"Your daughter Moon?"
"Yes."
Sleeping Thunder glanced keenly at Hector. The white man was silent; and he could not understand it.
"I know that I am pledging much. It is a great honour I do you, my son." Smiling, the chief stretched out a kindly hand and patted Hector's shoulder. "But of all the world there is no man to whom I would more gladly give my daughter. You are a good man—strong, just, brave, true-hearted. And the debt I owe is great. Be not afraid."
The sunset glow was melting rapidly into the mauves and blues of night. Moon had stopped her work and Hector saw her gazing enraptured towards the West. The light was on her face and, in that moment, she was very beautiful.
But an agony of pity and despair possessed him.
"Sleeping Thunder," he said at last, scarcely knowing what he said, "I know how you have honoured me. Beautiful though your daughter is, faithful and precious to you, you are wrong, my friend—yes, I say it—you do not owe your life to me. The Great Spirit is my witness I speak truth. No, do not disagree with me. My comrade, Murray, he who nursed you through the winter—saved you, not I. This gratitude is lavished over nothing. I value it more than I can say, but still I know it is so."
Struggling with his thoughts, he steeled himself to go on.
"I cannot take this gift, Sleeping Thunder. I have not earned the right. I honour Moon, but—but—there is no love between us—not the love there should be between man and wife."
The old chief flinched and his grey head sank on his breast.