“What bud, sir?”

“Did you not leave me a rose-bud?”

“I?”

“And a bit of silver birch-bark scratched with a knife point?”

“Now that I think of it, perhaps I may have done so—­ or some such thing—­ scarce knowing what I was about—­ and being sleepy.  What was it that I wrote?  I can not now remember—­ being so sleepy when I did it.”

“And that is all you thought about it, Lois?”

“How can one think when half asleep’’

“Here is your rose,” I said angrily.  “I will take my ring again.”

She opened her grey eyes at that.

“Lord!” she murmured in an innocent and leisurely surprise.  “You have it still, my rose?  Are roses scarce where you inhabit, sir?  For if you find the flower so rare and curious I would not rob you of it—­ no!” And, bending, soaked and soaped another shirt.

“Why do you mock me, Lois?”

“I!  Mock you!  La!  Sir, you surely jest.”

“You do so!  You have done so ever since we met.  I ask you why?” I repeated, curbing my temper.

“Lord!” she murmured, shaking her head.  “The young man is surely going stark!  A girl in my condition—­ such a girl as I mock at an officer and a gentleman?  No, it is beyond all bounds; and this young man is suffering from the sun.”

“Were it not,” said I angrily, “that common humanity brought me here and bids me remain for the moment, I would not endure this.”

“Heaven save us all!” she sighed.  “How very young is this young man who comes complaining here that he is mocked—­ when all I ventured was to marvel that he had found a wild rose-bud so rare and precious!”

I said to myself:  “Damn!  Damn!” in fierce vexation, yet knew not how to take her nor how to save my dignity.  And she, with head averted, was laughing silently; I could see that, too; and never in my life had I been so flouted to my face.

“Listen to me!” I broke out bluntly.  “I know not who or what you are, why you are here, whither you are bound.  But this I do know, that beyond our pickets there is peril in these woods, and it is madness for man or maid to go alone as you do.”

The laughter had died out in her face.  After a moment it became grave.

“Was it to tell me this that you spoke to me in the fort, Mr. Loskiel?” she asked.

“Yes, Two days ago our pickets were fired on by Indians.  Last night two riflemen of our corps took as many Seneca scalps.  Do you suppose that when I heard of these affairs I did not think of you—­ remembering what was done but yesterday at Cherry Valley?”

“Did you—­ remember—­ me?”

“Good God, yes!” I exclaimed, my nerves on edge again at the mere memory of her rashness.  “I came here as a comrade—­ wishing to be of service, and—­ you have used me——­”

“Vilely,” she said, looking serenely at me.

“I did not say that, Lois——­”