belike," said I.

"But she has saved your life thrice since then, as you confess."

"Yes; from a strained sense of wifely duty, as she took good care to
tell me."

"None the less--ah, Jack, you do not know her as I do; she would never
have consented to stand before the priest with you had there not been
something warmer than hatred in her heart."

"'Twas a bitter necessity, fairly forced upon her. Tell me; had there
been a spark of love for me in her heart, would she have treated me as
the dust beneath her feet on that long infaring from the western
mountains? She never spoke a word to me, Dick, in all those weeks."

"Which may prove no more than that you said or did something to cut her
to the quick. 'Twould be well in your way, Jack. She is as sensitive as
she should be, and you are blunter than I--which is the worst I could
say of you."

"No, no; you are far beside the mark. You forget that the breaking of
the marriage is of her own proposing--at least, I should say I only
hinted at it."

"There may be two sides to that, as well. Have you ever told her that
you love her, Jack?"

"Surely not! I have been all kinds of a poltroon in this matter, as I
have confessed, but this one thing I have not done."

"Well," said he, speaking slowly, as one who thinks the path out word by
word, "what if she believes 'tis you who want your freedom? What if you
have made her that bitterest thing in all the world--a woman scorned?"

I would not listen to him more.

"This is all the merest folly, Richard, as I will prove to you beyond
the question of a doubt. Do you mind that little interval in the
Cherokees' torture-play when they came to bind us afresh for the
burning?"

"I mind no more of that horror-night than I can help."

"Well, in that hour, when death was waiting for all three of us, she
wrote a little farewell note to the man she loved. 'Twas for you, Dick,
but her Indian messenger blundered and gave it me."

He got upon his feet at that and began to pace slowly back and forth
under the gloomy archings. But ere long he paused to grasp and wring my
hand most lovingly, saying, "Who am I, Jack, to buy my happiness at such
a price?"

"Nay, lad; 'tis neither you nor I who should figure greatly in the
matter; 'tis our dear lady. She must e'en have what she longs for, if
you, or I, or both of us, should have to go above stairs and put our
necks into my Lord Cornwallis's noose."

"Now, by heaven, Jack Ireton, 'tis