The Chase of Saint-Castin and Other Stories of the French in the New World by Mary Hartwell Catherwood
page 17 of 166 (10%)
page 17 of 166 (10%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
"I am not for a wife," she answered him, and walked on with the pail. Again Saint-Castin followed her, and took the sap pail from her hand. He set it aside on the leaves, and folded his arms. The blood came and went in his face. He was not used to pleading with women. They belonged to him easily, like his natural advantages over barbarians in a new world. The slopes of the Pyrenees bred strong-limbed men, cautious in policy, striking and bold in figure and countenance. The English themselves have borne witness to his fascinations. Manhood had darkened only the surface of his skin, a milk-white cleanness breaking through it like the outflushing of some inner purity. His eyes and hair had a golden beauty. It would have been strange if he had not roused at least a degree of comradeship in the aboriginal woman living up to her highest aspirations. "I love you. I have thought of you, of nobody but you, even when I behaved the worst. You have kept yourself hid from me, while I have been thinking about you ever since I came to Acadia. You are the woman I want to marry." Madockawando's daughter shook her head. She had patience with his fantastic persistence, but it annoyed her. "I am not for a wife," she repeated. "I do not like men." "Is it that you do not like me?" "No," she answered sincerely, probing her mind for the truth. "You yourself are different from our Abenaqui men." |
|