"My sister is welcome," said the outlaw, smiling, and speaking in the Indian tongue; "be seated."
"Evening Dew is a slave, and presumes not to sit down in the presence of her master," responded the young girl, in a voice as melodious as the song of a bird, but the tone of which was firm and distinct. "I have said."
Evening Dew was a delicious child of seventeen at most, in whom the two races, white and red, of both which she was the issue, seemed to have vied which should produce the most wondrous chef d'oeuvre.
Her elegant and slight form, slightly bent forward with that serpentine undulation which belongs to American women, her long hair, black as the raven's wing, fell almost to her feet, and when loosened, might have served her as a cloak. Her complexion had the golden tint of the daughters of the sun; her great blue and dreamy eyes were fringed by long velvet lashes; her mouth, revealing her vermilion lips, and a row of dazzling white teeth, gave to her physiognomy that rare expression scarcely ever found except in some virgin of Titian.
The sailor was dazzled at the really marvellous beauty of the young girl. He had no idea that the whole continent of America could have produced such a fairy.
The captain smiled at her reply.
"Evening Dew has no master here. She is with friends who will protect her," he said, heartily.
"Friends!" she cried, clasping her hands together, while the pearly tears went down her cheeks; "Is it possible?"
"I swear to you, young girl," he continued, "that what I say is true. I have sent for you to apologise for what has happened, to demand forgiveness for your cruel abduction."
"Oh, sir," she cried, in excellent French, "oh, sir, can I really believe my ears! Is it true?"