"Look at my head!" said Harpstenah; "Wenona knew that I was the swiftest
runner in the band, and as I stooped to catch the ball she struck me a
blow that stunned me, so that I could not run again."
But the head was so ugly, and the face too, that there was no pity felt
for her; those dirty, wrinkled features bore witness to her contempt for
the cleansing qualities of water. Her uncombed hair was hanging in
masses about her ears and face, and her countenance expressed cruelty
and passion. But Harpstenah had nothing to avenge; when she was young
she was passed by, as there was nothing in her face or disposition that
could attract; and now in the winter of life she was so ugly and so
desolate, so cross and so forlorn, that no one deemed her worthy even of
a slight. But for all that, Harpstenah could hate, and with all the
intensity of her evil heart did she hate Wenona, the beautiful sister of
the chief.
Yesterday had been as bright as to-day, and Grey Eagle, the medicine
man, had hung on a pole the prizes that were to be given to the party
that succeeded in throwing the ball into a space marked off.
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