“Your father?” she remarked wonderingly.
“Yes, my father—Scar Face, Hiram Bradford, John Douglas.”
Again she nestled in his arms, and for a moment was silent. Presently she murmured musingly:
“I used often to wonder why Hiram Bradford took so great an interest in me. A few months ago he told me my history. Then I fell to wondering why he had kept you a prisoner against your will, yet was anxious for your welfare. Nor could I understand why he was so worried over your escape and the fact that he could not find you. Now all is plain.”
He stroked her red-gold hair, but made no reply. He would have been content to hold her thus for hours. Suddenly she lifted her head from his shoulder, and whispered:
“Ross.”
“Well, darling?”
“Let me see your hand. No, the other. Ah! you still wear Tenskwatawa’s ring. You carried off the Sign of the Prophet; now you come to carry off his daughter.”
He bent his head and breathed in reply:
“I valued the Sign of the Prophet; it assured my safety. I value his daughter much more; she assures my happiness.”