“Who imagines that he has a property interest in your sister?” she asked aloud.
“Our chief, Tyee of the Nootkas. He captured both of us in a war with our people, the Seattles, many, many moons ago.”
“Ugh! Way-siyah! Whulge!” cried the girl, writhing like a captured eel.
“Mac-kam-mah-shish, copa-nika?”
“She asks if you cannot buy her.”
“Nowitka! Mika! Closh potlatch hy-u chickamin?”
“God knows I wish I could buy her,” said Jean.
No painter could have done justice to the varying expressions that alternately lighted and clouded the Madonna-like face of Le-Le, as she strained every nerve to comprehend the conversation. And when at last every vestige of her awakening hope had settled into a conviction of failure, she buried her face in her hands, and, bending forward, shook her black abundant hair over her face and body to the floor, and uttered a piercing wail, making Jean’s blood curdle.
“Le-Le’s cold!” cried the girl, crouching lower, till the embers singed the ends of her straying locks.
“Don’t cry, Le-Le dear. You have come to spend the night with me,” exclaimed Jean, seizing her gently by the arm.