"Tell me!" he cried hoarsely. For a single instant his eyes blazed into hers, and then, as though anticipating her words, his fingers relaxed their hold and he settled back with a half-articulate moan—"Oh, God!"
"What you have told me," she continued, in the same dull tone, "Is nothing. It is past and gone. It is dead, and its evil died with it. You are a white man. The white man's thoughts are your thoughts, and his standards are your standards. You work the harm, then unjustly you sit in judgment. And the harm does not die with the deed. The shame of it is a thing of the present, and of the future, and it is borne always by the innocent.
"The thing I must tell you is this. I am a half-breed. But my father was not the husband of Wananebish, who is my mother——"
Brent interrupted her with quick, glad cry: "Is that all?" The blood surged hot through his veins. The ache in his breast became a wild singing. And suddenly he realized the grip and the depth of the thing that is called love, with its power to tear and to rend the very foundations of his being. He felt an insane desire to leap and to shout—and the next instant the girl was in his arms and he was crushing her against his breast as he covered her face with hot kisses. And when a few moments later, he released her, he laughed aloud—a laugh that was clear and boyish, and altogether good to hear, while the girl gazed half-fearfully—half-wonderingly into his eyes:
"I—I do not understand," she faltered, "I have known this only for a short time. Henri of the White Water told me of it, and of the shame of it—and then Sister Mercedes—and it is true, because
years ago when I was very small, Wananebish told it to Father Ambrose——"
"Damn Henri of the White Water! And damn Sister Mercedes and Father Ambrose!" cried Brent, his eyes narrowing, "What did they tell you for? What difference does it make?"
"Henri of the White Water told me because he was angry. I would not marry him. I was going to a great convent school, and he said that in the land of the white man I would be an object of scorn—that people would shun me, and point me out with the finger of shame. I did not believe him, so I went to Sister Mercedes, and she told me, also. And so I would not go to the school, and that night I came away from the mission—came back to the Indians." She paused, and as she raised her eyes to his, Brent saw that in their depths a wondrous newborn hope struggled against fear. Her lips moved: "You do not scorn me? You love me—knowing that?"
Again she was in his arms, and his lips were upon hers: "Yes, I love you—love you—love you! You are mine, darling—mine for all time!" She did not resist his arms, and he felt her yielding body press close against his own, as her shoulders heaved in short, quick sobs.
Softly, almost timidly, her arms stole about his neck, and her tear-jeweled eyes raised to his: "And you would marry me, not knowing who I am?"