Her eyes grew sad. "Only what little I have learned through the taunting of my own captor," she answered, her voice trembling. "Captain Wells is dead, together with Ensign Ronan and Surgeon Van Voorhees. Both Captain Heald and his wife were sorely wounded, and they, with Lieutenant Helm, are prisoners somewhere in the camp; but the Lieutenant's wife is safe with the Silver-man's family across the river. The Indians hold these in hope of ransom, and wreak their vengeance upon the common soldiers who were so unfortunate as to fall into their hands alive. Yet few, I think, survived the massacre."
"You have doubtless guessed aright. I noted with what fearful spirit of revenge the savages dealt with some of their captives, while sparing others. Surely you, for instance, have met with but little hardship thus far at the hands of Little Sauk?"
She glanced up at me, with a touch of the old coquettishness in her dark eyes and a quick toss of her head, while one white hand smoothed her soft hair.
"Think you then, Monsieur, I do not look so ill?"
In spite of every effort at control, my heart swept into my eyes; she must have read the swift message, for her own drooped instantly, with a quick flutter of long lashes against her cheeks.
"I have already told you how greatly I admire you," I faltered, "and you make no less fair a picture now."
"Then I shall not tempt you to add to your compliment," she hastily responded, rising to her feet, "for I like loyalty in a man better than mere gallantry of speech. You ask me about Little Sauk. He holds me for ransom,—although Heaven knows 'twill prove but waste of time, for I am aware of no one in all the East who would invest so much as a dollar to redeem me from Indian hands. Yet such is his purpose, as told to me this morning."
"Perchance, then," I urged, doubtfully, "you may prefer remaining quietly here rather than risk the peril of trying to escape?"
She looked at me keenly, as if in wonder at my words; and I could see that her eyes were moistening with the sudden rush of feeling.
"You are either dull of comprehension, John Wayland," she said, a bit pertly, "or else you understand me less than any man I ever knew. If I seem brave and light of heart amidst all this horror, 't is merely that I may not utterly break down, and become an object of contempt. I feel, Monsieur, I am not devoid of heart nor of the finer qualities of womanhood. Prefer to remain here? Holy Mother of Christ! It would be my choice to die out yonder on the prairie, rather than stay here in these Indian lodges. There is no peril I would not face joyfully, in an effort to escape from this place of torture and barbarity. I confess that an hour ago I cared not greatly what my end might be; I had lost heart and hope. But now your coming, as of one risen from the dead, has brought back my courage."