look into the study and speak good-bye to Laurence; then I would--

I pushed open the door. He was lying on the couch where a short time
previously he had sat, white and speechless, listening to Father
Paul. I moved towards him softly. God in heaven, he was already
asleep. As I bent over him the fullness of his perfect beauty
impressed me for the first time; his slender form, his curving mouth
that almost laughed even in sleep, his fair, tossed hair, his
smooth, strong-pulsing throat. God! how I loved him!

Then there arose the picture of the factor's daughter. I hated her.
I hated her baby face, her yellow hair, her whitish skin. "She shall
not marry him," my soul said. "I will kill him first--kill his
beautiful body, his lying, false heart." Something in my heart
seemed to speak; it said over and over again, "Kill him, kill him;
she will never have him then. Kill him. It will break Father Paul's
heart and blight his life. He has killed the best of you, of your
womanhood; kill _his_ best, his pride, his hope--his sister's son,
his nephew Laurence." But how? how?

What had that terrible old man said I was like? A _strange snake_.
A snake? The idea wound itself about me like the very coils of a
serpent. What was this in the beaded bag of my buckskin dress? This
little thing rolled in tan that my mother had given me at parting
with the words, "Don't touch much, but some time maybe you want it!"
Oh! I knew well enough what it was--a small flint arrow-head dipped
in the venom of some _strange snake_.

I knelt beside him and laid my hot lips on his hand. I worshipped
him, oh, how, how I worshipped him! Then again the vision of _her_
baby face, _her_ yellow-hair--I scratched his wrist twice with the
arrow-tip. A single drop of red blood oozed up; he stirred. I turned
the lamp down and slipped out of the room--out of the house.

* * * * *

I dream nightly of the horrors of the white man's hell. Why did they
teach me of it, only to fling me into it?

Last night as I crouched beside my mother on the buffalo-hide, Dan
Henderson, the trapper, came in to smoke with my father. He said old
Father Paul was bowed with grief, that with my disappearance I was
suspected, but that there was no proof. Was it not merely a snake
bite?

They account for it by the fact that I am a Redskin.

They seem to have forgotten I am a woman.

The Legend of Lillooet Falls

No one could possibly mistake