THE TEST OF HONOR.
On the morning appointed, the great body of warriors departed upon their
expedition, commanded by Gi-en-gwa-tah, who already had won so much
distinction by his courage and success.
From the threshold of her lodge Queen Mahaska saw them file past her.
She stood there, surrounded by the old chiefs, and something in the
scene suggested to her mind, stored with the records of olden times, the
descriptions she had read of armies in the middle ages, going forth to
vindicate the cause of beauty. She smiled bitterly as the conceit passed
through her thoughts, then she took a long crimson feather from her
coronet, and wove it among the boughs drooping over the door of the
lodge. It was a sign they all understood: the warrior who returned with
the bloody trophy she had demanded, could claim the crimson plume.
When the band had disappeared, the people returned to their usual
indolence, and Mahaska was left to the solitude of her lodge.
* * * * *
A week passed, but there was no intelligence from the absent warriors.
The people began to look for their return, but Mahaska asked no
questions and betrayed no interest.
At last a swift runner brought back the expected news that the Delawares
had been defeated—their chief slain. The shouts of the Indians
penetrated to the apartment where Mahaska was seated; she knew what they
portended, but did not move. An old Indian woman, who waited upon her,
swept back the draperies hastily, and looked in; but Mahaska did not
appear to notice her presence, and she retreated without a word.
There she sat and waited; it mattered nothing to her upon whom the
victory had fallen, so long as her husband was alive. He must henceforth
be no stumbling-block in her path. She would permit nothing to mar her
plans.
At length the curtains were again swept back, and the mother of her
husband appeared at the opening.
“The chiefs await Queen Mahaska,” she said, as her old face lit up with
animation.
Mahaska rose and passed into the outer apartment, where several of the
chiefs were standing.
“The people shout the name of our young chief,” said Upepah;
“double-tongued Shewashiet will speak no more lies.”
“It is well,” she answered, briefly.
“The young brave has earned a right to the chieftainship of his tribe.
Mahaska is his prophet,” continued the old warrior.
“The crimson feather hangs over the door of Mahaska’s lodge,” she
answered.
“It is the sign of a united power,” replied the warrior.
“Mahaska will rejoice when she sees the chief whose hand will take down
the plume she fastened among the leaves.”
“It is Gi-en-gwa-tah’s, then.” The chief retired with mingled feelings
of disappointment at her want of eagerness, and admiration for the pride
which filled her manner.
Mahaska had been in no haste to know the name of the chief who had
gained her lasting hate by fulfilling her behest. Never a warrior
brought home a trophy from the war-path so dangerous and full of
retribution to himself as would be Shewashiet’s scalp; never a young
brave snatched a token from maiden’s hand so full of evil and death. The
venom of the rattlesnake would not be more fatal than the doom it
portended, for Mahaska was resolved to have _no_ partner in her
greatness.
The afternoon passed; an eager crowd went out to meet the expected band.
Mahaska put aside her reflections to play her part in the scene before
her. She knew well the effect that any thing attractive to the eye
produced upon the savages, and never neglected an opportunity to essay
it; she did not now, even in the repulsion and scorn with which her mind
dwelt upon the nearing destiny before her, forget the picturesque and
beautiful.
The furs hung before the opening of the lodge were thrown back, and
Mahaska seated herself there, richly attired, and surrounded by the old
chiefs. They all waited in silence, so much impressed by her appearance
and state that they could only watch her in mute wonder.
Again the shouts of the people went up; the chiefs leaned eagerly
forward; the throng pressed more eagerly in advance; but Mahaska sat
there immovable as before. The band of warriors emerged from the forest;
the leader urged on his horse with all speed, and rode furiously toward
the lodge. The rest of the warriors remained at a little distance; a
breathless silence crept over the people, while every eye was turned
upon Mahaska. She had not moved—had not even looked up.
Her young husband sprung from his horse—stood upon the threshold of the
lodge and grasped the crimson plume. Mahaska raised her eyes as he took
from his belt a scalp and extended it toward her, the long hair
fluttering in the wind.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah brings the queen his gift,” he said, in a voice trembling
with emotion; “will she take it from his hand?”
She reached forth that slender, delicate hand, grasped the gory trophy,
held it aloft, and exclaimed:
“So perish all our enemies!”
The throng answered with exultant exclamations. The young chief stood
before her, holding the crimson feather in his hand, unable to control
the eagerness which shook his frame. Mahaska turned toward the group of
old men about her:
“The chiefs behold,” she said; “the Great Spirit has favored
Gi-en-gwa-tah! So shall it be with all who obey Mahaska, and who seek to
work her bidding out of love.”
She stood smiling up in the face of her husband, while many a murderous
thought seethed through her brain. The delicate fingers that held the
scalp quivered with eagerness to hold a yet dearer trophy, which, once
in her grasp, would leave her pathway unfettered.
The warriors left the two standing on the threshold of their lodge, and
marched away toward the village, raising a shout of triumph that echoed
across the lake, and died like a wind in the depths of the wilderness.
“Is Mahaska glad that her chief won her prize?” he asked, holding up the
graceful feather.
“Does not Gi-en-gwa-tah know her heart?” she asked. “Mahaska can not
make vows and use childish words like common women; she is set apart
from them by a sacred spell; let Gi-en-gwa-tah be content that she sits
beside him in his lodge.”
“The chief’s heart has been lonely without her,” he said, earnestly; “he
knows her to be a great prophetess, but, to his love she is a woman, and
he pines for her presence as he would for the sunshine during a long
night.”
She was in no mood for listening to such words; she had been buoying
herself up with false hopes too long not to feel their disappointment;
it was enough to have the misery of seeing him return a victor without
being obliged to submit to evidences of his affection.
“The queen has many things on her mind,” she said, coldly; “she can not
talk with Gi-en-gwa-tah now.”
He looked at her in sorrowful surprise.
“Is Mahaska in haste to quit the chief?” he asked. “He has been gone so
many days, and she sends him from her now.”
She made an impatient gesture.
“Gi-en-gwa-tah must pay the penalty of his greatness,” she said; “is
there a chief in the tribe that would not obey Mahaska’s wishes to be in
his place? Mahaska hears voices—she must obey them.”
Without another word she left him alone, so full of sad thoughts after
the triumph he had expected, that his heart was chilled to the core.