The shrill screech of a tree-cricket, breaking forth at that moment, hindered me from hearing the reply. The more emphatic words only reached me, and these appeared to be “Utah” and “Great Salt Lake.” They were enough to fix the whereabouts of Marian Holt and her husband.
“One question more!” said the rejected lover hesitatingly, as if afraid to ask it. “Can ye tell me—whether—she went willingly, or whether—thar wan’t some force used?—by her father, or some un else? Can ye tell me that, girl?”
I listened eagerly for the response. Its importance can be easily understood by one who has sued in vain—one who has wooed without winning. The silence of the cicada favoured me; but a long interval passed, and there came not a word from the lips of the Indian.
“Answer me, Su-wa-nee!” repeated the young man in a more appealing tone. “Tell me that, and I promise—”
“Will the White Eagle promise to forget his lost love? Will he promise—”
“No, Su-wa-nee; I cannot promise that: I can niver forget her.”
“The heart can hate without forgetting.”
“Hate her? hate Marian? No! no!”
“Not if she be false?”
“How do I know that she war false? You haven’t told me whether she went willin’ly or agin her consent.”