The old chieftain, Windango, adored his bright young daughter, and she twisted him about her fingers, as the saying goes, until he would believe that black was white if she but said so. She had been brought up free from all the toil that had bowed the hearts and bent the backs of her companions, and while they were fast becoming withered and faded, she was strong and graceful, a veritable wild Diana. She could follow the chase as well as any brave, and strike down with her arrows the wild deer. Often had I seen her return from a day's hunt fresh and smiling, while behind her there lagged some warrior worn and footsore. But even the old chief had begun to admonish his daughter to give ear to the soft sighs of the young braves, and become the squaw of some warrior. She was long past the age when her companions had wedded. Why did she still remain alone? Here was Chawanook, who would some day be a great chief. Why not go into his wigwam and cook his venison? It was of this that Winona spoke as she finished one moccasin, and laying it aside, began to embroider the other with the bear claws. "Do the maidens beyond the seas go into the lodges of the braves so soon?" she asked, with a bright smile at me. "Some," I answered, smiling gently at her question. "Many of them do not go at all." She broke into a low clear laugh. "Would that I dared to tell my father that, but he would tear my head from my shoulders, did I dare to hint such a thing. He wishes me to become the squaw of Chawanook; to slave and toil for him--and he ugly and awkward," and she frowned, her eyes still upon me, as though she wished to draw me out. "Why dost thou not listen to Chawanook?" I answered. "He is a brave young warrior, and will some day become a chief. That he would be kind to thee, I doubt not." She laid down the moccasin and looked at me intently, the smile gone from her face. "And thou wouldst counsel that," she said in a low voice. "I thought that thou wert the friend of Winona." "Even so," I replied; "and it is because I think much of Winona that I speak thus." "Dost some fair maid await across the great sea for the Eagle?" she asked eagerly, changing the conversation with the artfulness of a woman. I shook my head. "No," I replied sadly, "no one waits for the Eagle--he is alone." She still sat opposite looking at me, the half-finished moccasin beside her. "The squaw of the Eagle is in the forest above the head of the river," she said. "Is that why the Eagle walks abroad in the moonlight, when all are slumbering, and sighs to himself until day? Does he love the fair young maid, who is in the hands of his foes?" "The squaw belongs to one of the Eagle's friends," I replied gently, for the girl did not know that she touched a raw and bleeding wound. "He seeks her for one whom he loves as a brother." The girl looked at me; plainly she was debating something in her mind. Finally she spoke hesitatingly, and bending forward she whispered in a low voice: