will love me."

The man slowly shook his head:

"No, Jeanne, it is impossible. Come, we will return to the lodge of
Jacques. I myself will tell Wa-ha-ta-na-ta that no harm has befallen
you, and----"

"Do you think she will believe _you_? Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, who hates all
white men and, next to Moncrossen, you most of all, for she has seen
that I love you. We have been gone three nights. She will not believe
you. If you will not take me I will go alone to the land of the white
men; I have no place else to go."

The man's jaw squared, his eyes narrowed, and the low, level tones of
his voice cut upon the silence in words of cold authority:

"We are going back to-night. Wa-ha-ta-na-ta will believe me. She is
very old and very wise; and she will know that I speak the truth."

The words ceased abruptly, and the two drew closer together, their eyes
fixed upon the blanketed form which, silent as a shadow, glided from
the bushes and stood motionless before them.

Within an arm's reach, in the dull, red glow, the somber figure stood
contemplating the pair through beady, black eyes, that glowed ominously
in the half-light.

Slowly, deliberately, a clawlike hand was withdrawn from a fold of the
blanket, and the feeble rays of the fire glinted weakly upon the cold,
gray steel of a polished blade.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE PROMISE

The silent, shadowy figure swayed toward Bill Carmody, who met the
stabbing glare of the black eyes with the steady gaze of his gray ones.
For long, tense moments their eyes held, while the girl watched
breathlessly.

Raising the blade high above her head, the old squaw brought it
crashing upon a rock at Carmody's feet. There was the sharp ring of
tempered steel, and upon the pine-needles lay the broken blade, and
beyond the rock the hilt, with a scant inch of blade protruding at the
guard.

Stooping, the old woman picked up the two pieces of the broken
sheath-knife, and, handing the hilt gravely to the astonished man
carefully returned the blade to her blanket. She pointed a long, skinny
finger at Bill, and the withered lips moved.

"You are the one good white man," she said. "I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the
daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, have spoken. I--who, since the death
of Lacombie, have said 'there is no good white man'--was wrong, and the
words were a lie in my mouth. In your eyes I have read it. You have the
good eye--the eye of Lacombie, who is dead.

"I have followed upon the tra