He stepped nearer to her. "Why, little one," he asked, "would you care?"
"Care?" she said with thrilling voice, and then, gaining better self-control, tried to appear indifferent. "Why should I?" she said lightly. "I ain't nothin' to you and you ain't nothin' to me."
His heart denied her words. "Don't say that!" he cried. "You don't know how dear you've grown to me." He stepped toward her with his arms outstretched. He almost reached her and he knew, and she knew, instinctively, that if he had he would have kissed her.
"No man can cross this bridge, unless—unless,—"
She shrank back like a startled fawn, when his foot was almost on the bridge that spanned the chasm between them and her cabin.
"Don't you dare to touch me!" she said fiercely.
She sped back upon the little bridge, and, when he would have followed, held her hand up with a gesture of such native dignity, offended womanhood, that he stopped where he was, abashed.
"No—no, sir; you can't cross this bridge," said she. "No man ever can, unless—unless—"