“I am going to Point Pleasant, and shall be pleased to meet your father, whom I have heard highly spoken of many times on my way here,” said Winthrop. Then he turned to the girl in the Indian garb, who stood leaning upon her rifle, with her eyes intently fixed upon the two. “Lady, may I not know the name of her whose well-directed shot saved me? There may come a time when I can repay the service.”
“Do not ask my name,” said the girl, in a mournful tone; “it is better, perhaps, that you should not know it.”
Winthrop looked his astonishment at this strange speech.
“I really do not see how that can be, lady,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “I am sure I shall never forget the service, nor your name, if once I hear it.”
“I repeat that it is better that you should not know it,” said the girl, slowly.
“Why so?” demanded the young man, while on the face of Virginia was written strong curiosity to know the meaning of the girl’s words.
“You think you owe me a debt of gratitude,” said the dark-hued maiden. “It is a pleasant thought for me to know that some one thinks well of me. If I tell you my name, perhaps the gratitude that you now think you owe will vanish, and in its place will come loathing.”
“You speak in riddles,” said Winthrop, unable to guess her meaning, but plainly seeing that some mystery was concealed in her words. “I do not see how the knowledge of your name will change my sentiments in any way whatsoever. I beseech you, tell me what it is. I can never forget the name of the one who saved my life.”
“And you, Virginia Treveling,” said the girl, turning abruptly to the General’s daughter. “Do you not know who I am?”
“No,” replied Virginia, “but I should like very much to know, for I feel that, in part, I owe you my life too.”