And
Snettishane knew that he knew, but neither referred to it
"What dost thou here?" the Factor demanded. "It were time old
bones should be in bed."
But Snettishane was stately in spite of the bird-shot burning under
his skin.
"Old bones will not sleep," he said solemnly. "I weep for my
daughter, for my daughter Lit-lit, who liveth and who yet is dead,
and who goeth without doubt to the white man's hell."
"Weep henceforth on the far bank, beyond ear-shot of the Fort,"
said John Fox, turning on his heel, "for the noise of thy weeping
is exceeding great and will not let one sleep of nights."
"My heart is sore," Snettishane answered, "and my days and nights
be black with sorrow."
"As the raven is black," said John Fox.
"As the raven is black," Snettishane said.
Never again was the voice of the raven heard by the river bank.
Lit-lit grows matronly day by day and is very happy. Also, there
are sisters to the sons of John Fox's first wife who lies buried in
a tree. Old Snettishane is no longer a visitor at the Fort, and
spends long hours raising a thin, aged voice against the filial
ingratitude of children in general and of his daughter Lit-lit in
particular. His declining years are embittered by the knowledge
that he was cheated, and even John Fox has withdrawn the assertion
that the price for Lit-lit was too much by ten blankets and a gun.
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