Again that quick light of savage pleasure flashed across the dark face of the red man.
“An Indian has no right to dream of love,” he answered, “for love to an Indian means children. Why should an Indian wish to have children?”
When the girl hid her face in her hands, he continued with cruel purpose:
“Is it so hard for Marta Hillgrove to understand that there might be circumstances under which it would become a duty to deny one’s self the happiness of loving? If it is there are two men who could, I am sure, make it clear to her.”
For some time the Indian sat watching the white woman as one of his ancestors might have watched an enemy undergoing the agony of torture. Then rising he said:
“Come, it is time that you were taking your rest. You have nearly reached the limit of your endurance. You will sleep there on the couch. I shall be within call. In the morning I will take you home.”
He threw more wood upon the fire and turned to leave the room.
“You are very kind,” said the girl, “but I cannot go home.”
Natachee faced her and she saw the savage triumph that for the moment burned through the mask of stolid indifference which he habitually wore.
“Kind?” he said with cruel insolence. “Kind! And why should I, Natachee, an Indian, be kind to you, a white woman? Make no mistake, Miss Hillgrove, if I do not to-night treat you as my fathers treated the women of their enemies, it is not because I am kind. It is only because it will afford me a more enduring and keener pleasure to return you to your friends down there in the Cañon of Gold.”