"It is the
son of a great warrior: why is the face of his father so dark on him?"
Narrah-mattah had drawn near enough to her husband, to be within reach of
his hand. With extended arms she held the pledge of their former
happiness towards the chief, as if to beseech a last and kindly look of
recognition and love.
"Will not the great Narragansett look at his boy?" she repeated, in a
voice that sounded like the lowest notes of some touching melody. "Why is
his face so dark, on a woman of his tribe?"
Even the stern features of the Mohegan Sagamore showed that he was
touched. Beckoning to his grim attendants to move behind the tree, he
turned and walked aside, with the noble air of a savage, when influenced
by his better feelings. Then light shot into the clouded countenance of
Conanchet. His eyes sought the face of his stricken and grieved consort,
who mourned less for his danger than she grieved for his displeasure. He
received the boy from her hands, and studied his features long and
intently. Beckoning to Dudley, who alone gazed on the scene, he placed the
infant in his arms.
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