“Love? Ay, love. Say, ther’ ain’t nothin’ in the world so beautiful as you, Aim-sa, an’ that’s a fac’. I ain’t never seen nothin’ o’ wimmin before, ’cep’ my mother, but I guess now I’ve got you I can’t do wi’out you, you’re that soft an’ pictur’-like. Ye’ve jest got to say right here that you’re my squaw, an’ everything I’ve got is yours, on’y they things I leave behind to Nick.”
“Ah,” sighed the woman, “Nick–poor Nick. He loves–Aim-sa, too. Nick is great man.”
“Nick loves you? Did he get tellin’ ye so?”
There was a wild, passionate ring in Ralph’s question.
The squaw nodded, and the man’s expression suddenly changed. The passionate look merged into one of fiery anger, and his eyes burned with a low, dark fire. Aim-sa saw the sudden change, but she still smiled in her soft way.
“An’ you?”
The voice of the man was choking with suppressed passion. His whole body trembled with the chaos of feeling which moved him.
“An’ what did ye say?” he went on, as she remained silent.
“Nick is great. No, Aim-sa not loves Nick.”