“Ah.”
“She grows fairer every day.”
There was a truly Indian pause. The fire sputtered and cast shadows upon the dark, bare walls. The two men gazed thoughtfully into the little flame which vauntingly struggled to rear itself in the dense atmosphere. At last the Indian spoke.
“That man who killed my father is a great brave.”
“Yes,” nodded Nevil, with a reflective smile in his pale eyes. “And Rosebud is a ripe woman. Beautiful as the flower which is her name.”
“Hah!” Then the Indian said slowly with an assumed indifference, “She will be his squaw. This white brave.”
“That is how they say.” It might have puzzled Nevil to apply names to those represented by “they.” “He is a great brave, truly. He fought for her. He killed your father. That is how these things go. She is for him surely.” 83
A frown had settled on the fierce young chief’s face.
“My father was old,” he said.
Nevil glanced at the speaker out of the corner of his eyes, and then continued his watch on the flame still struggling so ardently to devour the half-green wood. He knew when to hold his tongue.