All was quiet and still in that Indian camp—the smoke curled gracefully but slowly up from the almost extinguished fires of those who remained to guard the village of the Pinxies; some few children were playing about, and one or two old squaws were weaving baskets beside their huts, but there was only one man visible, and he might easily have been mistaken for a statue, so motionless did he lie stretched out before the door of one of the principal lodges of the camp. The clear note of a whippowil sounded through the wood, and the Indian moved—again it sounded, and he half rose from his recumbent posture; it sounded nearer and clearer and the young Indian sprung to his feet, just as the laughing face of a girl peered out from the side of the lodge. She was slight and childlike in her form, and her hair, which was fastened back with a wreath of bright red flowers, fell almost to her feet; she held her bow and arrows in one hand, and in the other a dead bird. She called him in a sweet, musical voice to come and see the bird, but he pointed to the door of the lodge before which he stood, and shook his head. Nainee was vexed, and turning her back to him, she began to shoot her arrows at every thing she saw, and finally tossing her little head, and throwing back her hair, she moved away; but curiosity conquered pride, and just as her lover began to wish he had detained her, she returned, and taking a flower from her hair, pressed it to her lips and threw it on the ground before her lover. He moved from his post to get the flower, and as he bent down, Nainee placing her hand on his shoulder, bounded by him, and ere the astonished Indian could prevent her, she had lifted the skin that served for a door, and passed into the lodge. A low laugh escaped from the Indian; he knew that Nainee could be trusted; that the secret was still safe—and he was pleased with her daring and cunning; she could hit a bird on the wing—she could outrun the deer, and now she had cunningly foiled him. “Yes, Nainee was indeed worthy of a brave Indian’s love.”
Anacaona was reclining on a pile of furs, her face buried in her hands, and so engrossed in her own sad thoughts that she was unconscious of the entrance of the visiter, until Nainee uttered an exclamation of surprise. She looked up—the sight of her beautiful face filled Nainee with jealousy, and her eyes flashed with unnatural brilliancy; but Anacaona sprung up eagerly, and leading her to the place she had vacated, compelled her to be seated. Then she told her who she was, and the story of her capture, and begged her in soft, plaintive tones to aid her, and restore her to her lover and her tribe. All jealousy vanished from Nainee’s heart, as she listened, and throwing her arms about Anacaona’s neck, when she had ended the story, she promised to help her, and kindly kissing her hand, drew aside the deer-skin door and in a moment stood without at the Indian’s side. But he seemed not to heed her presence, and she threw herself down beside him, and taking some long grass in her hand, she commenced braiding it together, while the words of an impromptu song burst from her lips. She sang of Anacaona’s desolate home—of her broken-hearted mother and brave lover who mourned her loss—of the lone captive girl who longed to look once more on the greenwood, and whose proud spirit pined to be free. Nainee paused a moment to note the effect, and then commenced a low recitation of the former noble bearing and brave deeds of Canabo: He had been called “magnanimous,” and his name was the “Eagle,” but, alas! he had wronged his friend, disgraced his tribe, and had, like the hawk, stolen a dove from its nest; then, turning suddenly to the young Indian, Nainee raising her voice said,