Indians were just emerging from the woods. They soon filled the wigwam with their tall, dark forms.
"Where is Tulip, that she comes not to meet Torch Eye?" demanded the old Indian, gazing around.
"The pale-face daughter is ill to-night," said the squaw. "She has a troubled brain, and I am boiling herbs, to ease it."
"She is not going to be a sickly weed, I hope," said the chief. "She seemed likely to make a smart, active squaw, when I left her. If any of you have done her harm, woe be on you," he said, raising his arm, fiercely. She was a gift to me from the Great Spirit, for my brave son, as I have told you before. Torch Eye, be not cast down because the Tulip is pale and sorry to-night. My skill shall make her blooming and fair before the moon shall wane."
The young man thus addressed, who was standing by Black-bird, looking at her basket-work,
