CHAPTER VII FOR GOOD OR EVIL? "Pansy, born in the royal purple, 66 Say have I read your story aright, Saw you, under my calm-eyed gazing, Tell not the daisy close by your side. "Tell not the rose that is bending to listen, Tell not the passion-flower over your head, UY KINGSLAND stood staring mechanically at the apparition before him, for Heather Flower's steps had been noiseless, and the bound of the savage wolf-dog was the first intimation that any living creature was within the distance of five miles. Upon the ground at her feet lay Poniute, struggling fiercely with the great brute, who, with his blood-shot eyes turned toward his mistress, as if awaiting her command, held his prisoner securely, but carefully avoiding further mangling of the young warrior, who was showering heavy blows upon his thick shoulders. "Would Poniute kill the friend of Wyandance?" Heather Flower asked the question in the Delaware tongue, and although Kingsland was nearly ignorant of the language, he divined the purport from the name of the Sagamore, coupled with that of the assailant, and the contempt in the tone of the questioner. Poniute made no reply, but ceased his struggles, and at a word from the Indian girl the animal released his hold, and Poniute bounded to his feet. Heather Flower addressed him in a few short sentences, and pointing an imperious finger in the direction of the village, turned her back upon the warrior, who scowled fiercely in the face of the Lieutenant and stalked into the forest. "Is the pale-face warrior hurt?" asked Heather Flower, as Guy pushed back the clustering locks from his forehead and glanced at his hand, which was stained with blood. "No I don't know," he replied, again passing his fingers across his brow. "I can feel no pain, and yet-let the Heather Flower find whether or not there is a wound." Pressing his hand upon his eyes as if a sudden faintness had seized him, he sank back upon a rock and bowed his head upon his palm. Words and action were but an artifice; he had noted the swift pallor of the olive cheek, the tender light leaping to the dark eyes, the quick compression of the mobile lips, but not yet did he dare approach her with words of love. She might spurn him, but in her pity, so near akin to love, she must unbend from her reserved demeanour. He had read a woman's heart aright-his ruse was successful. Bending over him as he half-reclined upon the rock, she placed her slender hand upon his forehead and tenderly threaded the chestnut locks dabbled in the blood of his assailant. He remembered now, perfectly, of feeling the great drops from Poniute's naked shoulder sprinkle his face when the long sharp fangs of the dog fastened themselves in the flesh. That magnetic touch from the soft fingers thrilled his whole being and sent the life-current rushing in a lava torrent through his veins. He made no sign, but sitting with drooping head, smiled inwardly at the fortunate chance which had removed the barrier of reserve he had thus far found it impossible to cross. "What has the pale-face chief done? Why did Poniute try to kill him?" she questioned, anxiously. "Will Heather Flower bring water from the spring that I may drink?" he said, evasively, for like an inspiration of evil an idea had flashed through his subtle brain, "I-hear the-murmur of -water-I—” He sank back, resting his head upon the mossy stone, and closed his eyes as if about to swoon. In an instant she darted away, making straight for a tiny spring bubbling from beneath a shelving rock at a short distance from the spot where he was reclining. Scarcely had she disappeared when he took from his waistcoat pocket a keen-edged pocket-knife, and opening the blade he drew the sharp point across his crown in such a manner as to allow the blood to flow, yet making but a superficial wound. She must not know that he was uninjured; that would spoil the effect of his acting, he argued, and thrusting the knife back in his pocket he awaited her return. Her absence was of brief duration, and bearing a cup hastily improvised from the bark of the silver birch, which she had fashioned and lined with cool, green leaves, she offered him a draught of pure, cold water, which he drank eagerly. Carefully cleansing the stains from his forehead, she quickly discovered the scalp-wound, and again hastening into the copse she gathered a dry mushroom, filled with a fine, brown powder, the fungus known among Europeans as a puff-ball, with which she was enabled to staunch the flow of blood. "Will the pale-face warrior tell why the Montauk brave would kill him-will the white brother tell Heather Flower with a straight tongue? His eyes took on an evil glitter which was veiled by the half-closed lids, as he replied: "Shall the white warrior speak truly, and will the Heather Flower be angry if he tells her why the Montauk warrior sought his life?" "Let the young white brave speak with a straight tongue, Heather Flower will not be angry." "The Sachem's daughter has bidden me speak. Poniute has looked in the heart of the white 'chief and has seen the love that has been hidden from all the world. He has the keen eye of jealousy; he knows that the white warrior loves the princess of the Montauks." The warm fingers fell away from the curling locks of the tempter, and she turned away her head in maidenly confusion, the swift blushes staining her cheek to a peachy hue. "Is my forest queen angry? Does the love of a true heart offend her because the lover is of the palefaces?" A deeper bloom suffused her cheek, but her lips were silent. "If the Heather Flower is angry, the white chief will go away; the first white-winged canoe that sails shall bear him across the blue waters, and Heather Flower shall be troubled with his presence no longer -she shall see his face no more. "Heather Flower is not angry that the pale-face chief speaks with a straight tongue. But she must stay in the lodges of her people. Let the young chief take counsel with the King of the Montauks. If her father will give her in marriage, she will go to the wigwam of the young white chief who loves her." "The pale-face lover will speak to the great Sachem of the Montauks, but not now. For a time, the secret of our love must be locked within our hearts," he whispered, his lips close to her ear, his tone a caress. "Will my forest flower consent to remain silent until I give her leave to speak-until I have completed my arrangements? Listen, love of my soul, the Great Chief across the blue water has sent me here upon matters of much importance, and should it become known to my people that I had taken a wife from among the red men I might be carried to England loaded with chains, nay, I might be convicted of treason to my sovereign lord, and suffer an ignominious death; would my forest flower know what I must endure should some enemy represent my motives falsely? I might be hanged upon a gibbet to suffer the pangs of strangulation, but only for a moment, then my heart would be torn from my breast, my limbs would be severed, and my head placed upon the highest spike on Temple Bar, a spectacle for the gaping crowd! Can my forest queen ask the sacrifice, when, by her silence, she might save me?" She but partially comprehended the language, but the tone, the pantomime accompanying the statement, conveyed the meaning only too surely. "But the daughter of a king is a fitting mate for the greatest chief among the pale-faces!" returned Heather Flower, proudly, withdrawing herself from |