“None whatever. She accompanied us nearly to the camp here, and could have placed herself under its protection, if such had been her desire.”
Multuomah’s features assumed a troubled expression.
“She is there, then, of her own free will?” he asked, huskily.
“Apparently. Indeed, she seemed to be greatly attached to the Prophet.”
“Attached!” stammered Multuomah; and something that sounded very much like a smothered groan burst from his lips.
“He saved her from some great peril, I judge from some words between them that I overheard,” continued Percy Vere; “and, now I think of it, it appears to me that your name was mentioned.”
“By him?”
“No, first by her. Multuomah, she said, could protect her from some threatening peril.”
There was none of the fabled stoicism of the Indian in the young chief as he listened to these welcome words. No white lover ever displayed a more trembling eagerness to learn further intelligence of his sweetheart.
“Ah! she thinks of me—she speaks of me!” he cried. “Smoholler can not then have made her his wife?”