At her words, or rather at her air of utter hopelessness, a flash of cruel satisfaction gleamed for an instant in the somber eyes of the red man.
But Marta did not see.
“It is nothing,” said the Indian and his deep voice gave no hint of the fire that had, for the instant, blazed in his dark impassive countenance. “It is a pleasure to be of any service.” And then with a smile which again the girl did not see, he added, “I was caught in the storm myself.”
Without raising her eyes Marta said wearily, as if it did not in the least matter:
“It was you who found me and brought me here?”
“I was on my way home from the cañon below when I chanced to catch a glimpse of you and your horse against the sky. Naturally I was curious to know who it was that rode in these unfrequented mountains through such a storm and at such an hour. I managed to follow you and so found your horse. Then I found you and brought you here.”
When the girl was silent he continued:
“My poor little hut is not much, I know, but it is a shelter at least, and I assure you you are as welcome as if it were the home of your dreams.”
At this the girl threw up her head with a start. Staring at him with wide questioning eyes she said wonderingly:
“The home of my dreams? What do you know of my dreams?”