“Whom do you mean?”
“I mean one whom I loved as a father, another who was a mother to me, and a sister and brother. They are all gone—dead; but I had not forgotten them, and you bring them back to me now, so I love to look at you, love to hear you talk.
“Speak again, for your voice is as sweet as the murmur of the brook in summer, as sweet as the trilling of the birds, and your face as lovely as the mountain flowers that seem timid, just like you.”
Lucille listened with rapt attention to the words of the strange young chief, for he spoke with a softness of tone, a respectful look, and with words that fell strangely from the lips of an Indian, and were in strong contrast to the hideously painted death face with which he had ornamented his countenance.
As though he feared he should not talk to the captive longer, Death Face said:
“I will go now, but I came to see if I could help you, if I could make you more comfortable.
“This was my home once, and I am glad to have you here.
“Do you see those graves under the ridge yonder?—they are buried there, those I loved, and I put white crosses above their graves, and cut their names on them with my knife.”
“You can read, then?”