struck, with a ringing sound, on the beams in the rear of the wigwam, and fell to the ground.
"Tulip," he cried, in a tone of thunder, "drink your broth, and bring that hatchet to me."
Almost beside herself with terror, the poor girl obeyed, expecting, as she stood before the fear ful savage, with the dread weapon in her hand,
