"The Sachem of the Narragansetts a prisoner, of Mohican Uncas!" she
repeated in a low tone, as if the sound of her voice were necessary to
dispel some horrible illusion. "No! Uncas is not a warrior to strike
Conanchet!"
"Hear my words," said the chief, touching the shoulder of his wife, as
one arouses a friend from his slumbers. "There is a Pale-face in these
woods who is a burrowing fox. He hides his head from the Yengeese. When
his people were on the trail, barking like hungry wolves, this man
trusted to a Sagamore. It was a swift chase, and my father is getting
very old. He went up a young hickory, like a bear, and Conanchet led off
the lying tribe. But he is not a moose. His legs cannot go like running
water, for ever!"
"And why did the great Narragansett give his life for a stranger?"
"The man is a brave;" returned the Sachem, proudly: "he took the scalp of
a Sagamore!"
Again Narra-mattah was silent. She brooded, in nearly stupid amazement, on
the frightful truth.
"The Great Spirit sees that the man and his wife are of different tribes,"
she at length ventured to rejoin.
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