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I demanded in astonishment. "It was ever the burden of her piping this rosy-throated pigeon of the woods." "That is most strange," said I. "It is doubtless sorcery that she should ask of me an interview with you who came two hundred miles to ask of me the very question." "But, Mayaro, she did not then know why I had come to seek you." "I knew as quickly as I heard your name."
I smiled, and added: "Hiero! Little rosy-throated pigeon of the woods! Loskiel has spoken!" Now, as I ended, this same and silly wild-thing fell silently a-crying; and never had I dreamed that any maid could be so full o' tears, when by all rights she should have sat dimpling there, happy and gay, and eager as I.
Are you not amazed to see me here?" she insisted, mischievously amused at his unaltered features. The Sagamore said smilingly: "When she wills it, who can follow the Rosy-throated Pigeon in her swift flight? Not the Enchantress in the moon. Tharon alone, O Rosy-throated One!" "The wild pigeon has outwitted you all, has she not, Mayaro, my friend?" "Nakwah! Let my brother Loskiel deny it, then.
If I could find her, speak to her again, I think I might aid her." Mayaro's features became smooth and blank. "What maiden is this my younger brother fears for?" he asked mildly. "Her name is Lois. You know well whom I mean." "Hai!" he exclaimed, laughing softly. "Is it still the rosy-throated pigeon of the forest for whom my little brother Loskiel is spreading nets?"
And, at once, I knew that I should also speak to her, there in the storm, and answer her her question." "And did you do so?" "Yes, Loskiel. I said to her: 'Little sad rosy-throated pigeon of the woods, the vale Yndaia lies by a hidden river in the West. Some call it Catharines-town." I shook my head, perplexed, and understanding nothing. "Yndaia? Did you say Yndaia, Mayaro?"
For only a Sagamore of the Enchanted Clan might stand as witness to the mystery, where now the awful, viewless form of Tharon was supposed to stand, white winged and plumed, and robed like the Eight Thunders in snowy white. "Listen, Loskiel," he said, "my younger brother, blood-brother to a Siwanois. Listen, also, O Rosy-Throated Pigeon of the Woods home from the unseen flight to mate at last!"
"Fowls to the home-yard; the wild bird to the wood," he said gravely. "Where do the rosy-throated pigeons go in winter? Does my brother Loskiel know where?" "Sagamore," I said earnestly, "this maid is no wild gypsy thing no rose-tinted forest pigeon. She has been bred at home, mannered and schooled. She knows the cote, I tell you, and not the bush, where the wild hawk hangs mewing in the sky.
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