“Ah, too long,” whispered Polly. He smiled. “That is well. The Eagle bides his time. He has no desire to strike, only to take in peace what is his. Come, then.” He turned to the door, and the girl followed. Granny strained forward, glaring terribly, struggling to be heard; but the girl did not look at her. Then from the cradle came a faint, thin wail. Polly started, like one waking from a trance, and rushed back to the cradle. The Indian followed. Hearing him, she turned at bay, both arms stretched backward over the cradle as if in protection. He put her aside, and leaned over to look, frowning. “Ho!” he muttered. “A man-child. The Moonmaid’s son?” She nodded, fearfully. “A white child,” he said, still gazing. “And too young. It is not mine. The Moon-maid has lied!” His hand went to the tomahawk at his belt. Polly cried out, sank to her knees, her arms embracing his legs. “No, _no_! Listen! The baby is mine, mine! But you did not come, they were my people, what was I to do? I but one and they so many! In my heart I waited. Granny! Granny, tell him----” * * * * * The Indian looked down at her, his face slowly relaxing. He turned to the door again, saying, “Come!” Polly, with a gasp of relief, bent quickly to pick up the child, but he stopped her with a stern gesture. “No. It is not my son. Gray Eagle is no thief.” She moaned. “You mean, I am to leave him? But how can I, how can I? Not yet! He will be hungry.” Her two hands went with a piteous gesture to her breasts. Gray Eagle said: “Choose.” He stalked to the door and out. The other Indians followed. Polly stared after them, wringing her hands, whimpering like an animal. She met the intent gaze of her grandmother fixed upon her. “What shall I do? What shall I _do_! You tell me! I knew it would be so. He will not come again--unless--to kill! And how shall I find him? How shall I ever go to him? Yet my baby, my little son--” Slowly, stiffly, the old woman’s head turned until her eyes indicated the door through which the Indian had gone. Polly covered her face with her arms. “You mean, I am to go? You tell me that?” She went to the old woman, stroking the wrinkled cheeks, the hands, desperately. “It is good-by, then! Ezra--you will make him understand, remind him of what he said about the prior claim? Tell him--tell him I would have stayed, perhaps--if I could----” Without another glance at the cradle, she ran out. The old woman’s eyes closed, as if in unbearable pain. Then they opened again, suddenly, for Polly was back. “I cannot. I _cannot_!” she whimpered, running to the cradle. She lifted the baby, rolled it close in a blanket as if to hide it, and ran out, holding it close. Granny strained forward, listening intently. Then after a moment came a wild wail: “No, no, you shall not! Give him to me, _give_ him. He is mine! I beg, I _beg_ you not---- _Nenemoosha, Nenemoosha----_”