It was as if my words had brought back the evil spell. Her features contracted into a frown; the darkness returned to her eyes, which again burned with some unspoken sorrow; a look of fear, almost like that of a haunted creature, flitted across her face.
"Oh, you must never ask that!" she protested, in such dismay that I pitied her even while I wondered. "You must never ask—never, never!"
"Why not?" I questioned. "What mystery can there be to hide?"
"There is no mystery," she declared. And then, with quick inconsistency, "But even if there were, you should not ask!"
"But why?" I demanded. "Now, Yasma, you mustn't treat me like a five-year-old. What have I done to offend you? Tell me, what have I done?"
"It is nothing that you have done," she mumbled, avoiding my gaze.
"Then is it something someone else has done? Come, let me know just what is wrong!"
"I cannot tell you! I cannot!" she cried, with passion. And, rising abruptly and turning to me with eyes aflame, "Oh, why must you insist on knowing? Haven't I done everything to protect you from knowing? Do you think it has been easy—easy for me to treat you like this? But it is wrong to love you! wrong even to encourage you! Only evil can come of it! Oh, why did you ever, ever have to come among our tribe?"
Having delivered herself of this outburst, Yasma paced back and forth, back and forth amid the dense grass, with fists clenched and head upraised to the heavens, like one in an extremity of distress.
But I quickly arose and went to her, and in a moment she was again in my arms.