Rhoda stood silently, her cleft chin trembling, her deep gray eyes wide and grief-stricken.
"Do you love me—and better than you do DeWitt?" insisted the man,
Suddenly Rhoda lifted her head proudly.
"Yes," she said, "I do love you, better than any one in the world; but I cannot marry you!"
Kut-le took her trembling hands in his.
"Why not, dear one?" he asked.
Still the sun flickered on the pine-needles and still Molly hummed over her stew-pot. Still Rhoda stood looking into the eyes of the man she loved, her scarlet cheeks growing each moment more deeply crimson.
"Because you are an Indian. The instinct in me against such a marriage is so strong that I dare not go against it."
Kut-le's mouth closed in the old way.
"And still you shall marry me, Rhoda!"