"Dost thou love me?" she faintly asked.
"Does the dove love his little mate? does the spring bud love the beams of the sun? does a mother love her first-born? does a warrior love the shout of a foe? I love thee more than words can express; let my actions show the deep affection I bear thee. The Swift Foot will make thee the wife of his bosom."
"Dost thou know who it is that thou wouldst wed?"
"A Spirit."
"Dost thou know that when thou shalt take me to thy bosom thou wilt embrace a form of ice? Thou art warm and impassioned, I chilled and chilling as the winds of winter, and frozen as the ice of the bleak Coppermine."
"Still will I dare the union. My love shall kindle in thy bosom a warmth equal to that which possesses mine own."
"My breath is the breath of the northern blast."
"And mine hath the warmth of the breeze which blows in summer from the land of never-failing verdure. Wilt thou, beautiful Spirit! be the wife of a Teton, who has more scalps in his lodge than fingers on his hands, who has struck dead bodies of six different nations, and stolen half the horses upon which his brother warriors ride to the combat?"
"I will—I am thine, brave warrior!"
"Thou art indeed cold, beautiful Spirit!" said the Teton, as he pressed the consenting maiden to his bosom for a moment, and then, shuddering with an icy chill, his teeth shaking like the rattles of a snake, put her from him. "But thou art mine, though it were death to embrace thee."