But he might be mistaken. Might? He was certain of it. If she did not love him, at any rate he could not think that she loved Wacora.
Thus did the Indian youth beguile himself!
Innocent as a child, he knew little of the heart of woman.
That look—that tremor of the voice—should have told him that she loved Wacora.
Yes; the end had come, and love had conquered.
The white maiden was in love with the young Indian chief!
Wacora and his captive—now more than ever his captive—were seated within the ruined fort near Sansuta’s grave.
“You are pleased once more to be here?” he asked.
“I am. During my illness I promised myself if ever I recovered that my first visit should be to this spot.”