John Bonyton shook off her hand sternly.
“Go, Acashee. It is not becoming the daughter of a great chief to seek the love of the white man.”
And he turned away.
Acashee’s face flushed with rage, but she did not follow him. In a low, soft voice she called:
“Come back, John Bonyton, I have something of which to speak.”
He returned, and again she laid her slender wrist upon his arm, and he could feel the pulse leap in its little round.
“Bethink thee, John Bonyton, thy people contemn thee; Sir Richard Vines will not give thee his daughter, or if he did, the Great Spirit will not suffer Hope Vines to wed!”
“What mean you?”
“She is set apart; she is a diviner of secrets, a prophet of the future. Such are reserved for the good of the people.”
Bonyton laughed with scorn, and replied: