Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience: she had held her peace so long
that even her slow Indian nature could endure no more. "What will my
father Athabasca do?" she asked. "With idleness the flesh grows soft, and
the iron melts from the arm."

"But when the thoughts are stone, the body is as that of the Mighty Men
of the Kimash Hills. When the bow is long drawn, beware the arrow."

"It is no answer," she said: "what will my father do?"

"They were of gold," he answered, "that never grew rusty. My people were
full of wonder when they stood before me, and the tribes had envy as they
passed. It is a hundred moons and one red midsummer moon since the Great
Company put them on my shoulders. They were light to carry, but it was as
if I bore an army. No other chief was like me. That is all over. When the
tribes pass they will laugh, and my people will scorn me if I do not come
out to meet them with the yokes of gold."

"But what will my father do?" she persisted.

"I have had many thoughts, and at night I have called on the Spirits who
rule. From the top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft drum, and
called, and sung the hymn which wakes the sleeping Spirits: and I know
the way."

"What is the way?" Her eyes filled with a kind of fear or trouble, and
many times they shifted from the Fort to her father, and back again. The
chief was silent. Then anger leapt into her face.

"Why does my father fear to speak to his child?" she said. "I will speak