In this state of things, the old woman,
whose name was Shebear, in plain English, approached Deerslayer,
with her fists clenched and her eyes flashing fire. Hitherto, she
had been occupied with screaming, an employment at which she had
played her part with no small degree of success, but having succeeded
in effectually alarming all within reach of a pair of lungs that had
been strengthened by long practice, she next turned her attention to
the injuries her own person had sustained in the struggle. These
were in no manner material, though they were of a nature to arouse
all the fury of a woman who had long ceased to attract by means
of the gentler qualities, and who was much disposed to revenge the
hardships she had so long endured, as the neglected wife and mother
of savages, on all who came within her power. If Deerslayer had not
permanently injured her, he had temporarily caused her to suffer,
and she was not a person to overlook a wrong of this nature, on
account of its motive.
"Skunk of the pale-faces," commenced this exasperated and semi-poetic
fury, shaking her fist under the nose of the impassable hunter, "you
are not even a woman. Your friends the Delawares are only women,
and you are their sheep.
Pages:
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499