"No, Moon, no!"
"Yes!"—a whisper now—a sob that choked her—"I love you, pony-soldier! Pity me! Pity me!"
Amazement, deep concern, an overwhelming grief, swept over Hector. Why had she sent for him for this?
His talk with Sleeping Thunder had been nothing beside the possibilities before him now.
"Moon—"—he fought for words—was the soul of gentleness—"You are not yourself. This cannot be."
She wheeled suddenly, half turning her back. He saw her struggling fiercely with an emotion far more powerful than he had thought could move an Indian woman, least of all Moon.
"I know! I know!" she began. Bitterness, an agony of injured pride, a would-be scornful disregard of the humiliation she was facing, blended in the words that tumbled from her lips. "I know! I know that I—a chief's daughter—am not good enough for you. I know my love would bring you to contempt, would be a drag upon the wheels that take you on to greatness! I know that I would be a jest—a thing to scorn—a—a—"
"Moon," said Hector hotly, "that is not true! Why do you speak so of me?"
She calmed herself with an effort.
"It is not of you I speak," she smiled, with a glance towards him. "You are too kind, too generous for that. You would not scorn me, think that I dishonoured you, consider me a hindrance—no!" Her burning passion mastered her again. "But all your world—the white man's world—would do so. I am the daughter of a chief—I have said it—I am as good, in the eyes of the Great Spirit, as they are. I would be faithful to you and steadfast! I would work for you while life remained in me. But they would spit and laugh at me and call you 'fool' because you married me! Your white world—your white men—ah, and your white! women, your white women!—they would do that. And why? Why?" She rocked in anguish. "Just because I am an Indian—an Indian!"