The Hidden Children

"In God's name," I said in a ghostly voice, "what does this mean? Why have you followed us these four days past? Are you mad to risk a scalping party, or, on the open road, hazard the rough gallantries of soldiers' bivouacs? If you had business in these parts, and desired to come, why did you not tell me so and travel with us?"

"I did not wish to ask that privilege of–" She hesitated, then bent her head. "–of any man. What harm have I caused you by following?"

I said, still amazed and wondering:

"I understand it all now. The Sagamore brings you food. Is that true?"

"Yes," she said sullenly.

"And you have kept in touch with us ever since we started?"

"With Mayaro."

"Why?"

"I have told you that I had no wish to travel in your company."

"But for protection–"

"Protection! I have heard that, too, from men. It is ever on men's lips—that word meaning damnation. I thank you, Mr. Loskiel, I require no protection."

"Do you distrust Lieutenant Boyd or me? Or what?"

"Men! And you twain are two of them."

"You fear such men as we are!" I demanded impatiently.

"I know nothing of you," she answered, "save that you are men."

"Do you mean Mr. Boyd—and his thoughtless gallantry–"

"I mean men! All men! And he differs in nothing from the rest that I can see. Which is why I travel without your leave on my own affairs and by myself—spite of the Iroquois." She added bitterly; "And it is known to civilization that the Iroquois are to be trusted where the white man is not!"

Her meaning was plain enough now. What this young girl had seen and suffered and resented amid a world of men I did not know. Boyd's late gallantry, idle, and even ignoble as it had appeared to me, had poisoned her against me also, confirming apparently all she ever had known of men.

If this young, lonely, ragged thing were what her attitude and words made plain, she had long endured her beauty as a punishment. What her business might be in lingering around barracks and soldiers' camps I could not guess; but women who haunted such resorts seldom complained of the rough gallantries offered. And if their charms faded, they painted lip and cheek, and schooled the quivering mouth to smile again.

What her business might now be in following our little detail northward I could not surmise. Here was no barracks wench! But wench or gypsy or what not, it was impossible that I should leave her here alone. Even the thought of it set one cold.

"Come into camp this night," I said.

"I will not."

"You must do so. I may not leave you here alone."

"I can care for myself."

"Yes—as you cared for yourself when I crept up behind you. And if I had been a savage—then what?"

"A quick end," she said coolly.

"Or a wretched captivity—perhaps marriage to some villainous Iroquois–"

"Yes, sir; but nothing worse than marriage!"

"Child!" I exclaimed. "Where have you lived to belie the pitiful youth of you with such a worldly-worn and bitter tongue? I tell you all men are not of that stripe! Do you not believe me?"

"Birds sing, sir."

"Will you come into camp?" I repeated hotly.

"And if I will not?"

"Then, by heaven, I'll carry you in my arms! Will you come?"

She laughed at me, dangerously calm, seated herself, picked up the partly eaten food, and began to consume it with all the insolent leisure in the world.

I stood watching her for a few moments, then sat down cross-legged before her.

"Why do you doubt me, Lois?" I asked.

"Dear sir, I do not doubt you," she answered with faintest malice.

"I tell you I am not of that stripe!" I said angrily.

"Then you are not a man at all. I tell you I have talked with men as good as you, and heard them protest as you do—yes, with all the gentle condescension that you use, all of your confidence and masterful advice. Sooner or later all have proved the same," she shrugged; "–proved themselves men, in plainer words."

She sat eating thoughtfully, looking aloft now and then at the thick splendor of the firmament.

Then, breaking a bit of corn bread, she said gravely:

"I do not mean that you have not been kind, as men mean kindness. I do not even mean that I blame men. God made them different from us. And had He made me one, doubtless I had been as all men are, taking the road through life as gaily, sword on thigh and hat in hand to every pretty baggage that a kindly fate made wayfarer with me. No, I have never blamed a man; only the silly minx who listens."

After a short silence, I said: "Who, in the name of heaven, are you, Lois?"

"Does that concern you?"

"I would have it concern me—if you wish."

"Dear sir," she said very coolly, "I wish nothing of the kind."

"You do not trust me."

"Why, yes, as I trust every man—except a red one."

"Yet, I tell you that all that animates me is a desire to render you a comrade's service–"

"And I thank you, Mr. Loskiel, because, like other men, you mean it generously and well. Yet, you are an officer in the corps d'élite; and you would be ashamed to have the humblest bugler in your regiment see you with such a one as I."