“Perchance, then,” I urged, doubtfully, “you may prefer remaining quietly here rather than risk the peril of trying to escape?”

She looked at me keenly, as if in wonder at my words; and I could see that her eyes were moistening with the sudden rush of feeling.

“You are either dull of comprehension, John Wayland,” she said, a bit pertly, “or else you understand me less than any man I ever knew.  If I seem brave and light of heart amidst all this horror, ’t is merely that I may not utterly break down, and become an object of contempt.  I feel, Monsieur, I am not devoid of heart nor of the finer qualities of womanhood.  Prefer to remain here?  Holy Mother of Christ!  It would be my choice to die out yonder on the prairie, rather than stay here in these Indian lodges.  There is no peril I would not face joyfully, in an effort to escape from this place of torture and barbarity.  I confess that an hour ago I cared not greatly what my end might be; I had lost heart and hope.  But now your coming, as of one risen from the dead, has brought back my courage.”

“You will go, then, whenever and wherever I say?”

She stepped forward with her old frank confidence, resting both hands in mine, her eyes upon my face.

“Out yonder in the night, and amid the sand, John Wayland,” she said earnestly, “I remember saying I would travel with you whithersoever you wished.  I know you far better now than I did then, and I hesitate not at taking upon myself the same vow.”

What power then sealed my lips, I know not.  Doubtless there is a fate in such matters, yet ’t is strange the light of invitation in her eyes did not draw me to lay bare my heart.  In naught else had I a drop of coward blood within my veins; while here I hesitated, fearful lest her pleading face might change to sudden roguishness, and she laugh lightly at the love that held my heart in thrall.  Truly, the witch had puzzled me so sorely with her caprices, her quick change of mood, her odd mixture of girlish frankness and womanly reserve, that I knew not which might prove the real Toinette,—­the one to trust, or the one to doubt.  So I stood there, clasping her soft hands in mine, my heart throbbing, yet my tongue hesitating to perform its office.  But at last the halting words came in a sudden, irrepressible rush.

“Toinette!” I cried, “Toinette!  I could forget all else,—­our danger here, the horrors of the night just passed, the many dead out yonder,—­all else but you.”

She gave a sudden startled cry, her affrighted eyes gazing across my shoulder.  I wheeled, with quick intuition of dangers and there, just within the entrance of the tepee, the flap of which he had let fall behind him, in grave silence stood an Indian.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE PLEDGE OF A WYANDOT