ered with a voice hoarse with
emotion. "Tell me!" continued he, "whar are they gone? Ye say ye
know!"

The shrill screech of a tree-cricket, breaking forth at that moment,
hindered me from hearing the reply. The more emphatic words only
reached me, and these appeared to be "Utah" and "Great Salt Lake." They
were enough to fix the whereabouts of Marian Holt and her husband.

"One question more!" said the rejected lover hesitatingly, as if afraid
to ask it. "Can ye tell me--whether--she went _willingly_, or whether--
thar wan't some force used?--by her father, or some un else? Can ye
tell me that, girl?"

I listened eagerly for the response. Its importance can be easily
understood by one who has _sued_ in vain--one who has _wooed_ without
_winning_. The silence of the cicada favoured me; but a long interval
passed, and there came not a word from the lips of the Indian.

"Answer me, Su-wa-nee!" repeated the young man in a more appealing tone.
"Tell me that, and I promise--"

"Will the White Eagle promise to forget his lost love? Will he
promise--"

"No, Su-wa-nee; I cannot promise that: I can _niver_ forget her."

"The heart can _hate_ without forgetting."

"Hate _her_? hate Marian? No! no!"

"Not if she be false?"

"How do I know that she war false? You haven't told me whether she went
willin'ly or agin her consent."

"The White Eagle shall know then. His gentle doe went willingly to the
covert of the wolf--_willingly_, I repeat. Su-wa-nee can give proof of
her words."

This was the most terrible stroke of all. I could see the hunter shrink
in his saddle, a death-like pallor over-spreading his cheeks, while his
eyes presented the glassy aspect of despair.

"Now!" continued the Indian, as if taking advantage of the blow she had
struck, "will the White Eagle promise to sigh no more after his false
mistress? Will he promise to love _one_ that can be true?"

There was an earnestness in the tone in which these interrogatories were
uttered--an appealing earnestness--evidently prompted by a burning
headlong passion. It was now the turn of her who uttered them, to wait
with anxiety for a response. It came at length--perhaps to the
laceration of that proud heart: for it was a negative to its dearest
desire.

"No, no!" exclaimed the hunter confusedly. "Impossible eyther to hate
or forget her. She may a been false, an' no doubt are so; but it's too
late for me: _I can niver love agin_."

A ha