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When Wilderness Was King - A Tale of the Illinois Country by Randall Parrish
page 61 of 326 (18%)

"And pray, why not, Monsieur? Have you such a prejudice against that
great people that you need speak of them with so glum a voice? Ah, but
if I must, then I shall endeavor to teach you a higher regard for us."

"That may not prove so hard a task," I hastened to assure her; "though
I was surprised,--you speak English with so pure an accent that I had
not dreamed you other than of my own race."

"My father was of English blood," she answered more gravely; "but I
fear you will find me quite of my mother's people, if ever we come to
know each other well. But hark! that was surely thunder! We have
loitered too long; the storm is about to break."

It was indeed upon us almost before she ceased speaking. A sudden rush
of wind sent my hat flying into the darkness, and whipped her long
black hair loose from its restraining knot. I had barely time to wrap
my hunting-jacket closely around her shoulders, when the rain came
dashing against our faces.

I drew her unresistingly around the edge of the nearest sand-pile; but
this supplied poor protection against the storm, the wind lashing the
fine grit into our faces, stinging us like bits of fire. I tried to
excavate some sort of cave that might afford us at least a partial
shelter; but the sand slid down almost as rapidly as I could dig it out
with my hands.

"Oh, let us press on!" she urged, laying her hand upon my arm, in
entreaty. "We shall become no wetter moving, and your camp, you said,
was only a short distance away."
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