Ruth raised the form of her child, and saw that the
features bore the placid look of a sleeping infant. Life played upon them,
as the flickering light lingers on the dying torch. Her dove-like eyes
looked up into the face of Ruth, and the anguish of the mother was
alleviated by a smile of intelligence and love. The full and sweet organs
next rolled from face to face, recognition and pleasure accompanying each
change. On Whittal they became perplexed and doubtful, but when they met
the fixed, frowning, and still commanding eye of the dead chief, their
wandering ceased for ever. There was a minute, during which, fear, doubt,
wildness, and early recollections, struggled for the mastery. The hands of
Narra-mattah trembled, and she clung convulsively to the robe of Ruth.
"Mother!--mother!--" whispered the agitated victim of so many conflicting
emotions, "I will pray again--an evil Spirit besets me."
Ruth felt the force of her grasp, and heard the breathing of a few words
of petition; after which the voice was mute, and the hands relaxed their
hold.
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