“Am I an egotistical fool, or has she—untutored in the ways of the world—shown me her woman’s heart? I pity her—her lot is a sad one. Who is she? No matter; I mustn’t wrong her. She’s innocence itself. A child—a mere child! Yet a woman with a woman’s heart! She is beautiful—lovable. A wild flower—a violet. A face and form to charm an artist! If it were not for—Bah! Of what am I thinking? Oh, that I were my old self—that I might escape from this hateful place and return to the little woman who is grieving over my prolonged absence!” Contracting his brows, he strode to the door and looked out at the falling rain. [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. The sprightly month of April brought sunny days and warm showers, opening buds and singing birds. Ross Douglas had almost recovered his wonted health and strength. A slight twinge of pain in his chest, at times, and a little shortness of breath, on exercise, alone remained to remind him of his tedious illness. He wandered about the village at will; but he was unarmed, and dozens of watchful eyes were upon him. He saw no chance of escape. At night Bradford occupied the cabin with him, never leaving him alone. Frequently he met La Violette and tried to talk with her; but she was shy and reserved, and had little to say. He fancied that she avoided him—and it piqued him. Man-like he could not understand that she was trying to conquer her love for him; and he sought to re-establish their familiar companionship. His influence over her was such—she loved him so—that he succeeded. She could not resist his magnetic power. And with the true abandon of a simple, passionate child of the forest, she again drank of the intoxicating cup of love—and for the time was happy—in paradise. Ross, also, became more cheerful. Perhaps he had missed her companionship more than he would own—more than he knew. At any rate he was happier when she was at his side—when her violet eyes looked trustingly into his own gray ones, and her artless prattle fell upon his ear. One day in the early part of the month, Bradford entered the hut and remarked: “Douglas, I have your gun here—the one I took from you at Wildcat Creek. Do you want it?” “Certainly,” Ross replied with animation. “You can have it—and this pouch of ammunition—on one condition.” “Name it.” “That you don’t try to escape again.” “I won’t try to escape—for the present.” “That’s rather indefinite,” laughed the older man. “Explain.” “When I have determined to make another attempt, I’ll apprise you of the fact. Is that satisfactory?” “Perfectly. Here’s your gun. I think a little tramping about the woods will do you good. At least, it will help you to pass the time. You may go out with the Indians or by yourself, as you please. You have given me your word—I can trust you.”