The squaw, though she evidently comprehended the meaning of her imploring gestures, shook her head, and in plaintive earnest tone replied in her own language, that she must go with the canoes to the other shore,--and she pointed to the north as she spoke. She then motioned to the young girl--the same that had been Catharine’s companion in the canoe--to bring a hunting knife, which was thrust into one of the folds of the birch-bark of the wigwam. Catharine beheld the deadly weapon in the hands of the Indian woman with a pang of agony as great as if its sharp edge was already at her throat. So young--so young, to die by a cruel bloody death! what had been her crime?--how should she find words to soften the heart of her murderess? The power of utterance seemed denied--she cast herself on her knees and held up her hands in silent prayer; not to the dreaded Indian woman, but to Him who heareth the prayer of the poor destitute--who alone can order the unruly wills and affections of men.
The squaw stretched forth one dark hand and grasped the arm of the terror-struck girl, while the other held the weapon of destruction; with a quick movement she severed the thongs that bound the fettered wrists of the pleading captive, and with a smile that seemed to light up her whole face she raised her from her prostrate position, laid her hand upon her young head, and with an expression of good-humoured surprise lifted the flowing tresses of her sunny hair and spread them over the back of her own swarthy hand; then, as if amused by the striking contrast, she shook down her own jetty-black hair and twined a tress of it with one of the fair haired girl’s--then laughed till her teeth shone like pearls within her red lips. Many were the exclamations of childish wonder that broke from the other females, as they compared the snowy arm of the stranger with their own dusky skins; it was plain that they had no intention of harming her, and by degrees distrust and dread of her singular companions began in some measure to subside.
The squaw motioned her to take a seat on a mat beside her, and gave her a handful of parched rice and some deer’s flesh to eat; but Catharine’s heart was too heavy; she was suffering from thirst, and on pronouncing the Indian word for water, the young girl snatched up a piece of birch-bark from the floor of the tent, and gathering the corners together, ran to the lake, and soon returned with water in this most primitive drinking vessel, which she held to the lips of her guest, and she seemed amused by the long deep draught with which Catharine slaked her thirst; and something like a gleam of hope came over her mind as she marked the look of kindly feeling with which she caught the young Indian girl regarding her, and she strove to overcome the choking sensation that would from time to time rise to her throat, as she fluctuated between hope and fear. The position of the Indian camp was so placed that it was quite hidden from the shore, and neither could Catharine see the mouth of the ravine, nor the steep side of the mount that her brothers were accustomed to ascend and descend in their visits to the lake shore, nor had she any means of making a signal to them even if she had seen them on the beach.