As he appeared to be of a very simple and gentle nature, I could but sympathize with him in his present trouble. There could be no doubt that he looked upon his hopes of happiness as forever gone. He had discovered his lady-love to be mercenary—her mind carried away by the Prince’s lavish expenditure of beads, ribbons, and jewelry; and all this for a young foreigner with a fair face, who could neither shoot a seal, nor go in a kayak, nor cast a spear! It was altogether most unaccountable. He seemed to be all the time, and naturally enough, comparing himself with his rival, to the great disparagement, of course, of the said rival, else he would not have been a lover, and with great wonderment as to what she possibly could see to admire in the other man. That Concordia meant to run off to America, Marcus evidently did not have a doubt, and his face seemed to indicate at times that he was capable of any deed of desperation in order to prevent so dire a catastrophe. Should he spear him, or put a bullet through him, or any thing of that sort? Especially did his countenance assume a malignant expression when, upon the homeward journey, the coquette would break out with her favorite song, the chorus of which was, “Tesseinowah, tesseinowah,” repeated over and over again. At this the Prince always manifested great delight, while Marcus grew correspondingly gloomy.
When we had at length reached Julianashaab, and had thanked the good pastor, to whom we were so much indebted, and had said “good-night” to our oarswomen, I took the unhappy Marcus aside to condole with him. “Are you not,” said I, “son of the head man of Bungetak?”
“Ab,” said Marcus, and I thought a glow of satisfaction overspread his features at being reminded of his superior parentage.
“Concordia is very pretty,” I continued.
“Ab!” said Marcus again, his countenance falling at the recollection of his previous hopes and present discomfiture.
I asked him, “Do you know what pretty girls do in my country?”
“Na-mik” (no), he answered, his countenance falling still more at the further mention of the pretty girl that he had lost.
“When the pretty girl has the chance, she always marries the son of the head man,” said I.
Then his countenance assumed a joyous expression, and he went his way with a smile, which said plainly that, if he thought it was not much to be Marcus, it was good to be the son of the head man of Bungetak.