And now a wild and solemn voice was heard, unearthly in its tones, rising
above the yells of those savage men. At that sound every cheek became pale:
it struck upon the ear as some funeral wail. Was it the death-song of the
captive girl bound to that fearful stake? No; for she stands unmoved, with
eyes raised heavenward, and lips apart--
"In still, but brave despair."
Shrouded in a mantle of dark cloth, her long black hair unbound and
streaming over her shoulders, appears the Mohawk widow, the daughter of the
Ojebwa chief. The gathering throng fall back as she approaches, awed by her
sudden appearance among them. She stretches out a hand on which dark stains
are visible--it is the blood of her husband, sacrificed by her on that
day of fearful deeds: it has never been effaced. In the name of the Great
Spirit she claims the captive girl--the last of that devoted tribe--to
be delivered over to her will. Her right to this remnant of her murdered
husband's family is acknowledged. A knife is placed in her hand, while a
deafening yell of triumph bursts from the excited squaws, as this their
great high-priestess, as they deemed her, advanced to the criminal.
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