She was habited in a fine tunic of white dressed doeskin richly embroidered with coloured beads and stained quills, a full petticoat of dark cloth bound with scarlet descended to her ancles, leggings fringed with deer-skin knotted with bands of coloured quills, with richly wrought mocassins on her feet.

On her head she wore a coronet of scarlet and black feathers; her long shining tresses of raven hair descended to her waist, each thick tress confined with a braided band of quills dyed scarlet and blue; her stature was tall and well-formed; her large, liquid, dark eye wore an expression so proud and mournful that Catharine felt her own involuntarily fill with tears as she gazed upon this singular being.

She would have approached nearer to her, but a spell seemed on her; she shrunk back timid and abashed beneath that wild melancholy glance.

It was she, the Beam of the Morning, the self-made widow of the young Mohawk, whose hand had wrought so fearful a vengeance on the treacherous destroyer of her brother.

She stood there, at the tent door, arrayed in her bridal robes, as on the day when she received her death-doomed victim.