“No, betrothed to Nahoon.”
“But it is the king who will take you within a week; is it not so? And would you not rather that I should take you than the king?”
“It seems to be so, Inkoos, and I would rather go with you than with the king, but most of all I desire to marry Nahoon. It may be that I shall not be able to marry him, but if that is so, at least I will never become one of the king’s women.”
“How will you prevent it, Nanea?”
“There are waters in which a maid may drown, and trees upon which she can hang,” she answered with a quick setting of the mouth.
“That were a pity, Nanea, you are too fair to die.”
“Fair or foul, yet I die, Inkoos.”
“No, no, come with me—I will find a way—and be my wife,” and he put his arm about her waist, and strove to draw her to him.
Without any violence of movement, and with the most perfect dignity, the girl disengaged herself from his embrace.
“You have honoured me, and I thank you, Inkoos,” she said quietly, “but you do not understand. I am the wife of Nahoon—I belong to Nahoon; therefore, I cannot look on any other man while Nahoon lives. It is not our custom, Inkoos, for we are not as the white women, but ignorant and simple, and when we vow ourselves to a man, we abide by that vow till death.”