But Kut-le did not heed her attempt to change the subject.

“There are unlimited opportunities for me to make good, now that the government is putting up so many dams.  I believe that I can go to the top with any man, don’t you, Miss Rhoda?”

“I do, indeed!” replied Rhoda sincerely.

“Well, then, Miss Rhoda, will you marry me?”

Rhoda raised her head in speechless amazement.

Kut-le’s glowing eyes contracted.

“You are not surprised!” he exclaimed a little fiercely, “You must have seen how it has been with me ever since you came.  And you have been so—­so bully to me!”

Rhoda looked helplessly into the young man’s face.  She was so fragile that she seemed but an evanescent part of the moonlight.

“But,” she said slowly, “you must know that this is impossible.  I couldn’t think of marrying you, Kut-le!”

There was a moment’s silence.  An owl called from the desert.  The night wind swept from the fragrant orchard.  When he spoke again, Kut-le’s voice was husky.

“Is it because I am an Indian?”

“Yes,” answered Rhoda, “partly.  But I don’t love you, anyhow.”

“But,” eagerly, “if you did love me, would my being an Indian make any difference?  Isn’t my blood pure?  Isn’t it old?”

Rhoda stood still.  The pain in Kut-le’s voice was piercing through to the shadow world in which she lived.  Her voice was troubled.

“But I don’t love you, so what’s the use of considering the rest?  If I ever marry any one it will be John DeWitt.”

“But couldn’t you,” insisted the tragically deep voice, “couldn’t you ever love me?”

Rhoda answered wearily.  One could not, it seemed, even die in peace!

“I can’t think of love or marriage any more.  I am a dying woman.  Let me go into the mist, Kut-le, without a pang for our friendship, with just the pleasant memory of your goodness to me.  Surely you cannot love me as I am!”

“I love you for the wonderful possibilities I see in you.  I love you in spite of your illness.  I will make you well before I marry you.  The Indian in me has strength to make you well.  And I will cherish you as white men cherish their wives.”

Rhoda raised her hand commandingly and in her voice was that boundless vanity of the white, which is as old as the race.

“No!  No!  Don’t speak of this again!  You are an Indian but one removed from savagery.  I am a white!  I couldn’t think of marrying you!” Then her tender heart failed her and her voice trembled.  “But still I am your friend, Kut-le.  Truly I am your friend.”

The Indian was silent so long that Rhoda was a little frightened.  Then he spoke slowly.

“Yes, you are white and I am red.  But before all that, you are a woman of exquisite possibilities and I am a man who by all of nature’s laws would make a fitting mate for you.  You can love me, when you are well, as you could love no other man.  And I—­dear one, I love you passionately!  I love you tenderly!  I love you enough to give up my race for you.  I am an Indian, Rhoda, but first of all I am a man.  Rhoda, will you marry me?”