“Ralph Regin,” said the girl, advancing close to him, “what is the meaning of all this? Why am I tortured thus? Did you not say she never should be his, and that I should be his wife? Speak, I ask you?”
“Don’t hollo! I ain’t deaf; I wish I was. Lor! a catamount’s nothin’ to a ’ooman. Well, I did say so, and the mole-eyed varmint shall, tu. I’ve sot him a riddle. S’pose I say s’pose”—and the fellow laughed—“s’pose some few of Injins war to be afore them spekilators, eh?”
“What mean you? Give her up to the bloodthirsty red-skins?”
“You’re mighty pertiklar, you are. But they ain’t toe kill her—not by no means. She’ll fetch ten thousand dollars, she will, and no mistake; and I go halves.”
“But what is the use of all this? He’ll be angry, and that will not serve me.”
“Kate, now du tell, what on airth makes you like that varmint?” said the other, imploringly.
“Ralph Regin—for I can not and will not call you father—will you ask why the wind shakes yonder trees? Will you tell me why the panther will come to one particular place to clutch his prey, despite all danger? Will you tell me why the bird clings to its mate, and the chicken runs to seek shelter near its mother? I can not—I only know that I love him. He is a bad man—a bold, bad man—but I knew not this at fifteen; and then he said soft words to me, and his eyes looked love, and he smiled, and his voice was gentle, and—and—I loved him. What then that I know he loves another—that he would wed her, and not me? I can not alter it. I hate and love him both. Now love is uppermost; but hate may be one day, and then—”
“What then?” sneered Ralph Regin.
“Never mind; here comes the peddler.”