“No; it is because—because of your——”
“Of this,” said Mary, interrupting her with a frightened look, and touching her shoulder with one hand. “Is it only pity with them, too?”
Catharine looked upon that pale spiritual face with ineffable compassion. She understood all the sorrow that rendered it so painfully beautiful.
“No, my child, it is not pity with them, but homage, adoration. That which you feel as a deformity, they hold to be a sacred seal of holiness which the Great Spirit sets upon his own. With them you, and such as you, are held only as little lower than the angels. This superstition may yet be your salvation, but a time is coming when even that will not be enough to protect you from harm.”
“What! would the Indians kill me—is that it?”
“They are savages, and hard of restraint; but I think that nothing human could be found to harm a creature so good and so helpless.”
“Then you think they could not be brought to kill me?” said Mary, with a look almost of disappointment.
“Why, you speak sadly, like one who wishes death.” Mary shook her head.
“No, I dare not wish death; but if the Indians wanted any one, and must have a life, they couldn’t find any person so ready to go, I’m sure.”
“This is very mournful,” said Catharine, drawing Mary’s head, with all its loose golden hair, to her bosom. “I wish the missionary, or any one else were here to console you. I am struck mute. Yet Heaven knows, if my own life could remove the cause of your sorrow, I would lay it down this moment. Do you believe me, child?”