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.