"You said no to John Alloway," she murmured. Defiance and protest spoke
in the swift gesture of the girl's hands. "You think because he was
white that I'd drop into his arms! No--no--no!"
"You did right, little one."
The sobs suddenly stopped, and the girl seemed to listen with all her
body. There was something in her Indian mother's voice she had never
heard before--at least, not since she was a little child, and swung in a
deer-skin hammock in a tamarac tree by Renton's Lodge, where the chiefs
met, and the West paused to rest on its onward march. Something of the
accents of the voice that crooned to her then was in the woman's tones
now.
"He offered it like a lump of sugar to a bird--I know. He didn't know
that you have great blood--yes, but it is true. My man's grandfather,
he was of the blood of the kings of England. My man had the proof. And
for a thousand years my people have been chiefs. There is no blood in
all the West like yours. My heart was heavy, and dark thoughts came to
me, because my man is gone, and the life is not my life, and I am only an
Indian woman from the Warais, and my heart goes out there always now.
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