"No, mother," he said, with an effort, "since I have seen you again, all the memories of my youth have revived; I know now the desire I had to see France again some day; the sight of you has made me understand that a man cannot voluntarily resign those home joys, whose charm he can only truly understand when unable to enjoy them. Hence I soon intend to remove you from this country disinherited by Heaven, and return to our native land."
"Alas!" she said, with an accent of soft reproach, "We should be so happy there; why not return at once?"
"Because it cannot be, mother; I have a sacred duty to accomplish here; but I pledge you my word of honour that when I have fulfilled the duty I have imposed on myself and am free, we will not remain an hour longer here. So have patience, mother; perhaps we may start for France within two months."
"May Heaven grant it, my child," the old lady said, sadly; "well, your will be done, I am prepared to wait."
"Thanks, mother; your kindness renders me happier than I can describe to you."
The old lady sighed, but gave no answer, and the little party marched silently in the direction of the Comanche village, the outskirts of which they reached at about three in the afternoon.
"Mother," Valentine said, "you are not yet used to Indian fashions; do not be frightened at anything you may see or hear."
"Am I not near you?" she said "What can I feel afraid of?"
"Oh!" he said, joyfully, "you are a true mother."
"Alas!" she answered, with a stifled sigh, "You are mistaken, child, I am only a poor old woman, who loves her son, that is all."