"How did she know--how could she teach you the language of our tribe? Ask how deep the wrongs must be which made her forswear her own tongue as if it had been a curse?" "Hold, hold!" cried Abigail, shaking off his clasp and gazing wildly into his face. "Your speech is like my own--English is native to you, rather than the savage tongue--your cheek is without paint--your forehead too white--your air proud like an Indian, but gentle withal. Who are you? Why is it that you lay wait for me in this holy place, talking of my mother as if you knew her?" "Knew her, Mahaska? The Great Spirit knows how well! Knew her?" "My mother--you--" The young man fell on his knees, and, leaning his head upon the grave stone, remained silent a while, subduing the emotion that seemed to sweep away his strength. At last he looked up; the fire had left his eyes; deep, solemn resolution filled its place. Abigail could not speak. Bewilderment and awe kept her dumb. For a moment the young Indian gazed upon her, then his voice broke forth in a gush of tenderness. "Mahaska!" "Why do you call me by that name?" cried the young girl. "Because your mother--your beautiful, unhappy mother--whispered it faintly as a dying wind in the pine branches, when her lord and your father bent thankfully over her couch of fern leaves, in the deep forest, to look upon his last-born child. Because his brave kiss pressed your forehead in baptism, as that name left her pale lips. Because the word has a terrible significance." "What significance?" asked Abigail, beginning to tremble beneath those burning glances. "Mahaska, the Avenger." "The avenger! Alas! alas! it is a fearful name; but what signifies that? The consecrated waters of baptism have washed it away." The young Indian sprang to his feet. "Washed it away? Washed the name of our fathers from your forehead? I tell you, girl, it is burning there in the red blood of a kingly sire--in the flames which devoured the old men and little children of our tribe--rusted in by the iron that held a king's son in bondage under the hot sky of the tropics. Look, maiden, look where the ocean heaves and rolls beneath the moon: there is not enough water in all that to wash the name from your brow. Look upward, where the Great Spirit hath kindled his camp-fires in the sky: you will not find flame enough to burn it out. Look yonder, where the thick forest covers the earth--roll all its shadows together, and through their blackness all the world would read that name!" Abigail covered her affrighted face with both hands. Her brain was confused--the heart quaked in her bosom--all the traditions of her life were uprooted in a moment. Who was she? Who was the man, garbed like a savage, but who spoke the English tongue as if it were his own? Was the grave at her feet really that of her mother? What did the young savage mean by that haughty air--those proud words?