“Come into camp this night,” I said.

“I will not.”

“You must do so.  I may not leave you here alone.”

“I can care for myself.”

“Yes—­ as you cared for yourself when I crept up behind you.  And if I had been a savage—­ then what?”

“A quick end,” she said coolly.

“Or a wretched captivity—­ perhaps marriage to some villainous Iroquois——­”

“Yes, sir; but nothing worse than marriage!”

“Child!” I exclaimed.  “Where have you lived to belie the pitiful youth of you with such a worldly-worn and bitter tongue?  I tell you all men are not of that stripe!  Do you not believe me?”

“Birds sing, sir.”

“Will you come into camp?” I repeated hotly.

“And if I will not?”

“Then, by heaven, I’ll carry you in my arms!  Will you come?”

She laughed at me, dangerously calm, seated herself, picked up the partly eaten food, and began to consume it with all the insolent leisure in the world.

I stood watching her for a few moments, then sat down cross-legged before her.

“Why do you doubt me, Lois?” I asked.

“Dear sir, I do not doubt you,” she answered with faintest malice.

“I tell you I am not of that stripe!” I said angrily.

“Then you are not a man at all.  I tell you I have talked with men as good as you, and heard them protest as you do—­ yes, with all the gentle condescension that you use, all of your confidence and masterful advice.  Sooner or later all have proved the same,” she shrugged; “——­ proved themselves men, in plainer words.”

She sat eating thoughtfully, looking aloft now and then at the thick splendor of the firmament.

Then, breaking a bit of corn bread, she said gravely: 

“I do not mean that you have not been kind, as men mean kindness.  I do not even mean that I blame men.

God made them different from us.  And had He made me one, doubtless I had been as all men are, taking the road through life as gaily, sword on thigh and hat in hand to every pretty baggage that a kindly fate made wayfarer with me.  No, I have never blamed a man; only the silly minx who listens.”

After a short silence, I said:  “Who, in the name of heaven, are you, Lois?”

“Does that concern you?”

“I would have it concern me—­ if you wish.”

“Dear sir,” she said very coolly, “I wish nothing of the kind.”

“You do not trust me.”

“Why, yes, as I trust every man—­ except a red one.”

“Yet, I tell you that all that animates me is a desire to render you a comrade’s service——­”

“And I thank you, Mr. Loskiel, because, like other men, you mean it generously and well.  Yet, you are an officer in the corps d’élite; and you would be ashamed to have the humblest bugler in your regiment see you with such a one as I.”

She broke another morsel from her bread: