"For certain words I have spoken to you, I am sorry," she said. "I know more now. You may be my enemy, but I believe you not to be a traitor."
"Thank you. And is that all you have to say to me?"
"That is all," she replied softly, withdrawing her hand.
"Do you take this knife, then," I said, sparring for time against my judgment and all expediency.
She refused it.
"If I am caught they will not harm me."
I shivered at thought of the hands of the brutal priests of So-a-ka-ga-gwa on her unsullied body.
"I will not leave you," I cried, and made to walk with her along the trail.
But she pushed me back.
"You will not be helping me by so acting," she insisted in her quaint Gaelic speech which had won me when I first heard it. "And—and some day I may need your help more than I do tonight."