Abigail was cowering upon the ground at his feet; she had no strength to stand, but as he spoke she lifted her face with a dull, hopeless look, which contracted her features into ice. "Who is it that speaks? who is it that hurls this terrible birthright at me?" "It is the son of King Philip, the runaway slave, the man whose boyhood has been crucified beneath the driver's lash, while his people were scattered abroad--sold, shot, plundered like mad dogs and wolves. Mahaska, it is your brother!" Up to this time the girl had been palsied; now a flash of fire kindled through and through her, an intolerable weight seemed flung from her brain, she stood up and held forth her arms. The young savage took her hands with a grasp of iron, but he did not embrace her. "Is it the hand of a king's daughter that I hold?" he questioned, with a sort of stern tenderness, but keeping her at arm's length. "It is King Philip's daughter--try me, brother: lead the way into the wilderness: I will follow: see if I cannot trample down all love for my mother's enemies!" The chief opened his arms, and drew the young girl to his bosom, as he had done years before, when his mother, striving to introduce some of the amenities of life into the Indian lodge, had given the infant sister up to his caresses. Then the blood spoke out, her air was proud and firm as his own, she began to realize that she was indeed the daughter of martyrs and kings, that their wrongs were her wrongs--their people her people. "Take me with you to our people, before my heart softens, or memory comes back. Here I fling away the love of a life-time--uncle, cousin, home." She spoke wildly, her eye burned, her cheek was like flame; she left her brother's arms, and fell upon her knees between the two graves. "Mother," she whispered--"mother, hear me; check those sobs on the wind, they break my heart. I am giving myself up to you body and soul; mother, teach me the vow that will content you; I will take it here, while the last of our race looks on!" The wind swept over her, sighing like a soul relieved from pain--swept over her in sweet, warm gushes, as if it had been asleep in the blossoming trees. Abigail covered her face and wept; when she looked up again the young chief had gone. CHAPTER XVI. THE ACCEPTED INVITATION. Barbara Stafford became the guest of Governor Phipps. It was a singular arrangement on both sides, for the strange lady had from the first retreated from the idea with evident repulsion, and Sir William was the last man in the world to receive a person under his roof about whose history the slightest doubt existed. Barbara offered no credentials of respectability--she submitted no letters--made no explanation; yet on the bare recommendation of unmistakable refinement, and a charm of manner that had all the power of fascination, she became more than a welcome inmate of the proud man's mansion.