The Indian said cunningly: 

“Why has my brother Loskiel abandoned roof and fire for a bed on the forest moss?”

“A man must do battle for his own people, Sagamore.”

“A white maid may do what pleases her, too, for aught I know,” he said indifferently.

“Why does it please her to roam abroad alone?”

“How should I know?”

“You do know!”

“Loskiel,” he said, “if I know why, perhaps I know of other matters, too.  Ask me some day—­ before they send you into battle.”

“What matters do you know of?”

“Ask me no more, Loskiel—­ until your conch-horns blowing in the forest summon Morgan’s men to battle.  Then ask; and a Sagamore will answer—­ a Siwanois Mohican—­ of the magic clan.  Hiero!”

That ended it; he had spoken, and I was not fool enough to urge him to another word.

And now, as I rode, my mind was still occupied with my growing concern for the poor child I had come to pity so.  Within me a furtive tenderness was growing which sometimes shamed, sometimes angered me, or left me self-contemptuous, restless, or dully astonished that my pride permitted it.  For in my heart such sentiments for such a maid as this—­ tenderness, consciousness of some subtlety about her that attracted me—­ should have no place.  There was every reason why I should pity her and offer aid; none why her grey eyes should hold my own; none why the frail body of her in her rags should quicken any pulse of mine; none why my nearness to her should stop my heart and breath.

Yet, all day long her face and slim shape haunted me—­ a certain sullen sweetness of the lips, too—­ and I remembered the lithe grace of her little hands as she broke the morsels of that midnight meal and lifted the cup of chilly water in which I saw the star-light dancing.  And “Lord!” thought I, amazed at my own folly.  “What madness lies in these midsummer solitudes, that I should harbor such fantastic thoughts?”

Seldom, as yet, had dream of woman vexed me—­ and when I dreamed at all it was but a tinselled figment that I saw—­ the echo, doubtless, of some tale I read concerning raven hair and rosy lips, and of a vague but wondrous fairness adorned most suitably in silks and jewels.

Dimly I was resigned toward some such goal, first being full of honours won with sword and spur, laden with riches, too, and territories stretching to those sunset hills piled up like sapphires north of Frenchman’s Creek.

Out of the castled glory of the dawn, doubtless, I thought, would step one day my vision—­ to admire my fame and riches.  And her I’d marry—­ after our good King had knighted me.

Alas!  For our good King had proved a bloody knave; my visionary lands and riches all had vanished; instead of silk attire and sword, I wore a rifle-shirt and skinning-knife; and out of the dawn-born glory of the hills had stepped no silken damsel of romance to pause and worship me—­ only a slender, ragged, grey-eyed waif who came indifferent as the chilly wind in spring; who went as April shadows go, leaving no trace behind.