The prisoners and scalps were their enemies, but over every heart the question passed, Have they all returned? Has each husband been restored to his family, each child to the parent? But not long did these softer feelings influence the conduct of the Sioux. They had now nearly met, and the war-party, with the prisoners, had reached the outskirts of the village. Here the confusion had returned and attained its greatest height; welcomes had been said, and the crowd pressed around the scalps to feast their eyes on the precious sight. There were but four, and they had been taken in the hurry of flight: they were round pieces, torn from the top of the head, and from one of them fell the long, glossy hair of a woman.
There was nothing in the carriage of the prisoners to denote their condition, their attitude and demeanour proclaiming the conqueror instead of the conquered--the haughty determination of their looks, the bold freedom of their steps, their gait as erect as possible, with their hands bound behind them. Even the insolence of their language, in reply to the taunts of their victors, showed they were prepared for what was inevitable.
The calm, pale face of the young Chippeway girl showed that she had determined to brave the blood-loving Sioux, and let them see that a woman could meet death as well as a warrior.
The procession stopped, and one of the Sioux women called for her husband. "Where is he, warriors? give me back my husband."
"You will not weep," said one of the men; "here is the Chippeway who killed him," pointing to the younger of the male prisoners. "You may stone him, and then you may sing while the fire is burning under his feet."
A loud laugh of defiance was heard from the prisoner. "The Sioux are dogs," he said; "let them hurry; I am in haste to go to the land of souls." The words were not uttered ere a dozen spears pricked his body. There was no cry of pain; he only laughed at the anger he had excited.
The attention of the Indians was now withdrawn from their prisoners, for We-har-ka was rapidly walking towards them. Even the arrangement of her dress was distinctly visible as she approached them: her long and glossy hair disarranged purposely, to mark the intensity of her grief; the blood was still trickling from her arms; her pale face looking even paler than it was, by the moonlight and its broad shadows.