“At last news arrived that he had been shot by some British Indians in Maryland: so there was an end of my hope of ransom for some months more. This made Museau very savage and surly towards me; the more so as his sergeant inflamed his rage by telling him that the Indian woman was partial to me—as I believe, poor thing, she was. I was always gentle with her, and grateful to her. My small accomplishments seemed wonders in her eyes; I was ill and unhappy, too, and these are always claims to a woman's affection.
“A captive pulled down by malady, a ferocious gaoler, and a young woman touched by the prisoner's misfortunes—sure you expect that, with these three prime characters in a piece, some pathetic tragedy is going to be enacted? You, Miss Hetty, are about to guess that the woman saved me?”
“Why, of course she did!” cries mamma.
“What else is she good for?” says Hetty.
“You, Miss Theo, have painted her already as a dark beauty—is it not so? A swift huntress—”
“Diana with a baby,” says the Colonel.
“—Who scours the plain with her nymphs, who brings down the game with her unerring bow, who is queen of the forest—and I see by your looks that you think I am madly in love with her?”
“Well, I suppose she is an interesting creature, Mr. George?” says Theo, with a blush.
“What think you of a dark beauty, the colour of new mahogany with long straight black hair, which was usually dressed with a hair-oil or pomade by no means pleasant to approach, with little eyes, with high cheek-bones, with a flat nose, sometimes ornamented with a ring, with rows of glass beads round her tawny throat, her cheeks and forehead gracefully tattooed, a great love of finery, and inordinate passion for—oh! must I own it?”
“For coquetry. I know you are going to say that!” says Miss Hetty.