She tried to recall some Indian words of familiar import, that she had heard
from the Indians when they came to her father's house, but in vain; not the
simplest phrase occurred to her, and she almost cried with vexation at her
own stupidity; neither was Hector or Louis more fortunate in attempts at
conversing with their guest.
At the end of three days, the fever began to abate; the restless eye grew
more steady in its gaze, the dark flush faded from the cheek, leaving it of
a grey ashy tint, not the hue of health, such as even the swarthy Indian
shows, but wan and pallid, her eyes bent mournfully on the ground.
She would sit quiet and passive while Catharine bound up the long tresses
of her hair, and smoothed them with her hands and the small wooden comb
that Louis had cut for her use. Sometimes she would raise her eyes to her
new friend's face, with a quiet sad smile, and once she took her hands
within her own, and gently pressed them to her breast and lips and forehead
in token of gratitude, but she seldom gave utterance to any words, and
would remain with her eyes fixed vacantly on some object which seemed
unseen or to awaken no idea in her mind.
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