“What for?” demanded Willetts. “That Indian may be gone a week. She's willing to accompany the missionary.”
Shefford looked at the girl.
“Glen Naspa, do you want to go?”
She was shy, ashamed, and silent, but manifestly willing to accompany the missionary. Shefford pondered a moment. How he hoped Nas Ta Bega would come back! It was thought of the Indian that made Shefford stubborn. What his stand ought to be was hard to define, unless he answered to impulse; and here in the wilds he had become imbued with the idea that his impulses and instincts were no longer false.
“Willetts, what do you want with the girl?” queried Shefford, coolly, and at the question he seemed to find himself. He peered deliberately and searchingly into the other's face. The missionary's gaze shifted and a tinge of red crept up from under his collar.
“Absurd thing to ask a missionary!” he burst out, impatiently.
“Do you care for Glen Naspa?”
“I care as God's disciple—who cares to save the soul of heathen,” he replied, with the lofty tone of prayer.
“Has Glen Naspa no—no other interest in you—except to be taught religion?”
The missionary's face flamed, and his violent tremor showed that under his exterior there was a different man.