The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1904-02-24

steal from or plot against her bene-
factors, but that was before she
dreamed that Nanette had become
the Indians wife. After that any
thing might happen. eff she could
do that for love of Moreau," said she,
there was nothing she could not
do.''
And it would seem there was little
short of deliberate murder she had
not done for her Sioux lover, who
had rewarded her utter self sacrifice
by a savage blow with a revolver
butt. 'Poor Nanette!'' sobbed Mrs.
Hay, and "Poor Nanette!" said all
Fort Frayne, their distrust of her
buried and forgotten as she lay, re-
fusing herself to every one; starv-
ing herself in dull, desperate misery
in her lonely room. Even grim old
"Black Bill" whom she had recog-
nized at once-Bill who had been the
first to confirm Blake's suspicious as
to her identity-had pity and COM
passion for her. cts the way of the
blood" said Blake. "She is
Bred out of that bloody strain
That haunted us in our familiar paths %
"She could do no different said
the general. ''having fixed her love
Oh him. It's the strain of the Sioux.
We call her conduct criminal-they
call it sublime
And one night, while decision in
Nanette's case was still pending, and,
Ja1 c1, l., Il
traders home, refusing speech with
any one but little Fawn Eyes,
sleighing party set out from Frayne
for a spin by moonlight along the
frozen Platte. Wagon bodies had been
set on runners, and piled with hay.
The young people from officers row,
with the proper allowance of patrons
and elders, We're slowed therein, and
tucked in robes and furs, Esther
Dade among them, gentle and re-
sponsive as ever, yet still very silent.
Field, in his deep mourning went no
where. He seemed Inundated beyond
words by his connection with this
most painful affair. Even the gen
eral failed to cheer and reassure
him. He blamed himself for every
thing and shrank even from his
friends. They saw the dim glow of
the student lamp in his quarters, as
they jingled cheerily away. They were
coming homeward, toward ten
o'clock. The moon was shining bril-
linntly along the bold heights of the
southern bank, and insensibly, chat
and laughter gradually ceased as they
came again in sight of the twinkling
lights of Frayne, and glanced aloft
at q new-made scaffolding, standing
black against the sky at the crest
of Fetterman Bluff. "Eagle Wing
roosts high" said thoughtless
youngster. "The general let them
have their way to the last. What's
that?" he added, with sudden stop.
The sleigh had as suddenly been
refined in. The driver, an Irish troop
er, crossed himself, for, on the hush
of the breathless winter night, there
rose and fell-shrill, quavering, now
high, now low, in mournful minor, a
weird, desolate. despairing chant, the
voice of the heart-broken woman, and
one and all knew at once it was Ma
nette, after the manner of her moth
er's people, alone on the lofty height,
alone in the wintry wilderness,
sobbing out her grief song to the
sleeping winds, mourning to the last
her lost, her passionately loved
brave.
Then, all on sudden, it ceased. A
black form started from under the
scaffolding to the edge of the bluff.
Then again, weird, wild, uncanny, a
barbaric, almost savage strain burst
from the lips of the girl. Mother
OF Heavin!" cried the driver. Can no
one shtop that awful keen. It's her
death song she's singip4n ~ 9.