"I'm _thinking_--of the _wo-women_ they have probably _scalped_ on the _pla-ains_" she said to Etheridge. "What?" he asked, unable to hear. "Never mind; we'll _convert_ them," she went on, drying her eyes hopefully. For a Sunday-school was to be established at the fort, and she had already promised to take a class. But Dolly was on the side of the Indians. "The crimes for which these poor creatures are imprisoned here are nothing but virtues upside down," she shouted. "They killed white men? Of course they did. Haven't the white men stolen all their land?" "But we're going to _Christianize_ them," yelled Mrs. Kip, in reply. They were obliged to yell, amid the deafening noise of the dance and the whoopings below. Ruth had a humorous remark ready, when suddenly her husband, to Walter's amusement, put his hand over her lips. She looked up at him, laughing. She understood. "Funniest thing in the world," he had once said to her, "but the more noise there is, the more incessantly women _will_ talk. Ever noticed? They are capable of carrying on a shrieking conversation in the cars all day long." The atmosphere grew dense with the smoke from the pitch-pine torches, and suddenly, ten minutes later, Dolly fainted. This in itself was not alarming; with Dolly it happened not infrequently. But under the present circumstances it was awkward. "Why did you let her come? I was amazed when I saw her here," said Etheridge, testily. For Etheridge was dead tired. He hated the Indians; he detested the choking smoke; he loathed open ramparts at this time of night. Ruth and Mrs. Franklin had themselves been surprised by Dolly's desire to see the dance. But they always encouraged any wish of hers to go anywhere; such inclinations were so few. Walter Willoughby, meanwhile, prompt as ever, had already found a vehicle--namely, the phaeton of Captain March, the army officer in charge of the Indians; it was waiting outside to take Mrs. March back to the Magnolia Hotel. "The captain lends it with pleasure; as soon, therefore, as Miss Franklin is able, I can drive her home," suggested Walter. But Chase, who knew through his wife some of the secrets of Dolly's suffering, feared lest she might now be attacked by pain; he would not trust her to a careless young fellow like Walter. "I'll take her myself," he said. "And Ruth, you can come back with the others, along the sea-wall." Dolly, who had recovered consciousness, protested against this arrangement. But her voice was only a whisper; Chase, paying no attention to it, lifted her and helped her down to the phaeton. He was certainly the one to do it, so he thought; his wife's sister was his sister as well. It was a pity that she was not rather more amiable. But that made no difference regarding one's duty towards her. The others also left the ramparts, and started homeward, following the sea-wall.