“I am homesick.  I want to see my people.  Myeerah, you have named me rightly.  The Eagle can never be happy unless he is free.”

“The Eagle can be happy with his mate.  And what life could be freer than a Huron’s?  I hope always that you will grow content.”

“It has been a long time now, Myeerah, since I have spoken with you of my freedom.  Will you ever free me?  Or must I take again those awful chances of escape?  I cannot always live here in this way.  Some day I shall be killed while trying to get away, and then, if you truly love me, you will never forgive yourself.”

“Does not Myeerah truly love you?” she asked, gazing straight into his eyes, her own misty and sad.

“I do not doubt that, but I think sometimes that it is not the right kind of love.  It is too savage.  No man should be made a prisoner for no other reason than that he is loved by a woman.  I have tried to teach you many things; the language of my people, their ways and thoughts, but I have failed to civilize you.  I cannot make you understand that it is unwomanly—­do not turn away.  I am not indifferent.  I have learned to care for you.  Your beauty and tenderness have made anything else impossible.”

“Myeerah is proud of her beauty, if it pleases the Eagle.  Her beauty and her love are his.  Yet the Eagle’s words make Myeerah sad.  She cannot tell what she feels.  The pale face’s words flow swiftly and smoothly like rippling waters, but Myeerah’s heart is full and her lips are dumb.”

Myeerah and Isaac stopped under a spreading elm tree the branches of which drooped over and shaded the river.  The action of the high water had worn away the earth round the roots of the old elm, leaving them bare and dry when the stream was low.  As though Nature had been jealous in the interest of lovers, she had twisted and curled the roots into a curiously shaped bench just above the water, which was secluded enough to escape all eyes except those of the beaver and the muskrat.  The bank above was carpeted with fresh, dewy grass; blue bells and violets hid modestly under their dark green leaves; delicate ferns, like wonderful fairy lace, lifted their dainty heads to sway in the summer breeze.  In this quiet nook the lovers passed many hours.

“Then, if my White Chief has learned to care for me, he must not try to escape,” whispered Myeerah, tenderly, as she crept into Isaac’s arms and laid her head on his breast.  “I love you.  I love you.  What will become of Myeerah if you leave her?  Could she ever be happy?  Could she ever forget?  No, no, I will keep my captive.”

“I cannot persuade you to let me go?”

“If I free you I will come and lie here,” cried Myeerah, pointing to the dark pool.

“Then come with me to my home and live there.”

“Go with you to the village of the pale faces, where Myeerah would be scorned, pointed at as your captors laughed at and pitied?  No!  No!”