"Would you be more savage than your Indian prisoner?" she went on,
"less grateful than he for a life saved? I did him a small, a very
small, service once, and in memory of that he saved Lieutenant
Beverley's life, because--because--" she faltered for a single
breath, then added clearly and with magnetic sweetness--"because
Lieutenant Beverley loved me, and because I loved him. This Indian
Long-Hair showed a gratitude that could overcome his strongest
passion. You white men should be ashamed to fall below his
standard."
Her words went home. It was as if the beauty of her face, the
magnetism of her lissome and symmetrical form, the sweet fire of
her eyes and the passionate appeal of her voice gave what she said
a new and irresistible force of truth. When she spoke of
Beverley's love for her, and declared her love for him, there was
not a manly heart in all the garrison that did not suddenly beat
quicker and feel a strange, sweet waft of tenderness. A mother,
somewhere, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a sweetheart, called
through that voice of absolute womanhood.
"Beverley, what can I do?" muttered Clark, his bronze face as pale
as it could possibly become.
"Do!" thundered Beverley, "do! you cannot murder that man.
Hamilton is the man you should shoot! He offered large rewards, he
inflamed the passions and fed the love of rum and the cupidity of
poor wild men like the one standing yonder.
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