"Why," she said, looking up, "I didn't hear you, John."
Her clear eyes revealed a sadness beyond tears. "Eleanor," said her husband, with the muscles working about his mouth, "I can't bear for you to feel so."
"I—I'm all right, John. Don't fret about me."
"No, you ain't all right—don't you think I know? I've brought you into danger, Eleanor—I see it now, and that's the thing that hurts me most of all. It's nothing to lose all I've got, for that's happened to me before, and I'm only fifty—I can get it all back again, but I can't ever change the fact that I've brought you into danger. I promised before God that I'd protect you, and I haven't done it. I've taken you to a place where it ain't safe."
The man's distress was pitiful. His gigantic frame was bent like an oak in the path of a furious storm and every line on his haggard face was distinct, as if it had been cut. His dark eyes, under their bushy brows, were utterly despairing; he was like one whose hope is dead and buried past the power of resurrection.
"John, dear——" she began, with her hand on his bowed head.
"I've brought you into danger," he said helplessly, "I've brought you into danger, you and—" A lump in his throat put an end to speech, and with his hand he indicated the children.
"John, dear, don't talk so. I—I can't help feeling anxious, but I'm not afraid. In all the nine years we've lived here, the Indians have been our friends. There isn't one who would lift his hand against you or yours."
"They ain't all our friends, Eleanor. There's hundreds and hundreds of them coming in, even from as far away as the Wabash. How should they know that we are their friends? I've brought you into danger," he repeated. "I can't ever forget that."
"My husband," she said, and the tone was a caress, "we promised each other for better or for worse. 'Where thou goest, I will go, thy people shall be my people, and—' I forget the rest.