idn't tell
me before we were married; I at least might have warned you never to
mention it." Something of recklessness rang up through his voice,
just as the panther-likeness crept up from her footsteps and couched
herself in hers. She spoke in tones quiet, soft, deadly.

"Before we were married! Oh! Charlie, would it have--made--any--
difference?"

"God knows," he said, throwing himself into a chair, his blonde hair
rumpled and wet. It was the only boyish thing about him now.

She walked towards him, then halted in the centre of the room.
"Charlie McDonald," she said, and it was as if a stone had spoken,
"look up." He raised his head, startled by her tone. There was a
threat in her eyes that, had his rage been less courageous, his
pride less bitterly wounded, would have cowed him.

"There was no such time as that before our marriage, for we _are not
married now_. Stop," she said, outstretching her palms against him
as he sprang to his feet, "I tell you we are not married. Why should
I recognize the rites of your nation when you do not acknowledge the
rites of mine? According to your own words, my parents should have
gone through your church ceremony as well as through an Indian
contract; according to _my_ words, _we_ should go through an Indian
contract as well as through a church marriage. If their union is
illegal, so is ours. If you think my father is living in dishonor
with my mother, my people will think I am living in dishonor with
you. How do I know when another nation will come and conquer you as
you white men conquered us? And they will have another marriage rite
to perform, and they will tell us another truth, that you are not my
husband, that you are but disgracing and dishonoring me, that you
are keeping me here, not as your wife, but as your--your--_squaw_."

The terrible word had never passed her lips before, and the blood
stained her face to her very temples. She snatched off her wedding
ring and tossed it across the room, saying scornfully, "That thing
is as empty to me as the Indian rites to you."

He caught her by the wrists; his small white teeth were locked
tightly, his blue eyes blazed into hers.

"Christine, do you dare doubt my honor towards you? _you_, whom I
should have died for; do you _dare_ to think I have kept you here,
not as my wife, but--"

"Oh, God! You are hurting me; you are breaking my arm," she gasped.

The door was flung open, and Joe McDonald's sinewy hands clinched
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