Warren scarcely knew how to answer her; he felt awkward and mere words sounded hollow.
“See here,” he began abruptly: “it is no use to dwell on a painful subject; just strive to forget all about it and take the happiness that comes your way. As for the last alternative—you will not be happy.”
“That cannot be helped. Perhaps I should not be happy if I married,” she went on with a smile upon her lips, but deep gravity in her eyes. “It would depend upon the man who must know all my past. Nokomis used to say ‘they are all the same—the men. When you are beautiful they kill each other for you; when you are plain they sneer at you.’”
“Old Nokomis! She spoke of red men, not white men.”
“Yes; all the same Nokomis said: men are men. People will never forget that my mother was an American Negress even if I forget. No,” concluded the girl with a wise little shake of her cropped head, “I shall go to the convent.”
Warren dissembled his intense amusement, but beneath his smile was a tear for the tender, helpless creature trying so bravely to crush out of sight the tender flowers of her maiden heart. At length he said:
“Who can foresee the future? There are men with red blood in their veins; not all are empty caskets. How can you talk of convents—you who will go to England with me; and perhaps, who can tell, you may marry a duke. But believe me, Winona, you think too seriously of your position,” he concluded, dropping his jesting air.
“‘You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it that do buy it with much care.’”
Silence fell between them for a time, and the evening shadows gradually shut the eye of day. Clear and shrill upon the air fell the notes of a bugle, once—twice—thrice—it rose in warning cadence. Winona sprang to her feet with the words, “’Tis Judah! There is danger! Let us go at once!”
So violent was her start that she came perilously near falling to the plain below, which on this side the hill was a sheer descent of many feet, to where the Possawatomie rilled along its peaceful course.