I rushed the canoes to the shore, and helped the Indian girl to alight
as I would have helped any woman. I gave one look at the men, and
said, "Be still," and then I led Singing Arrow to the woman.
"Madame," I said, "here is the Indian girl who befriended you when you
were a prisoner. It was she who passed us last night. She comes to me
with documents from Cadillac, and I have great reason to be grateful to
her. I commend her to you, madame."
I doubt that the woman heard much of my speech, though I made it
earnestly. She was looking at the Indian girl, and the Indian girl at
her. I should have liked cordiality between them, but I did not expect
it. The woman would do her best, but she would not know how. I had
come to think her gracious by nature, and she would treat this girl
with courtesy, but she was a great lady while Singing Arrow was a
squaw, and she would remember it. Yet Singing Arrow, even though she
might admit her inferiority to a white man, would think herself the
equal of any woman of whatever rank or race. I could not see how the
gulf could be bridged.
But bridged it was, and that oddly. The woman stood for a moment half
smiling, and then suddenly tears gathered in her eyes.
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