He saw before him a tall, fine-looking woman who might or might not have been under forty. She was habited in the tasteful Indian dress, and the tunic and leggings of soft doeskin, beautifully embroidered, brought out every line and curve of a splendidly-moulded figure. Her face, browned and hardened by exposure to the sun, and a life not altogether free from privation, was lighted up by a pair of clear blue eyes, and must formerly have been one of striking beauty. But the chief attraction was her hair. This was not arranged in two long plaits after the Sioux fashion, but rippled over her shoulders in a heavy redundant mass, forming a very mantle of sheeny, ruddy gold, explaining to the astonished spectator the name she bore among her adopted compatriots, The Sun Queen. But—Heavens—what an apparition to meet with in the camp of the hostile Sioux!
“Thanks,” she said, simply, seating herself upon the pile of robes which Vipan had dragged forward for that purpose. Then pausing a moment to see if he would break the silence, she went on: “You do not seem to remember me.”
“Pardon me. I am not likely to have forgotten you,” was the quiet reply, with an undercurrent of cutting satire. “Who that had seen her could ever forget the beautiful Miss D’Arcy—the Belle of the Island?” She broke into a bitter laugh. “Is that what they used to call me? I had forgotten—it seems such a long, long time ago. Could it have been myself? I, Isabel D’Arcy, who held the whole island in thrall; Government House, the garrison—all—all my humble devoted slaves, now the wife of a painted savage! In a word, an Indian squaw!”
“And because I declined to make one of the crowd of your humble devoted slaves you ruined my life. You blighted my whole career as a sacrifice to your ruffled vanity. One word from you would have exonerated me—yet you did not speak it.”
“Why did you not defend yourself? Why did you not explain the matter fully?”
“I was a fool not to, perhaps. In fact, I am sure I was. Well, you see—it was no part of my creed to give away a friend, nor yet a woman—for it was in a secondary degree on your account that I kept silence and set up no defence.”
“On my account?” she echoed.
“Yes. Your only chance of getting clear out of the business was to deny the whole thing and stick to it. If I had cut in with the story of the other man borrowing my charger for the occasion, especially as owing to our striking resemblance we were often taken for each other—why the whole murder would have been out. No, there was nothing for it but the denial.”
“And—and have you never explained a word of it since?”
“Never. What was the use? I was already condemned. Your uncle, Sir George, had more than enough influence for that, and I was practically cashiered. I must, however, give him credit for the astute way in which the business was hushed up. Barentyne, I suppose, couldn’t clear me for fear of giving you away.”