“No, no; do not touch me! Leave me to myself. I shall be more composed by-and-bye.”
He obeyed, without saying a word; leaving her alone.
For a long time she sat in the same place, a prey to thoughts she scarce understood.
At length she rose, to all appearance more composed, and retracing the forest path with slow, sad steps, she re-entered the Indian town.
Chapter Forty One.
A Treacherous Bridge.
There was one among the Indians who viewed their fair captive with no great favour.
It was Maracota.