Part 43 (2/2)

The wonder in her eyes deepened; her whole body quivered.

”Who are you with a white skin who speak like a crested sachem?” she faltered.

”Tat-sheh-teh, little sister. I bear the quiver, but my war-arrows are broken.”

”Oneida!” she exclaimed softly, clasping her hands between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

I stepped closer, holding out my arms; slowly she laid her hands in mine, looking fearlessly up into my face. I turned her palms upward and placed the naked knife across them; she bent her head, then straightened up, looking me full in the eyes.

Still smiling, I laid both my hands on the collar of my hunting-s.h.i.+rt, baring throat and chest; and, as the full significance of the tiny tattoo dawned upon her, she s.h.i.+vered.

”Tharon!” she stammered. ”Thou! What have I done!” And, shuddering, cast the knife at my feet as though it had been the snake that rattles.

”Little sister----”

”Oh, no! no! What have I done! What have I dared! I have raised my hand against Him whom you have talked with face to face----”

”Only Tharon has done that,” I said gently, ”I but wear his sign.

Peace, Woman of the Morning. There is no injury where there is no intent. We are not yet '_at the Forest's Edge_.'”

Slowly the color returned to lip and cheek, her fascinated eyes roamed from my face to the tattooed wolf and mark of Tharon crossing it. And after a little she smiled faintly at my smile, as I said:

”I have drawn the fangs of the Wolf; fear no more, Daughter of the Sun.”

”I--I fear no more,” she breathed.

”Shall an ensign of the Oneida cherish wrath?” I asked. ”He who bears a quiver has forgotten. See, child; it is as it was from the beginning.

Hiro.”

I calmly seated myself on the floor, knees gathered in my clasped hands; and she settled down opposite me, awaiting in instinctive silence my next words.

”Why does my sister wear the dress of an adolescent, mocking the False Faces, when the three fires are not yet kindled?” I asked.

”I hold the fire-right,” she said quickly. ”Ask those who wear the mask where cherries grow. O sachem, those cherries were ripe ere I was!”

I thought a moment, then fixed my eager eyes on her.

”Only the Cherry-Maid of Adriutha has that right,” I said. My heart, beating furiously, shook my voice, for I knew now who she was.

”I am Cherry-Maid to the three fires,” she said; ”in bud at Adriutha, in blossom at Carenay, in fruit at Danascara.”

”Your name?”

”Lyn Montour.”

I almost leaped from the floor in my excitement; yet the engrafted Oneida instinct of a sachem chained me motionless. ”You are the wife of Walter Butler,” I said deliberately, in English.

A wave of crimson stained her face and shoulders. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands.

<script>