“Must—of course you must. One of the young braves would have a sore heart if you did not return.”
“No one that I know of,” she replied quickly. “I care not for the braves; but my mother would have a sore heart if I did not return. Yet I fear to go back, for that Idazoo will tell, and perhaps they will kill me for helping you to escape.”
“Then you must not go back,” said the Eskimo stoutly. “Come with me and I will take good care of you.”
“No, I cannot,” returned the girl thoughtfully; I cannot forsake my mother and father in such a way without even a word at parting.
“What is your name?” asked the youth promptly. “Mine is Cheenbuk.”
“They call me Adolay; that, in our language, means the summer-time.”
“Well, Adolay, I don’t know what my name, Cheenbuk, means—perhaps it means winter-time. Anyhow, listen to me. If there is any chance of you being killed you must not go back. I will take you to my mother’s igloe and you will live with her.”
“Have you, too, got a mother?” asked Adolay with interest.
“Ho! yes; and a father too—and they’re both fat and heavy and kind. When they come to know that you have been so kind to me, they will receive you with joy.”
“No,” said Adolay, shaking her small head decidedly, “I will not go. They may kill me if they like, but I will never forsake my mother.”