He did not finish his sentence, and neither spoke again until they had left the pines and were forcing their way through the tall grass and reeds of a wide savannah. They came to a small, clear stream, dotted with wild fowl and mirroring the pale blue sky, and he lifted her in his arms as was his wont and bore her through the shallow water. As he set her gently down upon the other side, she said in a low voice, "I thought you knew. Had it not been for that night, that night which sets us here, you and I,—I should be now in London, at Whitehall, at some masque or pageant perhaps. I should be all clad in brocade and jewels, not like this—" She touched her ragged gown as she spoke, then burst into strange laughter. "But God disposes! And you—" "I should be in a place which is never mentioned at Court, madam," said Landless grimly. "The grave, to wit. Unless indeed his Excellency proposed hanging me in chains." She cried out as though she had been struck. "Don’t!" she said passionately. "Don’t speak to me so! I will not bear it!" and ran past him into the woods beyond the savannah. When he came up with her he found her lying on a mossy bank with her face hidden. "Madam," he said, kneeling beside her, "forgive me." She lifted a colorless face from her hands. "How far are we from the Settlements?" she demanded. "I do not know, madam. Some twenty leagues, probably, from the frontier posts." "How far from the friendly tribes?" "Something less than that distance." "Then when we reach them, sir," she said imperiously, "you are to leave me with them at one of the villages above the falls." "To leave you there!" "Yes. You will tell them that I am the daughter of one of the paleface chiefs, of one whom the great white chief calls ’brother,’ and then they will not dare to harm me or to detain me. They will send me down the river to the nearest post, and the men there will bring me on to Jamestown, and so home." "And why may not I bring you on to Jamestown—and so home?" demanded Landless with a smile. "Because—because—you know that you are lost if you return to the Settlements." "And nevertheless I shall return," he said with another smile. She struck her hands together. "You will be mad—mad! If you had not been their leader!—but as it is, there is no hope. Leave me with the friendly Indians, then go yourself to the northward. Make for New Amsterdam. God will carry you through the Indians as he has done so far. I will pray to him that he do so. Ah, promise me that you will go!" Landless took her hand and kissed it. "Were you in absolute safety, madam," he said gently, "and if it were not for one other thing, I would go, because you wish it, and because I would save you any pang, however slight, that you might feel for the fate of one who was, who is, your servant—your slave. I would go from you, and because it else might grieve you, I would strive to keep my life through the forest, through the winter—"