"I do not know," she said. "I only know that as I stood beside thee in the prison cell in London, I knew that thy life was strangely precious to me. But good-night," she said, "I must keep my roses or thou wilt soon tire of me." And slipping from me, she tripped lightly away.
A light hand touched my arm. I turned and saw Manteo.
"The beautiful one will go with the Eagle to his lodge and be his squaw?" he said gravely.
"Yes," I answered, "she will go."
"Manteo is glad," he said simply, "for it is meet that the lady who is lovely beyond all mortal beauty, should go into the lodge with the Eagle, who is a great chief."
"I thank thee, Manteo." And I followed him down by the camp fire, and stretched myself out upon my bearskin.
My mind was in a whirl—I had not dreamed that Margaret loved me. I—gray, penniless; she—young and beautiful beyond compare. And with thoughts such as these, and of the future, I fell asleep.