“Of course”—in a surprised tone. “Why not?”
“I know of no reason except this: You hate me—consider me an enemy—and doubt my integrity.”
Bradford said this in a voice thick with emotion. Ross stopped and stared hard at the speaker. He felt himself imperceptibly drawn toward the man. His heart was gradually softening—as wax in a warm hand. To relieve his embarrassment and conceal his feelings, he returned gruffly:
“But you have told me the truth in this instance?”
“So far as I’ve told you anything—yes. But why are you so interested in the Prophet’s daughter? Are you so susceptible—are you already smitten—that you insist on throwing such a glamor of romance around her?”
“Nonsense!” Douglas exclaimed.
But his cheeks flushed; and he did not meet his companion’s steady gaze.
“Have a care!” Bradford cried.—And Ross could not tell from his countenance, whether he meant his words in jest or in earnest.—“You must not set your affections there. The Prophet’s angelic daughter cannot be for such as you—a despised paleface, a member of the Seventeen Fires. Tenskwatawa has placed her above all things earthly. His followers idolize her—worship her. She has as much influence with them, almost, as the Prophet or Tecumseh. Stern chiefs have sighed for her; young braves have died for her. Her smile is considered a benediction; her frown, a calamity. Her word is law. It is said she twists Tenskwatawa around her finger and holds Tecumseh under her thumb——”
“And you accuse me of throwing a glamor of romance around her,” Ross smilingly interrupted.