hem that I am the daughter of one of the paleface
chiefs, of one whom the great white chief calls 'brother,' and then they
will not dare to harm me or to detain me. They will send me down the
river to the nearest post, and the men there will bring me on to
Jamestown, and so home."

"And why may not I bring you on to Jamestown--and so home?" demanded
Landless with a smile.

"Because--because--you _know_ that you are lost if you return to the
Settlements."

"And nevertheless I shall return," he said with another smile.

She struck her hands together. "You will be mad--mad! If you had not
been their leader!--but as it is, there is no hope. Leave me with the
friendly Indians, then go yourself to the northward. Make for New
Amsterdam. God will carry you through the Indians as he has done so far.
I will pray to him that he do so. Ah, promise me that you will go!"

Landless took her hand and kissed it. "Were you in absolute safety,
madam," he said gently, "and if it were not for one other thing, I would
go, because you wish it, and because I would save you any pang, however
slight, that you might feel for the fate of one who was, who is, your
servant--your slave. I would go from you, and because it else might
grieve you, I would strive to keep my life through the forest, through
the winter--"

"Ah, the winter!" she cried. "I had forgotten that winter will come."

"But to do that which you propose," he continued, "to leave you to the
mercy of fierce and treacherous Indians, but half subdued, friends to
the whites only because they must--it is out of the question. To leave
you at a frontier post among rude trappers and traders, or at some half
savage pioneer's, is equally impossible. What tale would you have to
tell Colonel Verney? 'The Ricahecrians carried me into the Blue
Mountains. There your servant Landless found me and brought me a long
distance towards my home. But at the last, to save his own neck, forfeit
to the State, he left me, still in the wilderness and in danger, and
went his way.' My honor, madam, is my own, and I choose not so to stain
it. Again: I must be the witness to your story. You have wandered for
many weeks in a wilderness, far beyond the ken of your friends. To your
world, madam, I am a rebel, traitor and convict, a wretch capable of any
baseness, of any crime. If I go back with you, throwing myself into the
power of Governor and Council, at least I shall be credited with having
so borne myself