The young girl was for a moment silent, as if embarrassed by the question.
“Well,” she at length responded, a topic occurring to relieve her. “I did not like to think that white men made war upon the poor Indians, just to take their scalps and sell them for money. It seems such an atrocity. Perhaps the story is not all true? May I hope it is not?”
It was a strange question to put to an author, and Maynard thought so. He remarked also that the tone was strange.
“Well, not all,” was his reply. “Of course the book is put forth as a romance, though some of the scenes described in it were of actual occurrence. I grieve to say, those which have given you dissatisfaction. For the leader of the sanguinary expedition, of which it is an account, there is much to be said in palliation of what may be called his crimes. He had suffered terribly at the hands of the savages. With him the motive was not gain, not even retaliation. He gave up warring against the Indians, after recovering his daughter—so long held captive among them.”
“And his other daughter—Zoë—she who was in love—and so young too. Much younger than I am. Tell me, sir, is also that true?”
Why was this question put? And why a tremor in the tone, that told of an interest stronger than curiosity?
Maynard was in turn embarrassed, and scarce knew what answer to make. There was joy in his heart, as he mentally interpreted her meaning.
He thought of making a confession, and telling her the whole truth.
But had the time come for it?
He reflected “not,” and continued to dissemble.