Ah, a mother's ruse! Snana entered the
thorny enclosure, which was almost a rude tee-
pee, and, tucked away in the furthermost corner,
lay something with a trout-like, speckled, tawny
coat. She bent over it. The fawn was appar-
ently sleeping. Presently its eyes moved a bit,
and a shiver passed through its subtle body.
"Thou shalt not die; thy skin shall not be-
come my work-bag!" unconsciously the maiden
spoke. The mother sympathy had taken hold
on her mind. She picked the fawn up tenderly,
bound its legs, and put it on her back to carry
like an Indian babe in the folds of her robe.
"I cannot leave you alone, Tachinchala.
Your mother is not here. Our hunters will soon
return by this road, and your mother has left
behind her two plain tracks leading to this
thicket," she murmured.
The wild creature struggled vigorously for
a minute, and then became quiet. Its graceful
head protruded from the elkskin robe just over
Snana's shoulder. She was slowly climbing the
slope with her burden, when suddenly like an
apparition the doe-mother stood before her.
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