“You are chief. You should have many.”
“Yes.”
“Then give the word to your people and you can have them.”
“I do not want them—yet.”
Nevil looked round. The chief turned to the fire uncertainly. His fierce eyes were half veiled.
“This Rosebud, she was for me,” he went on. “She is fair as the summer sky. Her eyes are like the stars, and her laugh is like the ripple of the waters when the sun and the wind make play with them. She is so fair that no squaw can compare with her. Even Wanaha is as night to day.”
“You cannot have her. She is for the man who killed your father.”
The young chief leapt to his feet with a cry that told of a spirit which could no longer be restrained. And he towered threateningly over the undisturbed wood-cutter.
“But I will!” he cried vehemently, while his eyes flashed in the dying light of the fire. “You are my white brother, and to you I can say what is in my thoughts. This squaw, I love her. I burn for her! She is with me night and day. I will have her, I tell you! There shall be no peace till my father is 86 avenged. Ha, ha!” And the ferocity of that laugh brought a smile to the hidden lips of the listening man.
He looked up now, and his words came thoughtfully.