“Oh, God! Florence, my darling wife, what do you mean?”
“I mean that I am no longer worthy of your love. It will only wound your heart deeper to tell you. Go, and forget me,” and she turned to leave, but the ranger detained her.
“Stay, Florence, do not leave me. You are mine. Mine to love, and mine to cherish. Why do you turn from me?”
“Because I am no longer worthy of your love, but God knows I supposed you dead.”
“Florence, my wife, I can guess your secret. You are the wife of an Indian.”
“Oh, God! it is but too true, Warren; for two years I have been the wife of Allacotah—a noble and kind young chief, in whose veins course Anglo-Saxon blood by nature, if not by birth.”
The ranger groaned aloud, as though his heart was bursting.
“Then you love your Indian husband, Florence?” he asked.
“No, I only admired him for his kindness and noble principles, such as no other Indian ever possessed. I became his wife, only for protection from the insults of his people and the power of my people. But, I supposed you dead, Warren. Your servant told me he had seen you dashed to pieces over the Devil’s Tarn. Never, until the night you rescued Silvia from Black Bear, did I know you lived. And now you know my secret, my disgrace, Warren; so let me go.”
“No, Florence, you are mine. What you have done makes me love you all the stronger. It is no disgrace, it is only what a strong, brave and sensible woman would, and should have done under such trying circumstances.”