human
He was mine, Edith, she exclaimed, in the full confidence of sorrow.
gpt
He was mine--my betrothed--my loved! And they have hidden it from me--hidden it from all the Indian women here; for they knew that every one in the tribe loved him--though not as well as I. Where was the poor wanderer who passed your house with her infant on her back, who did not receive kindness from Walter Prevost?--where was the Indian girl who could say he did not treat her with as kindly gentleness as the highest white woman in the land? He was the tree which had grown up to shelter the hut of the woodman, giving him cool shade and comfort in the days of summer and of gladness, to be cut down and burnt for fire when the winter winds are singing in the bare branches. Oh, my brother--my brother! bad is the return they make thee, and hard the measure that they deal! But shall Otaitsa suffer this? she cried, rising vehemently, and casting her arms abroad.
human
Shall the Black Eagle let the ravens pick out the eyes of his young in his own nest? No, my sister, no! they shall take Otaitsa's blood first--they shall shake the Blossom from the old bough that is no longer able to bear it up against the winds of Heaven. If the Black Eagle can no longer protect even his daughter's husband, let him cast away the tomahawk--let him lay down the rifle, and be a woman amongst the chiefs of his people!