"Wouldst thou know what the chief has said of thee, Lady Margaret?" I asked, a twinkle in my eye, for the chief had spoken in his own tongue. Although he understood the English language, yet he would never express himself in it, but would always talk to me in his own soft speech. "What is it?" she asked, a faint smile upon her face as she noticed my glee. "Nothing bad, I hope." "He says that thou art more lovely than the dawn," I answered, wisely judging that it would be better to suppress the latter part of his remark. The color deepened in her cheeks. "Since when hast thou taught the very savages to turn a compliment?" she said. "Truly, sir, thou hast not labored in vain." "They know no better than to tell the truth," I answered, a smile upon my face. "'Tis from the heart, and not from the lips as in London." She made no answer, but turning her head looked out upon the dark river, as its waters glistened and sparkled in the moonlight. And I watched her lovely profile as she sat thus. "It is beautiful, is it not?" she said softly. "Very beautiful," I answered, as I still gazed at her. I was thinking of her face, and if I but dared to lean over and press my lips to that soft cheek, which so lately had lain against my shoulder. She stamped her little foot. "Where are thy wits?" she said. "Thou lookest off as though in a dream, and I venture to say that thou knowest not one word that I have said." "Margaret," I answered, "I would know one thing. The priest once showed me a paper in thy hand and stamped with thy crest, in which thou didst say that thou lovest Dunraven, and would be his wife. It almost shook my faith in God and man, that thou, whom I believed so pure and noble, shouldst love one so black as he. I had thought to ask thee that night in the prison, but it slipped my mind. Tell me, didst thou write such a note as this?" "And thou thinkest that I would do such a thing as that?" she answered, with a look of reproach. "For shame, Sir Thomas! Have I ever in my whole life given thee cause to think thus of me?" "Forgive me," I replied. "But the note was in thy handwriting, upon thy paper, and scented with thy perfume." "Thou mightst have known better," she answered gravely, and she looked out again upon the river. "Oh, man," she cried in scorn, "canst thou never believe that a woman cares naught but for wealth and fame; that she plans for naught but rank and position, and that her mind is ever filled with thoughts of conquest?" "I know of one lady who, I think is all that mortal should be," I answered; "whose pure soul can hold no unworthy thought." "And who pray may this person be? Fain would I know such a one," and she looked up again at me, smiling faintly. "Thou knowest her well," I answered quickly; "she is perhaps thy best friend." "I know not of whom thou speakest," she cried innocently, or was it but a subterfuge--"unless it be the Lady Jane Porter."