“My stars!” Gaitskill exclaimed. “That wound looks like it had been made by teeth!”
“That’s where the old chief bit her to see if she was good to eat,” Manse explained. “He said she was too tough.”
Gaitskill glanced at Diada’s face. The vicious, surly glint was gone from her eyes, and she gazed with a mild, pleading look upon the man who had saved her—the look of the dumb animal which has suffered and shows gratitude for relief. Gaitskill underwent a change of heart. He rose to his feet and stood facing them both.
“Lem,” he said, “if that cannibal chief had showed me that wound I would have bought Diada if she had cost me a thousand dollars.”
“Certainly, Tom,” Manse replied quietly. “There was nothing else for me to do.”
Diada turned and walked back to the lawn, taking the same motionless posture, gazing out toward the purple haze of the Little Moccasin Swamp.
Gaitskill sat down, lit a cigar, and gave himself up to deep thought. Then he asked:
“Now that you’ve got her, Lem, what are you going to do with her?”
“I’m going to give her to you!” Lem said quietly.
“Wha-what?” Gaitskill barked, springing to his feet again. “Good gosh!”