"And you shall become a mighty hunter, and in all the North you shall be feared and loved."
The girl paused and gazed wildly into the eyes of the man. His face was drawn and pale, and in his eyes she read deep pain. Gently his hand closed over the slender fingers that gripped his sleeve, and at the touch the girl trembled and leaned closer, until her warm body rested lightly against his arm. Bill's lips moved and the words of his toneless voice fell upon her ears like the dry rustle of dead husks.
"Jeanne—little girl—you do not understand. These things cannot be. Only unhappiness would come to us. There is nothing in the world I would not do for you.
"To you I owe my life—to you and Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. But, love cannot be ordered. It is written—and, far away, in the great city of the white men, is a girl—a woman of my own people——"
The girl sprang from his side and faced him with blazing eyes.
"A woman of your people!" she almost hissed. "In your sleep you talked of her, while the fever-spirit was upon you. I hate her—this Ethel! She does not love you, for she will marry another! Ah, in the darkness I have listened, and listening, have learned to hate! She sent you away from her—for, in your eyes she could not read the goodness of your heart!"
Bill raised his hand.
"You do not understand," he repeated, patiently. "I was not good—I was a bad man!"
"Who, then, among white men is good? The men of the logs, who drink whisky, and fight among themselves, and kill one another? Is it these men that are good in the sight of your woman? And are you, who scorn these things—are you bad?"
"I, too, drank whisky—and for that reason she sent me away."