She was habited in a fine tunic of white dressed doeskin richly embroidered
with coloured beads and stained quills, a full petticoat of dark cloth
bound with scarlet descended to her ancles, leggings fringed with deer-skin
knotted with bands of coloured quills, with richly wrought mocassins on her
feet. On her head she wore a coronet of scarlet and black feathers; her
long shining tresses of raven hair descended to her waist, each thick tress
confined with a braided band of quills dyed scarlet and blue; her stature
was tall and well-formed; her large, liquid, dark eye wore an expression
so proud and mournful that Catharine felt her own involuntarily fill with
tears as she gazed upon this singular being. She would have approached
nearer to her, but a spell seemed on her; she shrunk back timid and abashed
beneath that wild melancholy glance. It was she, the Beam of the Morning,
the self-made widow of the young Mohawk, whose hand had wrought so fearful
a vengeance on the treacherous destroyer of her brother. She stood there,
at the tent door, arrayed in her bridal robes, as on the day when she
received her death-doomed victim.
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