“A wife! Is she a Christian, then?”
“Nae muck le o' that, but a douce, good-humored lassie for a' that.”
“And she'sa black?”
“Na, na; she was a rich copper tint, something deeper than my waistcoat here, but she had twa yellow streaks over her forehead, and the tip o' her nose was blue.”
“The mother of Heaven be near us! she was a beauty, by all accounts.”
“Ay, that she was; the best-looking squaw of the tribe, and rare handy wi' a hatchet.”
“Divil fear her,” muttered Tate, between his teeth. “And what was her name, now?”
“Her name was Orroawaccanaboo, the 'Jumping Wild Cat.'”
“Oh, holy Moses!” exclaimed Tate, unable any longer to subdue his feelings, “I would n't be her husband for a mine of goold.”
“You are no sae far wrong there, my auld chap,” said Sandy, without showing any displeasure at this burst of feeling.