“Nay, William, nay, do not call me Dahona; at least, do not call me thus in _this_ place—do not call me thus when you find me alone—when the wildness of the scene begets wildness of thought, and the breeze which comes down from the hunting-grounds of my fathers, seems to fan into a flame the lingering sparks of native fire which civilization, as yet, has not quenched. Do not, by such a name, call up my almost buried thoughts of those who owned these lands when the white men were enjoying that which they stole from their conquered enemies; do not tell me, in the midst of these returning pangs of pride and regret—do not by that name tell me, that I am the daughter of a chief killed upon his own hills; and when I would calm down those feelings of vengeance, which come with longer intervals, do not, with the name of Dahona, goad me on to those wishes which must be sinful, for they are unjust to Father Harris.” “Well, then, my dear Rebecca, if all the whites were like Father Harris, what then?” “They are not all like him. Those who taught me to read and write, and who tried to teach me to pray, are not like him. They talked of the equality of man, and yet treated me as the child of a monster. Father Harris knows that I am human, like himself, and he treats me as if I was immortal, as he is.” “Well, should not the virtues of such a man redeem from censure a thousand offending whites?” “Perhaps so, William—I think so now; but there are times—moments like some which I pass alone on this point of land—in which the virtues of that good man seem to me a motive for vengeance upon _him_. Were he like others, the red man could strike; were he like others, _I_ could strike; if, instead of kindness, which demands gratitude, and constant care and parental watchfulness, which beget affection, he had treated me as other whites treat my race, it might be long ere the hunting-fields of the tribe submitted to the plough. But the virtues of the whites subdue the feelings of the Indians, and the vices of the whites destroy the race. And yet, William, Father Harris, with all this virtue, forbids our union!” “_Forbids_ it, Rebecca, but does not hinder it.” “Not hinder it? Does he not hinder it by his refusal to sanction it?” “May we not go down to the lower settlement and be married, as others are?” “Will that procure his consent, William?” “No; but, of course, it will be followed by his pardon.” “Alas, William, even the poor theology of my native tribe forbids the hope of pardon for a sin committed in the hope of pardon.” “But he has no right, Rebecca, to prevent our happiness by his refusal to sanction the union.”