So lightly did her moccasined feet press the underbrush that no sound
preceded her coming, until she reached the blanketed opening of a
wigwam where sat an aged Algonquin chief, very grave, very dignified,
very far from being immaculately clean. The young girl was not
intimidated by this picturesque combination of dignity and dirt.
Perhaps it was the absence of these qualities in the young cadet that
caused her sudden flight from him. Seating herself on a bearskin, not
far from her foster-father, she interchanged with him mellow syllables
of greeting. The chief placed a finger upon her moist brow, and
inquired the cause of her haste.
"It was the young kinsman of the Wild Rose who followed me. His head
is beautiful as the sun, but he moves, alas, yes, he moves more
slowly."
"Then, why this haste?" queried the Indian, who, though he could boast
all the keen and subtle instincts of his race, was apparently in some
matters as obtuse as a white man.
The girl bowed her face upon her slim brown hands.
"I do not like the glances of his eye," she said. "They are strong and
dazzling as sunbeams on the water.
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